by Nora Roberts
“I’ll get by. Then there’s that charity dinner tonight.”
Her smile faded. “How did you know about that?”
“It’s my job to know.” Though he didn’t need them Quinn flipped through his notes. “My secretary contacted Sean Carter and explained you had another escort.”
“Then she can contact him again. Sean and I arranged to go together to help promote the film.”
“Are you willing to get into a dark limo with a man who might be—”
“It’s not Sean.” After cutting him off, Chantel reached for the pack of cigarettes Quinn had tossed on the table.
“We’ll just play this my way.” Quinn picked up his lighter and flicked it on. “I’ll take you to your little party, and if you like, you can cuddle with Sean for the cameras. What about tomorrow?”
Chantel gave him a poisonous look. “You tell me.”
Quinn patiently flipped open his file. “You’ve got a reporter and photographer from Lifestyles coming at one to do a story on you and the house. That’s all I’ve got.”
She dropped the cigarette in an ashtray and let it smolder. “Because that’s all there is. I have some personal things to attend to here at home, then I go to bed early because Monday’s a working day.”
“Matt said you were practical.” Quinn flipped the page over. “Larry Washington.”
“Get on with it,” she told him. “You won’t be happy until you do.”
“The kid looks clean enough on the surface. Graduated UCLA last year with a degree in business management. Seems he always had a thing for the theater, but preferred the setups and backstage stuff to the acting.”
“Which is exactly why I hired him.”
“Apparently he had a pretty heavy thing going with a coed until about six months ago. A very attractive blue-eyed blonde. She dumped him.”
He didn’t have to spell out the implications. “A lot of women have blue eyes, and a lot of college romances break up.”
“Amos Leery,” he continued, ignoring her. “Did you know his first wife divorced him because he couldn’t keep his hands off other women?”
“Yes, I know. And it was fifteen years ago, so—”
“Old habits die hard. George McLintoch.”
“That’s pitiful, Doran. Even for you.”
“He’s been a makeup artist for thirty-three years. Has five grandchildren and another due in the fall. Since his wife died a couple of years ago, he’s had a few problems with the bottle.”
“That’s enough.” She rose and paced to the edge of the pool. The water was calm and crystal clear. So had her life been only a few weeks before. “That’s really enough. I’m not going to sit here and listen to you dissect the personal problems of people I work with.” She looked back over her shoulder. “You’re in a filthy business.”
“That’s right.” Not by a flicker did he reveal his feelings on the subject. “James Brewster. Seems like a pretty stable family life. Married twenty-one years, one son studying law in the east. Interesting that he’s been in analysis for over ten years.”
“Everyone in this town’s in analysis.”
“You’re not.”
“I will be if I keep you around.”
He smiled briefly, then turned the page. “Your driver, Robert, is an interesting character. Young Robert DeFranco has himself a string of ladies.”
“Just your kind of man.”
“Can’t help but admire his stamina. Matt Burns.”
She turned all the way around then. This time he saw not anger but revulsion. It ripped at something inside him. “How could you?” She said it quietly and painfully. “He’s your friend.”
“This is my job.”
“It’s your job to spy into the personal lives of people you’re supposed to care about?”
He kept his eyes on hers. “I can’t afford to care about anyone but my clients when they’re paying me. That’s the service.”
“Then keep this part of it to yourself. Whatever you dug up about Matt, I don’t want to know.”
He wouldn’t allow her to make him regret what he’d done. He’d done worse, much worse. He wondered how she’d look at him if she knew. “Chantel, you’re going to have to consider all the possibilities.”
“No, you are. And at this point you’re getting seven hundred a day to do it. It’s your job to find whoever’s hounding me and to keep me safe while you’re doing it.”
“This is the way I do it.”
“Fine. Since it is, all I want to see from you is the bill.”
She started to storm back into the house, but he blocked her path. “Grow up.” Taking her by the shoulders, he held her still. She was hurting, he realized, really hurting for the people she cared for. He had to convince her that she couldn’t afford to. “Anyone at all could be making those calls. Maybe it’s someone you’ve never even met, but my instincts tell me different. He knows you, lady.” He gave her a quick shake to accentuate his point. “And he wants you real bad. Until we find him, you’re going to do just like I say.”
That morning’s call was still too fresh in her mind. If a compromise had to be made, she’d make it. But she wouldn’t like it. “I’ll do what you say, Doran, to a point. I’ll have my phone tapped, I’ll have the damn guards at the gate and you in my house, but I won’t listen to this garbage.”
“In other words, you’ll make a good showing, but you don’t want the details.”
“You got it.”
He dropped his hands. “I thought you had more guts than that.”
She opened her mouth to yell, then shut it again because he was right. She just didn’t have the stomach for it. “Dry off, Doran.”
She turned on her heel and walked away. As he stood watching her, Quinn decided his instincts were as reliable as ever. When push came to shove, she wouldn’t crumble.
