Chapter One Chapter OneWinifred Mackland’s kidskin pumps made quick work of Fifth Avenue, but the brisk pace and straight back were all bluff. The truth was, the screenplay tucked inside her Gucci briefcase was fifty percent written and one hundred percent crap, and this was not her usual triumphant stroll to her agent’s office, guaranteed hit in hand. This was a march of defeat. This was a trudge. This was bad news, and possibly the end of her career.
Win knew what happened to screenwriters who couldn’t write. They became Hollywood pariahs. Shopping-cart ladies. They went home to live with their mothers in Dothan, Alabama, where they could sleep in their middle-school-era beds adorned with matching pink quilt and pillow sham. These has-beens eventually came to be tried in literary court, where a judge could sentence them to death by frustration, death by ignominy, death by failure, death by—
“Good morning, Miss Mackland.” The security guard smiled politely as she signed in as one of Artie Jacobs’s clients. She tried to smile back, making an effort to shake off all the negative thinking. Win hated how her brain could find certain doom in a run of writer’s block. She knew she should be pouring that creative lava into the mold of her latest screenplay, the final installment of the Lethal Mercy trilogy. It was supposed to be the hottest, the best, the sexiest adventure yet for big screen bad-ass Maximillion Mercy. But for many weeks now, her thoughts had spun night and day, fuzzy, random, spiraling into nothing discernible.
With a shock, Win caught her reflection in the slick marble walls by the elevators, and realized her hair could be described in those exact terms. She hated August in Manhattan. She hated her curls. She hated that her perfectionism had sent yet another fairly serviceable boyfriend packing.
And most of all, she hated her most embarrassing dirty secret: that she couldn’t write unless she had a man in her life.
“Win! Baby!” Artie met her at the entrance to his office suite as he always did, standing up on tiptoe to kiss her cheek, guiding her through the mahogany doors and sending Betsy for decaf lattes. “Come on in, sweets. How’ve you been? How come you didn’t return my calls from the Berkshires?”
Win cocooned herself in Artie’s creamy white leather sofa and tried to find a place to hide her briefcase. She gave up, propping the leather-encased, half-written pile of crap against the coffee-table leg in full view. There was no escaping the inevitable. “I don’t like to bother you on vacation.”
Artie sniffed and waved his hand. “I wouldn’t call you if I didn’t want to talk, now, would I?” He smiled at her, his mischievous old eyes narrowing into wrinkly slits behind his glasses. He laughed. “You’re that unhappy with the script? You know, we can always send it directly to the studio and they’ll assign a rewrite team.”
Win’s head snapped to attention. “I’d rather be eaten by a pack of rabid dingos, and you know it.”
“Same difference.” Artie often amused himself, and this morning was no exception. After a few moments he stopped chortling and patted Win’s stocking-clad knee. “Let’s have it. Let’s see the script, babycakes.”
“It’s not done.”
Artie’s pleasant expression evaporated, and he glowered at her over the top of his thick-rimmed glasses. She could see the lamplight reflecting dead center on his bald little head. “This is not good, dear,” he said.
“You’ve already read it?”
Artie shook his head with disappointment. “You can’t be late on this one, sweetheart. They’re nearly pissing themselves waiting for this script. Production budgeting is done. It’s in the pipeline. I promised them one more month, doll—four weeks, I said, and Maria would have it in her greedy little manicured hand.”
Win swallowed hard. If Artie Jacobs told executive producer Maria Chen that something would happen, it would happen. That’s what made Artie what he was—the most powerful literary agent on the East Coast and Win’s own personal fairy-freakin’-godfather. Nine years ago, the man lifted one of her action adventure scripts from the slush pile and made her a very happy—and financially solvent—girl. If it weren’t for Artie, she’d still be mixing cosmos at Lower-The-Bar in Chelsea.
“Four weeks?” The outburst sounded whiny even to Win’s own ears.
“Hand it over.”
Win unzipped the Gucci case, loving the feel of well-crafted steel and soft-as-butter leather, knowing she’d soon be toting Land’s End canvas if she didn’t get her act together. She handed him the severely deficient pile of paper.
