Pattie's lips twisted. A better question would have been what was her relationship to her sister, not that either one was any of Zane's business. Besides, she wasn't explaining to anybody why she felt compelled to find out exactly how Savannah had died—to the point she was actually shelling out money to keep that awful rag in print.
"Formally, I own it," Pattie told him, since it wouldn't hurt to offer Zane a bone. "Savannah left it to me in her will. But it's really the editor who runs the thing." Pattie didn't add that matters had been different in Savannah's day. Her sister had been the one managing—very closely—the tell-all tabloid.
Was that why Savannah had taken the trouble to draw up a will? Had she realized the danger she could be in?
Zane's sea-colored eyes searched Pattie's features carefully. "So it is your newspaper," he decided.
Pattie shifted weight. "Officially... Technically... Yeah." Her eyes widened. "What? No. You think I have to do something about the gorilla?"
"The—? Oh." Zane smiled.
Shoot. Pattie shouldn't have called the guy names. Now Zane thought she was afraid of him.
"You think I owe that—fellow—anything?" Even as she asked, though, Pattie wondered if she did. How far did her obligation go when it came to Savannah's shenanigans?
"Officially, technically, you now own the newspaper," Zane told her. "You inherited it, both assets and liabilities together."
What was he, an attorney? But unfortunately, Zane was probably right. Pattie had inherited the newspaper, together with everything that went with it, including angry victims. Still...
"You want to talk to the guy?" Zane asked.
Pattie rolled her eyes. "He doesn't want to talk."
"He might." Zane's mouth quirked. "If he knew you weren't alone."
"What—?" But before Pattie could demand to know what that meant, Tristan came charging into the foyer.
"I cleaned the Legos!" he announced at the top of his lungs.
Zane swung the kid into his arms again. He hoisted Tristan to eye level. "Great job! Now, as a special treat, how would you like to go pick out a tasty pastry at Canter's Deli?"
"Whassa past'y?"
"It's a fancy cookie," Pattie translated, and wondered what Zane was up to.
Tristan, disbelieving anything that came out of his aunt's mouth, turned to Zane for confirmation.
"That's exactly right," Zane told him. "A pastry is a very fancy cookie." He peered over Tristan's head. "I'll tell Mr. Gooden on the stairs to meet us there in twenty minutes."
"What?" Matters were proceeding too fast for Pattie to catch up—or direct them. "Who said—? I mean I never—"
"It could work out just right," Zane claimed. "Dale wants to retrieve his good name. With Tristan along, plus the publisher of a scandal tabloid, he won't dare misbehave."
"But I—" Pattie started to sputter. Zane was tossing the situation out of control—out of her control, that was. He was treating her like a Helpless Hannah.
"I wanna pas'y," Tristan decided.
Pattie closed her mouth and narrowed her eyes at Zane.
He met her gaze directly. Challengingly.
Heat rose within Pattie. The truth was, she hadn't know what to do about Gorilla Man. But she'd have figured something out...eventually. She didn't need Zane's interference here. She didn't need the—the heat that wasn't all fury. No, part of that heat, a significant part, was excitement.
Damn if his challenge wasn't exciting.
Releasing a breath, Pattie made an effort to calm down and look at the situation logically, but it was impossible. If he wanted a challenge, she'd give him one.
He wanted to take them all to Canter's? Fine. Not only would she go there, but she'd also wrest the entire situation back into her own capable hands.
Slowly, Pattie smiled. She'd show Tristan's buttinsky nanny she wasn't afraid of some buffed-up donkey on steroids, any more than she was afraid she couldn't handle Tristan on a sugar high at Canter's Deli.
And she most certainly wasn't going to be cowed by one over-sophisticated, arrogant male nanny.
"Tell Gooden to meet us there in fifteen minutes," Pattie directed. "Canter's is closer than you think."
~~~
Walking into Canter's Deli on Fairfax Avenue was like stepping back in time, about five decades of time. A linoleum floor of earth-tone chips stretched under hanging lamps of plastic orange. The place was an old haunt of Pattie's—she'd been known to spend the night hammering out a website design on a laptop in one of the booths.
As she stepped through the heavy glass door now and squinted about for the gorilla man, she was determined to regain control of the situation. Zane was her employee.
