"That would be Superintendant Walsh?"
"Yes. He had it checked and there were no fingerprints. Nothing else that could identify the sender. Except for one thing."
Mia glanced up from her note-taking as Finn jumped up and began to pace the room. "And that would be…?"
"There was perfume on the note." He swallowed. "An expensive, almost impossible to find perfume. The one Gemma uses."
Chapter 2
Finn watched the rising sun surround Mia Donovan with a golden glow as she sat in front of the window, scribbling in her notebook. Without looking, she reached into the fruit bowl and curled delicate fingers around a strawberry. White teeth flashed as she bit the berry from its stem and dropped the green leaves onto the plate.
The dark mass of her hair waved around her shoulders and half-obscured her face as she wrote. Finally, she looked up, shoved her hair behind one ear and fixed her gaze on him. Just like when he'd opened the door, he couldn’t help staring at her.
Unsmiling, she sat straight in the chair. Her expression was carefully neutral, a complete waste of those full lips. He found himself staring at her eyes again. Surrounded by thick, sooty lashes, they were the brightest blue he'd ever seen.
He wondered if everyone else she met stared at her, too.
"Do you think Ms. Radley sent the note?" she asked.
"Gemma?" He frowned as he stared at the cop. "Why would she do that? What does pretending to be a stalker do for her? What would she gain?" Especially since she’d milked their break-up to shoot her career into the stratosphere.
"Maybe she wants you back," Mia said carefully. "Maybe this is her way of getting your attention."
"No." Donovan’s suggestion was almost funny, in a sick, ironic way. He looked away from the woman watching him so carefully. "Trust me, she doesn’t want me back."
"Do you know that for certain? Have you talked to her recently?"
"I haven’t talked to her since the day I…we broke up. And I’m certain she has no interest in rekindling any flames." He relaxed back into the loveseat, smoothing out the loathing he was afraid his expression displayed. "Even if she did, she knows it would never happen."
Mia studied his face. "It wouldn’t be the first time a woman who’s been…dropped by her boyfriend stalked him. Tried to get him back."
"Trust me, Ms. Donovan, whoever this stalker is, it’s not Gemma." He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the resentment bubbling up from where he’d buried it. "You can rule her out."
He’d thought he’d successfully exorcized his bitterness at Gemma. That he’d put the whole ugly mess behind him and moved on. Apparently, he was wrong.
"I’ll check on her whereabouts." She scribbled something in her notebook.
"Not necessary," he retorted.
"Yes, it is," she said without looking up. She finished writing, then faced him again. "You need to lose the ‘Ms. Donovan’. That's not what a guy calls his girlfriend. My name is Mia. Make sure you use it."
Mia was a soft name. A girly name. So far, he hadn’t seen anything soft or girly about Ms. Donovan.
But she was right. "Mia it is. And you need to call me Finn."
"Right." She took a breath, as if forcing herself to use his first name. "So, Finn, you said it was her perfume. Are you certain of that?" Mia asked.
"Positive." He’d smelled Chypre in his nightmares for a long time.
"You also said it was," she glanced at her notebook, "expensive and almost impossible to get. Who else knew about it?"
He shrugged. "Gemma Radley fan pages have all kinds of details about her life. The name of her perfume is probably out there somewhere."
"And it’s hard to find because...?"
He swallowed, hating the memories her questions were stirring. "It’s French. Discontinued. They made Chypre just for her. A thousand bucks an ounce." He’d bought her a bottle every time he was in France.
"You can get anything you want if you want it badly enough," she shot back. "If he or she knew it was this Chypre, a stalker could figure out a way to buy it."
"How many people could afford a thousand bucks for a tiny bottle of perfume?"
"An obsessed person could." Mia closed the notebook with a tiny clap, picked up her coffee cup and drained it. "Isn’t it time to go?"
"The driver will come up and get me…us," he said.
"What do you know about your driver?" she asked, setting the cup back in the saucer too hard. "Did the studio hire him? Did they use a local service?"
"Pete’s driven me for several years. He comes with me to all my location shoots and rents a car. So, no. It’s not Pete."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes. I am. Pete’s a friend. A good one."
