by Donna Fasano
Hmmm. A pair of folded jeans, a few unopened packs of white athletic socks, a pair of pale blue Jockey briefs. Ten points for not wearing those unsexy, baggy boxers. Maybe it was from years of seeing everyone in tights in the ballet studio, but she preferred clothes that clearly showed the body’s line.
She couldn’t help imagining what Aiden would look like in his cute baby blue briefs. Probably damn good, based on what she’d seen of him in his jeans: tight abs, slim hips and long, muscular legs. A small, self-contained seismic disturbance rolled through her, its epicenter located somewhere between her thighs.
What’s happening to me? She was acting like a boy-crazy teenager. Last month she was all into Chang. Then along came Sean. Now she was thinking about Aiden every minute. No, not just thinking about him, but also stalking him, for God’s sake.
She turned into the bathroom and gave it a quick cleaning, checking the medicine cabinet of course. Nothing there. He’d obviously gone away overnight. Maybe to his New York City apartment.
Next, she pulled the bedding off the four-poster double and meticulously put on the new sheets. Not one wrinkle. All corners perfectly even. She stood there a moment wondering of Aiden slept in the nude.
Zheesh. You really do have a problem, girl.
She ran her dust cloth over the desk and accidentally bumped the laptop. It awakened the sleeping computer that wasn’t completely closed. She lifted the lid a little higher—okay, yeah, she opened it all the way—and saw a document emerge. Jenna stepped closer to the glowing screen.
Location/Bed and Breakfast/ North Cove/New York/ gathering photints / two assets / one mirror / Renzinsky at Bureau sending the elint / more dry cleaning expected / will bang and burn / SAD CIA case agent Briggs working as bona fide.
“What the…?” Jenna’s eyes went wide. She had no clue what the words photint and elint meant. But the letters C-I-A and the word Bureau sure rang a bell. Not to mention the term “agent.”
A tingle ran up her spine. Such thought-provoking data coming from the mysterious stranger who constantly sidestepped questions relating to his profession. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to put it together.
She felt an irrepressible urge to prowl his desktop, go through his emails, or at least scroll down the page. But no way could she do that in good conscience. That would be a true violation of personal privacy. Not to mention illegal. And if he actually was law enforcement—forget it.
Jenna hovered over the desk, unwilling to take liberties, yet burning for answers.
She snatched up a Richardson’s Bed and Breakfast souvenir notepad and a ballpoint pen that lay next to the computer and quickly copied down the words.
Heading straight for her own room, Jenna wasted no time searching the Net. With a touch of analytic thinking and a sprinkling of intuition, she acted on a simple premise. Was the bizarre wording a form of FBI or CIA slang?
It wasn’t long before she got her answer.
Upon entering the words “photint CIA FBI slang” on Google, a number of sites caught her eye. Each offered essentially the same definitions to the puzzling terminology.
Bureau: FBI
photint: photographic intelligence.
assets: a clandestine source
mirrors: other government investigators working on the same case.
elint: electronic intelligence
dry cleaning: efforts made to detect surveillance
bang and burn: demolition and sabotage
SAD: special activities division
bona fide: an operative’s true identity, who he represents, or actual intentions
Was the charming visitor in room three working for the FBI or the CIA? Was Aiden Flynn actually “Renzinsky at the Bureau”? Or maybe “CIA case agent Briggs”?
Either way, the B&B’s resident secret operative obviously had business to tend here in North Cove. But what kind? And was it dangerous being around him? Definitely might be wise to give him an extra wide berth.
Except another thing was certain as well. His recently discovered spy status gave Aiden a powerful alpha male glow that made him seem even sexier than he was before.
And to Jenna that spelled a whole other kind of danger.
Chapter 5
Aiden shifted about in his office chair trying to get used to the new seat cushion he’d recently purchased. All those hours each day behind the computer researching and investigating—it was no wonder his back ached. Outside, the rain pelted against the window of his apartment on the thirty-fourth floor at Columbus Avenue and Sixty-Seventh. The view was amazing. Central Park in the distance and the famous Manhattan skyline that glittered each night like millions of diamonds.