She caught sight of Dale Gooden sitting in a booth square in the middle of the restaurant. He was an actor, all right, naturally selecting center stage.
Suppressing a wry smile, Pattie started toward him.
The guy looked up. His grim expression transformed completely. Pattie's purposeful stride faltered as a wide and brilliant smile moved over her former assailant's face. He rose from his seat at the booth. "Hey," he crooned. "Who's this little fella?"
Tristan shrank behind Zane's leg. His shyness lasted about as long as it took the gorilla to mock punch him in the stomach. Tristan chortled and grabbed for the gorilla's hand.
For the second time in two days, Pattie was treated to a male bonding moment. The worst part was that Zane had been right. Because of Tristan, Mr. Gorilla had become a pussycat.
Pattie's grasp over the situation was slipping back into Zane's hands. This was no good. She had to prove her competence. If Zane had managed Dale, then she'd manage Tristan.
Predictably, her nephew was the one to break the Hallmark moment. Disengaging from the former tormentor, Tristan swiveled to demand, "Where's my pays'ee?"
Pattie seized the question as an opportunity. "The pastries are through that archway. I'll help you pick one out." Yes, she'd be the one to take care of the child this time, not Zane.
Unfortunately, Tristan's expression said he wasn't keen about this plan. His lower lip puffed out, never a good sign. Was getting a pastry worth dealing with her? he seemed to ask himself.
"I won't steer you wrong, kid," Pattie promised, doing her best not to sound desperate. "I've been coming to Canter's and picking out pastries for years." Determinedly, she turned him toward the pastry counter that could be seen beyond the wide archway. Surely the lure of sweets would outweigh his aversion to his aunt. "They've got chocolate," Pattie promised, playing her trump card.
There was a moment of indecision, but the pastries won out. Tristan took off toward the counter at a run.
With a clear sense of triumph, Pattie followed after him. Though she felt tempted, she didn't look back to catch Zane's reaction.
Over at the counter, Tristan jumped up and down, trying in vain to view the menagerie of sweets beyond the high glass. "I can't see! I can't see!"
The heavyset woman who worked behind the counter smiled indulgently. In a thick Russian accent, she told Pattie, "Go ahead. Hold him up. The little one should see what he wants."
Hold him? Blinking at the thought, Pattie looked down at Tristan, who was still jumping. She'd only once tried to hold the kid, at his mother's funeral. His refusal then had been adamant enough to keep Pattie from ever trying again.
"I wanna see!" Tristan squealed.
"Then I'm going to have to lift you up," Pattie warned.
Tristan stopped jumping and raised both arms. "Hold me."
Pattie frowned. Just like that? The forbidden now allowed? She wasn't sure if she should believe it, but... She let out a breath and bent to put her arms under Tristan's. Gently squeezing him, she lifted.
He was lighter than she'd anticipated. It was easy to raise Tristan to pastry level. His dark eyes scanned the multitude of choices with avid desire.
Pattie held on. His little body was soft and fragile, like a stuffed doll with glass bones. In her arms, he didn't f
eel like the tornado he usually appeared. He felt vulnerable. Almost...sweet.
"I want dat one," Tristan said, and pointed.
"You want the sprinkle cookie?" the heavyset Russian woman asked.
"Color cookie," Tristan corrected. "Put me down now."
The moment was over. Pattie set Tristan down. She paid for the sprinkle cookie, not the biggest pastry in the window, but certainly the most dazzling. All the while, her fingers still felt the child, his miniature size and weight. He'd let her lift him up. He'd demanded it. And it had felt...good.
Feeling flush, feeling like was gaining a foothold in the Tristan arena, Pattie turned them both back toward the booth where gorilla man waited.
Zane's gaze met hers.
Pattie felt disappointment like a punch. The nanny didn't look defeated or in any way chagrined. If she weren't mistaken, he looked pleased.
Damn it all, she hadn't intended to please him. And yet for an instant, one spectacularly idiotic moment, his approval made her feel pleased.
Ugh. To want to please her nephew's nanny was pathetic. Hastily, Pattie adopted a bland expression, one that disguised any reaction at all.
