Troubleshooters 09 Hot Target

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Cosmo went out the door ahead of her, checking the hall both ways. It was empty. And dimly lit. Most of the bulbs in the ornate ceiling fixtures were out.

  “We have three days, tops, to find an actor to play young Jack,” she told him as he followed her up the stairs to the first and then the second floor. “If we don’t find him by then, we’re going to have to settle for Pierce Hugo.”

  There were too many shadows. Every lightbulb in this place needed an increase in wattage. Cosmo made a mental note to tell Decker.

  Mercedes was on her way into the suite that made up both her bedroom and her private office, but he stopped her. He stepped in front of her, opened the door, flipped on the light switch, and quickly scanned the room. The desks were all open, more like tables, and impossible to hide behind.

  There were framed movie posters on the walls, including that of Hell or High Water, the low-budget Blair Witch knockoff that had kicked her career from zero to sixty before she’d turned twenty.

  Apparently one of the problems with being an overnight success was the difficulty in making lightning strike twice. There were two other movie posters on her wall that carried her name as producer, but Cosmo hadn’t heard of either of them.

  He went through her office to her bedroom beyond, and into the bathroom, too. She kept the place fairly neat, but both her dresser and bathroom counter were cluttered. Perfume, makeup, hair care products, lotions . . . Panty hose and bits of silky underwear hung on the towel racks.

  No doubt about it, a woman lived here.

  The big bathroom had no windows. This was the predesignated safe room in the house. If there was trouble—a code red situation—Jane would lock herself in here until reinforcements arrived.

  “Oh, come on,” she was scoffing as he came out of the bathroom. “If someone really wanted to kill me, they wouldn’t break into my house and hide in here, waiting for me.”

  Probably not, but wouldn’t they all feel foolish if they were wrong? Cos went to each of the bedroom windows, checking the locks. They were old, but still in good shape. He pulled the curtains closed.

  “Do you not talk”—Mercedes’ voice was sharper now—“because you’re supposed to be blending into the background, or because you have nothing to say?”

  He thought about that. “Both, I guess.”

  “News flash,” she said, rearranging the piles on her desk, paper rustling, her movements broadcasting her frustration. “You don’t blend in, Rambo, so you might as well stop trying.”

  “Name’s Cosmo.” He came back into her office.

  “Yeah, see, that was a joke. What, do they remove your sense of humor when you—”

  “It’s an insult, in the Teams, to call someone Rambo.”

  She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Mercedes laughed her disbelief. “Rambo’s some kind of giant, ass-kicking hero and you think—”

  “SEAL team,” he said. “It’s called that for a reason. Guy like Rambo, goes off on his own . . .” He shook his head. “It’s an insult. Don’t call me that again.”

  She was wide-eyed. He’d purposely left out the please and he’d scared her. She swallowed before she spoke, and her tone was no longer flip. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Apology accepted.” He nodded and moved back toward the door.

  She pulled a smile out of her arsenal and picked up her telephone, pushing one button. “Hi, Patty, will you remind my brother that he’s got a five a.m. call tomorrow? He needs to go to bed, soon.” As she listened to whatever her intern had to say, she kept that smile in place, but it got decidedly strained. “Thanks,” she said, and hung up.

  “I’ll be in the hall,” he told her.

  “Is that how it’s going to work?” she asked, crossing her arms in front of her, obviously still rattled and choosing to express it as thinly veiled defiance. “You’re just going to lurk outside my door?”

  He stopped. Nodded. “Until we get the security system up and running, yeah.”

  “I work with my door closed,” she informed him coolly.

  “Just don’t lock it.”

  “Sometimes I take my laptop into bed with me,” she said. “If the purpose of all this is to make me feel more secure, I have to tell you that sleeping with my door unlocked isn’t—”

  “It is,” he told her, as he realized suddenly what that phone call to Patty had been about. It was a message. To him. She was reminding him that her brother lived here, too, that she and Cosmo weren’t alone in the house. She was actually afraid of him. “You can lock your door if you want,” he added. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  He could just blast right though that door with one well-aimed kick, if there was trouble.

  “Thanks,” she said, then rolled her eyes. “Thanks for giving me permission to lock my own door. God, I hate this.”

  “I’m here—we’re all here—to keep you safe,” Cosmo said to reassure her, even though he didn’t particularly like her. Because, Christ, she wasn’t supposed to be afraid of him. “Your script . . . I read it. It’s good. The movie’s . . . It’s going to be good.”

  Okay, and now she was looking at him as if he were a talking monkey in the zoo. What, didn’t she think he could read? She didn’t. She looked absolutely stunned that he’d actually read the script. Screw that shit. Disgusted with her, he headed for the door.

