Nacho Figueras Presents (4 page)

O
h my God
, thought Kat as she dropped the flowers on the table and leaned back against the wall, feeling her heart beat a tattoo against her chest. What the hell was
that
?

She shook her head, trying to get ahold of herself. She had been in Hollywood for ten years. She'd met George Clooney, Denzel Washington, Brad Pitt, Ryan frigging Gosling, and yet she would swear on the family Bible that she had never seen a more attractive man than the one who had just been standing there on her front porch, holding a monster bouquet of flowers and looking for all the world like he wanted to eat her alive.

“And I'm pretty sure I'd enjoy every single minute of it,” she muttered to herself.

The thick, wavy hair, the pale green eyes, the lightning flash of a smile, the broad shoulders, and the luscious golden skin with just enough of a five o'clock shadow to make her wonder what he'd been doing last night that left him with so little time to shave this morning…It was as if all her daydreaming about impossible teen love and romance had conjured up this vision and handed it over—along with the slightest tantalizing hint of a mysterious accent—lock, stock, and barrel, right to her front door.

And a delivery guy, no less, she thought. Slap a mustache on the man and it was like a bad porn film.

God, she had totally lost her cool. Why hadn't she told him her name? Why had she slammed the door in his face? It was like she was a gawky teen all over again, giggling and blushing every time a boy even looked her way.

She looked at the flowers on the table. Of course. That was it. A second impression. She would find an excuse to go to the florist where he worked, just casually bump into him as she perused the roses and daisies…

She imagined the surprised look on his face when he saw her, the knowing way he would smile at her. Maybe she'd dress up just the tiniest bit—a little skirt with a tee. That black Chanel skirt that showed off her legs so well, and that perfect, soft faded green tee she'd found in the boutique on Melrose, the one that fit her just so and made her eyes look more blue than gray…

She put the flowers back down. “No. No. No. No. Just stop,” she said aloud. Jesus. This was ridiculous. What was she thinking? She was going to date a delivery guy? She was a grown woman plotting like a girl desperate for a date to the prom. She'd seen this guy once. One time. She knew nothing about him except that he delivered flowers for a living and he was scorchingly hot. She was here to help her parents. To clear her head. To get back to her work. The very last thing she needed was some out-of-control crush—or worse yet, another inappropriate romance—to distract her from her tasks.

She unceremoniously dumped the flowers into a pink plastic pitcher that usually held Kool-Aid and plunked it next to the roses on the table. Her plate was more than full. And she was definitely not looking for love.

S
ebastian dismounted from his horse and threw down his mallet in disgust. All around him his teammates and their well-wishers celebrated and congratulated one another, but he could not wait to get off the field. He'd been an embarrassment. The team had won, but he had played terribly.

He tossed the reins of his pony over to the nearest groom and shouldered his way through the crowd. He caught a glimpse of his brother's smiling face as Alejandro leaned down and kissed his beaming wife. Alejandro looked up for a second and locked eyes with Sebastian. His ecstatic smile quickly darkened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Sebastian just kept walking. The last thing he needed right now was the inevitable dressing down and I-told-you-so he knew he had coming.

He stalked through the parking lot and threw himself into his dark green Porsche Spyder, slamming the door behind him. He sat for a moment in sullen silence before smashing his hands against the steering wheel in frustration, and then starting up the car with a roar and peeling out of the lot.

As he drove, he replayed all the mistakes he'd made on the field that afternoon. He'd been slow and inattentive. He'd let his pony get bumped off the line of the ball. He'd been hooked three times by an absolute
choto
, and then missed his penalty shots. In fact, he'd missed nearly all of his shots. It was a miracle, really, that the team had won.

It was a new and uncomfortable feeling for Sebastian—this awareness that he'd been subpar on the pitch. Even if he avoided practice, even if he played hungover more often than not, his natural talent and athleticism had always carried him along. His father used to rail at him, telling him that he had more inborn ability in his little finger than the rest of the team put together, and if he would just apply himself, show a little self-discipline, practice and train like the rest of the team did, he could have a 10-goal handicap. He could be among the very best. But Sebastian had never wanted to be the best. He'd just wanted to have his fun, be good enough, and let Jandro have the glory.

