Fearless Pursuit (Off The Grid: FBI Series Book 8)

by Barbara Freethy

  His body hardened. Damn! She was definitely going to be trouble. He needed to keep her at arm's length, but suddenly all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and kiss her until he ran out of breath.

  She cleared her throat, and he realized he'd been staring at her a little too long, but he couldn't seem to stop. Her face wasn't just beautiful—it was interesting: the smear of freckles across her nose, the slight scar under her chin, a trace of flour across her cheek.

  "Good morning," she said, finally getting some words out. "You're staring."

  He needed a reason to explain that. "You have flour…" He pointed to her cheek.

  "Oh. I made pancakes." She wiped the flour away with her fingers. "Did I get it?"

  "You did. Pancakes, huh?"

  "And bacon and scrambled eggs with fresh tomatoes and feta cheese. I hope there's something you'll like."

  "It's a feast."

  "It's a thank-you for saving my life last night."

  "I don't know about your life; maybe your purse," he said lightly.

  "And you spent the night on my couch so I could sleep without being afraid. It was very nice of you. I'm grateful that Wallace sent you to my house with that envelope. Even though I wish he'd read what was inside, maybe it worked out the way it was supposed to."

  "Sounds like you believe in karma."

  "You don't?"

  "I prefer to be more proactive in making things happen the way I want them to, not leaving it to fate."

  "Well, I try to do that, too, but sometimes life throws me a curveball, like a burglar or a bartender who shows up at the right time," she said, flashing him a smile. "Do you want some coffee?"

  "More than I want anything else."

  She laughed. "Help yourself. Breakfast is ready if you want to sit down."

  He filled a mug with coffee and took a seat at the table as she brought over a platter of eggs to go with the bowl of fruit, plate of bacon, and stack of pancakes.

  "This is amazing," he said, digging into the food. "You're a good cook, Maya."

  "It's one thing I do well, and I got a lot of practice while I was growing up. No one in my family likes to cook. They're all very busy doing important things. When I'd come home after school, I would never feel like doing homework, so I'd start messing around in the kitchen. Because everyone came home hungry, I didn't get into as much trouble for choosing cooking over homework. They had a hot meal and I had an excuse for not doing my fractions."

  He gave her a thoughtful smile. There was a touch of pain under her light words, a reminder that she saw herself as an island within her family. He wondered if that's where the self-deprecation came from. She was an interesting mix of insecurity about some things and boldness about others.

  "What about you?" Maya asked. "Do you cook?"

  "Enough to survive."

  "Where do you live?"

  "Santa Monica."

  "The beach is nice. Are you on the water?"

  "Not that lucky. I'm a couple of blocks away."

  "How did you end up at the Firebird Club? Aren't there any bars in Santa Monica?"

  "There are, but the Firebird Club is the hottest ticket in town. The tips are extremely good."

  "How long have you been working there? They only opened six months ago."

  "About a week."

  "I didn't realize you were so new," she said. "Where were you working before that?"

  "A bar in Venice. It wasn't a great scene," he lied. "I got tired of breaking up bar fights."

  "That must explain why you got the better of the guy last night."

  "Not sure I got the better of him, but I can hold my own."

  "Have you always been a bartender, Jax? Have you done anything else?"

  "Isn't being a bartender enough?" he challenged.

  She frowned. "I didn't mean to imply it wasn't."

  "Well, I've done some acting, too," he said, letting her off the hook.

  "Really? Have you been in anything I would have seen?"

  "Probably not. That's why I'm still serving drinks."

  She took a sip of her coffee. "Is being an actor your long-term plan?"

  "I'm not sure. I'm tired of auditioning, and I like having a steady income."

  "I have some contacts in that world. Maybe I could help you," she said tentatively.

  Despite her words, he didn't sense there was much conviction behind her offer. "That's generous, but I'm thinking about what I want to do next. I might take you up on it, but not now."

  "You're certainly leading-man material. Although, I have to say you don't seem like the actor type."

  "Why would you say that?" he asked, as he spooned some strawberries onto his plate, avoiding her speculative gaze.

  "I don't know. There's just something about you that feels more…purposeful."

  "You don't think actors are purposeful?"

  "Maybe that's the wrong word. I don't know. There's just something about you that's a little different." She shrugged. "Maybe that's because you're an actor. You're always putting on a show, being who you think someone wants you to be."

  "You sound like you don't have a high opinion of actors. Interesting for someone who wants to make a movie."

  "On the contrary. I admire great acting talent. Being able to bring a character to life is a gift. However, I've had some personal experience with actors that hasn't been so great."

  "Boyfriend?" he guessed.

  "Yes," she admitted. "He was always putting on a show. I just didn't see it. But live and learn, right? I won't go down that road again."

  "Never?" He needed her to say yes, because that could be a barrier between them, a barrier he was fairly sure he would need. Because there was something about her that was different, too, something that made him want to open up, to be who he really was, and that couldn't happen, not now anyway.

  "Well, I probably shouldn't say never," she muttered, her gaze locking with his. "Whenever I make what I consider to be a solid plan, it usually ends up in pieces."