  But she stopped him. “When’s your next shift?” Mercedes flipped the page on her desk calendar to tomorrow’s date.

  “I’m not sure,” he told her curtly. “Deck’s making the schedule.”

  “I’m going to hold a press conference,” she said, running a finger down a list of penciled-in appointments, “probably around four o’clock tomorrow. Any chance you can be there?” She looked up at him. “It’s kind of a public thing, and, to be honest, I’m a little bit nervous about putting myself out there—at least for this first time like this. . . .”

  To be honest, his ass. It was beyond obvious that she had some kind of ulterior motive for wanting him there.

  “I’ll bring it to Decker’s attention,” he told her.

  She backed off, somehow knowing not to push. “Thanks. And . . . I’m glad you liked the script.”

  Right.

  Patty hung around the office, watching the hands of the wall clock move closer to eleven.

  She should have gone home hours ago, but Robin, who’d shouted, “Tell Jane I’ll be back around nine-thirty,” as he’d gotten into his sports car and followed Jack Shelton’s limo out of the driveway, still hadn’t returned.

  This was crazy.

  She knew it was crazy.

  But all she could think about was when, when, when was she going to see Robin Chadwick again?

  Jane had issued a warning about her younger brother during their very first interview. “His definition of long-term means he stays for breakfast,” she’d told Patty. “Don’t let him get too close.”

  But her very first day here, he’d picked up lunch, bringing her a selection of sandwiches and salads from the local deli. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted,” he told her with a smile that could only be described as sweet.

  And Patty had found herself in a full swoon over a man who not only was gorgeous but who was going places fast. This was a man destined to be Hollywood’s Next Big Thing, and maybe she had an overactive imagination, but it didn’t take much to picture herself there, by his side, as he rocketed to fame.

  She’d thought she’d see him again tonight if she stuck around, but it just kept getting later and later. She had to be on the set early in the morning—at five a.m. She’d read through tomorrow’s pages seven times now, and she’d contacted all but three of the extras needed for the party scene.

  She really had to go.

  But Robin needed to be on set early, too. He had a five o’clock makeup call. She shifted through the pages of schedules and . . . Yes. There was a car coming to
pick him up at four-thirty.

  He had to come home soon.

  Patty’s cell phone rang, and she lunged for it. Maybe Robin had gotten a flat tire and needed roadside assistance. “Hello?”

  There was a pause, and then “I’m sorry,” a male voice said. “Do I have the right number? Is this Patty Lashane? I was expecting an answering machine or voice mail . . .”

  It wasn’t Robin. Patty sighed. “This is she.”

  “I’m sorry to call so late. I just got home and got your message—I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “You didn’t,” she said. “You must be either Carl or Wayne or—”

  “It’s Wayne Ickes.” He pronounced it “Ickies.” Goodness, what a name.

  She found his résumé and the form he’d filled out when he’d come for the extras casting. “Here you are. Are you available tomorrow at . . . Oh, we won’t need you until noon.”

  “Noon’s great. Absolutely. Thank you.”

  Patty told him the studio address and the check-in procedure. “You’re all set,” she said. “Thanks for calling—”

  “Have you gotten used to the L.A. traffic yet?” he interrupted her to ask. “When we met at the casting call, you said you’d just arrived in town and that the crush on the freeways was blowing your mind.”

  “Oh,” Patty said. “Yeah. No, I’m—”

  “You said you didn’t like driving in rush hour, even back in Tulsa,” Wayne said.

  “Oh. Yeah, that’s—”

  “And I said, my college roommate’s sister lives in Tulsa and . . .” He laughed. “You don’t remember our conversation at all, do you?”

  She flipped over his résumé to look at his headshot. He was average looking, with brown hair, brown eyes, and a pleasant smile on an equally pleasant but otherwise unremarkable face.

  He’d remembered she was from Tulsa, and she wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a police lineup if her life had depended upon it.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “But I met over seven hundred actors that day.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

  Beep.

  That was the sound of Robin’s car alarm being set, from out on the driveway. He was finally home.

  “Hey, you know—” Wayne started, but she cut him off.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.” Sure enough, she heard voices in the foyer. Robin talking to what’s-his-name, the scary-looking security man. “Tomorrow, noon,” she reminded Wayne, and hung up.

  Heart pounding, she went into the hall.

  “I locked it,” Robin said as the Navy SEAL—the one he thought of as the X-Man, because, like Cyclops, he normally kept his oddly pale-colored eyes hidden behind sunglasses—started down the curved center staircase.

  “Yeah.” The man came all the way down to the foyer anyway. “Thanks. I still need to check it.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Light gray. X-Dude’s eyes were such a light shade of bluish gray that they appeared to be almost white. He looked a little like Neal McDonough’s bigger, uglier brother.

