Katrina Moore comes from money. An only child, she was born and raised in Beverly Hills. She attended Buckley, an elite private school, and then went to live abroad for several years after graduating. Her mother, Enid, is a celebrated event planner and her father, Clayton, is a real-estate tycoon. However, a year ago, he got busted for tax evasion and a Ponzi scheme and was sentenced to serve five years at a white-collar penitentiary. The Moores were forced to sell their house and subsequently divorced.
Katrina is famous for being famous. She’s invited to every A-list Hollywood party, and she’s a muse to several major fashion designers. Using her clout, she developed a reality TV show called America’s It Girl, which she subsequently sold to a fledging cable network—Celebrity-TV (CTV). While the show initially enjoyed moderate success, ratings have lately floundered. There’s lots of talk about the show being canceled after only a year on the air, the producers and network equally fed up with Katrina’s spoiled brat behavior both on the screen and off it. She is notorious for her partying ways and her difficulty to work with on the set.
I wonder what attracted me to her and led me to choose her over all the other women I’ve dated. Yes, she’s stunning, but all my liaisons have been. What made her “the one?” Do we have a lot in common? Was the sex that great? As I’m about to read about her romantic involvements, my doorbell rings. I hurry to the front door.
With one eye, I peer through the peephole. A stocky, dark-haired man flashing a badge meets my gaze.
“Detective Pete Billings. LAPD. Open up.”
My heart beats double time. What does he want? And how did he get onto my gated property? I swing open the unlocked door.
“What can I do for you?” My voice is shaky but cordial.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure,” I say, ushering him into my house. He follows me into the living room with a loud shuffle of his feet. Wearing a rumpled trench coat, the ruddy-complexioned investigator looks to be in his fifties though his full head of unruly slate hair defies his age. His keen dark gray eyes take in everything.
“Can I get you something to drink? A soda? Water? Or a beer?” I ask, hoping I have some of each. He doesn’t seem the champagne type.
“No thanks,” he says, loosening the belt of his worn tan coat. “I just want to ask you some questions about your accident.” His sharp eyes wander around the room. “Nice place you have here. And I just want to tell you I’m a big fan of your show. Never miss an episode. Record them all. My wife loves it too.”
“Thanks.” Inside, I’m cringing. I seriously have no clue what my series Kurt Kussler is about. Later today, I’ll do more research, try to find a couple of episodes online, and read the latest script. I’m grateful the detective doesn’t dwell on the show and cuts right to the chase.
“Mind if I have a seat?” Without waiting for a reply, he plops down on the chair Scott was sitting in. I return to my spot on the couch.
“Do you remember anything about your accident?”
I debate whether to tell him about my amnesia. In the end, my gut tells me to tell the truth. At least partially. “Sorry, I don’t. I’ve blocked it out.”
The detective nods understandingly. “I’ve seen that happen a lot. Post-traumatic stress. But I want you to dig deep. A color. A shape. An odor. Anything come to mind?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. All I see is red-hot blackness while the lingering, putrid smell of smoke assails me.
“Nada,” I tell the detective as I reopen my eyes.
“You a smoker?” The detective casts his gaze down at the ashtray with the remains of Scott’s cigarette butt.
“No. My manager was here earlier. He smokes.”
“Scott Turner?”
“Yeah.” I wonder how he knows his name. On second thought, he’s a detective. A sleuth. He knows this kind of stuff.
He cocks a bushy brow. “Are you on good terms with him?”
“I suppose.” In retrospect, that sounds dumb.
“Did he exhibit any form of strange behavior before your accident?”
I search my mind, but it’s just one big blank. I can’t even remember my history with Scott. All I know is what he’s told me and what I’ve read. He’s had my back since the beginning of my career and made me a fortune. And I guess I owe him my life since he called in my accident.
I shake my head and reiterate that I don’t remember a damn thing.
“What about your fiancée?”
“You mean, Katrina Moore?”
“Yes. Is there anything you can tell me about her?”
