by J. D. Robb
“No,” Eve repeated, glanced at the pretty woman with milk chocolate skin and tiger’s eyes. “Sorry, but I don’t do lunch or promotion.”
“Valerie will handle everything, make it fun for you. Word is you don’t have an agent or manager. Saves some time without the middlemen. We’re going to need you for a couple of days for the extras for the home discs, but the cop look. No glamour there. The audience wants the real you.”
“Does the word no ring any bells?”
“Now, now, honey, no need to be shy. Valerie will walk you through it. And get those photo ops we missed on set today rescheduled. Asap.”
“Joel.” Smiling easily, Roarke put a hand on Steinburger’s arm. “Why don’t we find somewhere to talk?”
“Roarke, of course. Another pleasure. The businessman,” he said with another wink at Eve, “the husband. The helpmate.”
“Do you think he knows Roarke just saved his life?” Peabody wondered.
“Did he really call me honey? I think my ears deceive me.”
“Apologies, Lieutenant.” Valerie offered a coolly professional smile with the apology. “Mr. Steinburger’s giving a hundred and ten percent to this project. He expects the same from everyone involved.”
“Where does he get the extra ten?”
Valerie’s smile tensed at the corners. “And promotion is part of the whole. If you find you have any time, any at all, please contact me. I promise I’ll vet everything, and only make the best possible use of your time.”
“I wonder if she called him ‘Mr. Steinburger’ when they used to bang like hydrohammers in his Hollywood office,” Marlo murmured when Valerie walked away.
“No, she called him God,” Matthew said, “as in, ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God yes!’ I’ve heard her. Sadly, the office has been quiet since we got to New York.”
“Oh, they ended it months ago, before we left the Coast.”
“Got Publicity Chief on the project out of it. Sorry.” Matthew flashed that quick, charming smile at Eve again. “We’re shallow, overly obsessed about who’s doing who.”
“Like high school,” Eve suggested.
He laughed. “Afraid so. Plus gossip passes the time between takes.”
“Darling Eve!”
The Irish was a bit more ripe in the voice, and no, the eyes not as stunningly blue. But Julian Cross hit the gorgeous mark, and moved well.
In fact he moved straight to Eve, yanked her into a quick, hard kiss, with a hint of tongue.
“Hey!”
“I couldn’t help it.” The not-quite-blue-enough eyes twinkled at her. “I feel like we’re close.”
“Think that again and they’ll have to write a fat lip into your next scene.” She caught Roarke, eyes narrowed, across the room. “And possibly a broken jaw.”
“Julian, behave.” Nadine Furst sent Eve a sympathetic eye roll as she latched firmly onto Julian’s arm. “Are we the last ones here?”
“K.T. hasn’t showed up,” Marlo told her, and tipped her face up as Julian leaned over to kiss her. “Julian, you haven’t met Detectives Peabody and McNab.”
“Peabody!” With enthusiasm, he reached up, popped her right off her feet. She let out a kind of woo before he kissed her. Then she said, “Um.”
“My girl,” McNab said.
“McNab!” Julian didn’t pop McNab off his feet, but he did plant one on him.
Eve wondered if tongues were involved this time.
“Hollywood.” Matthew laughed, lifted his hands. “We’re a bunch of assholes.”
“Some of us more than others,” Marlo murmured as K.T. walked in and scowled at everyone.
DINNER TURNED OUT TO BE LESS FORMAL AND more freewheeling than Eve expected. She figured that was Connie’s deal—the menu of plenty, the variety of wine, the spikes and rolls of conversation.
Since she was cornered between Roundtree and Julian, Eve noted the pattern of the seating arrangement plugged what she thought of as actual people beside or across from their true and fake connections. Peabody between Matthew and McNab, Dennis between Mira and Andrea Smythe—who had an appealingly dirty laugh she used often.
Roundtree, a man who obviously enjoyed his life and took his position at the helm as a matter of course, owned an endless supply of stories. She’d heard of most of the people he talked about, but wondered if she should have taken a who’s-who-in-Hollywood primer before the evening.
