One Secret Night, One Secret Baby

by Charlene Sands

  “I can’t lie. It’s a little weird, Gabe. Mostly, it’s knowing that Roy died right here, and now, here I am, doing my job, back to the status quo and moving forward without him.”

  “We’re all feeling it, Dylan. But you managed the scene. And the next one will be a little easier, and then the next.”

  Dylan didn’t have much choice. He was under contract, but a part of him wanted to bail on this project now, even though he’d done intense training, including daily ten-mile beach runs and weight lifting to become Josh O’Malley, Navy SEAL. “I’m hoping you’re right. Still is strange to be here, though.” He knew enough about survivor guilt to understand that the ache in the pit of his stomach wasn’t going away anytime soon. He missed Roy, and if he’d been the one to get into the car that day as planned, instead of Roy, he’d be the one floating atop the high seas now with his ashes scattered all over the Pacific. “If we’re done for now, I think I’ll head back to my trailer.”

  “Actually, an officer from the LAPD is due in the production office any minute now. He’s asked to speak to you and me, Marcy and the execs. Maury Allen was asked to be there, too, so it’s something big if the police want the head of the studio there. You might remember the officer. He consulted with us early on in the film about two months ago.”

  “Oh, yeah. Detective Brice. He’s a big Clippers fan. We talked basketball for a while.”

  “That’s him. It’s about Roy’s death, Dylan.” Gabe took his eyeglasses off and rubbed them clean on the tail of his shirt. “So I’m betting it’s not a social call.”

  “All right.”

  Gabe glanced past the chaos of the crew taking down the rigging and spotted Marcy speaking with the girls from Hair and Makeup. “You about through, Marce?”

  She slammed a folder closed, stood on her tiptoes and waved at him. “I’m coming.”

  Instead of golf-carting it, they walked to the offices together. When they entered the building, they were reintroduced to the detective, who was dressed in an austere gray suit. They all took a seat at a long table as if they were going to do a cold reading. But it wasn’t play acting. Judging by Detective Brice’s sullen expression, he didn’t have good news.

  “I’m here to ask a few more questions regarding the death of Roy Benjamin. After investigating the accident, it’s been determined that the car in question had been tampered with before the stunt ever took place. We’ve already spoken with the stunt team supervisor and he’s confirmed that they’d given the stunt the all clear. They went through a series of tests before Mr. Benjamin ever got in that car. There’s a timeline factor that we’re working with here. From the time the stunt team finished rigging the car until the actual shoot, there are thirty minutes unaccounted for.”

  “What are you saying exactly?” Maury asked, his brows gathered.

  “Mr. Benjamin was to roll out of the car right before it blew up. But we believe someone sabotaged the rigging so that the car would blow up ahead of schedule.”

  “With Roy in it?” Dylan asked, barely recognizing the high pitch of his own voice.

  Detective Brice nodded, his voice gruff. “That’s right.”

  “So you think Roy was murdered?”

  “That’s what I’m here to investigate. Mr. McKay, do you have any recollection about that day, at all?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut hating that he couldn’t remember a damn thing. “No, none.”

  “Okay, well, if you do remember anything, give me a call.” Detective Brice handed Dylan a business card that read Homicide Division. He stared at it, finding this whole thing bizarre, like something out of one of his movies. Who would want to murder Roy?

  The officer proceeded to question Dylan about his relationship with Roy. How long had they been friends? How long had he worked as his stunt double? Any girlfriends? What was he like? Did he have any enemies? Dylan answered as honestly as he could, and when the detective moved on to the others, Dylan’s mind wandered to some of the better times he’d had with Roy. They had a lot in common. Both liked to work out, both loved women, both enjoyed good whiskey.

  By the time Maury, Gabe, Marcy and the other execs were through being questioned, they all began shaking their heads. They were as stunned as Dylan was. Then Gabe remembered one important thing. “Dylan was originally supposed to do that scene,” he told the detective. “We changed the script a bit and decided the stunt was too risky for Dylan to handle.”

  Brice turned toward Dylan. “Is that so?”

  “I don’t remember, but that’s what Gabe told me.”

  “I don’t think it was changed on the call sheet for that day,” Gabe offered.

  “I’d like a copy of that, please,” the detective said, and Gabe nodded.

  Detective Brice was quiet for a while, writing things down in a notebook. “Okay. Well, until we get to the bottom of this, I’d suggest that all of you be wary of anything unusual around the studio and report any suspicious behavior. And, Mr. McKay, if that script change wasn’t common knowledge, then there’s a possibility that you could’ve been the target instead of Mr. Benjamin. Do you have any enemies?”

  Dylan’s head snapped up. He gazed into Detective Brice’s serious eyes. “I get all kinds of fan mail. I have an assistant go through it. But she hasn’t said anything about threats.”

  “Maybe you should ask her for details and start going through your mail for anything unusual. You might recognize something she doesn’t.”

  “You don’t really believe Dylan was the target?” Maury asked.

  The detective shrugged. “It’s better to take into account all the possibilities.”

