“You’re something else, you know that?” Roy said with half a laugh, desperately trying to ground himself. “Forget acting-you should be writing fiction.”
“I’ve thought about it, actually,” she said, throwing him a look that seemed to be serious-as if she really did want him to understand. “They’re not that different, writing and acting. Both are about making up characters and then crawling inside their skin. Getting to know them. Figuring out what makes them tick. Then, you figure out ways to let the audience in on the secret.” She gave a half shrug, along with a faint smile. “That’s all acting is. And maybe fiction writing, too.”
“Got it all figured out,” Roy said in a grating voice.
He wasn’t sure when his heart had begun to beat so fast, when he’d begun to feel like a hunted man, dodging through the woods, looking for a place to hide. He knew he didn’t much like the idea of anybody getting inside his skin…figuring out what made him tick…knowing him that well. And as for a woman like Celia…it scared him to death. Just as well the character she was trying to crawl inside of was only some fictitious Canadian billionaire and not the real him. So, fine, he thought, let her do that-so long as she lets Roy Starr and his secrets the hell alone.
The momentary fog of panic cleared from his vision slowly. He found that he was staring down into Celia’s eyes-dangerous waters if ever there were any-and a new question seemed to be lurking in those mysterious depths. He could hear echoes of it vibrating in the waiting silence.
“What?” he muttered thickly.
“A name,” Max said patiently. “You need to pick one.”
“Oh.” He frowned, thinking about it, but the only name in his mind seemed to be the one he’d been answering to for thirty-five years.
“I rather like…Cassidy,” Celia murmured, again not taking her eyes from Roy’s, but smiling this time. “It has a nice outdoorsy ring. Rugged.”
“Cassidy? Not bad…first or last?” It was Max’s voice, coming from far away.
Roy shook himself. “Last,” he said crossly. “Why can’t I use my own first name?” It was what he usually did when he was under deep cover-less chance of slipping up that way.
Both Celia and Max were shaking their heads decisively. “What’s your middle name?” Max asked him.
“Jackson,” Roy said, eyeing him warily. “As in, General Stonewall.”
“Initials,” Celia said, with a smile like a burst of sunshine. “R.J.-how’s that? R. J. Cassidy, Canadian millionaire.” She stood back to look at him, like an artist surveying her creation-which, in a way, she was.
She clapped her hands over her mouth, stifling giggles.
“What?” Roy glared at her, unreasonably affronted. Then he looked down at himself.
Well, hell-he supposed it did look a little ridiculous for a billionaire-Canadian or otherwise-to be wearing a pair of baby blue UCLA sweats several sizes too small for him.
“Max,” he said plaintively, “tell me you brought me my clothes.”
Chapter 10
“She took me shopping,” Roy said morosely. “On Rodeo Drive.” He paused to take a swallow of beer from the longneck bottle he’d been cradling against his chest before continuing. “Do you know the last time a woman took me clothes shopping? It was my momma-I think I was ’bout eight.”
“She’s got good taste, you gotta admit,” said Max, nodding at the slacks, pullover and leather jacket Roy was wearing.
They were sitting on Celia’s deck and although the sun still had a ways to go before taking its nightly dive into the Pacific, there was a stiff wind blowing and a December chill in the air. The weather reports had said there was a storm moving down from the Gulf of Alaska that probably wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, but in the meantime it had blown away the fog.
Roy looked down at himself and snorted. “I get a shock every time I walk past a mirror. Shoot-I look like my own daddy.” He didn’t, though. From what he recalled of his daddy, Joe Starr had been a man with considerably less hair and all the outward signs of a lifetime of good down-home Southern cooking.
Max studied him for a moment from behind his sunglasses. “What’s with all the complaints? You’ve been undercover before. You’ve put up with disguises a lot worse than this.”
“Yeah? I’ve never had to be somebody’s ‘boy toy’ before.”
Having been completely unsuccessful at stifling a snort of laughter, Max turned his head away, still snickering.