“I read that you and Roarke met because he was a suspect in a murder.” Julian smiled at her in a way she imagined made a woman feel she had his entire focus and admiration.
Maybe it was even sincere.
“He was a person of interest.”
“It’s romantic.”
“Most people don’t find being a person of interest in a homicide investigation romantic.”
“A man would when the interest is coming from a beautiful investigator. He’s a lucky man.”
“He’s lucky he didn’t do the murder,” Eve said and made Julian laugh.
“I’d say you both are.”
“You’re right.” And she liked him better for saying it.
“How did you become a cop?”
“I graduated from the Police Academy.”
“But why?” He angled toward her, his mostly untouched glass of wine in his hand. “And a murder cop—that’s the term, right? Did you always want to be one?”
Well, hell, it did seem sincere. She eased off the sarcasm. “As long as I can remember.”
“That was Marlo’s take, and how she’s playing you. With that intensity and drive, that cop-to-the-core attitude. I’m trying to bring the same sort of package to Roarke—a man of power, wealth, mystery. Marlo and I agreed, early on, that the two of you are the heart of the story. The center of it.”
“I’d say the Icoves were the center.”
“I think of them more as the guts of it. What was it Marlo said, the cancer in the belly. I think.” He shrugged. “But your love story is the heart.”
“Our—” She found herself tongue-tied between horror and embarrassment.
“That shouldn’t throw you.” Julian laid a hand over hers. “Real love is beautiful. And … elusive, don’t you think?”
“Julian has a romantic’s soul.” Seated between Roundtree and Roarke across the table, Marlo sent Julian a twinkling smile. “But he’s not wrong.”
Julian twinkled right back at her, shifting that you’re-my-world focus on a dime. “Romance makes everything sweeter.”
“And you’ve got a serious sweet tooth,” Marlo countered.
“I do. The love story aspects of the script are my favorite scenes to play.”
“Oh God” was all Eve could manage.
“These two have the chemistry,” Roundtree commented. “They’re going to burn up the screens.”
“Oh God,” Eve repeated, and this time Roarke laughed.
“Steady, Lieutenant.”
“See how he says that.” Obviously delighted, Julian squeezed Eve’s hand before he leaned forward, his gaze riveted on Roarke now. “Lieutenant,” he repeated, giving the word Roarke inflection. “It’s loving and hot and intimate all at the same time.”
“It’s my rank,” Eve muttered.
“He respects your rank. You respect her rank,” he said to Roarke, wound up now, “as much as you love her.”
“Not quite,” Roarke corrected.
“No, you’re right, you’re right, but it’s up there. And you like each other. And the trust. The two of you going down into that secret lab, risking your lives—”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, give the ass-kissing a rest, Julian.” K.T. knocked back a slug of wine, then slapped her glass on the table. She actually snapped her fingers at one of the servers so he would deal with the refill. “Even your mouth ought to be tired of puckering up by now.”
“We’re having a conversation,” Julian began.
“Is that what you call it? You act like you and Marlo are the only ones in this goddamn vid, and th
e two people you’re trying so hard to mimic are the only ones who count. It’s insulting. So why don’t you give it a fucking rest, set up your threesome with Marlo and Dallas on your own time? Some of us are trying to eat.”
In the beat of horrified silence, Eve studied K.T. down the length of the table. “Peabody?”
“Yes, sir,” Peabody said, shoulders hunched.
“You know how I occasionally mention the possibility of kicking your ass?”
“I’d term that as regularly, but yes, sir, I do.”
“You may get the chance to watch me kick your fake ass while you sit comfortably on your own. That’s an opportunity that doesn’t come around every day.”
“You don’t worry me.” K.T. sneered at her.
“I ought to. Anybody who shows their ass that big in public’s just asking to have it kicked. But maybe it’s better to just leave it hanging out there, all pink and shiny while the grown-ups talk.”
“Well done,” Roarke said when Eve shifted back again, picked up her fork.