Chapter 5
When they got through the weekend without chewing any pieces off each other, Chantel decided they might make it. It hadn’t pleased her to go to dinner with him and pretend, in front of three hundred other people, that she enjoyed being with him. Chantel had told herself to look at it as a job—a particularly difficult and unappealing job. Then Quinn had thrown her a curve. He’d been charming.
Surprisingly, black tie suited him. Though it didn’t quite disguise his rough edges, it made them all the more appealing. He would never be suave or smooth or glossy. For some reason, Chantel found she was pleased to know that. He might wear a silk tie and the trappings of sophistication, but you knew—at least if you were a woman you knew—that a barbarian lay underneath.
Before the evening was over, he had drunk champagne with this year’s top box-office draw and had danced with a three-time-Oscar-winning actress. The seventy-year-old veteran had patted Chantel on the knee and told her that her taste in men was improving. Though that had been difficult to swallow, not once during the evening had Quinn given Chantel the opportunity to smirk at him.
On Sunday he left her to herself. When the reporters came and she gave them an interview and a tour of her home, it was as if he weren’t even there. She knew he was around, somewhere, but he didn’t infringe on her privacy. She was free to get back to her reading, to indulge in a long, soothing whirlpool bath and to catch up on correspondence and a few niggling business matters. By the time they left the house on Monday morning, Chantel was almost ready to revise her opinion of him.
She felt rested and eager for work. The night before, she had finished the script she’d begun on Saturday morning and was more enthusiastic than ever. She’d woken Matt out of a sound sleep to tell him to go after the part. It might have been shy of 6:00 a.m., but Chantel felt wonderful.
She glanced over at Quinn beside her, legs stretched out, eyes closed behind tinted glasses. From the look of him, he hadn’t shaved since Saturday. It seemed unfair that the slightly dissipated aura suited him so.
“Rough night?”
He opened one eye. Then, finding it too much eff
ort, he closed it again. “Poker game.”
“You played poker last night? I didn’t know you’d gone out.”
“In the kitchen,” he muttered, wondering how soon he could get his hands on another cup of coffee.
“My kitchen?” Chantel frowned, a little annoyed that she hadn’t been asked to play. “With whom?”
“Gardener.”
“Rafael? He hardly speaks English.”
“Don’t have to, to know a full house beats a straight.”
“I see.” A smile tugged at her lips. “So you and Rafael played poker in the kitchen, got drunk and told lies.”
“And Marsh.”
“And Marsh what?” She stopped in the act of reaching for a glass. “Marsh played cards? My Marsh?”
“Tall guy, not much hair.”
“Really, Quinn, he’s nearly eighty and quite creaky. I’m surprised even you would take advantage of him.”
“Took me for eighty-three dollars. Canny old son of a—”
“Serves you right,” she said with satisfaction. “Sitting down in my kitchen, swilling beer and smoking cigars and bragging about women when I’m paying for your time.”
“You were asleep.”
“I hardly think that matters. You’re being paid to watch out for me, not play five-card stud.”
“Five-card draw, jacks or better. And I was watching out for you.”
“Really?” She brought a glass of juice to her lips. “That’s odd. I didn’t see hide nor hair of you yesterday.”
“I was around. You enjoy your whirlpool?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You spent damn near an hour in that tub.” He took the glass from her and drained it. Maybe it would wash the cotton out of his mouth. “Funny, I figured a woman like you would have two dozen bathing suits. Guess you couldn’t find one.”
“You were watching me.”
He handed the glass back to her, then settled back again. “That’s what you’re paying me for.”
Indignation rippled through her as she slammed the glass back in its holder. “I’m not paying you to be a Peeping Tom. Get your prurient kicks on your own time.”
“My time is your time, angel. I saw nearly that much of you when I plunked down ten bucks to see Thin Ice. Besides, if I’d been out for kicks, I’d have joined you.”
“I’d have drowned you,” she tossed back, but he only smiled and shut his eyes again.
His head was pounding like a jackhammer. He’d gotten less sleep before, but that had usually been of his own choosing. The poker game had been his way of distracting himself from the knowledge that she was sleeping upstairs, his way of trying to forget the way she’d looked stretched out in the foaming water of the spa that afternoon.
He hadn’t, as he wanted her to believe, watched her. He’d seen her go into the pool house. Then, when she hadn’t come out, he’d gone to check on her. She’d been lounging in the big tub, Rachmaninoff wafting from the overhead speakers. Her hair had been left down and floated in the frothing water. And her body … her body had been long and slender and pale. He could still feel the impact, like a sledgehammer straight to the solar plexus.
He hadn’t stayed to tease and taunt, but had left as quietly as he’d come. There had been a fear, a definite fear that if she’d opened her eyes and looked at him he’d have crawled.
Thoughts of her haunted him day and night. He knew he should be able to prevent it. Nothing and no one was permitted to have power over him. But he was beginning to understand how a woman could become an obsession by simply existing. He was beginning to understand how a man could become overwhelmed by his own fantasies.