“Okay, laugh, but I’m tellin’ you, it’s not funny from where I’m sitting. Hell, I was supposed to be the millionaire-”
“Billionaire.”
“Whatever. She’s supposed to be my mistress-so how come I feel like I’m the one being kept?”
“Poor baby,” Max said with absolutely no sympathy. “By the way, is that your new set of wheels I saw out in the driveway?”
Perking up a bit, Roy said, “You mean, the Land Rover?” Then, since it was obviously a rhetorical question, he shrugged. “Celia’s idea-she seems to think it goes with my ‘rugged, outdoorsy image.’ Canadian…north woods…all that…stuff.” He snorted and took a swallow of beer, wondering what Celia would think of his damned image if she knew his idea of “rugged and outdoorsy” was hooking a marlin on a warm, sunshiny day on the Gulf of Mexico.
“I sure never expected I’d be driving a Land Rover,” he said, shaking his head in a wondering way. Then he looked over at Max and had to grin. “Never expected I’d be living with a soap opera queen, either. But what the hell-it’s just make-believe, right?” He lifted his beer bottle in a sardonic toast to the sparkling view.
“You sure about that?”
Roy snapped Max a look. Max nodded toward the small figure jogging toward them from far down the beach. “That’s one gorgeous and sexy woman you’re sharing a house with. Sleeping in her room-hell, in her bed. I won’t say I’d approve, given the fact that you’re working together, and the seriousness of the situation, but I couldn’t entirely blame you, either.”
“Come on.” Roy waggled his shoulders impatiently. “She sleeps upstairs, I sleep downstairs. Anyway, are you nuts?” He watched the jogging figure for a moment, and he could feel a heaviness building inside his chest. When he spoke again, his voice had grown gravelly. “Even if we weren’t in the middle of an operation-forget it. She’s from a different world. Hell, practically a different species. I’m a small-town Southern boy. She’s-you said it-she’s Hollywood royalty.”
“Can I ask you something?” Since that was such an unusual thing for Max to say, Roy nodded out of pure curiosity. “You’re…thirty-five, right? How many girls-women-would you say you dated in the past twenty or so years, while you were growing up…living in that small Southern town?”
His curiosity growing, Roy said warily, “I don’t know, quite a few, I guess-why?”
“And yet…you’re not married. Why is that?”
Feeling vaguely annoyed, Roy shrugged and wriggled around in his deck chair. He didn’t like the way the conversation was going. He’d been called to account on the subject of marriage by various members of his beloved family enough times that it was a sore subject with him. He gave Max the same answer he generally gave, which was the shortest and simplest, not necessarily the most truthful. “I don’t know-why does anybody not get married? Never met the right woman, I guess.”
“Ever think maybe that’s because those small-town Southern girls weren’t what you wanted? Maybe what you want is someone different. From a whole different world, even.”
Roy stared at him for a moment, then grunted and shook his head. He looked down at his beer bottle, but it had lost its appeal. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of telling Max how he felt about the choices he’d made in his life so far. How for him, choosing a career as an undercover agent pretty much meant there was never going to be a Mrs. Roy Starr and a bunch of little Roy Starr Juniors waiting for him back home, all cozy in a little house with a picket fence. From what he could see, undercover agents
made lousy husbands and even worse daddies. He said, “That’s pure fantasy, man.”
“Maybe.” To Roy’s great relief, Max seemed to have finished with the subject. But a moment later, just when Roy was starting to relax, he said, with the air of somebody starting a whole new subject, “Ever think about the fact that actors, even Hollywood royalty, even soap opera queens, are just people, too?”
Roy couldn’t help it-he burst out laughing. “That is truly lame, you know it? You’re as bad as she is.”
Max gave him a long look he couldn’t read at all, thanks to the damn sunglasses. One thing he was sure of, though-it wasn’t even close to being a smile. “I’m serious. She’s just a woman, Roy. Okay-prettier and richer than most, but a woman all the same. Smart, too. And funny. Not to mention, nice…”
“Jeez,” Roy said, with a grimace of severe pain, “you sound just like my momma.” He made his voice high and singsong. “Roy, you know, Lena Grace Osmond’s youngest, you remember her-Jolene? She is just the nicest girl-pretty, too, and bright-”
“Okay, okay.” Laughing, finally, Max held up his hands in surrender. “Just as well you’re not interested. Should make it easier to keep your mind on the job. Speaking of which,” he said, casually shifting gears, “any progress on that front?”
