Mark Antonious. The anchor, the star, and the center of the Action! Series universe.
What happens when Mark leaves for a Dangereux Cologne company’s convention tour? As Alexander, Mark’s son, begins a new feature film in Oregon, Billy, Steve, Jack, Adam, and now Tadzio, the newest planet to begin to orbit Mark, are left without father and son.
What occurs next isn’t what you’d expect. As the men in Mark’s world find out just how life would be in his absence, it becomes clear to all that the Nation’s Top Male Model is the powerhouse everyone clings to, including the former LAPD cop, Steve Miller, and Alexander’s husband, Chief of Police Billy Sharpe. You don’t know what you have…until you lose it. With the weight of the world on his shoulders, and regrets looming, Mark’s loyalties are clear. The last thing you want is Mark as your enemy.
Mark Antonious Richfield; much more than just a pretty face.
Mark walked the halls of the mansion he had grown up in, in Paradise, California, a monstrosity surrounded by acres of land; a stable, tennis courts, indoor and outdoor swimming pool, sauna, a game room…
Through the maze of dim corridors and elaborate gold-leaf trim and haunting antiques, he made his way. Both hands touching the walls as he went, Mark hunted for his infant son.
He entered a room, a bedroom with windows facing the Sierra Mountain range. The window treatments were heavy, scalloped and dated. Paintings hung on his walls; landscapes, fox hunts and still-life portraits.
A scent of cigar smoke surrounded him.
Mark called for Alex but his voice sounded faint, weak.
He peered into the library; shelves from floor to ceiling, classical music playing, his mother, seated in a wingback chair, a novel on her lap, tea beside her, her hair pinned up in a bun.
A young man was sitting at her feet, a picture book on his lap. His long hair flowed down his shoulders, his lashes were dark and framed green eyes.
The young man looked up, and Mark recognized him; it was himself.
The scent of a burning cigar grew. Mark turned away from the library and ran down endless hallways. He kept calling for his young son, but couldn’t find him.
Then, he was outdoors, wind was blowing against his face, icy cold. He was flying. No. He was riding. Riding his stallion, but not Piccadilly’s Phantom. Dehra Dun, the horse he owned in his youth.
He raced over the fields of purple spiderwort and yellow buttercups. A shadow was cast over them. Something was chasing him; dark, ominous, it was death.
Mark bolted upright, gasping.
“Holy shit! Mark?”
“Alex!” Mark’s heart was beating wildly.
“Mark. Alex isn’t here. Mark…”
Slowly Mark came back to himself. He pulled his long hair off his face and panted loudly. “Bloody pills.” He hated them.