  As Robin watched, the SEAL checked the knob, but then threw the dead bolt—which he’d forgotten. “Oops,” he said. “My bad.”

  “S’why I check,” Cyclops told him, already starting back up the stairs.

  “You ever think about getting into acting?” Robin asked.

  He didn’t break stride. “Nope.” He gave Robin a nod. “Night.”

  Taciturn bastard—couldn’t even take the time to say it properly.

  Although it wasn’t a good night. It was just another night that Robin had managed to get through without completely screwing things up.

  All night long, he’d stayed far, far away from little Patty Temptation’s apartment.

  Instead he’d gone clubbing in West Hollywood with Harve and Ricco, two of his gay caballeros. He’d started hanging with Harve and company as part of his preliminary research for playing Hal Lord. He’d never played a gay character before—never gave too much thought to the entire alternative lifestyle thing.

  So he’d watched a bunch of episodes of Queer as Folk—which had freaked him out a little—and had asked Harve, who’d done the special effects makeup on Janey’s last movie, if there was even a modicum of truth in the Showtime TV series’ portrayal of gay life.

  Harve’s response had been to take Robin clubbing.

  And Robin had discovered that real gay bars weren’t as “male only” as they seemed to be on cable TV. He’d also discovered that gay bars were a great place for a straight man to hang out. Because gay men had female friends who went clubbing with them. And most fag hags, contrary to what the name implied, were far from actual hags.

  Tonight he’d danced with some young lovely named . . .

  Crap, he’d already forgotten her name. She’d had a pierced tongue—that much he remembered. Which had made it hard to close his eyes and pretend he was with—

  “Holy Jesus!” A shadowy shape was standing at the end of the hallway leading to the offices.

  And okay, he’d thought he’d merely gotten his swerve on, but he must have miscalculated, because he was hallucinating now. Either that, or Patty really was standing there, backlit like an angel.

  Either way, he was royally screwed.

  “I’m sorry—” Yup, it was definitely her. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” She took a hesitant step toward him.

  “No,” Robin said. “That’s okay, that’s . . . What are you still doing here? You should’ve gone home hours ago.”

  “Oh.” She was flustered. “I was working on . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. . . .”

  “You don’t have to apologize.” Robin was unable to keep from moving closer to her. “Just . . . don’t let Janey take advantage of you.”

  “Oh,” she said. “No. I wouldn’t. I won’t.”

  It was the freckles that did him in, he decided as he got into freckle-viewing range. Wide blue eyes, wispy blond hair, farm-girl complexion, willowy figure . . . Robin couldn’t help himself—he touched her. Just one finger, along the baby smoothness of her cheek. “You are so lovely,” he whispered.

  She actually trembled, and he knew if he kissed her, she would willingly let him pull her back with him through the kitchen, through the swinging door into the darkness of the formal dining room that Janey never used and . . .

  God, he wanted her. He discovered to his dismay that whatever relief he’d found with what’s-her-name in the club parking lot had completely evaporated. He wanted something . . .

  To his surprise, Patty took a step back so that his hand fell away from her. She met his gaze and said, “You’ve been drinking.”

  “True,” he said. “I am aglow.”

  Her laughter was musical. “Robin! You’ve got an early call—”

  “Have I missed a call yet?”

  “No, but—”

  “Do you know,” he told her, “that when I’m Hal Lord, and I think about Edna Potter—you know, his high school sweetheart—I picture her looking just like you?”

  Her eyes went soft. “You do?” she whispered.

  Robin nodded. “Yeah,” he said just as quietly, hypnotized by the softness of her mouth. She moistened her lips with the very tip of her tongue, and he nearly started to weep. She was so ready for this. He let his backpack slide down his arm so he could drop it onto the floor. “You know what would really help me?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “It would help if you kissed me, so I could have that to think about while I’m Hal and—”

  Score.

  She melted toward him and kissed him slowly, sweetly, a perfect first kiss. Not that he’d expected anything less from a twenty-year-old Hollywood movie intern with a head filled with classic big-screen romantic moments.

  Her hands were on his shoulders, and he purposely didn’t touch her, didn’t pull her closer. He just let himself be kissed.

  And kissed and kissed and kissed.

  After weird and scar
y Cosmo Richter checked her room and went into the hall, Jane had gone into her bedroom and locked the door.

  And finally kicked off her high heels.

  God, but her feet hurt.

  She’d peeled off her skirt, wriggled out of her too-tight bra top, and washed Mercedes’ makeup off her face.

  She’d taken a shower, then thrown on a T-shirt and boxers along with a pair of athletic socks to keep her feet warm.