Fields' Guide to Abduction - - (best sales books of all time txt) 📗

was obviously working overtime. First Jake, now a phantom stalker.

Back in bed, I considered turning on the lights, and didn’t. Instead, I listened to the gentle whish of the overhead fan and let my eyes close.

Bam! Bam!

I levitated off the mattress, glanced at the clock—I’d slept for three hours—and searched in the darkness for something to throw over my nightgown. I also stubbed my toe on the bedpost, hopped around on one foot, and swore like a sailor.

Bam! Bam!

“Coming!” My voice was loud enough for the people at the hotel up the hill to hear the irritation in my tone.

Still half-asleep, I stumbled into the living area and closed my hand around the door handle. “Who is it?”

“Marta Vargas.”

“Who?” And why in the world was she at my door?

“Marta Vargas.” The voice outside combined desperation and fear. “Please, let me in.”

Leaving the chain in place, I cracked the door.

The woman from the pool and spa stood on the other side. Her hair was a tangled mess, her black silk dress (Gucci—this year’s) hung askew, and bruises circled her upper arm.

“Please, I need your help.”

“Just a minute.” I closed the door, released the chain, and opened the door.

Marta pushed past me, slammed the door shut, and locked it. Then she surveyed my villa.

What the hell was going on? “What do you—”

“Are there curtains?” she demanded.

I stared at her. “What?”

She rushed across the room and pulled the linen drapes over the glass doors to the pool deck.

I scrubbed my eyes with my fists. “What are you doing here?”

She turned and looked at me with wild eyes. “My grandmother said I could trust you.”

“Who’s your grandmother?”

“Irene Vargas.” Irritation was edging out fear in her voice.

I should have put two and two together. “What are you doing here?”

“I need your help.”

She’d already said that. I needed to sit. I plopped onto the couch. “Slowly. Please. Explain.”

“He is a dangerous man.”

My sleep-fuddled brain latched onto an idea—Javier. My gaze latched onto her arm. “He hits you?”

“No.” She shook her head—an annoyed shake. “But he may kill me. I heard you arrived here in a private plane. Is it still here? Can you get me out of Mexico?”

I sat on the couch—lumps on logs had better cognitive abilities—and gaped at her.

“Wake up!” She snapped her fingers in front of my face. “We don’t have time to waste.”

I closed my mouth.

“Can you help me?” she demanded. Someone needed to tell her about flies, honey, and vinegar.

“What’s going on?”

“It is better if you don’t know.”

“You want me to put you on a plane without an explanation?”

“It is a matter of life and death.”

I believed her—or I believed that she believed.

“It’s not my plane,” I explained.

The drape-yanking, finger-snapping, put-me-on-a-plane-or-else woman deflated and tears welled her eyes. “Then I am dead.”

Or at least very dramatic. Was this all just an act? A scam?

Her tears were real. I’d spent too many years watching Chariss fake tears for roles not to able to tell the difference.

“I’ll see what I can do to help you. Maybe I can get the plane to come back.” This was just the sort of story James loved—beautiful damsel in distress, dangerous man, and James could save the day without leaving the comforts of his trailer.

“The plane is not here?” Her lovely face looked haggard.

“No, but I can get it here in the morning.” Maybe. Hopefully. “Listen, why don’t you spend the night here? I’ll call James first thing. I’m sure he’d be happy to send the plane for you.”

“James?”

“James Ballester.”

Her eyes widened.

“He’s my mother’s best friend.”

“The movies.” She nodded as if suddenly everything was clear.

“He’ll send his plane—” I hoped “—and you’ll be safe. Where do you want to go?”

“Away.”

“Hard to file a flight plan to away. How about Los Angeles?”

She nodded. “Yes. Los Angeles. That is fine.”

“All right then. Why don’t you go upstairs, pick a bedroom, and see if you can rest?”

She looked doubtfully at the stairs.

“I’ll be down here and I’ll call James first thing.”

She nodded. Slowly. “Okay, Okay.”

Marta climbed the stairs at a pace that made it seem as if her feet had been replaced by anvils. When, she turned the corner on the landing, I went back to my bedroom, stood at the doors, and watched the moonlight spill silver onto the water. What had I gotten myself into?

I slept. Badly. For a few hours. Then I tossed and turned and gave up on the idea of getting any rest.

I dragged myself out of the bed, grabbed my phone, opened the doors to the patio, and claimed a chaise. The sun hadn’t yet thought about rising. It was just me, a few birds, my aching muscles, and the ocean.

It was too early to call James. Also, I wanted Marta’s assurance she really wanted to leave before I called in that favor. How many times had Mia or I been adamant about something in the middle of the night only to change our minds when the sun rose? At least a hundred. Maybe more.

I shifted my gaze from the water to the notifications on my phone. The resort had tagged me on Facebook, and Twitter, and Instagram. In the pictures, Mike’s arm was draped around me and we both were smiling as if we’d never had a better time. As if we were a couple. A happy couple.

Ugh.

Chariss would call as soon as she saw them. I knew the conversation by heart. “What are you doing?” she’d ask.

I’d tell her I was in Mexico at a resort—at a party.

“Fine,” she’d say. “But what are you doing with your life? There’s more to life than fun. When I was your age I’d—”

When she was my age, she had a hit TV show, an Emmy, an Oscar, a movie scheduled to release (her first with James), and a four-year-old daughter she saw once a year. If I was feeling snarky I’d point out that last part.

Then she’d sigh. “I just want you to find your path.”

I’d found my path and I’d chosen not to tell her about it.

Stars’ children had strings pulled for them. So many strings that no matter how successful they became, they never knew if they owed their success to their own talent or to their parents’ fame.

I didn’t want that kind of success.

If the book I’d written sold, it would be because it was good, not because I was Poppy Fields, Chariss Carlton’s wayward daughter. And if it failed, I didn’t want my Emmy-winning, Oscar-winning mother to know.

The day I’d signed with an agent, Mia, Jake, and I drank champagne and toasted the book deal that was surely weeks away. That was months ago. Aside from my agent, who didn’t know my real name, no one but Mia and Jake had any inkling I’d written a book.

Just Mia now.

I dropped my phone in my lap and wiped my eyes. Despite my certainty that I’d seen him last night, dawn’s light told me the truth. I’d wanted to see Jake, so I’d imagined him.

I glanced at the time. Still too early to call James.

Ding.

A text popped up on the screen. YOU ARE IN DANGER. YOU NEED TO GO HOME.

My insides froze—heart, lungs, kidneys.

I tightened my grip on the phone. The text had come from a private number. With shaking fingers, I typed. Who is this?

YOU ARE IN DANGER!

Adrenalin flooded my system, drying my mouth and making my heart stutter. Who is this and how did you get this number?

POPPY, YOU NEED TO LEAVE. TODAY! NOW IF YOU CAN!

WHO IS THIS? Whoever they were, they weren’t the only one who could type in caps.

JUST LEAVE. PLEASE.

That feeling of being watched was back. With a vengeance. In front of me was the ocean, behind me was the villa, around me were walls to ensure my privacy. No one could see me. That didn’t stop me from tightening my robe around my neck.

I NEED TO KNOW YOU’RE SAFE.

My fingers flew over the keys. WHO IS THIS?

I waited for an answer. And waited.

I typed again. Slower this time. JAKE?

No answer. Nothing.

I stared at the phone.

Nothing. Nada.

I typed again.