Return Engagement

Chapter 1 Noah Patrick sat on the beach. He'd slept here last night, under the pier with a couple other bums. They'd built a fire, illegal as hell, but only if you got caught, and offered him rotgut wine. He'd declined. He told them his name when they asked. They'd grinned and asked for his autograph. Neither of them had pencil or paper so he'd written his name with his finger in the sand and watched the surf wash it away. That's what gave him the idea. He hadn't had the brains to quit drinking till it was too late, till he had nothing left. No career, no money, no place to live. Hopefully, he had guts enough to simply sit here and let the tide take him. The sun was almost gone, just a thin orange smear on the horizon. He heard the murmur of the surf, could see the tidal surge beginning to lift toward shore. Wouldn't be long now. Wouldn't be easy, either. He was Californiaborn and bred, raised on a surfboard, swam like a dolphin. His instinct was to fight. Noah closed his eyes and focused on how he'd do it. Just lie down. Pretend he was floating on his board like he used to when he was just another sunburned, bleached blond kid on the beach. Before Hollywood came knocking and made him a TV star. He did fine till the breakers started booming and slapped spray in his face. He kept his eyes shut but he panicked. He was doing this wrong. He should've swiped a board from the idiots surfing in wet suits and paddled out past the break- ers. It was December. Hypothermia would kill him before he drowned. He had to force himself to lie down, shivering on the wet sand, his teeth clacking like the one and only time he'd had the DT's. He'd really fucked that up. If he hadn't checked himself into detox, he'd be dead already instead of lying here freezing to death. He drew a breath, bracing himself for the next wave. No one would miss him. He'd fucked that up, too. Hadn't bothered to make himself likable when he'd had looks and money. Nobody bothered when they were on toponly when they hit bottom. Maybe he'd wash up someplace snazzy like Malibu, where paparazzi were as thick as starlets sunbathing without their bikini tops. If the fish didn't chew him up too bad, somebody might snap his picture, run it in the tabloids. Dead, he might attract enough attention for a movie of the week. Four-hankie dramas about tormented celebs doomed to die young were hot. They wouldn't be hot forever, though, so the next breaker had better gets its ass moving and get up here and get him. Noah opened one eye, saw the surf roiling and curling back on itself for another crack at him, shut his eye and thought about his movie. His former network might snap it up for old times' sake. The rights belonged to his parents. He'd signed them over in his will. His will. Fuck. Noah opened his eyes and blinked at the first stars popping out in the sky. Where was it? And where the hell was that goddamn breaker? He was freezing his balls off here waiting to drown. If his mother had any say, they'd cast Brad Pitt to play him. Not his first choice, but he could live with it so long as they made him shave that scraggly, sorry-ass beard. They wouldn't need a leading lady. He'd never gotten around to marriage. He'd been too busy drinking himself half to death. If the fucking tide didn't hurry, he'd have time to finish the job. What the hell did a guy have to do around here to drown? Noah pushed up on one hand, swung his head toward the water, and took the six-foot breaker that came crashing ashore full in the face. It knocked him flat, drenched himLynn Michaels is the author of 'Return Engagement', published 2003 under ISBN 9780804119610 and ISBN 0804119619.