But today he had not been good enough. Not even close. And this had just been the worst in a steady series of lackluster games for him lately. He hated to admit it, but Alejandro was right. He needed to buckle down, pull his weight, pay attention. No more drinking, no more late nights, no more missed practices. He would turn over a new leaf.

Starting tomorrow.

He made a brutal left-hand turn into the parking lot of a run-down bar outside of town and skidded the car to a halt. He reached into his kit bag in the backseat and pulled out a clean T-shirt and tennis shoes, stripping off his telltale La Victoria jersey and riding boots. He didn't want to see anyone he knew, and he did not want to be recognized either. What he wanted was a stiff drink or two, and to find a woman he could lose himself in for the night and then never have to see again after the morning.

One more time to get it all out of his system, he promised himself as he pushed through the bar door.

After that, he'd be a changed man.

T
he hospital room was dim and quiet. The only noises were the occasional beep of the heart monitor and the sound of her father softly breathing in and out. Kat sat by his bed and watched him as he slept.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to hold back the tears. Even ill, Joe Parker's face was so handsome, with his firm jaw, strong cheekbones, and jaunty mustache. At seventy, his hair was more pepper than salt and still thick and wavy.

The doctor had told her that he'd been lucky. Though the right side of his body had been severely weakened, there didn't seem to be any cognitive damage. They said that he'd need a month or so in a rehabilitation clinic to get enough of his strength back so that he could walk again, but they thought none of the damage would be permanent.

Her father had always been a big, strong man. A man who could fix or build anything, a man who could easily carry her on his shoulders even when she'd been the tallest kid in the fourth grade. But now she had to admit, as she bent over his bed, he looked smaller somehow, shrunken, a little bit diminished, and definitely older than the last time she'd seen him.

God, how long had it been? Three years since her folks had come to see her in L.A.? Yes, because she'd still been working then, though on nothing much more than a script that had eventually been rewritten by another screenwriter and then left to languish on the studio shelf, never to be made. But at the time, it had seemed of immeasurable importance, and she'd resented every moment her parents had taken her away from it.

She'd been terrible when they were there, she thought with a wince. She had promised to take them to see all the sights—Grauman's Chinese Theatre and the La Brea Tar Pits, the Hollywood Bowl, and a tour of the studios. Her mom had even shyly mentioned that they wouldn't mind spending a day at Disneyland. And instead of showing them around, Kat had blown them off, made excuses, and pawned them off on her assistant while she was holed up in her office with her laptop, desperate to make her deadline for a producer who had already lost interest in the project.

And to make it worse, they had been ridiculously understanding about the whole thing, insisting that, of course Kat's work should come first, that they didn't need her assistant's help, that they would find their own way around the city if they wanted to see anything, that it was just nice to spend whatever time with their daughter that she could give them. Her mother had cooked dinner for her practically every night, for Pete's sake, and her father had spent the week fixing whatever he could find wrong in her house. They'd hardly seen more than a five-block radius of her place the entire time they were there.

And now, seeing her dad like this…She shook her head at her own selfishness. How could she have wasted time with them? How could she just blithely assumed there would always be another visit? Another chance to make up for her negligence?

Her father stirred and opened his eyes. For a moment, he looked panicked and confused, and Kat's heart clenched as she reached for his hand. “Daddy, I'm here. It's me, Kat.”

Her dad turned toward her voice and, blinking, slowly focused on her face. Relief flooded through her as she felt him relax and a look of recognition sprang into his eyes.

“Katy, honey?” he said. His voice was raspy but sounded stronger than she'd expected. “What in the ever-lovin' hell are you doing here?”

She smiled, happy to hear him sound mostly like himself, happy to see the bright blue of his eyes, filled with the same kindness and laughter as always. “I've come to see you, Daddy.”

