Table Of ContentALMOST FAMOUS
Gina Wilkins
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
For my mother, Beth Vaughan, whose amazing courage
is an inspiration for everyone who knows her.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
SOLITUDE. It was exactly what Jake Hinson had craved the most when he’d
borrowed a friend’s cozy cabin in the Arkansas Ozarks National Forest on the
banks of the White River. He had told everyone he needed some time alone,
away from cameras and microphones, intrusive questions and sympathetic gazes.
He needed a chance to heal, both physically and emotionally, and he’d said he
couldn’t do either in the public eye.
Three days into his self-imposed vacation, he was already becoming restless
and lonely. He had spent half of his thirty years pursuing fame and attention, he
thought wryly. He didn’t even know how to live anonymously anymore.
As for the lazy relaxation that had seemed so appealing a few weeks earlier…
well, he didn’t know how to do that, either. He was accustomed to having every
minute of every day scheduled. To going 180 miles per hour on the racetrack and
200 in his personal life. Inactivity was a foreign concept to him, and the novelty
had worn off quickly.
At least the late-September weather was nice. After the first couple of days
nursing his wounds alone indoors, he ventured outside to the long front porch of
the cabin. The last in a row of similar, privately owned vacation homes facing
the river, the cabin sat on perhaps a quarter acre of rocky ground, separated
enough from the neighbors to provide plenty of privacy. Behind the houses, the
land rose to a wooded hillside, perfect for hiking.
Jake felt the draw of that hillside, but he wasn’t sure he was ready yet for a
strenuous walk over uneven ground. He would give himself another couple days
of strength-building exercises and then he would give it a try, he promised
himself.
All the cabins, including this one owned by one of his friends back in North
Carolina, had boat garages on their property. A couple of empty trailers still
hitched to parked pickup trucks sat at the public launch area on the other side of
the road, evidence that their owners were out trying their luck with the fish on
this Saturday afternoon. Jake didn’t even like to think about getting back into a
boat just yet, though he hoped there would come a time when he could do so
again without remembering the horrific accident that had changed so much in his
life.
Sitting in one of the four wrought-iron spring rockers arranged on the front
porch, he stretched his jeans-clad legs in front of him, wincing when the position
pulled at his healing scars. To distract himself from his discomfort, he looked
across the narrow asphalt road toward the river on the other side.
An older couple floated past in a flat-bottomed aluminum boat, their faces
shaded by straw hats, their fishing lines drifting lazily along beside them. Seeing
Jake sitting there, the man at the controls raised a hand. It was a congenial,
generic greeting having nothing to do with recognition. He’d have waved at
anyone sitting there, Jake realized as he returned the salute with a nod.
He turned his attention to the row of four cabins leading up to the one in which
he was staying. There had been little noise from his neighbors while he’d been
there. He saw people coming and going, but other than the occasional nod of
greeting, there was no interaction between the cabins. He had done nothing to
call attention to himself, staying inside most of the time since he’d arrived. He
hadn’t emerged until today.
Closing his eyes, he let the quiet sounds around him seep into him, soothe him.
The hum of the small boat motor as it traveled downriver. The lapping of the
water in its wake.
A sudden burst of high-pitched barking made his eyes open again. It seemed to
be coming from the cabin closest to this one. Turning his head, he spotted the
source of the sound—a hairy little black-and-brown dog tethered by a baby-blue
leash to a petite, slender young woman with long, dark hair and a sling on her
left arm. They appeared to be returning from a walk, and had apparently just
stepped onto their front porch when the dog had spotted Jake.
A Yorkshire terrier, Jake decided, amused by the attitude radiating from the
compact critter. Not just a wanna-be dog, he thought wryly. A wanna-be guard
dog. Never mind that a good-sized cat could probably make mincemeat out of
the little mutt.
Smiling, he raised a hand in greeting to his neighbor, her sling eliciting a tug of
empathy from him. He identified all too well with the signs of a recent injury.
Apparently, she didn’t feel the same sense of kinship. Maybe because his own
wounds weren’t as visible to her. Or maybe she just wasn’t the friendly type.
Whatever the reason, she gathered her dog’s leash more firmly in hand and
disappeared inside her cabin with only a quick, rather chilly nod in response to
his gesture.
Okay, he thought, dropping his hand, his practiced smile fading. So much for
being neighborly.
He wasn’t used to being so decidedly snubbed by an attractive young woman
—just the opposite, actually. Aware that his pride was stinging a bit, he chuckled
ruefully as he limped through his own door. Maybe he had gotten a bit spoiled
by the celebrity that had accompanied his rise in the ranks of NASCAR racing.
He had become more accustomed to being pursued by pretty women than
rebuffed by them.
It was probably good for him to be hit with an occasional reality check. Just to
keep him from getting too conceited—not that his teammates would let him get
too full of himself. He could count on his no-nonsense crew chief and blunt-
spoken team members to keep his ego in check.
Suddenly, almost overwhelmingly homesick for his friends and his temporarily
stalled career, he sank into a chair and allowed himself to slide into an
uncharacteristic and totally self-indulgent bout of self-pity.
