by Julie Kenner
Agent Devlin Brady didn’t move a muscle.
He just stared right at me, his face etched in stone, his eyes penetrating. The man scared me and, unreasonably, that made me feel better. This was a hard man. And a man like this could keep me safe—even if my role in the game was to try to protect him.
“Talk to me, Crane,” he said. “I need to know what you’re doing here.”
There was no denying the sharp edge of anger in his voice, and I cringed. “I got a message,” I said. “About Play. Survive. Win. I’m…I guess I’m playing now.” I licked my lips. “And I guess you are, too.”
His face never softened, but I saw a flicker of something cross his eyes. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets as he moved out of the foyer and into the living room. Not knowing what else to do, I followed, silently congratulating myself on only looking back toward the door once. There was no place to run, after all. For an hour now I’d been telling myself that this apartment was safety. Now that I was here, I was clinging to that, and nothing was going to make me change my mind.
Not even Devlin Brady.
Also by Julie Kenner
The Givenchy Code
The Spy Who Loves Me
Nobody But You
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
DOWNTOWN PRESS, published by Pocket Books
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New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by Julie Kenner
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
ISBN: 1-4165-2327-8
DOWNTOWN PRESS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
This book is dedicated to Betsy Cornwell and the LBJ Drama Club back in the early ’80s, especially the techies and the folks who shied away from the cafeteria to eat lunch in the drama room. I probably would have discovered Broadway musicals on my own, but it wouldn’t have been half as much fun!
Acknowledgments
Huge thanks are due to the many folks who helped with this book: Hugh Barnett, theater manager, the Broadhurst Theater in New York; Reagan Fletcher, archivist, the Shubert Archives; Special Agent Rene Salines with the FBI; Cornelius Patrick Byrne, owner of Central Park Carriages (and thanks as well to Clancy and Sean); and, especially, the Internet, particularly the totally cool Internet Broadway Database.
Chapter
1
JENNIFER
J ennifer Crane. That’s it. That’s my name. Ever heard of me?
I’m guessing not, which, frankly, sums up my entire problem with my life as it currently stands: I’m not famous. And, as far as I can tell, the fame fairy isn’t going to be anointing me any time soon.
Sucks, doesn’t it?
And what really reeks is that I’m good. I’ve got a voice on me that rivals Julie Andrew’s (and that’s before she had throat surgery).
Actually, you know what? I take that back. I’m pretty sure it’s a grievous sin to compare yourself to Julie Andrews, who is, in my opinion, a goddess of stage and screen. The woman has some serious pipes. But, honestly, I could give Patti LuPone, Joanna Gleason, or Betty Buckley a run for their money any old day.
Which begs the question of why I was currently earning a living (such that it was) as a singing waitress instead of opening on Broadway.
Obviously, the right part hasn’t come along. Or agent. Or director. Or producer.
I don’t think it’s me. Really I don’t.
The thing is, I could be wrong. I try not to think about that, though. Someone once said that success is ninety-eight percent attitude, and I’m definitely staying optimistic. (And never mind that the someone who said that was me. It’s perfectly sound wisdom and, frankly, I trust myself more than I trust anyone else.)
All of which is little more than a backdrop to the reason why I ended up singing Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” despite the fact that I am not a gay male and hadn’t even rehearsed the thing.
It was all Brian’s fault.
He’s a self-proclaimed screaming tenor, has slept with more producers than I’ve auditioned for, and is one of my absolute best friends. We worked together at Ellen’s Stardust Diner for almost two years, until last week when he was hired to replace an actor who’d tripped down the subway stairs and busted his femur all to hell. No kidding. It was like something out of All About Eve, except that Brian hadn’t even been an understudy. Apparently he’d auditioned for the show early on, did reasonably well, and the producer remembered him. The other actor’s broken leg was, literally, Brian’s big break. And he landed himself a minor, but important, role, the bastard. Not that I’m bitter or anything, but talk about luck.
At any rate, the show is called Puck’s Dream, it’s a new musical loosely based on A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Lots of production numbers, lots of effects. Brian’s even featured in two scenes, and in one he actually gets to fly across the stage. From what he tells me, it’s pretty cool, and I’m trying very hard, albeit somewhat unsuccessfully, not to be jealous.
The production was scheduled to premiere at the Belasco Theater in about a week, and Brian’s cousin Felix—aka Fifi for reasons I’m not even going to bother going into—had come in from Los Angeles to help Bri celebrate. Naturally, Brian brought Fifi to the diner. And, just as naturally, he was giving me a hard time. (Brian, that is. Not his cousin.)
“Sweetie,” Brian said, squeezing in beside the condiments, “you’re positively maudlin. You need some serious cheer. After work. Drinks. And I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Are you concerned about me? Or are you just trying to make sure you’re not alone with Fifi?”
“Well, he is a little high maintenance, but you know I love him. And don’t change the subject, anyway.”
I made a face. “You’re not even supposed to be back here anymore.”