  "How long were you and your boyfriend together?" he asked, as he finished the last few strawberries.

  "About a year. He was funny and charming. I was working at a different production company then, and we were making a television series. I didn't realize that he'd actually sought me out because he wanted a part. I took him to some company parties, and eventually he got an audition and a role in the series. Then he slept with one of my friends."

  "Asshole." He gave her a compassionate look. "Sorry."

  She shrugged. "I should have known better."

  "Not all actors are users." He found himself oddly wanting to convince her of that fact.

  "I know, but it's difficult to trust someone who's good at portraying different characters. How do you know which one is real?"

  Her words hit close to home. "Fair point."

  "I'm sorry if I insulted you. I didn't mean to. I tend to talk before I think."

  "I've heard a lot worse. So, how are you feeling today? Did you sleep at all?"

  "I did—surprisingly enough. It felt good to know you were on the couch. I called the locksmith this morning. He should be here soon. I'd like to get everything locked back up."

  "Good idea. What about your grandmother's journals? I think you need to make sure they're safe. Because it seems like they might be more important than you realize."

  "I'm still not completely sure that's why someone broke in here. The police said there was a burglary last night, not far away."

  "He didn't just run when we interrupted him, Maya. He went after you and your purse."

  She stared back at him, new fear running through her eyes. "I spent a lot of time last night talking myself into believing that it was just random."

  "It wasn't. I'm sorry, but I don't believe that."

  "He didn't take my computer. Wouldn't he have thought I'd have notes on that?"

  "That's true," he said slowly. Why hadn't the thief taken the computer? It would make sense that Maya would ha
ve written about her grandmother on her computer. Unless, this was a rush job, an order to find anything that looked like a diary or a journal.

  "We don't really know what the motive was," she continued. "All we know for sure is that he took sixty dollars."

  "You're right. That's the only fact we have, but my gut tells me the journals were the draw."

  "They're at the studio, in my office. You can't get into the studio without going through a guard gate. I can't imagine anywhere they'd be safer, especially this weekend. I can't even get in there until Monday without getting special permission."

  "Okay. It sounds like they're safe for the moment. But the pages you gave to Wallace were photocopies. Did you take copies of other pages?"

  "I did." Awareness slowly entered her eyes. "Damn. I just realized I gave Freddie, Jr. some pages, as well as Kathy Simone. She was one of Natasha's assistants. She's in her sixties now and is a married grandmother, living in Encino. I don't see her sending someone to break into my place."

  "Anyone else?"

  "Natasha's former driver, George Popovich, and her hair stylist, Elena Medvedev. They were all mentioned in the journal. I gave each one a copy of their pages and my home address and phone number."

  "Looks like the suspect list just got longer. Did anyone have a negative reaction to your questions?"

  "I never spoke to Freddie, Sr. His son didn't seem to care about anything. He just said he'd pass along my info to his father. Kathy was friendly, happy to talk to me. She only worked for my grandmother for about nine months, so she didn't have a lot of stories, but she said they got along well. Apparently, she left because she got married. She did say my grandmother was very impulsive. She often changed plans at the last minute. Kathy was Natasha's assistant when she was married to Wallace Jagger. I didn't get a chance to ask him if he remembered her." She paused. "George was forthcoming. I told you last night that he mentioned he took her to the Firebird Club a lot."

  "She was found dead in her car, but she also had a driver? Was George her driver at the time of her death?"

  "No, he had stopped working for her about six months before that. He said she would drive herself some places, but she didn't like the freeways."

  "A woman who doesn't like to drive dies alone in her car."

  An odd expression came through Maya's gaze. "That is kind of interesting. I didn't really think about it like that. You'd make a good detective, Jax."

  "I'm just more objective than you are. And the last woman, her hair stylist? Did she have anything to say?"

  "Elena was not interested in talking. She was too busy. She runs three salons in Beverly Hills now. She's married to an attorney who works in the DA's office, Colin Macklemore."

  "When did you speak to her?"

  "Yesterday. She claimed she barely remembered Natasha. I said I was surprised, because Natasha mentioned that they'd first met at the Russia House and it had been fun to talk to another young woman from Moscow who shared a similar upbringing. She just said it was a long time ago, and she met lots of people there. And then she shooed me out of her salon."

  "Let's move her to the top of the list. She's Russian. She's married to an attorney who might have political concerns about her past."

  "Good point. But what does that mean—move her to the top of the list?"

  He smiled, realizing he was starting to sound a little too much like an FBI agent. "I don't know. Just thinking she might be someone who had something to protect. But this is your story. What's your plan?"

  "Interview everyone I can find, piece together Natasha's life, write a script, shoot some footage, and try to get some financial investment."

  "What about the production company you work for now?"

  "Sometimes it's more difficult to get respect from people you know. They see you one way, and it's impossible to change their perspective, but I would certainly approach them. I have other connections I can tap into as well. But all that is down the road. If I can't come up with more than what is already known, no one will be interested."

  "Got it. There is a chance you won't be able to figure it out, Maya. I'm sure more than one person tried before you. Natasha was a public figure. I can't imagine the police didn't do their best to solve her crime."