“She’s been with me almost 24/7 since my accident.” Being a detective, he must know as much about her as I do. Maybe more.
“That’s some ring you got her.”
“Yeah,” I say hesitantly. He’s probably seen pictures of it in the tabloids or online.
The detective reaches into his coat pocket. “We found this at the scene of the crime.”
“Crime?” My muscles tense.
“Yes. We’re dealing with a hit and run.”
When he uncurls his stubby fingers, a small zip lock bag is in his palm. He removes the contents—a heart-shaped iridescent green pendant. About the size of a dime, the surface is badly scratched and the edges are chipped.
“What’s that?” I ask, glaring at it.
“I took it to a jeweler. It’s a piece of Murano glass from Venice. It could be part of a pair of earrings or cufflinks. Or it could have fallen off a bracelet or necklace. Does it look familiar to you?”
I study the object. It means nothing to me. I shake my head no.
“That’s too bad.” Returning the mysterious glass heart to the bag, the detective stands and shoves the evidence back in his coat pocket. “If you remember anything, give me a call.” He hands me a business card.
“Oh, one last thing.” His hand slides beneath his trench coat, and for the first time, I glimpse his holster and gun. Like the coat, the brown leather holster shows signs of age. A bulky envelope is tucked under the frayed strap. He slips it out and unfastens the clasp.
My eyes widen as he slides out the contents. A DVD boxed set of Kurt Kussler, Seasons 1-4. I’m on the cover, looking smug and pointing my right thumb and index finger like a gun.
“Would you mind signing this? It’s for the missus. She’s madly in love with you.” He pauses. “She’s been too embarrassed to ask my daughter to ask you.”
His daughter must be someone who works on the show. I laugh lightly. “Sure. No problem.” My eyes dart around the room for a pen. The burly detective comes to the rescue and hands me one.
“Thanks. What’s her name?”
“Jo. J-O. She’d really appreciate it if you wrote your signature line.”
Shit. I have no clue what it is. I nervously twirl the pen between my fingers.
“I have so many,” I say nonchalantly. Guess what? I am a good actor.
“You know…‘Get it. Got it? Good.’”
“To Jo…Get it. Got it? Good,” I say aloud with macho attitude, enunciating each word I inscribe on the cover.
“Wow. That’s just how you say it on TV,” says the awed detective while I sign my name with an xo. My bold signature comes easily to me as if I’ve been writing it my whole life. A bolt of optimism shoots through me. Maybe my memory is coming back.
“Thanks,” says the grateful detective as I hand him back the DVD set. “My wife is going to pee in her panties.”
I laugh again. This time loudly. I escort Detective Billings to the front door. Just before he leaves, he asks me one last question.
“I forgot to ask you. Do you have any enemies who would want to harm you?”
The question makes me uneasy. I search my muddled mind. “None that I can think of.”
“A disgruntled fan? An ex-girlfriend? A former assistant?”
I shake my head though from what I know about myself, I probably did piss off some ex-assistants. Enough to drive one of them to try and kill me?
The detective shoots me a crooked smile “Don’t forget—no pun intended—to call me if you remember anything.”
Fingering his card, I assure him I will.
I want to remember everything.
But right now, I want to find out everything there is about my alter ego, Kurt Kussler.
After taking a long, hot shower, I spend the rest of the afternoon googling Kurt Kussler and screening episodes of my TV series, starting with the first season. I found DVDs of them on my bookshelf. I’m totally engrossed. It’s an awesome show.
The rundown: Kurt Kussler is a top CIA agent who’s been hunting a notorious terrorist. The bad guy’s code name: The Locust. Kurt tracks him down and, in a showdown in Beirut, kills The Locust’s beloved brother, Ahmed. The Locust lusts for revenge. And at the end of Season 1, he kills Kurt’s beautiful pregnant wife Alisha by blowing up her car as she turns on the ignition. Kurt, who witnesses the murder, has a breakdown and leaves the CIA. But with the help of his assistant, Melanie, a fellow ex-CIA’er, he recovers and becomes a vigilante, hell-bent on eliminating his wife’s elusive assassin…who’s equally determined on eradicating him. The deadly cat and mouse game begins. And so do the stellar ratings.