With the cookie in a white bag in one hand, Tristan danced ahead of her. "I got a color cookie!" he announced.
Zane smiled easily at the boy. "A color cookie? Sounds like an excellent choice."
"It is," Tristan agreed, and clambered onto the booth seat, paper bag held carefully aloft. He squirmed into a spot next to Zane.
"I got you some O.J." Zane pushed a plastic glass toward Tristan. "To go with the cookie."
"T'anks," Tristan said.
Zane's gaze shifted to Pattie. "I ordered you coffee. Do you want cream or sugar?"
"Black is fine." He was all done looking pleased with her, Pattie noted, relaxing a little. She slid onto the bench seat beside Tristan.
"While you were buying cookies," Zane told her, "Dale and I set some ground rules."
Had they, now? Pattie raised a pair of annoyed eyebrows. Did Zane think she needed him to run interference? Okay, maybe she had needed him before, back when Dale was camped on her stairs, but not now, safe in Canter's Deli.
"Nobody's going to shout," Zane warned, looking at Dale.
"Of course not," Pattie put in firmly. She looked at Dale, too, back on top of things again. Lacing her fingers together atop the table, she put on her best "difficult client" expression: patience personified. "We're going to talk this all out. Mr. Gooden—"
"Call me Dale," the gorilla, now a pussycat, told her.
"All right. Dale." Pattie admitted that Zane had effected most of the pussycat transformation. But she would keep it there. "This morning you wanted to show me how upset you were about something the newspaper had done. Do you want to explain that now?"
A low growl came out of Dale. "I've been upset for almost four months. But I only got back to L.A. last night."
"What happened four months ago?"
Dale released a deep breath. "Savannah printed a 'news' story. It wasn't news. It was ten years ago—ten years!—and it wasn't even true. See, I was charged with rape. It was a bum rap. Little piece of jailbait—"
Dale was interrupted by Zane loudly clearing his throat. When Dale glanced his way, Zane tilted his head toward Tristan.
Trying to take over! Pattie thought. The control freak. "Oh, the child has no idea what we're talking about," she declared, "and doesn't care. Look at him."
Tristan, having freed his cookie from its paper wrapping, was closing his eyes in pleasure as he proceeded to take an enormous bite of it.
To his credit, Zane didn't attempt contradicting Pattie's assessment. His tongue rolled inside his cheek. "I suppose you're right."
Pattie allowed herself a moment to savor the sensation of Zane backing down, then returned her attention to Dale. "Go on."
Dale glanced from Pattie to Zane, then shook his head. "Right. Where was I? Oh, yeah. The girl. She was on the same set as me. Daytime stuff. Kept trying to talk me into bed, but I knew she was underage. Mad as hell she couldn't get her way, she accused me of rape. There was no evidence. None! I was acquitted. You hear me. Acquitted!"
Dale paused, apparently regathering himself.
Pattie breathed in and out slowly. "But the newspaper printed something about it?"
Dale nodded. "Savannah went and dragged the whole sorry story out again. She interviewed that little piece—who's twenty-five now and strung out on God knows what. Meanwhile my wife saw the story—how could she avoid it, with so many well-meaning friends who read the Rattler?" Dale's lips curled in.
Pattie's fingers tightened in her clasp. Dale's tale disturbed her, but not nearly as much as her sense that Zane's interest was sharpening. "Your wife didn't know the story?" she asked Dale.
His mouth twisted. "Not the way Savannah told it. If I had money for a lawyer, I'd sue you all to hell."
Pattie resisted the urge to bang her head on the table. She didn't need to check Dale Gooden's story. It rang all too true.
"My wife wrote a letter to me in Australia. Wouldn't even call me, let me explain. She took the kids. Mark—he's only six months. And Holly, who's almost two. Lady, I need something. Some kind of—relief."
Pattie could hardly blame the guy. Meanwhile, Zane seemed like a hot buzzer as he listened to all of this, much too interested for a man who was only supposed to be her nanny, for crissake.
Pattie did her best to focus on Dale. "Would a retraction help?"
Dale pulled his lips into a small "O" to one side. Dubious.
"On page one," Pattie bargained. "With a photo. Your latest head shot. Family picture. Whatever you want."