Artie flipped through it, his expert eye grazing over dialogue and stage directions, devouring what she’d spent nearly six months ripping out of her brain and soul.
“So where’s the sex?” Artie flipped through the pages like Evelyn Wood on poppers. “I see no sex here, doll.”
Win scrunched up her nose and shrugged. “Yeah. About that. I haven’t felt motivated lately.”
Artie placed the half-script on the glass coffee table between then. “You know, Winifred, you have the worst love life of any single woman I have ever had the pleasure to meet.”
“How sweet of you to say.”
“Look at you—you are stunning. Bright and charming and what—? What are you now, thirty-five or something?”
“I’m thirty-three.” God.
“You go through men faster than Barbara goes through hundreds at Barney’s.” Artie sighed. “How many suitors have you deemed unworthy so far this calendar year? Five? Six? Seven, for God’s sake? I’ve lost count.”
Win didn’t appreciate that comment, though, truthfully, she’d lost count, too. But aside from Carly, she didn’t let other people talk to her with such bluntness. A girl expected that from her best friend, but not necessarily from her agent.
“You need a change of scenery.” Artie got up and headed for his speaker phone. “Betsy, bring in the lattes and get my sister on the line if you please.”
Win was relieved to hear the lattes were coming, but a bit confused about what Artie’s sister could possibly have to do with their current dilemma.
Betsy came in, smiling, and placed two big white stoneware mugs and saucers on the glass-top table. She winked at Win and headed toward the door. “Your sister is on line two,” she said to Artie in passing.
Win half listened to Artie on the phone as she sipped the hot, sweet froth, letting her eyes stray to the coffee table. The stark white pages of the screenplay mocked her, cursed at her, reminded her that she was washed up. Her stomach twisted and her heart tripped. Her left eyelid twitched. Four weeks. Four insanely short weeks made up of seven days each.
“We’re all set, sweets.” Artie came back to his leather chair. “Day after tomorrow, I’ll have a car pick you up at your place. All you need to bring is your laptop and an extra battery, and some comfy clothes. Oh, and I’d throw in a couple of sweaters because it gets chilly at night.”
Win held the latte an inch from her lips, too stunned to either sip or put it down. None of this was registering in her brain as information she would need to know, for any reason. “Exactly where does it get chilly?”
“The Berkshires.”
“Why would I need to know about the weather in the Berkshires?”
“Winifred. I’m sending you to my place for three weeks. You’ll be comfortable. You can concentrate. You can immerse yourself in the story, let it flow out of you.”
“No, thank you.”
Artie patted the pile of pages and gave her a malignant grin. “I’m afraid I must insist.”
Winifred didn’t like the tone he’d just used, or that menacing smile. It reminded her of something one of Maximillion Mercy’s evil antagonists might do while holding a gun to the hero’s temple.
She placed the latte mug back on its saucer. “Let me see if I understand this correctly, Artie. I am being kidnapped by my seventy-two-year-old agent?”
He howled. He hooted. He wiped his eyes and sighed contentedly. “No, darling. You’ll be going alone. Trust me when I tell you that there is nothing you’ll want for up there. The place is Park Avenue meets Paul Bunyn. If Barbara can stand it, you know you won’t exactly be roughing it. As you know, my wife does everything first class.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s settled then.”
“Excuse me?”
Artie patted her knee again. “Do you honestly think you’re going to get back in a taxi, head back to your nice little home office and whip this out in twenty-eight days?”
Win gulped. Of course not. “Yes,” she lied.
“Fibber. Dirty rotten fibber.”
Win snatched the screenplay, briefly noting the large black letters that she’d carefully printed out dead-center, halfway down the cover page: Have Mercy. She shoved it inside the briefcase and decided she’d simply complain her way out of Artie’s offer. He couldn’t exactly drag her bodily to the car, right?
“I’ve lived in Manhattan for fifteen years, Artie. I don’t do the woods anymore. I have nothing to wear to the woods, and I don’t like to be alone like that. I like people around me. Noise in the streets. Activity in the night.” With that, she stood up, now towering over her agent. “I will feel vulnerable. I don’t like to feel vulnerable. Vulnerable is not a good vibe for me.”