He didn’t add the obvious-that the holidays were fast approaching, which meant they were running out of time.
The intelligence “chatter” had been growing more ominous by the day. Something big was being planned for around the holidays-just no specific word, yet, on what…or where.
The terror alert hadn’t been elevated, but it would be soon-most likely the week before Christmas. The thinking was if the alert was raised too soon or too often, it would lose its effectiveness-like the boy who cried wolf.
Roy shifted and straightened up as Celia approached the bottom of the stairs, flashed them a smile and a wave, then paused to do some cooling-down stretches. Without taking his eyes off of her, he said to Max in a low voice, “She’s got some party we’re supposed to go to tomorrow night. It’s at some producer’s house up in Bel Air. Seems to think there’s a good chance al-Fayad’ll be there…”
The truth was only part of his mind was engaged with renegade Arab princes, luxury megayachts and international terrorists right then. The rest was thinking about the long, slender body doing toe touches and waist swivels down at the foot of the stairs, covered from neck to ankles in sweats, tank top and zippered warm-up jacket. Thinking, too, about the scar he’d glimpsed in the slit of her robe, and wondering if she was hiding it from herself, the world or just him.
He didn’t know why, but more than her beauty or fame or personal history or anything else he’d learned about Celia Cross in the short time since he’d met her, more than how much he wanted her body-and any red-blooded male in his right mind would-that scar intrigued him. Which should have been a warning to him, right there.
“It’s around the next bend,” Celia said. She could hear the strain and tension in her own voice-small wonder, since her whole body felt as if she’d been encased in concrete, and her jaws as if they’d been wired together. She concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths and mentally reciting a yoga mantra she remembered. “The gate should be open-you’ll see it on the right. Just drive on in-there’ll be a parking valet…”
Roy nodded, his expression grim in the Land Rover’s dashboard lights. He didn’t say anything or glance her way, for which she supposed she should be grateful. She would hate for him to guess how nervous she was. No-not nervous. Terrified.
It’s only a party, she told herself, for the umpteenth time. These people are your friends.
Friends? Even as she formed the word in her mind, she wondered if it was true. In her world friendships, like love affairs, tended to be transitory. Like treasures from the sea, she thought. They usually vanished with the changing tide.
They were pulling up in front of the huge Spanish-style, wrought-iron gated entry, and a valet was opening her door. She gave him her hand and a dazzling smile.
Roy came around the front of the Land Rover, and she thought, No, not Roy. I must remember to call him R.J.! As she watched him, she felt an alarming upside-down sensation in her chest. Switching to her painted-on smile, she inquired brightly under her breath, “Ready for your debut, R.J.?”
He gave a noncommittal grunt and touched her elbow, guiding her up the walkway in a proprietary way. It felt astonishingly good, him doing that, and her heart began to thump and her skin felt hot, as if she’d stayed too long in the sun.
“I feel like a damn performing gorilla,” he muttered, leaning his head close to hers.
She laughed and whispered back, “Welcome to my world.”
The thought came to her: This is opening night. You’ve always wanted to do live theatre, right? Well, it’s curtain time. So, you’ve got a few butterflies? It’s not as though you’ve never had them before.
“It’s a private party-I’m still supposed to tip the guy, right?” Roy whispered, bending closer.
Celia gave a little hiccup of laughter and wondered whether the delight she felt was because his naiveté amused her, charmed her or, in some indefinable way, touched her soul. “To tell you the truth, I have no idea.”
“Well, I did, anyway,” he growled, now that they were inside the mansion’s courtyard entry and for the moment, at least, alone. “Figured I couldn’t go wrong-might even have made his day.” He paused in straightening his shoulders and resettling his jacket to give her a suspicious frown. “What?”
