No, she would remain stubbornly stoic, not the least bit stirred by the dramatic dips in altitude, the unexpected barrel roll and flip of the chopper as if she was caught in some nightmare air circus stunt show. The only clue the pilot had that Poppy was not scared out of her wits was her white-knuckled grip of a strap that was attached to the interior wall of the helicopter next to her seat.
She was still wondering how she had managed to find herself buckled in next to a stunt pilot zipping high above the Coachella Valley desert on this bright, hot, sunny afternoon.
She had begun the otherwise non-eventful day at the Sundial resort, studying her lines for an upcoming scene to be shot in a couple days while Matt was on “Danika Duty,” sticking close to their client’s side, making sure she wasn’t accosted again if the stalker returned.
Meanwhile, back at the Desert Flowers office, Violet’s grandson Wyatt, their resident computer whiz, was on his desktop busily running a program with the numbers and letters Matt had given him, hoping against all odds to find the stalker’s car with only half the license plate. It was going to be an uphill battle, but definitely worth the time and effort if they got lucky.
Poppy had taken a break from her script and left her resort suite that served as her dressing room to grab some coffee from craft services, which was set up just off the pool area. There she found a man pouring himself a cup from the pot, and so she patiently waited a few feet behind him until he was finished. Sensing her presence, he glanced around and offered a rakish smile. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Poppy said, nodding.
Still blocking the coffee station, the man went about adding some cream and a couple of packets of sugar to his paper cup before picking up a wooden stirrer and swishing it around, his eyes still fixed on Poppy.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he said, still stirring his coffee.
“Yes, it most certainly is,” Poppy said politely, waiting for him to finally step aside.
“Roy Heller,” the man said, tossing the stirrer in a nearby trash can and holding out his hand.
Poppy shook it courteously if not enthusiastically. “Poppy Harmon.”
His grip was firm and manly. Poppy tended to judge a man by his handshake. This one was strong and confident, not limp and dismissive. A man with an unimpressive handshake was, in her opinion, a man who could not be trusted or counted on when the chips were down. She had willfully ignored her late husband Chester’s lackluster grip, and look where that had gotten her.
The man finally moved out of the way so Poppy could pour herself some coffee. He hovered nearby, watching her. She had noticed he was very handsome. How could she not? His close-cropped white hair, the ruggedly good-looking, sun-tanned face with just enough lines to give him a distinguished air, the macho swagger punctuated with a black leather jacket and aviator sunglasses. He had a James Brolin quality about him. Poppy loved James Brolin and how impressively he had aged and made the mercurial Barbra Streisand so happy. This guy could have been his brother.
Poppy had finished pouring her coffee and turned to leave when the man casually stepped in front of her, blocking her exit, and lowered his sunglasses, revealing a set of playfully mischievous green eyes. “I must say, you have only improved with age, Ms. Harmon.”
This caught Poppy by surprise. “Have we met?”
The man nodded with a grin. “A long time ago.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Roy Heller.”
“Roy Heller . . .” Poppy repeated, her mind working overtime. “I’m sorry, you don’t seem familiar.”
“The sound you hear is my ego deflating,” Roy joked. “Seriously, you don’t remember me?”
His face did seem vaguely familiar. But Poppy was fairly certain that had she met such a charming, handsome man she would have probably remembered him, and at the moment, she was still drawing a complete blank.
“We had a helicopter pilot on Jack Colt who we used for aerial shots and an occasional stunt, but his name was Tiny and he was about six inches taller than you. Perhaps you saw me on one of those retro cable channels where they play my old show, and so you just think we’ve met before.”
“We’ve worked together,” Roy said confidently. “Back in the eighties. Before you did Jack Colt.”
Poppy studied him some more. No, she was positive she would have remembered meeting this man, even after forty years. “I think you’re mistaken.”
“What do you want to bet?”
“Nothing. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“If I can prove it, you go up in my helicopter with me for a ride.”
“I can’t . . .”
“You afraid of heights?”
“No, I am not afraid of heights. I’m just a very busy woman and I can’t be running off with some stranger.”
“Technically, there will be no running, we’ll be flying.”
“I’ve enjoyed this little chat, but I really have to go—”
“You scared I’m right?”
Poppy scoffed at the notion. “No, I’m not scared of anything, Mr. Heller.”
“Call me Roy.”
“I’m not there yet, Mr. Heller.”
He sipped his coffee, staring at her flirtatiously. “Tell you what, I promise you it’ll be a quick ride, thirty minutes tops, I’ll have you back here by noon.”
“What if I win?”
“You’re not going to win.”
“Humor me.”
Roy thought about it. “What do you want?”
“All I really want is to go back to my room.”
Roy stuck out his hand. “It’s a deal.”
Poppy hesitated, not sure she should engage with him further, but since she was reasonably convinced this man was a stranger she had never seen before, she shook his hand, accepting the bet.
Roy flashed his winning smile and then grabbed his phone and started tapping the screen.
“What are you doing?” Poppy asked.
“Looking for a video on YouTube.”
“What video?”
Roy glanced up at her and gave her a wink. “Just hold on.”
He finally found what he had been looking for