Artie grinned up at her. “Activity in the night, eh?”
“I’m not going.”
Artie stood up and put his hands on his hips. “Come now, Win. It’ll get your juices flowing. How about this—if you don’t absolutely love it in three days, I’ll send the car back for you. Fair enough?”
Win was about to say something testy but noted the sincere look in Artie’s eyes. He really did want to help her. More precisely, he really wanted this script turned in on time. And could she blame him?
“I don’t see how pine trees will get my juices flowing.”
Artie shrugged. “You might be surprised, doll.”
She nodded. She suddenly understood. “Is this about the sex scenes, Artie? Are you sending me to the hills to sit around and daydream about sex?” She grabbed her briefcase. “Because if so, then let me assure you I’m capable of obsessing about sex in the comfort of my own apartment. Trust me on that.”
“You have four weeks to finish this script, Winifred. As your agent, I must tell you that if you don’t, your stock will plummet. You cannot afford to miss this deadline.”
Win squeezed her eyes tight. Of course he was right. “Oh, hell,” she whispered.
Artie guided her toward the door. “I want you to take this one over the top, babes. Give Max Mercy exactly what the fans want for him. Make the men want to be Max and the ladies want to screw his brains out.”
“More of the usual, then.”
“Oh. And if you should have any problems with anything—the electricity or the heat or what have you, my nearest neighbor will help you out. His name is Mr. MacBeth.”
She swung around, mouth ajar. “I thought you said the place was Uptown all the way? Why should I have trouble with any of that stuff? Does this guy have a first name?”
A corner of Artie’s lips twitched. He shrugged. “Just call him Mac. He’s a good guy. I’ve known him all his life. I’ll fax you all the particulars about the house.”
“Fine. Whatever.” Win was about to open the door but paused. She frowned at Artie. “Do you suppose I could get my hands on a rental dog?”
“Huh?”
“Can people rent dogs? You know, for protection? Is there a dog-rental place in Manhattan?”
Artie hooted with laughter again. “Why don’t you find out, then let me know, sweets?”
Winifred bit her lip. This could be the solution. The rental dog would sit at her feet while she wrote. It would sleep by the door, ears attuned to any potential danger. It would accompany her on long walks. They’d bond. She’d get one of those elegant retriever types. She wondered how much a three-week retriever rental would set her back.
She narrowed her eyes at Artie. “If I don’t like it in three days, you’ll send the car? You promise?”
“I promise. Have fun, Win. Relax. Loosen up. Flow. Write, baby, write!”
Artie watched his favorite client click her way across the parquet floors to the elevators. He might be old, but his eyes worked just fine, and that was one nice caboose Winifred Mackland had squeezed into that Michael Kors suit.
Betsy made a tsking sound and Artie glanced toward the reception desk.
“What?”
“I’ve never seen you interfere in a client’s life like this, Art. You could be doing more harm than good.”
Artie smiled and shrugged. “Win Mackland is too picky.”
“She has a right to pick her own boyfriends.”
Artie waved his hand through the air. “What she has a right to is a little surprise in her life. She needs to be shaken up, knocked on her tush. You know what they say, no surprise in the writer, no surprise in the screenplay.” Artie laughed at that. “It’s about joy, Betsy. I’m just trying to find some joy for that young lady.”
Betsy rolled her eyes.
“My sister says young Mac is still there, cleaning out his dad’s cabin. How perfect is that?”
“Yes, Artie, I know, but Judy also said he’s as antisocial as ever. He’s refused every invitation anyone on the mountain has extended to him. I don’t see how your plan is going to work.”
Artie smiled to himself. With Judy’s help, the plan would work just fine. She’d agreed to send some handymen up to the house to do a little handy loosening of fuses, stopping up of shower spigots, and unplugging of one or two vital household appliances.