“What? Nothing.” She gulped the denial, embarrassed by the fact that she’d been caught flat-out staring at him, practically mesmerized by his unconscious grace. Girl, you’ve got it bad. If just looking at the guy makes you go weak in the knees…
“Just checking,” she said archly, looking away.
“You sure I’m dressed right for this? I mean, the jacket’s okay, but I still think-I mean, come on. Jeans?”
She looked back at him warily, knowing how dangerous it was. Sure enough, the endearing uncertainty in his frown made her heart flutter in a maddeningly adolescent way. “I told you,” she said crisply, “this is Hollywood. In this town, jeans will take you anywhere-except maybe the Academy Awards.” She turned to face him and, after a moment’s inner struggle against the urge to hurl herself at his chest and weave her fingers through the gleaming silver hair at his temples, stepped closer and reached up to brush at his lapels. “Trust me-you look…perfect.”
His blue contact lenses glittered oddly in the torchlight as he stared down at her. “I must’ve gone undercover in a dozen different situations,” he said in a low, rumbling voice. “Never felt like I didn’t know what the hell I’m doing before. Hell, I don’t know if I’m gonna blend in, or-”
“You don’t have to blend in, darling,” Celia said softly, touching the fake scar on the side of his jaw, surprised at the ache of secret pleasure that simple action awakened. “You’re Canadian, remember? Just don’t forget to whisper.”
She heard a faint intake of breath-or was it only wishful thinking? Imagination? And did she also imagine the moment stretching…and a kind of building suspense, with breaths held, humming under the skin and a far-off thumping of pulse beats? She did see his lips move-no imagination there. And she was mesmerized by his mouth. The memory of how wonderful it had felt…tasted…made her throat ache and her eyes smart with unexpected tears of longing.
Somewhere nearby, a door opened, leaking sounds of voices and music and laughter into the courtyard.
Close to her fingertips, Roy’s lips formed a smile. He dutifully whispered, “Yeah, Canadian. Right.”
She snatched her hand away from his face and they turned together to walk on through the courtyard, Celia feeling light-headed and fluttery in her stomach, wishing he’d take her arm again. Wondering if she should take his…
Just as they reached the door, he looked down at her and said gruffly, “You look nice, too.”
&
nbsp; Such an innocuous thing to say. But he said it with a kind of innocence and sincerity that was rare in her world. She caught a shaken breath, once again unprepared for the ache that clutched at her throat, the sting in back of her eyes.
But there was no time to reply. For Celia, time had begun to stand still. She took a deep breath, drew herself up. I’ll get through this, she thought. I will.
Then, she was standing with Roy in a great tiled entryway, looking down into a huge sunken living room filled with people. Faces turned toward them. There was a break in the hum of sound, then a ripple, as if a breeze stirred through the crowd. She could hear individual voices. It took all the strength she possessed just to lift her head high.
“Look-isn’t that…”
“My God, it’s Celia Cross.”
“Didn’t she-”
“I thought she was in rehab!”
“She looks-”
“…amazing-you’d never know she almost-”
“Who’s that she’s with? You don’t suppose…”
“Who knows? Never seen him before…”
“…think maybe he’s her therapist?”
Roy felt those hackles he wasn’t sure he was supposed to have rising again. He couldn’t believe the things he was hearing. Who the hell did these people think they were? Far as he could see, there wasn’t one of ’em who could hold a candle to Celia Cross when it came to looks, style, elegance, class.
As if to confirm what he already knew to be true, he glanced over at her, and it shocked him to see, instead of her usual cool, calm, breathtaking beauty, that her blue eyes were shimmering deep in smudgy sockets, that her face had gone deathly pale.
He didn’t know how or why, but in that moment his own nerves and uncertainty vanished, swept away in a wave of protective fervor.
Without knowing he was going to, he put his hand on her back and gave her waist a reassuring squeeze. And he got his second shock of the evening when he felt her tremble.
Undercover Mistress Page 15
