"That makes sense. Thank you for sharing your story with me. Since you're the first and only person besides my grandfather who actually wants to help me, I'd be a fool to say no. But it could be dangerous, Jax. Look what happened last night. Helping me already earned you a black eye."
"It's barely purple this morning."
"It does look better."
He tightened his fingers around hers as their gazes locked, as the tension between them shifted into something far more dangerous than suspicious motives. He wanted her, a flood of desire racing through his body. But he couldn't have her. Not like this. Not when he was lying about so many other things. He'd told her one truth, but that didn't change the rest.
"Jax," she murmured.
"I know," he said. "It's crazy, isn't it?"
"Too crazy."
The doorbell rang, shocking them both. She pulled her hand away and jumped to her feet. "That must be the locksmith."
He blew out a breath as she headed out of the kitchen. He'd been a second away from breaching the distance between them and kissing her. He'd literally been saved by the bell. He needed to get his head together, focus on the mission. He'd achieved his goal. He'd convinced her to let him tag along so he could continue to steer her away from the club. Hopefully, that wasn't going to turn out to be the worst idea he'd ever had.
Chapter Seven
Maya glanced over at Jax as he drove them across town to Blake Cordero's house. Bringing him along was probably a bad idea. He was going to be a distraction, and she couldn't get sidetracked by a hot guy with incredible blue eyes and a mouth she really wanted to taste. She couldn't believe her libido was suddenly in overdrive when she'd been incredibly bored with men for the past six months. She'd had one loser date after another, when she even bothered to go online. And she hadn't met one person she'd wanted to talk to for more than five minutes. And kiss? It had been a hell of a lot longer since she'd felt this wild, tingling, rush of desire.
But this was not the time to start crushing on a man—a bartender, a guy who didn't seem to have much of a life plan. She frowned at that, realizing now she was hearing her mom's voice in her head, and her mother's favorite question: Why do you always pick guys who aren't going anywhere?
But she wasn't picking Jax for anything. He was just helping out. Her story had connected with his own past, which was terribly sad. She wouldn't have guessed he had such a darkness in his childhood. He gave off the air of a chill, blond-haired, Southern California guy who didn't worry too much or get worked up about anything. Maybe that was his defense mechanism, to keep people away, to keep them from probing too deep.
But he'd confided in her, and while she still didn't quite understand it, she wasn't going to question it. She'd been trying to do everything on her own, and it was nice to have someone else along, especially after everything that had happened last night.
She glanced in the sideview mirror, seeing a lot of cars behind them. Traffic in LA was always busy on Saturday afternoons, and today was no different. But Jax's earlier words about someone watching her rang through her head. Would someone follow her, thinking she might go get the journals?
"No one is following us," Jax said, reading her mind. "I've been keeping an eye out."
"Do you think I'm nuts?"
"That's a broad question. Want to be more specific?"
"Trying to solve a murder from thirty-six years ago that no one else could, including the police and two private investigators."
"You might be overly optimistic."
"That's a nice way to put it. It's not just about Natasha's death, though. I want to know more about her. I've become fascinated with her life. I'm not sure anyone knew the real Natasha, not even the people she loved. My father has one narrow view of her, and my grandfather has another. I feel like solving the mystery around her death, revealing her inner life, would be good for the family. She wouldn't be this shadowy darkness that we don't talk about. Unfortunately, except for my grandfather, no one else agrees with me. My dad is furious. My mom is angry that I'm upsetting my father, and I suspect my siblings will feel the same way when they realize what I'm up to. But I should be used to being on one side with everyone else on the other. That's usually how it goes in my family."
"Why is that?" he asked curiously.
"I'm different from them. They're all very determined, focused, academic people. My mom, Pam, is a history professor. My dad, Rex, is an accountant. He runs a large tax auditing firm called Owens and Ashton with his partner Don Owens. My older sister, Darcy, is a teacher, or she was until she got married to Matt and had a little girl named Zoe. Now she's trying to be the perfect stay-at-home mom. I think she's read every book on raising children that has ever been written. Her husband runs a software company. They moved to Carlsbad last year. My little brother, James, is in medical school in Boston. He wants to be a surgeon." She let out a breath. "And then there's me, a college dropout who has quit a lot of jobs and has unrealistic dreams of making movies."
"You are surrounded by overachievers," Jax agreed, giving her a commiserating look. "But you're the creative one. There's nothing wrong with that."
"Except I haven't done anything with my creativity. I've written a couple of scripts, but I've never really shopped them around. I showed one to my boss a year or so ago and she just smiled and said I needed more time to perfect my craft. That wasn't a great critique."
"Art is subjective. Maybe she didn't know what she was talking about."
"Or maybe she did. She told me that it didn't feel like I was personally committed to my story. It felt like I was checking off the boxes of what I thought would be popular, and she was right. I've been working on the production side too long. After listening to pitches and hearing what producers want, I started thinking about marketing my script more than I thought about what I was writing. Hollywood is all about the short pitch, the buzz word, the high concept idea. I want to make something I'm invested in, that I care about, and when Grandpa started talking to me about my grandmother's story, I got shivers down my spine. I knew in my gut that this was my movie."