“Your sister also told me that Mac Senior is doing better, making the transition to the assisted living home like a trouper.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Artie sighed heavily. One by one, his old friends both in the city and in the country were croaking, stroking, or crumbling like stale saltines. Life was short.
He watched the dark-haired youthful beauty of Winifred Mackland vanish behind the closing elevator doors. She had a scowl on her face.
Without joy, life was just too damn short.
______
His shoulder was giving him hell, and Vincent MacBeth stood on the wooden porch of the cabin and raised his left arm over his head, wincing at the pull of the staples on skin, the tight burn of the healing muscle. He was already going stir crazy, but old Mac was such a pack rat that it would be several more weeks before he could ever consider listing his dad’s property with a Realtor.
Mac had to admit there was a charm to this place, but not enough to lure him to take it off his dad’s hands. His life was unpredictable as hell, and this past week had been proof that he didn’t have the time or patience to deal with the headaches of homeownership, even in residence. He couldn’t imagine trying to arrange for gutter cleaning from the underbelly of Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Pakistan, Egypt or wherever the team went next. Second only to a woman, property stewardship was the most unappealing commitment he could imagine.
Mac moaned as he lowered his left arm to his side and slowly circled the shoulder. He’d been shot six times in fifteen years, but this last one was a doozy. He knew the longer recovery period had more to do with the twenty-foot fall he’d taken after he’d been hit, and less with the wound itself. That, or he was just plain getting old.
He’d rather not think about it.
Mac sat on a wooden front porch step and took a breath of the cool, spicy mountain air. His dad had inherited this old place from his own father, along with what was now considered an astounding five hundred acres of forest, and they both knew developers were circling like wolves, waiting to sink their teeth into the land. Within a few years, there were bound to be scores of vacation mansions packed in here, leaving just enough space in between to give the illusion of seclusion.
He sighed, stretching his neck and looking down the ridge toward the Jacobs place, its renovated splendor hidden by a half-mile of blue spruce, oak, maple and sycamore. Old Artie Jacobs had just spent a couple weeks up here with his wife—now that had been a mind fuck. He hadn’t seen the Jacobses since he graduated from college. Artie was the same as Mac remembered him, only a lot richer and a little more stooped. Barb was well preserved. And their house—good God—they’d turned that old cabin into a sleek two-story spread of glass and pine that made his dad’s place look like an outhouse.
Mac smiled to himself. He supposed that as a rule, hotshot literary agents pulled down a little more green than retired firefighters.
The kitchen phone rang and he hopped up from the steps, maybe a little too fast, because pain shot all the way down to his fingertips. He hated being less than a hundred percent. It could make you an easy mark.
Mac smiled to himself as he opened the squeaky old screen door. Like there was anyone or anything up here that presented a danger?
“Come, Lulu!”
The toy poodle stared out the opened limousine door and blinked, then looked at Win like she was insane for even making the suggestion.
“That dog don’t look too interested in coming out, miss.”
Win looked at the limo driver and huffed. “I realize that. Let me get you the key.” She rooted around in her purse until she pulled it out. “Would you please take my bags inside to the—” She unfolded the fax. “—first bedroom on the right, second floor. Thank you very much.”
The driver shrugged and went around the back of the car to retrieve her bags, and Win glared at the dog. How was she supposed to know you couldn’t rent dogs? In retrospect, she couldn’t blame the Humane Society people for laughing at her when she asked about a loaner. But still, it was rude.
Carly had been hesitant to let Win borrow her dog for three weeks, pointing out that Win knew close to nothing about caring for pets. Carly relented, but only after giving Win an all-day training course, which included how to mix dry with canned food, how to use a tiny toothbrush on Lulu’s teeth and gums, and how the dog needed her bed moved into a patch of sunshine for her afternoon nap.
Carly also insisted that Lulu not have contact with wild forest creatures or be allowed to wander off-leash; then she’d actually cried when the car came to her apartment that morning, handing over Lulu like she was her firstborn child.
Win looked at the dog’s soulful brown eyes now, and grabbed the little puffball out of the backseat, tucking her under her arm. She turned around toward the house and—”No way!”
The limo driver was just coming out the front door. “Is there a problem, miss?”