“I go where I’m needed,” he said. “And I’m definitely needed here. Look at you! You’re going to bring down the crowd if you go out there like that. What are you planning on singing, anyway? ‘Memory’?”
I scowled because he’d totally pegged me. “Maybe,” I said. I couldn’t help it. I was morose. I’d auditioned that morning for an off-Broadway revival of Carousel, a show I know inside and out, and absolutely love, but I swear I might as well have stood on that stage and farted for all the good my rehearsing did me. I couldn’t even see the producer or the director past the stage lights. All I heard was a cough and then a curt, “Thank you. We’ll be in touch.” And then the stage manager was ushering me off the stage.
Granted, that’s often par for the course in the world of open call auditions, but I’d really expected the director to leap to his feet, race to the stage, and sign me on the spot. Or, if not that, then I’d at least expected a good vibe. As it was, I got zilch. No vibe, no job, no nothing.
“Attitude,” Brian said, tossing my philosophy back in my face. “Remember?” He pointed toward the main part of the restaurant, where rows of booths were filled with people eating mostly bad-for-you food that really is delicious (I gained ten pounds my first month, then put myself on a strict diet that I’ve mostly stuck to ever since). Leslie Danziger was strutting her stuff on the railing that ran between two sets of booths. Her
microphone was close enough to swallow, her blond wig was slightly askew, and she was belting out “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” She was clearly having a great time. Obviously, she hadn’t had a crap audition just a few hours before.
“I’m switching you,” Brian said. “Michael’s on after Leslie. And you, my dear, are taking his place.”
“The hell I am.” I turned behind me and found Michael, who I like a lot, but who also happens to be a huge wimp with an equally huge crush on Brian. He just shrugged and blew me a kiss. I knew I was sunk. Done in by two gay men with an agenda.
“Attitude, sweetie. Do you want to be consigned to failure? Do you want to sit and mope? Do you want to let your depression fester inside you and give you ulcers and cold sores? One is not fun and the other is such a bad look for you.”
As a matter of fact, I did want to sulk, but I knew better than to argue with Brian. “Fine. Fine. What is Michael—what am I—singing?”
“‘I Will Survive.’”
“I don’t think so.”
“Sweetie, trust me. You need an attitude adjustment.”
I did need an attitude adjustment, but I wasn’t in the habit of utilizing gay male power anthems to make them. Call me crazy, but my best attitude adjustments come when I’m shopping.
Brian, however, was deaf to my protests. He shoved the microphone into my hand, pressed his palm against my back, signaled to Damien (who runs the sound equipment), and pushed.
Suddenly all eyes in the room were on me, and I could either belt out the tune or stand there looking like an idiot. Since I don’t do idiot well, I sang.
And you know what? I did feel better. Not at first, mind you. At first, I just felt pissed off. At Brian.
But then the words infiltrated my brain. Like Gloria Gaynor, I was strong. I could get along. And, dammit, I was a survivor. Maybe Carousel didn’t want me, but someone would. I’d find an agent. I’d hit the streets. I’d blow away every producer from 41st to 53rd. And by this time next year, my name would splashed across Playbill, and the crowds would be lining up around the block, just like they did for Spamalot. (Hey, a girl can dream.)
In the end, I nailed that tune. I strutted my stuff, flirted with the men, bonded with the women, and threw a final kiss to Fifi. And when the song was over, I turned on my heel, tossed the microphone to Damien, then launched myself at Brian. He spun me around, my poodle skirt flaring in a way that probably lacked a certain level of modesty.
“Better?”
“Totally,” I admitted. I crushed my palms against his cheeks and planted a huge kiss right on his mouth. “You’re a better mood enhancer than Xanax.”
So what if I’d flubbed an audition? There would be others. It wasn’t as if I was dead. The sun would come out tomorrow. I was going to put on a happy face. Nothing was gonna get me down. And a bucket full of other sunshiney clichés.
Bottom line? I was coming out of this a winner.
And nothing—not bad agents or tasteless producers or even rude customers—was going to change that.
Chapter
2
BIRDIE
“H ey, babe. You look thirsty. Can I buy you a drink?” The man sidles closer, the smell of bourbon on his breath and the fire of lust in his eyes. I smile and preen, the skills that had faded during my long years in prison returning swiftly. Just like riding a bicycle, I think, my confidence increasing as his gaze roams over my body, taking in my long legs, bare under my short skirt. Since the three-inch heels of my newly acquired Jimmy Choo sandals shape my calves and raise my ass, I know he likes what he sees. His inspection continues, honing in on my nipples, hard under the soft silk of my Joie tank top. My panties dampen and I squirm a little in surprise. Years ago, this man would have bored me. He, with his blatant lust and unoriginal approach.
My body’s reaction is testament to my need. Five years without a man. Five long years in which I’d gotten myself off to fantasies of freedom, not of a cock.
Freedom. I used to reach for it through steel bars only to have it escape from my grip, a slight brush of air against my fingertips the only hint that there was, in fact, a freedom to find.
And now here I am. Destiny achieved.