  After the questioning, Dylan returned to finish his next scene, struggling with what he’d just learned. He couldn’t believe someone was out to get him. He might have a few unhappy ex-girlfriends, but he was actually on good terms with most of them. He dug around his memory for anything else, anyone who might want to do him harm, and came up empty.

  He left the studio unnerved and on the drive home made a call to his security team to beef up patrols around his house. Usually if he went out on studio appearances or interviews, he traveled with a bodyguard, so he was good there. And once he’d taken care of that business, he called Emma. She answered the call on the first ring. “Hello.”

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Hi, Dylan.”

  “How’re you feeling today?”

  “Better. I went into the office today and did some work. It feels good to be back among the productive.”

  He smiled. “That’s good. What if I told you I had a bad day and needed a friend? Would you have dinner with me tonight?”

  Her silence at the other end of the phone made his heart race. It blew his mind how much he wanted her to agree.

  “Would that be the honest truth?” she asked.

  “It would.”

  Her relenting sigh carried to his ears. She wasn’t happy about the pressure he put on her and he was taking advantage of her good nature, but he really did need a friend tonight. He couldn’t tell her about Detective Brice’s visit on the set today, and even if he could, he wouldn’t want to trouble her. Just seeing her tonight, knowing that she was carrying his child and something good had come out of that time he’d lost, would boost his spirits. “Then sure, I guess I could do that.”

  “Thanks.” He released a pent-up breath. “I’ll be there in half an hour to pick you up.”

  * * *

  Emma faced Dylan across the tufted white leather booth at Roma’s Restaurant in the city. Silly her, after he’d called, she’d waded through her closet and come up with the prettiest dress she could find: a soft sapphire-blue brushed cotton with lots of feminine folds and a draping halter neckline. She’d dressed for him and had been rewarded with hot, appreciative glances on the drive here.

  Lookin
g around the place, she noted that Roma’s tables weren’t covered with red-and-white-checked tablecloths, there were no plastic flower centerpieces and not a hint of sawdust was sprinkled on the creamy marble floors. Dylan was used to the best, and he’d come to think of these high-end places as the norm. But Emma wasn’t used to eating pizza off expensive Italian dinnerware or having a violinist make the rounds from table to table, offering up a musical selection to soothe the soul.

  “They make a mean eggplant parm here,” Dylan said. “And the pizza is old-school, like back home.”

  “Eggplant sounds good,” she said, folding the menu. “I’d like that.”

  Dylan nodded to the waiter. “Make that two, then, Tony, and two glasses of sparkling water.”

  After the waiter left, she picked up a wafer-like piece of rosemary-and-garlic bread, almost hating to break up the fancy-schmancy geometric design in the basket.

  “Feel free to order wine or whatever you want, Dylan. You don’t have to drink water because of me.”

  God, tonight he looked as if he could really use a drink. He was a good actor, the best actually, but tonight he wasn’t acting. His guard was down and she saw it in the pallor on his face, his sullen eyes and the twist of his otherwise beautiful mouth.

  “Thanks,” he said, giving her a nod. “Maybe I will order a glass of wine later.”

  “That bad a day?”

  He glanced down at the pearly-white tablecloth. “Yeah, I guess. We had to resume shooting the scene in the location where Roy died. It was a hard day for everyone.”

  “For you especially, I would think.”

  He nodded. “It was just weird and sad.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. I guess there’s nothing to be done about it. The show must go on,” he said with a strained chuckle that barely moved his mouth.

  A part of her wanted to reach out to him, to hold his hand or maybe fold him into an embrace. He looked a little lost right now. She knew the feeling and she was suddenly glad she’d accepted his dinner invitation.

  “Enough about me,” Dylan said. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m sitting here about ready to eat eggplant smothered in sauce and cheese and the thought of it doesn’t turn my stomach, so I think I’m fine.”

  “No more morning sickness?”

  “I didn’t say that. I still get queasy, but it passes quickly and only seems to happen in the morning. Still, I’m not counting my chickens yet.”

  “Did you call the doctor?”

  “Yes, the appointment is next Thursday at ten o’clock.”

  “Okay, good.” He seemed pleased. He’d told her he wasn’t filming on Thursday and she had been lucky enough to get an appointment with her ob-gyn that day.

  “If you run into a bind or something, it won’t be a problem. I can get myself there.” She wanted to throw that out to him. She had other means, if he couldn’t go that day. She was suddenly transported back in time to when she was a charity case, an unloved little young burden to those around her. She’d been a child then, scared of the future, but she wasn’t now. Now she clung to her independence and needed it as much as she needed air to breathe. Single motherhood wasn’t rare these days, lots of women did it and managed just fine. She wasn’t looking to Dylan to be her savior.

  “I won’t run into a bind.” His jaw was set as he spoke those firm words. He meant it. Dylan was a big enough star that schedules could be woven around his needs, and not the other way around. But still, she wasn’t going to crumble if she did the mother thing alone.

  “Brooke wants to go with me on an appointment later on,” she said. “She wants to be a part of it, too.”

  “I’d like that. She’ll be an amazing aunt.”

  Emma smiled. They both agreed on that. “She’s been very supportive.”

  Dylan nodded. “What do you think of this Royce guy she’s been dating? Is he the real deal?”