"I’m going to run a background check on him anyway," Mia said, opening the notebook again. "What’s his full name?"
"Peter White. California driver’s license. You want his address?"
"Please." She didn’t even look up, just scribbled the address he recited.
A few moments later, Finn heard a quiet rap on the door. Recognizing Pete’s signal, Finn stood up and opened the door. "Hey, Pete. Come on in." He waved his friend inside. "Have some breakfast and meet my, um, friend Mia Donovan."
The middle-aged man gave him a sharp look as he chewed hard on his ever-present nicotine gum, but stepped into the suite. "Morning, Ms. Donovan," he said.
Mia uncurled herself from the chair and walked over to shake Pete’s hand. Finn’s gaze followed her tall, slender figure, lingering too long on her ass. Maybe it wouldn’t be so tough to play house with Mia Donovan. "Nice to meet you, Mr. White."
"It’s Pete," he said.
Mia’s mouth relaxed. Finn wouldn’t call it a smile, but it was the closest she’d come since she’d walked into the suite. "I’m Mia."
Then she looked at Finn and her mouth hardened again. "You didn’t use the peephole," she said, narrowing her gaze at him.
"Chill out. I know Pete’s knock," Finn said easily.
"I don’t care if you think it’s your mother," Mia shot back. "You check before you open that door."
Finn saw Pete’s head ping-ponging back and forth like he was at a tennis match. A tiny smile curled the older man’s mouth. "You ready to roll, boss?" Pete asked, the smile becoming a smirk. "Or do you want to practice checking the peephole?"
Finn glared at his friend. "I can fire your ass, you know."
"Go ahead," Pete shot back. "There are plenty of people who’ll pay me big bucks to drive them. They’re all waiting for you to piss me off once too often."
Finn shook his head. "Tell me why I hired you again?"
Pete held up one finger. "Because I’m the best-trained driver in California." He added a second finger. "Aced all the evasive and defensive driving classes. Which you need, since everyone but me and your mother hates you." He added a third finger. "And you’d fire anyone else in about two hours."
"Guess I’ll let it go, then," Finn answered, suppressing his grin. Thank God he had Pete on this job. "You want some coffee before we head out?"
"Already had some. Love the room service when we’re on the road. I could seriously get used to this lifestyle." A shadow crossed his face. "Not as good as Judy's coffee was, though."
"Yeah. Loved her coffee." Finn bumped Pete's shoulder. "Loved Judy, too." He stepped away from his friend and cleared his throat. "You ready, Mia?"
She nodded. "I am." She slid the notebook into the inside pocket of her gray flannel jacket, and her white shirt highlighted the outline of a dark shape at her right hip.
Her gun.
The sight was a sharp jolt of reality. She was taking this stalker very seriously.
He’d better start doing that, too.
She was right. He was an idiot for not checking the peephole. Chastened, he headed for the door. But she put her hand on his arm, stopping him. "I go first," she said. She squeezed past Pete, who watched her now with a tiny frown.
After taking a long moment
to check the peephole, she opened the door and stepped into the empty hall. Turning to Finn, she nodded him out. Pete walked out last and pulled the door closed.
Mia pushed the elevator button. When the ding sounded, announcing its arrival, she stood straighter. Widened her stance. Stood motionless as the doors slid open.
The elevator was empty, and she held the door for him and Pete. They rode to the basement, the air quivering with Pete’s unasked questions. Once there, they stepped into a narrow alley where a black Cadillac stood waiting. The windows in the back seat were darkly tinted, and the car looked solid. Imposing. Which it should be, because it was bullet-proof. The studio had insisted.
They’d clearly drunk their own Kool-Aid. They’d hired the most hated man in America to play the villain in their noir thriller. They needed to protect that investment.
Finn played along, because he desperately wanted this role. Pretty Boy Finn O’Roake, star of romantic comedies and bro movies, needed a change. And playing the bad guy in a dark, edgy thriller fit the bill to a tee.
