Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky Read Online Free PDF Page B

stopped me again.
    “ Does Alberto have you in one of those awful little rooms under my apartment? We wanted to put you in a suite, but there was a mix-up. Stay put for a minute. I’ll check and see if we’ve had any cancellations.”
    “ I’m sure it will be just fine…”
    Gabriella pointed at my vacated chair with an authoritative finger as she took a phone from her vest pocket.
    “ I’ve given Silas the John Wayne room, so he doesn’t have to drive all the way home tonight. He’s been trying to locate some more Jackie Collins titles, but we don’t need them now.”
    I sat, wishing I weren’t so aware of Rick’s eyes on my naked thigh.
    “ I’m sorry to hear about Miss Collins’ cancellation. Is she ill?”
    “ Beats me.” Gabriella pushed a button on the phone and put it to her ear. “Toby got a call from Jackie’s people just before his workshop started, so he didn’t have time to tell me. You’d be amazed how often these folks cancel at the last minute.” She clicked off the phone and gave a weary sigh. “Alberto must be away from the desk. But we’ve got a fantastic replacement for Jackie: Plantagenet Smith, the screenwriter, fresh from his Oscar win. Silas came to my rescue. He met Plant at a San Francisco book fair last year. We’ve never had an Oscar winner at the conference before.”
    My head roared. Plantagenet. Here.
    “ Mr. Smith is… here?” I tried not to let my emotions show. It had been five years, but he wasn’t likely to have forgiven me.
    Rick looked unimpressed.
    “ Is he the dude who wrote that crazy thing about Oscar Wilde and Calamity Jane?”
    Gabriella grinned. “I knew Westerns would make a comeback some day…oh, Plant wanted me to give you this.” She pulled a note from the pocket of her suede vest.
    My hand shook as I opened it.
     “ My darling Camilla—Longing to see you. Tragic about you and Jonathan. See you ASAP. We can compare sagas of tabloid hell.”
    My eyes stung. Could he possibly have forgiven me? 
    “ Is he going to join us?” I hoped my voice didn’t sound shaky.
    “ I invited him, but he said somebody tailgated him over the pass, and all he wanted was a shower.” Gabriella rolled her eyes as if this indicated serious wimpiness on Plant’s part. “We put him down in the Zorro cabin—the one with the fountain out front.”
    I jumped up.
    “ But it’s about a ten minute walk, hon,” Gabriella called as I made for the door. “Ask at the desk for someone to take you down in a golf cart.”
    I’d wanted to patch things up with Plantagenet for so long, but when I was still with Jonathan, I was afraid Plant would tell me to leave him—and when I finally did it, I felt too needy to be good company.
    As I approached the front desk, Alberto—engrossed in a pile of legal-looking documents—waved me away.
    “ I have spoken with the airport. Your luggage will be here by morning. I can do nothing more tonight.” He dismissed me before I could thank him.
    A walk down the hill might get the knots out of my body from the crazy motorcycle ride. The haunted-ranch stories made walking alone a little creepy, but anyone who could be frightened by a headless ghost had never been stalked by a paparazzo.
    The wind had a chilly bite, but the exercise was warming. I began to relax, breathing the tang of fruit in the clean night air as I walked the dirt road between the regimented stakes of grapevines. Zorro was easy to spot—the flashiest of six Spanish-style cabins nestled in an oak grove at the entrance to the Rancho. A three-tiered fountain dominated the courtyard in front. Lights glowed from inside. A brand new Ferrari nestled in the space beside it. Plant did love his cars: this must have been his Oscar-win celebration buy.
    I knocked on the door, but heard only the splash of the fountain. The other cabins were quiet and dark. I was about to knock again when I checked my watch. Nearly midnight. Any sensible person would be asleep. I turned to make a