  Ah, finally the conversation was moving away from her. She was glad for the distraction. “I haven’t met him yet, but there’s a bouquet of red roses on her desk at work that says he’s an okay guy. She’s seeing him tonight, as a matter of fact. She missed him like crazy while she was away.”

  Dylan made a grunting sound before he sipped the sparkling water the waiter had just delivered. “That always scares me.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I want to see her happy. She’s been disappointed before.”

  “Haven’t we all,” Emma blurted. And then squeezed her eyes shut but not before witnessing Dylan’s brows lift inquisitively.

  “I know.”

  She gave him a look that must have revealed her astonishment because his baby blues softened immediately. “Brooke told me about a guy in college you were seeing.”

  “When did she tell you that?” The witchy tone in her voice made her mentally cringe. She didn’t mean to sound so darn defensive.

  “A while back. I’m not prying into your life, Emma. I wouldn’t put Brooke in that position, and if I want to know something about you, I’ll ask you up front. But actually, my sister mentioned it a few years ago and I never forgot it because I thought you deserved better than a jerk who would verbally abuse you. I guess it always stuck with me. I sorta wanted to punch his lights out.”

  Emma pictured Dylan knocking Derek Purdy to the ground and grinned. “You’ve always been protective.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a friend looking out for a friend.”

  “I’ve always appreciated that.” That was the truth. Dylan had never failed to be her champion when he was around. He had a thing for the underdog. It was quite commendable actually, but right now with her baby situation, she didn’t want to be considered the underdog, or lacking in any way. “But it’s old news now, Dylan. I’ve forgotten about him.”

  The meal was served and that part of the conversation ended. Emma dug in with tepid gusto, keeping in mind the capacity of her shrunken stomach and the queasiness that might rear its ugly head at any given moment, despite what she’d told Dylan. She didn’t trust her gut not to act up. She was just getting used to the idea of eating a full meal and not paying the price afterward.

  “It’s delicious,” she said. Steam rose up from the sizzling cheese and the garlicky scents made her mouth water.

  “It’s not too ostentatious for you?”

  “The eggplant?”

  His eyes twinkled with that you-know-what-I-mean look.

  “The place.”

  “Let’s see. I’m eating off handmade Intrada dinner plates while being serenaded by a sole violinist. The Waterford cut crystal and white rose centerpiece is a nice touch. Adds class to the joint. Nope, I’d say it’s right on par with Vitellos back home.”

  He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin. The gleam in his eyes became even brighter at her sarcasm. “How do you know all this stuff?”

  “You’re forgetting what I do for a living. It’s my job to know about dinnerware and crystal and high-end table dressing.”

  “Right. I didn’t put it together. You’re good at your job. But you’re not comfortable with all this, are you?”

  “It’s fine, Dylan. I have no complaints. If this is what it takes to cheer you up, then I’m all for it.”

  Dylan’s smile faded a bit as he reached for her hand. “You are what’s cheering me up. I enjoy being with you, Em. And I brought you here not to impress you, but because I knew you’d enjoy the food.”

  Her heartbeat sounded in her ears. She had no humorous comeback. “Oh.”

  She got a little more lost in his eyes. It was hard not to; those eyes could drown a lesser woman and she was certainly not immune. The clarity in them astounded her. Dylan knew what he was about, amnesia or not. There was no limit to his confidence, yet he wasn’t arrogant
or prissy. He was kinda perfect.

  And that scared her more than anything.

  “Maybe...uh, maybe you should have some wine now.” She would if she could.

  He shook his head, not breaking eye contact. “Not necessary.”

  “You’re cured?”

  He chuckled, the smile cracking his face wide-open. “For the moment, anyway.” He squeezed her hand a little and a shot of adrenaline arrowed up her arm and spread like wildfire throughout her system. What was he doing to her? She’d come here to boost his spirits, not fall under his spell.

  He glanced at her half-eaten plate of food. “Finish your meal, sweetheart.” And he released her hand just like that, leaving a rich hum of delight in the wake of his touch. She filled up with deliriously happy hormones. “We’ll talk about dessert when you’re through,” he added.

  Dessert? She felt as though she’d already had a decadent helping of chocolate-espresso gelato with cherries on top.

  The Dylan McKay Special.

  And nothing was sweeter.

  * * *

  When they got back to her apartment, she made a feeble attempt to get inside with some semblance of grace and dignity. “Really, Dylan, you didn’t have to walk me to my door,” she said, her back to the front door and her hand on the knob.

  His brows lifted and a lock of straight sun-streaked hair fell across his forehead. She was tempted to touch it, to ease it back into place and run her fingers through the rest.

  “I never drop a lady off at the curb, Emma. I certainly wouldn’t do that to you. You know that.”

  She did. But she couldn’t invite Dylan in. She didn’t have willpower to spare right now. Yet she knew that’s exactly what he wanted. “Well, now you’ve earned another gold star.”

  “I have many.”

  She imagined a black-and-white composition book filled with pages of gold stars. But she had to be kind in her not-too-subtle brush-off. “Thanks again for dinner. You must be tired after the day you’ve had. You should go home and turn in.”