Pete opened the back door, and Finn stepped aside for Mia to climb in first. She shook her head slightly at him and jerked her chin toward the car. She wanted him inside first.
All this caution was making him jittery. Glancing around the deserted loading area, he slid into the car. Mia followed him and pulled the door closed.
A moment later, Pete got into the front seat and glanced over his shoulder. "You want the glass up?" he asked.
"Please, Pete," he sighed. Mia had more questions, and he wasn’t sure how much Pete was supposed to know.
The glass rose silently, separating the front from the rear, sealing him and Mia in a silent cocoon. Then the car pulled away from the curb, drove down the alley and slid into the still-light morning traffic.
* * *
"What else did your stalker send you besides the note?" Mia asked.
He shifted on the seat. His stalker. She made it sound so personal. As if the unknown person was part of his life, like Pete.
"He or she isn’t mine," he said, his voice tight.
"Yes, she is." Mia glanced at him, but he didn’t look at her. "I’m guessing your stalker is a woman. Far more likely in your situation. And she is yours, because she thinks she is. Your problem, anyway. So what else did she send you?"
He sighed. "A wedding ring. In a fancy ring box. Wrapped up with a bow. Another note."
Mia pulled out her notebook and began scribbling again. Finn leaned over to see what she was writing, but he couldn’t decipher her scribbles.
She lifted her head, caught his eye and almost smiled. "Secret code. They teach us at the police academy. Protection against nosy suspects."
"Now I’m a suspect?"
"Hmm." She shifted in the seat to study him. "I hadn’t considered that. But I suppose that an aging Hollywood star, bypassed for his usual roles because of a scandal, might try to grab attention by pretending he had a stalker." She tilted her head as she studied him. "Does that sound about right, Finn?"
"Hell, no." He rolled his eyes and shifted to face her. "More attention? I can’t even take a piss in a public washroom without some jackass pulling out his phone and recording the event for posterity." He scowled at her. "And what the hell do you mean by ‘aging’?"
Mia laughed and tapped the notebook back into the inside pocket of her jacket. "Thank you," she said. "I didn’t think you were faking your stalker, but I had to check."
"What are you talking about? You were testing me?"
"Yes, I was, and you passed. The first thing you mentioned was attention. That you didn’t want it. I would have expected you to object to the lack of good roles first. Then the aging star crack. And I thought all big stars craved attention."
"Not all of them," he muttered as he studied her. Mia Donovan was more than a pair of stunning eyes, a striking face and a killer body.
But then, Doug wouldn’t have sent her if she wasn’t up to the job. He narrowed his eyes at her. "How do you know my godfather?"
She frowned. "I don’t know the superintendent. Why would you assume I do?"
He wasn’t going to tell her the truth – that Doug had sent exactly the type of woman he was attracted to – smart, clever, funny. Being easy on the eyes was a bonus. Instead, he shrugged. "I can’t imagine my controlling godfather sending someone he doesn’t know personally to protect me."
"Well, he did. Because I’ve never met him."
"Interesting." He’d pursue this with Doug. Because no way was sending Mia Donovan to guard him completely serendipitous.
"Finish telling me about the ring. And the note."
Finn sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. "A shoebox was sitting at the door yesterday morning. The note was attached. It said ' You didn't answer me. But I know this is what you want. Why you dropped that slut Gemma. I have a ring, too. I'll bring it when we meet. Then we can make our dreams come true.' Inside the package was a wedding ring."
"And I’m guessing your godfather had someone pick it up."
"Yeah. No fingerprints. An expensive ring, though. A lot of gold. Heavy. The shoebox was from a pair of running shoes available everywhere." He shook his head. "Doug would have gone over every inch of that box, the note, the ring. So whoever it is, she's being careful."
"We can't rule out a guy," Mia said, continuing to write. "Now that same sex marriage is legal."
"Great. We've just doubled our suspect population."
She looked up at that. "Odds are that it's a woman. The notes have a female feel to them. Waiting for you to come to Chicago. Seeing it as a sign." She tapped the notebook back into her pocket. "She's obsessive. Convinced herself it's going to happen. Convinced that you want it, too. She's built a whole fantasy world around you. And when you don't respond, she'll get upset."