The character I play is intense. Almost insane. On a mission to right the Mob-style execution of his wife, he takes out the baddest of badass bad guys with brutal force, no holds barred. Not to sound boastful, I’m a dammed good actor. Every word I deliver is memorable and I can really kick butt. The supporting cast is terrific too, especially Kellie Fox, the quirky redheaded actress with the retro cat-eye glasses, who plays the mercenary’s best friend and assistant, Melanie. Knowing enough about the show and my character, I dive right into the script Scott brought over. It’s a page-turner, and I find myself mouthing the words of my lines. I am Kurt Kussler.
Halfway into it, I hear a car pull into my driveway. I spring up from the couch and peek out the window. Who the hell is that? My front door unlocks.
CHAPTER 5
Zoey
“Freeze!” Brandon barks. “What are you doing here?”
Jeez. He’s in a good mood. Just kidding. I’ve been away for almost three weeks, and this is how he treats me? Okay. I didn’t expect him to run over to me in movie-time slow-mo and hug me, but I expected a little warmth. Something along the lines of “Hi. I’m so glad to see you.” Wishful thinking. Once an asshole. Always an asshole. Though a damn gorgeous one.
I stop dead in my tracks and soak him in. He looks fresh out of a shower. Just the way he did the first time I met him. His damp inky hair is perfectly uncombed, and a thick towel is wrapped around his toned torso, hanging sexily low on his hips. How could anyone look so ridiculously gorgeous after spending so much time in a hospital? Alright, he’s pale and a little thinner, but the weight loss only accentuates the definition of his lean, finely honed muscles. My breath hitches in my throat as my eyes travel from his devastating face to his broad chiseled chest, past his rippled abs and that perfect pelvic V, and then down his long, muscular legs to his perfectly formed bare toes. Every sculpted feature and limb sends a rush of tingles to my core. He’s still the epitome of pure masculine perfection. My legs turn to jelly. I’m not prepared for the panty-melting impact he has on me. I maintain a poker face, not letting him know how much he affects me. I’ve become a master of my emotions and reactions.
His long-lashed violet eyes laser into me. “Answer my question or I’ll call the police.”
His harsh, unexpected words sober me. Did he lose his mind in the hospital? Sustain some kind of head injury? I mean, he’s always been mental, but this is insane. My eyes meet his fiery gaze.
“Hel-lo-O. It’s me. Zoey Hart. Your assistant. Remember?”
Cocking his head, he looks at me confoundedly. “Huh?”
“You know. Your go-to girl. Go-To-Zo.” Maybe he doesn’t recognize me because I’ve lost a little weight. On second thought, fat chance.
“How did you get past the gate?”
“Do I look like the type who would jump it?” My sarcasm is lost on him. “Duh! I have the security code.”
His dense brows furrow. “How long have you been working for me?”
He’s got to be kidding. Maybe he’s just putting me on. “To be exact, two years, two months, and two days.” Over two insufferable years.
His eyes blink pensively. “Really?” The word is infused with doubt and surprise.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Kinda. I guess you know I had an accident.”
“Yeah.” The horrific memory flashes into my head. To be honest, I haven’t stopped reliving it. The bloodshed…his touch…the sirens…my words. For the second time in my life, death stared me in the face. A chill passes through me.
“Why didn’t you come visit me at the hospital?” His tone sharpens.
“Believe me, I wanted to.” Oh, God did I. More than you’ll ever know. “But your lovely manager Scott forced me to take a paid vacation for as long as you were there. He told me that if I didn’t obey his orders, he had the authority to fire me. I didn’t want to lose my job.” Or you. “So I did as he asked.”
Digesting my words, Brandon tugs at his lower lip with his thumb. He always does that when he’s thinking. It’s so damn sexy. My cheeks heat. I want to jump out of my skin. Jump him.