He nodded, understanding, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Let me tell you something important, Katy Kat.”

She leaned forward to hear him.

“Getting old is for the goddamned birds.”

She laughed. “Better than the alternative, though, right?”

He smiled ruefully. “I suppose.”

She felt tears sting her eyes. “I'm so glad to see you, Daddy.”

He shook his head. “Now, Katy, I hope you didn't stop work just to come out here. I know this might look a little bad, but really, I'll be fine.”

She looked away for a moment, trying to gain some control. “Of course you will, Daddy. Actually, I'm taking a little break from Hollywood. Or rather”—she smiled ruefully—“maybe Hollywood's taking a little break from me.”

“What about your house?”

“I rented it to a friend. I can write from here. I just thought it was time to come home for a while. I've missed you guys.”

He squeezed her hand. “Well, then, I'm happy you're here, baby.” His smile suddenly faded, and he struggled to sit up. “How are you and Mama getting by with one car? Because you know my truck isn't safe for either of you to drive, but I can call up Jimmy and ask him for—”

She gently held his shoulders, trying to guide him back down. “No, no, don't worry, Daddy. Please, lie back down. We're fine with one. I don't have anywhere much I need to go, and we know better than to drive your old beater. That truck doesn't start for anyone but you.”

He slumped back into the bed and gave her a weak smile. “Well, maybe that's because you call her an old beater.”

She smiled back, worried about how tired he suddenly looked. “Maybe so. But you don't need to concern yourself with that. I'll take care of Mama. You just concentrate on getting better.”

He nodded and closed his eyes, patting her hand. “Thank you, honey. You're a good girl, Katy Ann.”

After he drifted back to sleep, when she knew for certain that he was absolutely out, Kat turned her face away and finally let the tears fall.

S
ebastian slammed back his shot of tequila and then ordered another as he scanned the room. The bar was exactly what he had hoped for—sawdust and peanut shells on the floor, throbbing 1970s Southern rock on the jukebox, and a delightful array of available women. He had chosen a seat at the very back of the room to make sure he had a full view of his options. There were, he thought, several girls here tonight who would do nicely. The little blonde in the cowboy boots and cut-off shorts sitting at the bar and giving him the eye, a cocoa-skinned girl with long braids who had smiled at him as he walked past her, and a shapely redhead who actually seemed to be here on a date, but looked so bored that Seb was sure it wouldn't take much to lure her away.

Suddenly the image of a pair of eyes so gray that they were almost silver, a lush pair of soft, pink lips accented by a little chocolate freckle, and a head full of tumultuous black curls flashed into his mind. Now, if
she
were here, he would have no problem forgetting the game. In fact, if she were here, he was pretty sure all his troubles would be solved. At least temporarily.

Sebastian belted his second shot and the cheap liquor burned his throat as it slid down. For a moment, his body tightened, thinking of the high color that had bloomed in her cheeks when they had brushed hands, the golden slope of her bare shoulders, the way she had looked at him, her eyes sparking, just before she slammed the door in his face…God, what a woman. He must have thought of her a dozen times since meeting her that morning.

The redhead's date got up and headed toward the restrooms, leaving her alone.

It was now or never.

Shaking off the images of the gray-eyed girl, Seb stood up and casually strolled over to the redhead's table.

“Good evening,” he said as he took her date's seat. “I couldn't help but notice that you look bored out of your mind with your gentleman friend. Are you, perhaps, open to other options?”

The redhead bit her lip and looked at him appraisingly. “What'd you have in mind?”

Sebastian grinned. He found—nine times out of ten—that a simple smile and then being brutally direct usually got him exactly what he wanted. “Well, a drink to start, then a drive, and then maybe—”

Suddenly, his entire body was jerked backward and out of his chair. He wrenched away and whirled to face the absentee date, and behind him, two more of his hulking, glowering friends. Each one was bigger than the next, and all looked as if they'd like nothing better than to teach Sebastian yet another lesson in humility.