"That makes sense."
"Being the odd man out in my family also makes me feel more connected to Natasha. From what I've read in her journals, she often felt like she didn't fit in. Maybe that's why I want to know her life; I want to understand her. Is she the horrible mother my father remembers? The unfaithful wife who hurt my grandfather? Or is she more? Natasha seemed to inspire a range of emotions in everyone she met. She wasn't boring, that's for sure. People didn't overlook her or forget about her. They had strong feelings of like or dislike. That's something, right? I can't tell you how many times I feel invisible, especially at work. I'm just a body getting coffee. People don't even look at me."
"I can't imagine that's true," he said, drawing her gaze to his. "I have a hard time not looking at you, Maya. You have one of the most interesting faces I've ever seen."
She sucked in a quick breath as his words touched her more deeply than he could possibly know. "That's…I don't know what to say."
"Really? Because you rarely seem out of words," he teased.
"I know I've been talking a lot."
"Not too much. I asked. You answered. One question I still have—is this your only movie? You must have other ideas."
"Not as good as this one."
"If you can figure out the ending."
"There is that," she said with a sigh. "It won't be worth making if I can't introduce new information than what is already out there. But I'm hoping that people will relate to me because I'm Natasha's granddaughter. Maybe they'll remember something new, or now they'll feel free to speak out, because it has been such a long time. But I didn't realize until last night how perilous my search for the truth could be. Her death, her murder, seems like something that happened so long ago that it's barely real, but it's now becoming very clear to me that I could be in danger."
He glanced over at her. "It's not too late to quit. In fact, it woul
d probably be the best decision."
"It would probably be the best decision, but I'm not really known for making incredibly good decisions."
He smiled. "You believe in yourself more than you let on."
"What do you mean?"
"You get self-deprecating every now and then, but I think you're just channeling what other people say about you."
It felt strange to have someone read her so well. It was disconcerting. It also felt a little unfair, because she was having trouble getting any kind of a read on him. "It's not just what other people say. I'm often torn by what I want to do and what I feel I should do."
"Always do what you want to do."
"That's your advice?"
"It makes everything very simple."
"What if what I want to do hurts other people?"
"Now you're making it more complicated."
"That's what tends to happen."
"I don't know the answer, Maya. You've picked a very high mountain to climb. Even without someone possibly trying to stop you, there are a lot of obstacles in your way. But you've set up this meeting with the neighbor, you might as well see it through."
"Well, I wasn't going to quit right now."
"I didn't think you were, but there might come a time where you have to decide if the risk is worth the benefit. The person who broke into your house last night might not stop with you."
"You think someone else in my family could be in danger?" That idea was more than a little troubling.
"Who knows?"
"My brother and sister don't live anywhere near me. My parents' home has a security system. Grandpa is in an assisted living facility. They always check me in and out when I go there."
"That's good."
"Maybe I should quit," she muttered, thinking about her family. She might not want to listen to them, but she didn't want them to get hurt.
"We're about a mile away from the Beverly Hills house. What do you want to do?"
She hesitated, drumming her fingers on her thighs as she looked out the window as they passed by the iconic Beverly Hills Hotel. "I want to talk to Blake Cordero. I'll reassess after that."
"Okay. What else can you tell me about this guy? You said he's an entertainment lawyer?"
"Yes. He's divorced, no kids. His father passed on two years ago. His mother, Anne, moved into a condo in Century City last year. Natasha mentioned Blake's father in her journals. The only time she mentioned Blake was when she expressed concern that it might not be a good idea for her fourteen-year-old son to be hanging out with the eighteen-year-old kid living next door. That's about it."
"It's a start."
A few moments later, Jax pulled up in front of a large, two-story Mediterranean-style villa with a tile roof, arched windows, and a fountain in the center of a circular drive. The house next door, where her father had lived, was unfortunately completely hidden from view by a tall cement wall and even taller trees.
"I can't see my dad's house," she murmured.
"We can try to get closer."
"No, let's talk to Blake. That's why we're here." As she got out of the car, she was assailed by a wave of heat. The temp was climbing fast. It must be in the eighties already. "It's going to be a hot one."
Jax smiled at her. "I think we can count on that."
And she didn't think he was just talking about the weather.
When they got to the front door, she pressed the doorbell. It was opened almost immediately by an older Hispanic woman.
"Is Blake Cordero in?" she asked.
"Come in," the woman said, waving them into the house. It was much cooler inside, the air-conditioning on full blast. "I'll let him know you're here."
They wandered into the living room, which was nicely decorated in neutral white and gray colors. There was a piano in the corner and sitting on top of that piano were several framed photographs. She made her way across the room, seeing family photos of people she didn't recognize. But through the French doors leading out to a patio, she could see the house next door, the house in which her father had spent the first fourteen years of his life.