I crook my finger and urge the man in closer. He comes quickly, like an eager puppy, and I press my mouth to his, my hand sliding down to cup his cock and his balls. I squeeze, not too hard, but not gentle either. I nip at his lower lip with my teeth. He makes a low sound in his throat, pain mixed with pleasure, and I know I can have him if I want him.
I do. But at the same time, I don’t. As the saying goes, there are many fish in the sea, and the one I catch tonight is the one I intend to fry. “Go,” I say. “You don’t want to fuck with fire.”
He pulls back, the lust in his eyes now cool. I wait a beat, another, then mouth the word again: “Go.”
He leaves, his tail between his legs and his dick limp. I’ve ruined him for the evening, and for that, at least, I feel a tug of proprietary pleasure. I may not have fucked him, but tonight he’s still mine.
Other members of the happy hour cattle call surge around me. The men stare, they lean in, they try to make eye contact. I grant them each a smile. Even after living in a goddamn box, I’ve still got it going on. And now, in the clothes I was born to wear, a drink in my hand and my hair freshly cut, I know I’m hot. More, I know I’m going to get laid tonight. I just have to find the man I’m looking for.
As I survey the room, I notice the women. They’re watching me, their heads bent together, something in their eyes that I assume is jealousy. What else could it be? Certainly, I’m worthy of their envy. But as I watch, I wonder. One of them whispers and the other snickers. One of them sits up straighter, thrusts her breasts out, then does a little shimmy motion. Are they talking about me? I don’t know, but something tells me they are. Fucking bitches. Fucking whores.
I wonder if they’d be so cavalier if they knew who I am?
Probably.
If I’ve learned one thing throughout my professional life, it’s that people are stupid. They believe what they want to believe, ignoring what’s right in front of them if it doesn’t fit neatly into their imagined little world.
Like me, for example.
“You look like a lady with a lot on her mind.”
I turn and look at the stockbroker face that’s talking to me, and I wonder if this man has ever had an interesting thought in his life. Has he ever had a moment of excitement, ever felt a pure sensual rush?
Has he, for example, ever felt the thrill of the kill?
His eyes widen, and I’m sure he has read my thoughts. I smile coldly, and he turns, then pushes through the crowd to get as far away from me as possible.
I watch him go, using the moment to scan the crowd, looking for my quarry. No luck, but it’s early yet, and the profile I have indicates that he comes later, after the men and women looking to hook up have left. He comes to forget, it says, and I have to wonder if he’s forgotten me.
I smile a little at the thought, because the truth is we’ve never met, he and I. But he knew me, so many years ago. Knew my name, knew about my jobs, my network. Even though he’d never once laid eyes on me, he knew enough to help bring me down.
I hate him for that. I’ll hate him until the day he dies. A day that, thanks to a twist of fate and an unknown benefactor, promises to be sooner rather than later.
“Another round?” The bartender stops in front of me, his eye on my now-empty martini glass.
I shake my head. “Water.” I need to stay sharp. Clear.
As the bartender fills a wine glass with sparkling water, I place my handbag on the bar. It holds four things: my gun, my lipstick, a large syringe, and a neatly folded computer printout. It’s the paper I’m interested in right now.
Of all my possessions, it is the only one that matters to me, for this piece of paper holds the key to my rebirth. Only a week ago, I had no prospects upon my release. No plans other than to reenter my profession and hope th
at the authorities didn’t again track me down. This time around, though, the odds would not be in my favor. I’d already been caught once. I was in the system. I was damaged goods.
Which meant that my client list would be significantly shorter. More important, the eye of the law would be on me for any crime with a similar m.o. A serious detriment to my ability to earn a living, and I’d spent many hours pondering the conundrum.
And then I received the email. As a model prisoner only days away from parole, I’d been blessed with certain perks, including access to the Internet. Of course, certain websites were off-limits, and I had no formal email account, but all those things were only minor inconveniences. Not true obstacles.
By the time the gates opened and I was free to step out onto the street wearing my thrift store jeans and shirt, clutching my shopping bag full of possessions, I had been contacted, had responded, and knew the game that was in play.
A game that would allow me to shine. And would pay me handsomely for doing something I so very much love to do.
I sniff a little, suddenly overwhelmed by the nostalgia. This will be my last job. After my mission is achieved, I’ll be relocating to Switzerland. Not permanently, you understand. Just until I arrange for a waterfront cabana on a remote island. A staff of three, I think. A cook. A housekeeper. And a well-oiled and buff cabana boy to keep me…limber.
I smooth the paper and scan the information that I’ve already committed to memory: Information about the other players in this wonderful little game. I look around again and—suddenly—there he is. Unshaven, rumpled, but with a feral look in his eyes. A man come to drown his sorrows. He’s come for the bourbon, but I intend to convince him to try another remedy—the low, hot pulse of a woman.
I slide off my stool and grab my glass. And then I move across the room, every movement an invitation.
He sees me, and his eyes flash with a heat born of alcohol and lust. I smile, and I know it’s a done deal. First a fuck. And then, later, death.