“This house! Oh my Gawd!”
“Wait till you get a load of the inside. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Win dragged her eyes from the towering modern structure and blinked at the driver. “What? Oh! No thanks.” She dug around in her bag with her free arm and pulled out a wrinkled twenty. “Thank you for everything. See you in three days.”
“Only if I get a call from Mr. Jacobs.”
“Of course.”
“I put the dog supplies in the kitchen.”
“Fabulous.”
The long black limo swept around the circular gravel drive, and once the tires cleared the stones it became shockingly quiet. Win stood where she was, taking in the dramatic pitch of the shingled roof, the angled glass wall that stretched from the foundation to the sky, the straight extension of the trees, and the crisp blue heaven overhead.
Lulu began to squirm, and Win put her down in the gravel. She peed immediately, leaving a little rivulet in the rocks. Win hoped that was all right, because she’d forgotten to ask Artie about that little detail.
Win pulled the leash, a bit too energetically perhaps, as Lulu momentarily became airborne. “Sorry, doggie.” Win scratched the little curly white head and the dog’s eyes looked up at her with accusation. “I’ll get better at this, I promise.”
The two of them strolled up the stone walkway and across the crescent-shaped porch, and into the open front door. Win gasped. The house was dominated by one massive, sunny great room, decorated in earth tones with a smattering of jewel colors for accent. Antique pottery sat next to modern blown glass. A rustic farm table was topped with a sleek aluminum sculpture. A Calder-like mobile hung from the very highest point of the pitched ceiling. A bouquet of dried wildflowers was tucked into an old metal coffeepot.
Somehow it all worked, and Win had to say it was dazzling.
An hour later, she’d unpacked, finished the wholly unappealing task of preparing the dog’s lunch and had toured the entire house. She’d chosen the farm table in the great room as her work space and unpacked her laptop. She’d chosen a set of pale yellow four-hundred-thread-count sheets for her bed. She’d poured herself a glass of Shiraz and was enjoying the sweeping view from the back deck.
Win glanced over at the hot tub, then the Swedish sauna built into the side of the house, and decided that maybe a few weeks here might not be so bad after all.
She had no idea how long she slept. She awoke with Lulu’s leash clutched in her hand and her stomach growling. Win cut into a nice wheel of Brie, ate two slices of fresh pumpernickel and decided to do some exploring. She put on her Reebok trail runners and a pair of Ann Taylor jeans, and went outside.
In the fax, Artie had said there was a nature trail that went about a half mile up the ridge. He said it was clearly marked and went past a small waterfall. That sounded like the perfect introduction to her surroundings, and Win located the trail without difficulty. Soon, she and Lulu were off on their adventure.
The walk itself was soothing, but Win found the silence unnerving. The only sounds she heard were their footfalls—two of Lulu’s quick little taps to one of Win’s deeper beats—and the wind in the treetops, the sound of birds for which she had no names, and the occasional invisible little animal skittering across the forest floor. She held Lulu’s leash tight, mindful of Carly’s warning about contact with wild creatures.
The trail eventually became steeper, and Win found herself seeking out tree roots and rocks to use as footholds as she climbed. Lulu panted a bit but seemed to enjoy the challenge. They reached a leveling off, then it was back down, this time into a cool hollow, where a waterfall trickled into a brook.
Win sat on a moss-covered rock and closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She thought of Maximillion Mercy, his dark and foreboding beauty, the two-inch scar directly under his left cheekbone, his knack for being at the right place at exactly the right time, with all the right tools.
Maybe she could put a moss-covered rock in the chase scene. Maybe just a slick rock would do. Yes—the woman double-agent—Win still couldn’t decide between the names Eva or Zoe—would slip on a craggy rock jutting out over a raging waterfall, inches from plummeting to her death, when Max would arrive. He’d dive into the air, grab a lock of her long black hair and yank her to safety. Eva—or Zoe—would cry out in alarm and smack him across the face. Max would grab her by the upper arms and kiss her.
Or not.