  "They didn't believe it was a crime. They were quick to point to overdose, suicide. One of my grandmother's friends, who is still a member of the Firebird Club told the police that Natasha was depressed and in a bad place just days before her death."

  "Who was that?" he asked with interest.

  "Lisa Hamilton. She's a big-time party planner now. I've been trying to get a hold of her, but I can't get past her assistant, either. I may have to make another trip to the club to try to catch her out in the world."

  "She was there last night talking to Constantine."

  "Really?" she frowned. "I wish I'd had more time there, but Sylvia gave me the boot."

  "You need to be careful Maya. If you push too hard, you're going to get yourself banned from the place."

  "I realize that the library is off-limits, but what's to prevent me from being in the restaurant or at the pool when Ms. Hamilton is around?"

  "It's still a private club. If you make their members uncomfortable, you'll be gone."

  "It's a risk I have to take."

  And it was the one risk he didn't want her to take. "Is there anyone else outside the club you need to talk to?"

  "Yes. In fact, I'm supposed to meet one of them today, Blake Cordero. He grew up next door to my dad in Beverly Hills. His father, Anthony Cordero, was one of Natasha's directors. She mentioned in one of her journals that he used to work with her in the evenings to help her get ready for the next day's scene."

  "That sounds intriguing. Was there more going on between them than running lines?"

  "I don't know. He was married. She was married. But I'm not under the illusion that my grandmother was a saint by any means. No one disagrees that she liked men and they liked her. Blake apparently moved back into the house after his father died, and his mother wanted a smaller place. He's agreed to see me today at one."

  He glanced at his watch. It was eleven now and he didn't need to be at work until five. "Can I come with you?"

  Her eyes widened in surprise. "You want to come with me?"

  "I do. I'm caught up in your story. Would having me as your shadow be a bad thing?"

  She hesitated. "You seem a little too interested in all this," she said slowly, her gaze turning speculative. "The fact that you were so eager to bring the envelope to me, your questions about where the journals are, and now your interest in talking to Blake, makes me question your motives."

  He was both impressed and a little unnerved by her honesty. "What motives do you think I have?"

  "I don't know. But most men don't want to hear me talk this much about anything."

  He grinned. "You really have not met the right men, Maya."

  "That might be true, and my gut is not always right, but I still try to listen to it."

  He needed to tell her something to encourage her trust, because helping her direct her attention to people outside the club would keep her out of the Firebird Club and away from his targets. But what would she believe? It had to be personal and it had to be true.

  "Maybe you should go," Maya said.

  "Or I could tell you why I've gotten caught up in your story," he said, hoping he wasn't making a mistake.

  Her gaze widened with interest. "I'm listening."

  He debated for another second whether he should proceed. He was going to tell her something extremely personal, something only a few people in his life knew. Was he crazy?

  "Jax?" she questioned, giving him a speculative look. "Are you trying to think of something convincing?"

  "No, I just can't quite believe I'm going to tell you this."

  "Tell me what?"

  "I know what it feels like to have unanswered questions when it comes to tragedy."

  "You do?"

  H
e took a breath and then said, "I lost my parents when I was seven years old. They dropped me off at the house of my mother's best friend, so they could have a weekend alone. They went out on a boat and a storm came up unexpectedly. They got caught in it, and they died."

  Her hand flew to her mouth as horror entered her eyes. "Oh, my God, I'm so sorry, Jax. I had no idea you were going to tell me something like that."

  Emotion thickened his throat. All he could do was shrug.

  She reached across the table, putting her hand over his.

  The warmth of her touch sent rocketing heat through his body. It took everything he had not to jerk his hand away. But he should have, he realized a moment later, because now he didn't want her to ever move her hand. Her warmth was seeping into his body, taking away a deep chill that rarely left him.

  "You don't have to say anything else," she said.

  "I didn't understand how they could be there one minute and gone the next, and no one ever knew what happened to them. They were alone on the boat, and however the end came they were the only ones who saw it."

  "You must have been shattered."

  "I was completely confused. I didn't believe it for a long time. I kept thinking they'd just show up one day, but eventually I had to accept that wasn't going to happen."

  "Who did you grow up with?"

  "The person my mother left me with. She and her husband adopted me. They were as good to me as anyone could have been."

  "But they weren't your parents. That's really rough."

  "It was very difficult." He paused, holding her gaze. "When you told me that you want to know your grandmother's ending, it resonated with me. Because I still want to know what happened to my parents, even though I never will."

  "Are you sure you never will?"

  "Yes. I've looked into it. Their boat was found capsized and they were nowhere to be seen."

  "So, they never…"

  He shook his head. "Nope. They never found their bodies."

  "I can't imagine how you must have felt. You were so young, too."

  "Maybe that helped. I was too little to comprehend the full reality of it. It wasn't until later that it sank in." He paused. "Your grandmother's story is yours to tell, so I can go and leave you to it, if that's what you want. Or I can tag along and try to help. It's your call. I hope you can believe me when I tell you that I only brought the envelope because Mr. Jagger asked me to do it. And I only asked about the journals because I wanted to make sure they were safe."