He’d come in to the city today to meet with his literary agent. Returning to his apartment after their productive lunch powwow, he gave himself permission to indulge in something he’d been telling himself not to do.
In the Google search box, he typed “Jenna Richardson soloist American Ballet Theater.” A list of items appeared on the page. He clicked on a couple stills of her face and found himself sighing like a lovesick adolescent. Why did she have this effect on him? There were other lookers around. But he could just stare into her enormous brown eyes forever. And her tiny, pointed chin just begged to be clasped while he bent to kiss her.
He put a lid on his runaway thoughts and told himself to just click on the video boxes that appeared in the search. He’d never been to a ballet and only wanted to get a glimpse of what she did.
Ironically, the first video was Jenna dancing as the Lilac fairy in Sleeping Beauty, balancing on one leg with the other way up by her ear. He smiled. Hadn’t he dubbed her a fairy princess when he saw her dancing around on the deck of the B&B three nights ago?
Next, he saw her do the “Arabian Dance” in The Nutcracker. Her deep, supple backbends and leg splits blew his mind. Then there was a more modern one by a choreographer named Chang Mulligan. This costume was even sexier than the last. He was entranced watching her heart-stopping-beautiful body move with such strength and skill and artistry. And with such sensuality.
Aiden couldn’t remember ever wanting a woman this badly.
Not even Wendy.
A rush of guilt swept over him.
He could never allow any woman to replace his cherished late wife. Ever.
Not that Jenna would want him, anyway. He wasn’t her type at all. He belonged with women like his dear Wendy, whose plain face and predictable, scholarly nature had made him feel safe after the train wreck of his upbringing.
When the video of Jenna came to a close, a selection of other highlights featuring Jenna appeared inside the box, including one labeled, “Sean’s Newest Lady.”
Aiden gave in to temptation and hit play. Sure enough, it was a slide presentation featuring various photos capturing Sean Risk romping with his latest girlfriend: “sexy Jenna Richardson.” The paparazzi had caught them holding hands in a cafe, walking along the sidewalks of Sag Harbor, and jogging side-by-side down Further Lane. It was too much for the vulnerable widower. With a fast click, he left the site.
Aiden was no match for Sean Risk. Jenna and Sean were both performers, both liked to be in the spotlight, in front of a camera.
Unlike K.Z. Knight, who hides his identity from the public and won’t even put an author photo on his books.
He closed out of the windows on the screen and pushed away from the desk.
Aiden ambled toward the floor-to-ceiling bookcase that spanned the length of the room. He ran his finger over five hardback books in glossy covers. Writing them had been his therapy, an escape from the grief of losing Wendy. Who would’ve thought his paranormal thrillers would become mega-selling blockbusters?
A world of success wrapped in a blanket of loneliness and sorrow.
Chapter 6
A dark gray metallic row of Fresnel and Leko lights cast their pearly beams downward from high above the stage of East Hampton’s Guild Hall, while a brigade of techies wearing headsets and
carrying clipboards bustled about below. Jenna might have felt right at home, had it not been for all the additional lighting and sound equipment tacked on. Not to mention a film crew at least thirty members strong.
She nervously marked her steps, her body stiff and cranky. She’d been so happy to be free of her regimented dancer’s lifestyle that she hadn’t taken a ballet class in two weeks. And waiting around for the tech crew to do its thing in a cold theater didn’t help. Was she going to come off looking like an amateur on national television?
Oddly enough, she’d done fairly well on her speaking parts so far. Wouldn’t it be a kicker if she flubbed her dance parts?
Jittery shivers ran down her limbs. Her palms went sweaty and all the air seemed to go out of her lungs as her heart began to race.
Oh no. Am I having another panic attack? She remembered her conversation with Aiden and tried to think of food, travel, new clothes. Whatever would take her mind somewhere else.