“Where were you?”
“He sent me to a retreat with no connections to the outside world.”
Brandon purses his lips. “I see. How did you know I was back home?”
“From one of the women who checked in this morning. That’s all she could talk about. Your release was all over the news and Internet. As soon as I found out, I packed my bag and checked out.” I pause. “Oh, and by the way, I called Scott from my car and told him I was coming back.”
Brandon’s jaw tightens. “Did he tell you I have amnesia?”
What? My eyes widen and my blood pounds in my ear. I blurt out an angry “no.” I’m so pissed Scott didn’t tell me I could kill him, but then again, I shouldn’t be so startled. The man despises me, and let me tell you, it’s mutual. Slimeball! Well, at least, that explains my boss’s strange behavior. I wonder if he’s forgotten what an asshole he is. That would be refreshing.
His voice cuts into my deviant thoughts. He apologizes for threatening to have me arrested and then asks me to join him for a drink in the kitchen to catch up. It’s not an invitation but rather an order. The amnesia has clearly not changed his bossy personality. Being his employee, I give in to his request but tell him I can’t stay long. I have a lot of catching up of my own to do. Including responding to the zillion tweets he got from fans while he was in the hospital. At the kitchen island, I sit cattycorner to him, drinking a bottled water, while he nurses a Scotch. My eyes stay on him. God, he’s gorgeous! I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten that.
“So refresh my memory, Zoey, and tell me, what exactly do you do for me?”
Ha! What exactly don’t I do for him would be a more apropos question. Let’s see…where should I start? After a big gulp of the water, I begin.
“I maintain your daily schedule, your Facebook fan page, and respond to your tweets, which, by the way, exceeded five million from fans around the world while you were in the hospital.”
“Wow.” He actually seems quite surprised. “What else do you handle?”
I spit out the rest of the list. “I get your Starbucks coffee every morning, make your travel and restaurant reservations, prepare your lunch, send out your two hundred pairs of jeans for laundering and take care of your dry-cleaning, stock your refrigerator, order your supplies, coordinate things with your entourage, and even help you with your lines. Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. I give you massages. I’m a certified massage therapist. That’s one of the reasons you hired me.”
His eyes dart to my hands, lingering on them. His eyes flutter as if he’s trying to remember them. And then he twists his luscious lips.
“How did you end up working for me?”
“I got the job through an agency that specializes in placing personal assistants with celebrities and VIPs.”
“What’s it like to work for me?”
The words tumble out of my mouth. “You’re a conceited, egotistical, arrogant asshole.”
His brows jump to his forehead. “Hmm. If I’m a total jerk, why do you work for me?”
The truth. Well, almost. “I need a job, and you pay me decently, plus you give me room and board along with a car allowance. It sure as hell beats being holed up in a dark, claustrophobic massage room.” I add in one other reason. “And despite what you may be thinking, I actually really like my job.” And could look at you all day long.
He studies me. I can feel his eyes raking over my body.
“How old are you?”
I think that question is banned by some equal opportunity employment act, but I tell him anyway. “Twenty-four.”
“Have I ever fucked you?”
What? That out-of-the-blue question takes me aback. Every muscle in my plus-size body tenses while my ovaries do a somersault. I somehow manage not to fall off my stool and find my voice.
“Your cock is the one thing I don’t handle.” I rebound nicely. “Unless you count all the times I’ve booked a hotel room for you and your hook-ups.” And dreamed about it.
My eyes flick to the bulge between his legs and then quickly return to his pensive face. I feel myself flush and my awareness only heightens the sensation.
“Do I share my social life with you?”
“Uh…no. I just know what I read online and in gossip magazines.”
A short silence and then he breaks it after a chug of his drink. “Do you know my fiancée, Katrina Moore?”
At her name, my blood curdles and my chest clenches. I gulp my bottled water and swallow it over the rising lump in my throat.
Naughty Nelle Page 9