It was Tudor-style, with a sharp, varied roofline, and from her vantage point she could see a balcony on the second floor that took up one side of the house. Natasha had often started an entry in journal by saying she was sitting on her balcony, looking out at the night. But Natasha had also been looking right into the Cordero's yard. For some reason, that sent a little shiver down her spine.
"Hello?"
She whirled around at the sound of a male voice. Blake Cordero was tall, dark and handsome with olive skin, dark eyes, and jet-black hair.
"You must be Maya," he said, his gaze moving across her face. "You look a lot like her—your grandmother."
"We both have green eyes."
"You do have her eyes," Blake murmured, his gaze getting lost in the past.
"Thank you for seeing me." She felt a little uncomfortable with his stare.
"No problem."
As Jax cleared his throat, she waved her hand in his direction. "This is my friend, Jax Kenin."
"Also known as her research assistant," Jax said, as he offered his hand to Blake.
She was a little surprised he'd decided to label himself as her assistant, but it seemed to put Blake at ease.
After the men shook hands, they sat down around a silver-gray coffee table, with herself and Jax on the sofa and Blake in the armchair facing them.
"So, you're making a movie about Natasha," Blake began.
"Yes."
"How does it end?"
"I'm not sure yet. I'm still working on that."
"Is it going to be murder or an accidental overdose or a suicide?"
"Those are the choices. What do you think?"
"I honestly have no idea. When it happened, we were all shocked. She was so young. I saw her about two months before it happened. I was home from college. She came over to see my father about a part in a new movie. They had an argument in his study. I'd never really heard him yell at her before, but she had gotten him into a rage. She slammed out of the house and into the patio, where I was having a beer. I asked her if she was all right, and she wound up sitting down with me. There were tears in her eyes. I was shocked. I didn't know what to make of her vulnerability. She'd always been this incredibly beautiful movie star who happened to live next door for a while. I didn't see her as a real person until that night."
"What did you talk about?"
"She rambled, jumping from topic to topic. She seemed like she was on something. She was wired, agitated. I asked her if she wanted to smoke some weed. I thought she needed to relax."
"Did she?"
"No, she said she had to be sharp for another meeting later that night. But she did have some of my beer. She said I was lucky to be young. She told me not to take it for granted." He paused. "She was in a philosophical mood after she calmed down. In retrospect, she was a little fatalistic, saying things like the decisions we make follow us forever. You can't run away from them, so you have to be careful what you choose and who you choose. She also told me to stay away from the movie industry, that nothing was real, except the sharks that preyed on dreams. It's weird how long that conversation has stuck in my head. Or maybe it was because it was the last time we spoke and not long before her death." He took a breath. "What else do you want to know?"
She hesitated, then decided she had no time to waste being coy. "Do you think your father had an affair with Natasha?"
Blake stiffened at the question. "Wait a second. Are you trying to smear my father's reputation?"
"No, I'm just asking a question."
"Why would you think they had an affair?"
"She said he used to run lines with her at night when they were working on a movie."
"So what? That's not an affair."
"The way she spoke about your dad, it sounded like they had a personal relationship, but, of course, I don't know how deep it went."
"My dad di
dn't cheat. He wasn't that kind of guy. But I can see why you'd ask, because she was definitely that kind of woman." Blake paused. "I wasn't going to say this, but she came on to me that night. She tried to kiss me. I shut it down. I couldn’t handle someone like her. And I was friends with her son. It was bizarre."
"How did she take it?" Jax cut in. "When you turned her down?"
"She got all teary again, like it was one more rejection she couldn’t take, and then she left. That's the last time I saw her. It was sad what happened to her. I felt bad for Rex and for Phillip. They were shattered. They ended up selling the house next door and moving to Laurel Canyon. They didn't want to be in the house that Natasha had picked out all those years ago." He paused. "How is your father?"
"He's good. He runs an accounting company."
"I heard. I'm not surprised he's successful. He was a smart kid. However, I can't believe he's excited about this movie. He was angry with his mother for most of his childhood. At least, that's the way I remember it. She was sweet to him, but she was always disappointing him, not showing up when she'd promised to be there. She missed birthdays and holidays. Even when she had him stay with her, he always said the house was filled with people he didn't care about and who didn't care about him. He was extremely bitter."
"He still is," she admitted. "But my grandfather wants to know what happened to my grandmother, and I'm going to see if I can find out."
"You might not like the truth. I don't know if she was as good a person as you think she was."
"The truth is better than not knowing."
"Not always," Blake said. "Sometimes not knowing is a good thing." He cleared his throat. "Is there anything else you want to know?"
"Was Natasha friends with your mom?"
"No. My mother was critical of how Natasha treated Phillip and Rex. She also didn't like that Natasha needed so much handholding from my dad when it came to acting. I remember her saying a few times that if Natasha was that big of a star, she should be able to figure out how to act on her own."
Fearless Pursuit (Off The Grid: FBI Series Book 8) Page 8