Suddenly an image came to her of the night sky the way it had looked through his telescope. She pictured it in her mind, and that same soaring feeling of wonder flooded through her.
Director Tony Pacca leaned to the side of his chair and whispered to first assistant director David Saltzman, who then announced, “Quiet on the set, everybody. This is a take.”
Once she got the “go ahead” Jenna did a series of piqué turns across the stage, finishing with an arabesque sauté. Then grande battements en pointe, alternating with quick entrechat jumps. Simple steps for someone at her level, especially now that she’d overcome her momentary terror of messing up. In the middle of the run-through, Tony yelled, “Cut.”
After a few switches in the lighting, Jenna completed the sequence. She continued through the variation she’d rehearsed, her nervousness fading to nothing.
“That’s a take,” said Tony. “Nice work.”
She had one more speaking scene to do before the day was out. One with Sean’s character, Justin Grant, the spoiled son of an industrial tycoon, married to the female lead of the show but keeping a string of mistresses. He’d supposedly met his match in Cassandra Dawson, world-class ballerina and the blackest swan ever. Her sideline profession as a high-end hooker not only brought her big time cash, but it satisfied her insatiable addiction to control and torment powerful men.
David called out, “Camera?”
“Rolling.”
“Speed.”
“Aaaaand… action.”
Justin bursts into her dressing room and pulls a scantily clad Cassandra into his arms. He kisses her passionately and proceeds to run his tongue over her neck and ear.
Jenna struggled to keep her focus, to be the cold character she played, but the truth was her whole body wanted to melt against Sean’s. His arms and torso were rock hard, and boy, did he know how to kiss.
Justin: I want you all to myself. Screw your other clients.
Cassandra: I do. All the time.
Justin: Nasty bitch. Why do you have this effect on me?
Ten lines and two hot kisses later, the A.D. yelled out, “Great, but we’re going again for sound. Jenna, I want you more calculating, more teasing. Let’s go.”
They ran through it again. Only this time it culminated with a jubilant Tony declaring, “That’s a keeper.”
Sean gave Jenna a thumbs up, coupled with his classic sexy grin that had graced the cover of many magazines. Jenna’s whole body lit up in response. She couldn’t deny the mega-dose of real-time desire for the man playing opposite her.
Maybe Rachel and Lexi were right. Maybe she was too held back. Too caught up in her protective shell in response to the breakup with Chang. Maybe the lesson was about learning to let go. Letting go of her life as a dancer. Letting go of her fears in order to act. Letting herself go with Sean.
And why not? After all, Sean and Chang were two different people. Who said history had to repeat itself?
~*~
Jenna sank into a teal petal lounge chair that practically swallowed her whole. She sipped a vodka martini that she didn’t really want, but she couldn’t very well refuse it when Sean ordered his-and-hers from one of the waitresses roaming the party. Not when she felt everyone’s eyes on them.
This was the first time they’d gone to a party as a couple. And Jenna’s first time at a party among Sean’s TV/movie/industry friends. The host was a guy named Joey Cliff, who apparently had something to do with the movie business.
“Not bad, huh?” Sean stood beside her, martini in hand, his gaze panning the expansive room decorated in purple, teal, and ivory Italian modern design. “Joey’s got another beach house in Malibu.”
“Bicoastal.”
“He calls one place Joey East, the other Joey West.”
“Cute.” Jenna took another swig of her drink, hoping it would calm her nerves.
She knew she looked pretty good in her shimmery halter-top dress that cinched at her tiny waist, its short, full skirt showing off her dancer legs. In fact, the dancer side of her innately preferred to rely more on her body for expression and less on her mouth. Especially in a new environment. She wasn’t really sure how to make conversation with show biz people. Or with Sean, for that matter.
What if he was testing her to see if she could keep up with his crowd? Now that they’d made the gossip columns. Yep, she and Sean had been shopping in East Hampton a week ago, and someone had snapped their picture. Within a day it was all over the Net. Now they were regulars in the gossip rags. It put her mom in seventh heaven.
