“It’s just that I’m feeling a tad carsick . . . I get that way after long flights and having to be in a car so soon.”

She had to be messing with me. She had to know I was fading fast, and this was her solution. Sharpening my gaze, I looked her over with a critical eye. She was a bit green around the gills, her throat working, as though she couldn’t properly swallow.

“You’re sick?” was my clever reply.

She went greener, a light sweat breaking out over her smooth skin. “It’s stupid . . .”

“It’s not stupid. It happens.”

The lines of her lovely face grew strained. “I thought pulling over might help, but . . .” She forced her gaze to mine. “Would you mind terribly if I drove for a while?”

Her thin fingers clenched together. God, we were a pair.

Given that I wasn’t fit to drive, and she was offering . . .

“Okay,” I managed to say. “Sure, if that’s what you need.”

Her pleased expression did funny things to the center of my chest. “Thank you so much.”

“Keys are in the ignition,” I told her with a weak-ass nod, then headed for the passenger seat.

“Great. Just one second.” She walked toward another parked pickup at the edge of the overlook. An old man sat in a battered lawn chair next to the flatbed, selling bottled water out of a cooler.

Emma bought a few, loaded them in her arms, and headed back to me. I might have imagined the pep in her step, because she met my gaze, and it was as if a wave of sickliness washed over her. But she braved it with a deep shaking breath and then handed me the icy bottles.

“I find this helps me too. Help yourself if you’re thirsty.”

Water would help. A lot. I eyed the frosty bottles in my lap and then the woman walking around the front of the truck. Had she done this for me? I couldn’t tell. Which was annoying. Unnerving.

Bemused, I opened a bottle for her and one for me, then tucked the rest of the bottles in the big storage compartment between the seats. Emma slid into the driver’s seat and promptly went about adjusting everything to her liking.

Was it weird that I found that sexy too? Probably. But I was too wiped out to care. Tipping my seat just enough to release a bit of pressure on my lower back, I grabbed my bottle and drank deeply. And then nearly wept in relief as that cold water washed down my throat.

“You know where to go?” I asked her, even though she obviously knew which direction we were headed, and I could tell her when to turn off.

Her answering tone said as much, but she simply said, “We’re headed for Montecito, right?”

“Right.”

Emma turned out onto the road with calm efficiency. As soon as we were underway, she opened the windows a little to let in the breeze, then turned on the air conditioner. With a quick glance my way, she explained, “Also helps with nausea, you know?”

Yes, I knew.

I grunted and, under the cover of my sunglasses, closed my eyes. I drank my water and let the fresh air ease me. Emma softly hummed a tune, and it took me a minute to figure out it was “Maria” from The Sound of Music.

For some reason it made me want to laugh. Not at her or the song but because it seemed so her. I drank more water instead, as she drove with smooth ease.

“You’re a good driver,” I found myself saying.

A small smirk played about her lips. “You doubted me?”

“Didn’t say that. I figured you had to be at the very least proficient if you asked to drive.”

“I could have been deluded,” she countered sweetly. “Full of my own self-importance yet dangerously incompetent.”

“Met many people like that, have you?”

The corners of her eyes crinkled. “A few.”

“Hmm.”

She passed a slower car. “Truth is I love driving. Especially on scenic roads. Back in Iceland, a couple of us rented sports cars on our day off and drove in tandem through the countryside.” She appeared lost in thought, a melancholy look on her face.

“Princess Anya made that show.”

Her jolt of surprise was visible and swift.

Shit.

Then she turned my way with a wide grin. “You watch Dark Castle?”

Double shit.

“It’s a good show. I watched it . . .” On the road between games. “Sometimes.”

Smug was a good look on Emma Maron. Although I was beginning to think every look on Emma was good.

“So you liked Anya, huh?”

Anya. Not her. Anya was a character on a show. A character I’d seen naked and—fucking hell. Double, triple fucking hell.

I pulled my leg up a little higher to hide my thickening cock. But I couldn’t stop picturing her naked tits. Damn it. I was the absolute worst letch.

“Liked her better with her head intact,” I muttered, earning a lilting laugh from Emma.

“Yeah, me too.” She said it with a smile, but it soon faded, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. “I guess Amalie told you.”

“I’ve been sworn to secrecy. Not that I have anyone I could actually tell.”

That seemed to appease her. But then her slim shoulders slumped. “It’ll be out eventually. In one spectacular finale.”

The finale aired in six months. “Did you know? That you were, ah . . .”

“Getting the ax,” she supplied with a waggle of her brows.

A chuckle left me. “Yeah, that.”

The show was notorious about hiding plot twists not only from their fans but their actors as well.

“No,” she said soberly. “Not until I read the script during the read through.”

I knew that voice, the bitter pain laced with confusion, as if she was wondering, Did this fuckstorm that happened to me actually happen? I knew it too well.

They killed her off without warning. In front of her peers.

“That’s some shit, Em.”

She was silent for a beat before answering. “It sure is, Lucian.”

CHAPTER THREE

Emma

After months of being in Iceland, driving in California was like stepping into another world. Sun, sea, mountains. Many coastlines had the same features. But even though I lived in California only part of the year, there was something that felt like home about the quality of light here, golden and warm; the endless stream of cars; the surfers bobbing like corks in the water before they caught a wave.