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usually photographers greeted Natalie’s every move. Lucky her. She really didn’t need a picture of her looking hammered and weaving across Rodeo in high heels like a drunken whore. That picture would have been splayed out on every trashy website within a half-hour.
    But then again, Boom Boom Wong, her PR person, kept saying that all publicity was good publicity. Boom Boom claimed that even the ugly publicity about her parents and Rico had been good for her career. Not so good for her heart, her head, or her psyche.
    What a weird time of day in Beverly Hills. The lunch crowd was gone, and the evening crowd hadn’t arrived. She entered the elevator to the subterranean parking garage and the cool metal wall pressed through her shirt. The doors opened on the third floor of the underground parking structure.
    A shiver rippled down her spine. Parking garages weren’t her favorite. She flipped her sunglasses onto her head. When she’d parked she’d failed to find a spot near the elevator. Instead her two-seater convertible was parked across the garage beside a pole. She yanked open her purse and stuck her hand into her giant bag. Her foot twisted and she bounced forward.
    Fuck.
    A rock or drunk? Either way her ankle hurt. Natalie bent forward and slipped her high heels off her feet. Glanced around the garage . . . wow, not many cars . . . not many at all except for the one . . .
    Her fingertips tingled and her belly tightened. No. That couldn’t be. The night on Mulholland had been dark and windy and she’d never gotten a good look at the car tailing her . . .
    Natalie’s heart skipped a beat. The only other car parked on this floor of the garage aside from hers and the sketchy black sedan that looked identical to the car that had tailed her all the way home was a white BMW with tinted windows.
    Shit.
    Natalie limped across the cement floor, high heels in hand. She dug into her purse, her fingernails scraped the lining. Her gaze flicked toward the black sedan. Keys . . . where the fuck were her keys?
    Her breath grew short. What an idiot. She was smarter than this, knew better than to hobble barefoot and boozy across a nearly empty parking garage without her keys in hand. Why didn’t she have her keys out and ready to go?
    A cold bead of sweat trickled down her spine. The distance from the spot she stood to her car seemed wider than the Grand Canyon. No, not good, not good. Her keys? Where were her keys? She shook her purse and change jangled against metal. Fuck. She caught the flash of headlights. Someone was in that black sedan, the sedan that looked oddly similar to the car that had followed her home.
    “Come on, come on, come on.” How much crap did one person need? Eyeliner, lipstick, a comb—for fuck’s sake, why did she have a spoon in her purse? She tossed the different items to the ground, nearly ready to dump the whole damn bag onto the concrete and grab her keys and run.
    An engine started. She glanced toward the black car, too close, headlights and engine on.
    Her stomach pitted and she started gimping faster toward her car, her hand still scrambling around the interior of her purse . . . searching, searching, searching.
    “Keys, key, keys, where the fuck are my keys?”
    The engine revved, a low growl of a predator from across the barren concrete expanse. She glanced toward the car. Please let the black sedan simply drive out the exit or some nice old couple get off the elevator so she wasn’t alone in this parking garage.
    Neither happened.
    The black sedan crept forward, slow but determined, lights on. She stood like the proverbial deer still fifteen feet from her car, still rummaging in her purse. She was just about to dump her bag when the white BMW pulled up.
    “Get in.”
    “What?”
    Her eyes jerked around from front to back. Two men . . . who were . . . were those the guys from Villa Blanco . . . who were they . . .
    The guy. The good-looking guy from the restaurant, tall and muscled and lean