Julian grabbed his wineglass, drank deep as conversation circled the table in fits and starts. “I’m sorry.” The instant the server topped off his glass, he drank deep again. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I wasn’t—”
“It’s okay, pal.” Eve tried more of the fancy lobster on her plate. “If you had been Roarke would have kicked your ass already.” She gave Roarke a grin across the table. “Real love’s beautiful, elusive, and mean as a snake.”
“I’ll deal with her,” Roundtree said, and in a cool, flat tone that told Eve he meant it.
“No big. Actually, all this feels less weird now.”
“Can I ask you something?” Marlo leaned toward Eve, kept her voice low.
“Sure.”
“If you decide to kick instead of hang, can I watch, too?”
“The more the merrier.”
After dinner came a buffet of desserts, brandy, liqueurs, coffee, all set up with style in Roundtree’s lower-level theater.
“Hell of a deal here,” Eve commented.
“It is, yes.”
She watched the way Roarke studied the massive screen, the arrangement of thick, cushioned leather chairs, cozy sofas, the lighting, the bar. “I can see the wheels turning.”
“I’ve thought of doing one, but hadn’t decided on design, layout, or location.”
“You just like the really big screen. It’s a man and his dick thing.”
“It may be, and I do enjoy indulging mine.”
“Tell me about it.” Eve glanced around idly. “So where do you think Connie pulled K.T. off to, and how scalded will her pink, shiny ass be when she’s done?”
“Somewhere private, and very. He was hitting on you, however.”
“Reflex, not targeted.”
“Agreed, which is why he lives.”
Nadine, who’d gone with the little black dress and a half dozen ropes of pearls, walked up to tap her brandy snifter to Eve’s coffee cup. “Roundtree promises us an entertaining screen show shortly, but I’m not sure it could live up to the little scene at dinner.”
“Fake Peabody is rude and a moron. I don’t mind rude, but combined with moron makes me want to punch it in the face.”
“You wouldn’t be the first, the last, or the only with that sentiment. Roundtree works with her because despite her rep for being difficult, she delivers. And I’ve seen some of the cuts. She’s nailed Peabody.”
“How long did she and Julian do the nasty?”
“Caught that, did you? Once or twice, and some time ago. Julian’s pretty, has a genuine sweetness, an innate charm. He does his job very well, and will do the nasty with anyone, anytime. He’s a man-slut, but he’s so affable about it.”
“Is this from personal experience?”
“Not so far, and not likely ever. It’s tempting, but just strikes me as too predictable. And he was surprised, but good-natured about the no, thanks.”
Nadine scanned the room with its conversational groups and pockets. “Joel’s pushing a Durn/Cross affair in the publicity machine. It’s classic and never hurts the numbers. Julian, being Julian, would be happy to oblige, plus I think he’s talked himself into being in love with her. Part of his process. It really does come off on-screen.”
“Is this a vid about sex or murder?” Eve demanded.
“Both fuel the machine,” Roarke commented. “It looks like our hostess has finished scolding her rude guest.”
“Fake Peabody doesn’t look repentant,” Eve noted as the two women came into the theater. “She just looks pissed. And adding fuel to that machine,” she added, when K.T. went straight to the bar.
Shrugging, Eve turned away, decided the woman had had enough of her attention.
For the next half hour there was more small talk and schmooze, more food and drink as people circled the room or went out, came in. Eve figured she’d just about hit her limit when Roundtree walked to the front of the room.
“Everybody grab a seat. Dallas and Roarke, right up front here. I’ve put together a short preview of The Icove Agenda for a private screening here tonight. I hope everyone, especially our special guests, enjoy the sampling.”
“Let’s see how we do,” Roarke said, taking Eve’s hand as Roundtree led them toward the front-row seats.
Eve leaned toward Roarke as people shuffled into seats and sofas behind them. “Are we supposed to pretend we don’t hate it if we do?”
“How do you see through those rose-colored glasses?”
He gave her hand a squeeze as the lights dimmed, and the music came up.