A muscle in her jaw twitched. "That's when it's dangerous. When you've disappointed her. Proved you're not the man she thought you were. The next step is deciding that if she can't have you, no one else can."
He raised his eyebrows. "You have a pretty vivid imagination."
"Runs in the family, I guess."
"Yeah? How so?"
Her hesitation was a couple of seconds too long. "My brother’s a writer."
"Really?" He twisted to get a better look at her, but her hair was suddenly obscuring her face. "What does he write?"
"Stuff." She tapped her pen on the notebook. Delicate pink crept up her neck. "So, about that shoebox," she said after an awkward pause. "Man’s shoes or woman’s?"
Why didn’t she want to talk about her brother the writer? He studied the curtain of hair that fell over the side of her face. A mystery to solve later. "Man’s, I think." He tried to visualize the box, but saw only the logo. "I’ll ask Doug."
"Good." Her knuckles whitened on the notebook and pen. "I’ll check the hotel staff for any recent hires. Your stalker could be someone who works there. She knew when you were checking in. Had easy access to your floor, which needs a special key in the elevator. Hotel staff is a good place to start."
The car was slowing, and Finn gazed out the window. "Looks like we’re here."
"Quick. Tell me about this meeting," Mia ordered.
He lifted one shoulder. "Nothing unusual about it. Shooting schedule, locations we’re using, when everyone will be needed on set. It’ll all get thrown out after the first day of shooting."
"Who’s going to be there?" Her pen was poised over her notebook.
"You’re serious? You think one of the nerdy screenwriters or my co-stars or the director is my stalker?"
"Can’t ignore anyone," she said, finally turning to look at him. "One note and a ring in a box are pretty vague clues. Maybe, when things progress with your stalker, we’ll be able to narrow it down. But for now, everyone’s on the table."
"Even Pete?" he asked as his driver opened Mia’s door.
"I’ll do a background check on him, too," she said as she stepped out of the car.
"You hear
that, Pete?" he said as he followed her onto the sidewalk. "She thinks you’re stalking me."
"Why the hell would I do that? I see too much of your ugly mug as it is."
Mia bit her lip, but he could see the smile itching to break free. "Duly noted, Pete," she said.
Then the smile disappeared as she looked around. She’d replaced the notebook and pen again. So she’d have her hands free, he realized uneasily. This area of Chicago was a ghost town at six AM. The only things moving were the paper wrapper from a fast food burger and a crushed cigarette package, skipping down the gutter, propelled by Chicago’s famous wind. Old factories lined the street, cheek to jowl with new, trendy-looking loft buildings. The only other vehicle on the street was a lumbering box truck advertising a seafood company.
Hard to believe they were only a mile or two west of Chicago’s Loop.
Mia shooed him toward the door and followed him inside. "This is the studio where we’ll be shooting the interior scenes," he said, glancing at her. "Your new home away from home. We’ll spend a lot of time here."
They took an old freight elevator to the second floor, then he headed for the office. But when she tried to go in ahead of him, he grabbed her elbow.
"You’re not going to be in that meeting."
"Of course I am," she said immediately. "Attached at the hip, remember? For the next three weeks."
"Not in this meeting," he said. "Not going to happen."
"Why not?"
"Because I don’t need the gossip that would be stirred up if I brought my 'girlfriend' into a meeting. I want this part. A lot. For a bunch of reasons. So you’re waiting out here." The last thing Finn needed was the director thinking he’d hired a diva for the Johnny Santorini role. Bringing his ‘girlfriend’ into a business meeting screamed ‘entitled asshole’.
Finn wanted this role. Needed it. The disaster with Gemma had forced him to take a different direction with his career, and this was the first, critical step.
He wasn’t going to screw it up.
"Any other access to this room?" Mia asked.
"Not that I know of."
She stared at him, and he was sure she would insist on being in the meeting. That would completely piss off the producer and the director. He wouldn’t allow that. He’d worked hard to land this part.
Protect Me (The Donovan Family Book 6) Page 2