"Not a family picture." Dale gave a harsh laugh. But while shaking his head, he appeared to think about her proposal. "Could you really do that? On page one?"
It was Pattie's turn to twist her lips. Bree, the Hollywood Rattler's editor, would do whatever Pattie damn well told her to do if she wanted the five hundred bucks to print next week. "I can do it."
Dale leaned back in the booth seat. "Well!" He blinked. "That could help. I mean, if the same newspaper that started the trouble took it back, my wife might believe it."
"I think so," Pattie agreed.
"Huh." Dale apparently thought it over.
Pattie vowed she'd brain Zane if he tried to chime in at this delicate stage. Fortunately for Zane, he kept quiet.
Finally, Dale looked up. "Let's say you do that retraction. Can you send a copy to my wife? She'd just throw the package out if I sent it to her."
Pattie nodded. "Give me her address and I'll personally see she gets it."
"Well!" Dale said again. He nodded. "Okay."
Silently, Pattie sighed in relief. He'd agreed.
"Good cookie," Tristan piped up, apparently pleased, as well.
Pattie smiled. The gorilla had backed down, and without too much fight at all. Once he'd had a chance to cool off, it had gotten downright easy. Dale was now happy. Even Tristan was happy.
Only Zane oozed quiet dissatisfaction from his seat just past Tristan. Pattie didn't dare look at him as he shifted on the plastic upholstery.
"There's one thing I don't understand," Zane rumbled. And then, being a born buttinsky, he struck right at the heart of the matter. "Why? Why did Savannah print this scandal of yours after all this time?"
Given what Pattie had learned of her sister's activities, the look on Dale's face was completely predictable. It was the expression one would make on sniffing week-old fish. "Fundraising," Dale said.
"Excuse me?"
Dale smiled dryly. "A week before I had to fly to Australia, Savannah came to me gabbing about the old story. She hinted pretty heavily that a 'donation' to the newspaper would keep the thing under wraps." A laugh escaped Dale. "As if I had the money to pay blackmail, or would cough any up even if I could afford it."
Silence fell over the table at the word. Blackmail. Pattie wanted to sink through the floor. Dale had just said it all.
Had Savannah intended the newspaper as a means of extortion from the beginning? Unhappily, Pattie was pretty sure of it. A few years ago, Pattie's sister had stopped getting parts even in the D-list movies that had been her specialty. She'd probably been looking for compensation for that disappointment, willing to find it in any form she could.
From the corner of her eye, Pattie saw Zane's gaze narrow. He got Savannah's scheme. But surely the man knew some limits. While it was true her spoiled rotten sister had left Pattie something of a mess, none of that was Zane's problem. He was her nephew's nanny.
But she could feel him, practically exploding with questions, bristling with a singularly male and purposeful energy.
His energy radiated out toward her, setting her back up.
"Well!" Pattie said, and stood. It was high time to conclude this meeting. If not a few minutes too late. "Are we done?"
"Awmost," Tristan answered, chewing the last of his cookie.
"I'm good," Dale said, and slid out of the booth.
Only Zane stayed where he was, his gaze slit. He looked like he'd stepped into an alley he'd only just realized held an armed mugger.
And he was looking directly at Pattie.
Swallowing, she wished she could have felt righteous anger, but a part of her wondered if Zane's implied accusation was all that far off the mark. Maybe some of this was, kind of, her fault. Oh, yes, Savannah had been a low-down boyfriend-stealer and blackmailer. But deep down, Pattie wondered if she wasn't in some way responsible, or at least complicit, in her older sister's misspent life.
Now she determinedly turned her attention from Zane's all-too-prescient gaze and looked at Tristan. She forced herself to smile. "If you're done, kid, then let's go."
CHAPTER SIX
Like a moth to a flame. Like a bird to a snare. Like a mastodon to a tar pit. Once Tristan went down for his nap, Zane stalked down the hall toward Pattie's home office.
All morning he'd tried to ignore the information he'd learned over coffee at Canter's deli. All right, so Savannah Bowen had been a blackmailer as well as a has-been B-actress and tabloid publisher. So what? Didn't matter to Zane. Was no kind of problem for him.
If I Loved You Page 6