She’d give the music a nod, Eve decided. Strong, kind of pulsing and haunting at the same time. The instant she relaxed, Marlo’s face—so like her own—filled the massive screen.
“Record on,” she said. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”
The camera panned down, drew back until it held on Marlo and the body in a high-backed desk chair.
“Victim is identified as Wilford B. Icove.”
When she started to crouch down, the body let out an explosive sneeze.
“Bless you,” Marlo said without missing a beat. She looked up as people off camera laughed. “The vic appears to be allergic to death.”
It was silly, Eve thought, but helped her relax again. The screen rolled with gags, flubs, intense moments broken by screwups. Andi, as Mira, blew a line and laughed out a stream of bawdy and inventive curses. Marlo and the actress playing Nadine broke off in mid-dialogue to grab each other in a steamy kiss.
That bit of business got a round of applause from the audience.
Matthew tumbling out of his chair as the comp he worked on as McNab collapsed. Julian mangling a line, switching his accent to Brooklyn.
The audience in the theater responded with laughter, applause, catcalls.
“How do they get anything done if they screw up so much?” Eve wondered.
“That’s why they call it ‘take two,’” Roarke told her.
It looked like plenty of take twos, and threes, and more to Eve. But everybody appeared to have a good time doing it—again and again.
The gag reel ended with the camera once again on Marlo, this time in the long black coat, weapon drawn, a breeze ruffling the short cap of hair. “I’m a cop,” she said, eyes fixed and fierce. And when she flipped back the coat to holster her weapon, she missed, with the stunner bouncing on the ground at her feet.
“Aw, fuck. Not again.”
Roundtree ordered the lights on and stood grinning and stroking his goatee as the applause rolled.
“It wasn’t an easy edit, with the amount of screwups I had to wade through.” He dropped down beside Eve, commanded her attention. “You have to have some fun with it.”
“I’d say you did.”
“I’ll add and edit more. This’ll go on the home disc extras. People love seeing actors screw up, blow lines, fall on their asses.”
“I have to admit, I did.”
“We’re going to have individua
l interviews with the main cast. I’m not going to push you—that’s Joel’s territory—but I want to add my bit here. It would enhance the home package considerably if you’d do an interview. Both of you, even better.
“I’m willing to stay in New York after we wrap if that’s what it takes, or to come back whenever you can work it in. Think about it. You lived this. I’m going to promise you we’re doing it justice, and I don’t break a promise. But you lived it. Everybody who sees this vid is going to want to hear what you have to say.”
“It’s closed for me.”
“No, it’s not.” He shook his head, and those bright blue eyes were razor-sharp. “I’ve got that much about you. The Icoves were the villains of the piece; the Avrils and the others the victims. And still, victim murdered villain, and you had to pursue that. The victims who survived are out there. There won’t be any more because of what you did, and that’s important. Immensely. But while you ended it, you couldn’t close it. So.” He gave her hand a rough pat. “Think about it.”
“He’s good,” Eve muttered when he pushed up and walked away to sit with Andi.
“And he’s right about it not being closed.”
“When I agreed to cooperate—to a degree—with Nadine on the book I knew it would widen that crack. Part of me wanted to seal it shut, but you can’t. The rest of me thinks it’s good that people know who the real victims were—are—in this. How do I talk about that? It’s not my job to decide guilt and innocence.”
“Not legally, no. But it’s your job to know. And you do.”
Eve huffed out a breath, turned her head to meet Roarke’s eyes. “You’re saying I should do it?”
“I’m saying if you decide to, and have control over what you say, how you say it, it may help you close that internal crack on this for you. It’s not just the publicity from the book that’s kept it in your mind, Eve. You think of it—of them. So do I.”
“Hell. I’ll think about it. Can we get out of here yet?”
“I’d say we could start easing that way.”
Easing was right. Saying good night meant more conversations. She watched, with envy, Mavis and Leonardo escape—the baby as the excuse—even as she and Roarke got snagged again.