It made him worry about himself, but it made him worry more about her. If another man had become obsessed with her, and that other man had crossed certain lines, to what lengths might he go to have her? The letters and calls were gradually becoming more urgent. When would he stop them and try something more desperate?
As frightened as she was, Quinn didn’t believe Chantel had any conception of just how far that kind of madness could push a man. The longer he was around her, the more he realized just how far that was.
* * *
They would shoot on the back lot that day. Another camera crew was already in New York filming exteriors. Chantel was looking forward to the time when she and other members of the crew would fly east for the handful of scenes to be shot on location. It would give her a chance to see her sister Maddy and, with any luck, catch her play on Broadway.
The thought of it brought back her earlier cheerful mood. It lasted even through an hour’s delay while technicians worked out a few bugs.
“Looks like New England,” Quinn commented as he glanced around the open-air set.
“Massachusetts, to be exact,” Chantel told him, nibbling on a sticky bun. “Ever been there?”
“I was born in Vermont.”
“I was born on a train.” Chantel broke off another piece of her bun and laughed. “Well, nearly. My parents were on their way to a gig when my mother went into labor. They stopped off long enough to have my sisters and me.”
“Your sisters and you?”
“That’s right. I’m the oldest of triplets.”
“There are three of you. Good God.”
“There’s only one of me, Doran.” She popped a piece of the bun in his mouth, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. “We’re triplets, but each of us manages to be her own person. Abby’s raising horses and kids in Virginia, and Maddy’s currently wowing them on Broadway.”
“You don’t look like the family type.”
“Really.” She felt too good to be offended. “I also have a brother. I can’t tell you what he does, because no one’s quite sure. I lean toward professional gigolo or international jewel thief. You’d get along beautifully with him.” She watched one of the prop men pick up a boulder and move it a few feet. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
Quinn studied the trees. They looked real, just like the ones back home, until you saw the wood base they sat on. “Anything real around here?”
“Not a great deal. Give them a few hours and they could make this a jungle in Kenya.” Stretching her back, she toyed with the ice in her cup. She was used to waiting. “We were going to shoot this on location, but there were some problems.”
“There’s a lot of wait around in this business.”
“It’s not for the restless. I’ve gone back to my trailer and sat for hours to be called back for a five-minute scene. Other days you put in fourteen hours nonstop.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you do it?”
“Because it’s what I’ve always wanted to do.” It was a stock answer. Why she felt obliged to elaborate on it, she didn’t know. “When I was little and I sat in a theater and saw what could happen, I knew I had to be a part of it.”
“So you always wanted to be an actress.”
She tossed her hair back and smiled. “I’ve always been an actress. I wanted to be a star.”
“Looks like you got what you wanted.”
“Looks like,” she murmured, shaking off a hint of depression. “What about you? Did you always want to be a—whatever it is you are?”
“I wanted to be a juvenile delinquent and was doing a pretty good job of it.”
“Sounds fascinating.” She wanted to know more. To be honest, she wanted to know everything about him, but she’d take care how she asked. “Why aren’t you serving ten to twenty in San Quentin?”
“I got drafted.” He grinned, but she sensed the joke was very much his own.
“The army builds men.”
“Something like that. Anyway, I learned to do what I was good at, make a profit and stay out of jail.”
“And what are you good at?” He turned his head, just enough that she could see the amusement and the challenge in his eyes. “Forget I asked. Let’s try something else. How long were you in the army?”
“I didn’t say I was
in the army.” He offered her a cigarette, then lighted it himself when she shook her head.
“You said you were drafted.”
“I was. Drafted and government trained. Want some more coffee?”
“No. How long were you in?”
“Too long.”
“Is that where you learned not to give a direct answer?”
“Yeah.” He smiled at her again. Then, before either of them realized his intention, he reached out to touch her hair. “You look like a kid.”
Her heart shouldn’t have been hammering, but it was. It was only a touch, after all, only a few words and a long look in a pretend world teeming with people. “That’s the idea,” she managed after a moment. “I’m twenty in this scene, innocent, eager, naive … and about to be deflowered.”
“Here?”
“No, actually, just over there.” She pointed to a small clearing in the forest the crew had created. “Brad the cad seduces me, promising me his everlasting devotion. He taps the passion that so far I’ve only given to my painting, then exploits it.”
Quinn clucked his tongue. “With all these people watching.”
“I love an audience.”
“And you got mad because I watched you in the tub.”
“You—”
“They’re ready for you, Chantel.”
After giving her assistant a nod, Chantel stood up, then carefully brushed off the seat of her pants. “Get yourself a good seat, Doran,” she suggested. “You might learn something.”
Taking her advice, Quinn watched her run through the scene several times on low power. From his angle, it seemed a lukewarm stock scene—a gullible woman, a clever man in a pretty springtime setting. Plastic, he thought, pure plastic, down to the leaves on the trees. Quinn kept his eyes on George as the makeup artist retouched Chantel’s face to keep that dewy, never-been-touched look intact. One of the prop men handed her back her sketchpad and pencil.