She glanced up at Sean, who was having a lively conversation with Joey and two people she didn’t know. He caught her eye. Jenna’s heart skipped a beat. Something told her it wouldn’t be long before she went from holding herself back to free fall.
Sonia, a tall redhead who was the female lead in Sunrise Lane, plunked down in the chair next to Jenna. “Mind if I give you a little constructive critique?”
“I’d love it. You know I’m new at this.”
“That last take? Where Justin and Cassandra are kissing? She’s a woman trapped by an internal struggle between letting go and maintaining control. You have to find a way to bring that out. It’s obviously something you’ve never experienced.”
Except, like, every day of my life. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“Do. Because the scene fell way short.” Sonia gulped back some tequila and waved her hand. “Naturally, David and Tony gave it a pass, but they’re completely in league with Sean. And obviously you’re his cupcake. This month, anyway.”
Her last words sent an uneasy quake through Jenna. “Food for thought,” she said with a plastered-on smile. Then she stood and strolled over to Sean. Whether it was for protection from the toxic Sonia, or to test out her fears, she wasn’t sure.
He greeted her with an arm around her waist. “What did Sonia say to you?”
“She gave me some advice.”
“On what?” Was that a worried look? Or was Jenna imagining it?
“On my acting.”
“Well, I have some advice for you, too. Sonia can be a jealous, competitive bee-yaitch. I’m sure you have a few like her in the dance world.”
“Plenty.”
Sean buried his gloriously handsome face in her neck for a delicious nuzzle, sending Jenna’s doubts for a ride.
“Brushing up on your acceptance speech for best supporting actor?” asked a woman she recognized from a crime drama series. The actress sat on the end of a long airport lounge-style sofa next to some older guy with a French accent.
“Haven’t given it much thought,” replied Sean.
The woman rolled her eyes. “Ever since the private screening, people have been floating your name for an Oscar, and you haven’t given it much thought? Like I believe that.”
Jenna figured they were talking about the film based on K.Z Knight’s bestselling paranormal thriller, Aftermath. She knew Sean had a pretty big role in it.
He chuckled. “Well, I’m not one to brag, but there we
re a few murmurs about it.”
Sean walked away from Jenna and took a seat on the sofa. Afraid of appearing clingy, she decided not to tag along. But her decision to give ground left just the opening Kianna, an exotic fashion model with striking features, had apparently been looking for. The tall blonde wasted no time claiming a cozy little place on the couch smack up against him.
The mighty king of Sunrise Lane proceeded to hold court surrounded on all sides by his many subjects—mostly young and female. Before long, the chatter built to an almost hyper level as each one vied for his attentions in a nauseating display of brownnosing.
First Kianna with her somewhat affected broken accent. “Ooh, yes, Sean. You vill valk out vid zee acadomee avard. No prob-leem.”
Sean beamed. “Think so?”
“Absolutely,” said a small muscular girl with short dark hair. She nestled on the floor at his knees. “The way you attacked that role was awesome. It was Brando in On The Waterfront, Olivier in Othello, Pacino in The Godfather.”
Gimme a break. Jenna considered Sean a decent actor, but those comparisons were definitely stretching it.
Next, Michelle from makeup slithered onto his lap. Sean had told Jenna about size-queen Michelle’s legendary sexual skills that she’d applied to some of Hollywood’s “biggest” leading men. Jenna hadn’t bothered to ask Sean if that included him. He certainly qualified. And judging by the cute little chitchat they had going on the sofa, she figured she had her answer.
Not that it should matter. What Sean had done in the past was his business. And to be realistic, Jenna had no claim on him. They’d only been dating for three weeks. Just because the frenzied tabloids already pronounced them a couple didn’t mean Sean would agree.
Still, seeing him amid the harem of star sucker-uppers was a humbling experience. One that was too reminiscent of Chang. And Matt. And John. And Dylan.
Why did she choose these super-big ego types? Was it because she’d been the youngest in the family and needed someone she could look up to? Or was she just drawn by that aura of excitement that hovered around successful men?