Win sighed in creative despair and rose from the mossy rock, noting that if she fell off, the worst she’d get would be a pair of damp sneakers. “C’mon, Lulu.”
She turned and froze. Lulu made a strange vibrating noise Win thought might be a growl. And she had no idea what to do next.
The animal—it looked like some kind of skinny wild dog—shook all over, holding its position in the middle of the trail, teeth clenched. Blood streamed down its left front leg and dripped onto the dirt. Its eyes were crazy with pain and terror. White foam collected around its snarling mouth.
Win wasn’t proud of her ignorance, but she was wholly unprepared for a close encounter with nature and so scared she thought she would pee her pants. Why didn’t she know more about the natural world? Why hadn’t she watched more Wild Kingdom as a kid? What the hell were you supposed to do when facing a rabid wolf, or fox, or whatever this was? Were sudden moves a good thing or a bad thing? Did you run for a tree? Escape to the creek? Lie down in the dirt and pretend you were dead?
And how do you protect a toy poodle in this situation?
Win instinctively stepped backward, but her foot hit the rock. The animal let out a horrible rumbling sound from deep in its throat and took a step toward them. Well, that didn’t work. And there was nowhere to go.
This was ridiculous, Win thought. She’s out of the Upper West Side for less than one day and she’s mauled by a rabid mountain lion—or lynx or dingo—whatever it was.
Crack!
The animal fell to the dirt in a lifeless lump of fur, a small red hole in its forehead. From the opposite bank of the creek came the sound of rocks tumbling downhill and crashing into the creek. Win spun around in time to see a man—a very big dark-haired man—come flying over the water. He landed with a thud by the animal’s side, peered closely at the creature, then stood upright.
The wild mountain man had to be six-four. His back was wide, and all Win could see was a wall of burgundy and cream plaid, breathing heavily. She went ahead and took that step backward, even if it meant she was standing on the moss-covered rock. Then she took two more to her left, picked up Lulu, and started running through the thicket as though her life depended on it.
“Wait. Please.”
The voice was low, contained, and shockingly polite. Win turned to find the mountain man facing her, a half-smile on his unshaven face. His dark eyes were wide and he held his hands out, palms up, to show her he wasn’t a threat. Yeah, right.
“It’s the damn traps. People can be so stupid.”
Win stood with her mouth hanging open and her heart beating so hard, she worried it would explode. “You killed it!”
“The animal was suffering and scared and just about to go for you and your little dog.”
Win scrambled over downed trees, ferns and bushes and made it back to the trail. Then she walked backward, keeping her eyes on the mountain man. “Do not come any closer to us,” she said. “We are leaving. I have a cell phone and I’ll call the police if you come near us.”
The man smiled at her, and something in that face caused Win’s entire being to go on alert. “You’ll find cell reception really sucks up here.”
Oh, God. Oh, dear God! How bizarre! Win had to blink several times to make sure she wasn’t imagining this—because the man standing in front of her was Maximillion Mercy in the flesh. No, he looked nothing like Hollywood superstar Tony Cardone, who was now synonymous throughout the world with the Lethal Mercy hero. But the man standing in front of her was the embodiment of how she had written Maximillion. How she’d seen him in her mind’s eye. The man had Max Mercy’s magnetism, his quiet strength, his dominant sensuality. The man was fiction come to life, her fantasy made real.
That ugly lumberjack shirt, however, had to go.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“I’m leaving now.” Win swallowed. She turned to walk away, but spun around again. “How could you kill that animal! How could you shoot that poor thing?”
With that, she turned and ran. The sexy, intelligent, gun nut of a mountain man didn’t come after her, which relieved her and disappointed her in equal measure. She made it back to the clearing around Artie’s house in no time, and put Lulu down in the grass.
The stupid shower spigot in the guest bath didn’t work, so Win settled for a soak in the master bathtub. Then, after double-checking the security system and all door and window locks, she sat down to write.
And for some reason, Maximillion was alive in her imagination like he hadn’t been in months. He had it going on—hot but levelheaded, suave but raw, in the way only Max Mercy could be.
Win’s fingers flew across the keyboard until two in the morning.