STACY CARTER LOCKED the door of her brother’s river cabin, then pushed
the dead bolt into place, just for good measure. For the most part, she felt
perfectly comfortable staying here with only her pet Yorkie for company. The
solitude was greatly preferable to the ordeal she had been through back home,
giving her a chance to rest, recuperate and catch up on the piles of work that had
accumulated during the past couple of weeks.
Her family had been concerned about her coming here alone, but she had
assured them she would be fine. Her brother had owned this place for several
years without a single unpleasant incident. The locks were sturdy, the grounds
well lit, and she had a strong signal for her cell phone.
And she had Oscar, she thought with a smile, glancing down at the dog who
was chewing on his favorite fire-hydrant squeaky toy at her feet. Oscar believed
he was as fierce as any Doberman pinscher, and he made sure she was aware of
every odd or suspicious noise.
Even with one arm temporarily out of commission, she wasn’t worried about
staying here, and had no doubt about her ability to take care of herself. Still, it
didn’t hurt to take extra precautions. Like keeping the doors locked. And not
encouraging the attentions of the unknown man in the house next door.
She had been aware that the other cabin was occupied, though she hadn’t seen
anyone until today. Now she knew her elusive neighbor was a good-looking man
with dark hair and a flashing smile.
She hoped he hadn’t recognized her. She had tried to keep her face averted
from him, hoping he’d gotten the message that she wasn’t here to socialize. All
she needed was to have some reporter show up on the front porch of her hideout,
hoping for a filler feature story for a slow news day.
It wasn’t as if there was anything left to write about her, she thought grumpily,
but that had never stopped the local newshounds before. Not where her family
was concerned, at least.
Oscar dropped his toy and headed for the kitchen, his body language inviting
her to follow him. He’d made it clear he thought it was snack time, and he was
right, she decided, thinking of the bowl of fruit waiting on the kitchen table. She
ordered herself to forget the neighbor, forget the problems back home and
concentrate on the more pressing dilemma of whether she wanted an apple or a
pear.
THE MORNING AFTER Jake first glimpsed his reclusive neighbor, he sat
outside again, this time on the deck that spanned the back of the cabin,
overlooking the woods. It was a spectacularly beautiful day. The sky was a
brilliant blue dotted with fluffy white clouds, and a light breeze kept the
temperature comfortable.
A bird feeder sat on a pole in the neighboring backyard, and an interesting
variety of birds fluttered around it, chirping and singing from the surrounding
treetops. A couple of playful squirrels chased each other around the trunk of a
big oak tree, and a trio of deer wandered briefly into sight, then disappeared
silently back into the woods.
Though he couldn’t see them from where he sat, he heard an occasional vehicle
pass on the road on the other side of the cabin and a few boats puttering past on
the river. He thought he heard a small dog yap a couple of times, but he caught
no glimpse of the dog or its owner. He had peace, quiet and privacy—exactly
what he had come here to find. And he was going slowly out of his mind with
boredom.
The cell phone he kept clipped to his belt vibrated, and because any distraction
was a welcome one, he lifted it to his ear without checking the caller ID. “H’lo?”
His crew chief, Wade McClellan, greeted him with typical brevity. “Hey, Jake.”
“Hey, Ice. Aren’t you too busy getting ready for today’s race to talk on the
phone?”
Wade chuckled. “Actually, yes. I just wanted to check on you. How’s
paradise?”
“Let’s just say I’d be climbing walls if I had all my limbs back in climbing
commission.”
“Ready to come back home?”
Jake thought of the reporters who would be waiting there to ask him how his
recuperation was proceeding. When he would be back in top form. How soon
he’d be back behind the wheel. How he felt about losing his shot at this season’s
championship. And, oh, yeah, how it felt to lose a longtime friend in the tragic
accident.
“No,” he said, somewhat reluctantly. “Not quite.”
“Doing your exercises?”
“Obsessively.” It was pretty much all he had to do here.
“Hurting much?”
“Nah.” Pain was something a professional athlete—and as a race car driver, he
counted himself among that group—learned to live with. Just the physical
stamina required to spend four hours or more stuffed into a cramped, overheated,
tension-filled cockpit was daunting, and that didn’t count the jarring crashes and
dizzying spins that were inherent to the sport.
“You keep following your doctor’s orders, you hear? Don’t try to rush it or
overdo it.”
Jake couldn’t help but smile a little in response to Wade’s admonition. He spent
so much of his life with Wade’s voice in his ears—usually through headphones
—calming him, encouraging him, preaching patience, demanding his best
efforts.
But another driver would be hearing that voice this afternoon, he thought, his
smile dying. Another driver would be hanging on to the wheel of the Number 82
car, pedal to the metal, a monster engine between his legs, blood pounding in his
ears and forty-two other drivers doing their best to leave him in their dust.
“How’s Pete?” he asked, reminded of that other driver.
“Oh. You know.” Typically, Wade conveyed a great deal with those few words.
“He’s giving it his best?”
“Hundred percent. He’s working as hard as anyone here. And the team’s
determined to provide him with all the support they can give. Everyone likes the
kid—but he’s not you.”
Swallowing hard, Jake spoke brusquely. “Give him my best, okay? And tell
him not to get too comfortable in my car. I’m coming back to claim it in a few
