Troubleshooters 09 Hot Target

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Jules laughed and somewhat self-consciously removed his hand from Robin’s chest. He laughed again. Then held Robin’s gaze. “Yes, actually. I’d love to.”

  Robin didn’t let himself look away. Harve had told him so much was said via eye contact. Straight men didn’t gaze into each other’s eyes. Not for more than a very few seconds.

  But hey, come on—he was acting here. And doing a damn fine job of it apparently, because that sure as hell was a spark of attraction in Jules Cassidy’s pretty brown eyes.

  The weird thing was, the man really did have very pretty eyes. Deep and dark, they were so brown that he had to look closely to see where the iris ended and the pupil began. Gazing into them was like looking into the far reaches of an outer space that was warm and welcoming, like diving into a bottomless pit of hot, melted chocolate, like . . .

  Hey, there. Okay. Getting just a little too lost in the role. And yet he still couldn’t look away. . . .

  “J.”

  Jules ended up turning first, to look at Adam.

  “It’s never too late,” Adam continued. “People change. I’ve changed.”

  Score. Adam had bought it—this completely fictional relationship between Robin and Jules.

  “How’s nine o’clock?” Robin asked Jules, loving the way it made Adam squirm. He reached out, adjusted the slightly rumpled collar of Jules’ shirt, touching without quite touching. It was a technique he used all the time when he was trying to pick up a woman at a bar. “You want me to pick you up at your hotel, or should we meet at the club?”

  “I’ll meet you there.” Jules glanced at Adam, and Robin knew he didn’t want the shithead to know where he was staying. Wise move, kemosabe.

  “There’s this place called Big Dick’s over on Santa Monica—”

  “I know where it is,” Jules cut him off with a laugh. “You’re kidding, right? That place is so . . . tacky.”

  “Isn’t that the point?” Robin turned to Adam. “Aw, gee, too bad, A., you can’t come—you’re filming the tanks in the woods scene tonight.” He delivered a big, fake sigh. “What a shame.”

  “Fuck you,” Adam said, yet the message that Robin received loud and clear—just how very worried he was—was broadcast by the way he was standing with such obvious and insolent lack of concern.

  “It’s almost noon—I need to call Peggy,” Jules told Robin. “Are you sure it’s okay if I use your sister’s office?”

  “Positive,” he said, making his smile extra warm for Adam’s benefit. “Go ahead in. And if I don’t see you later, J., I’ll see you tonight.”

  For a moment there, Robin was convinced that his use of Adam’s cute little nickname for Jules was going to make the son of a bitch pop a vein.

  Instead, Adam smiled—tightly—and asked Jules, “You still working with Peggy Ryan? That must suck.” He turned to Robin. “Let’s just say she’s not exactly a contender for this year’s Open and Affirming Award from GLAD.”

  Again with the subtext. Look at how well I know my J.—I’m familiar with the people he works with. This son of a bitch just wouldn’t give up.

  “But you’ve got to admit, Max is pretty wonderful. And so brilliant.” Robin countered with a message of his own: Jules has talked to me about his work, too. “He makes up for Peggy in spades.” He only suspected that was true—Jules hadn’t said a word to him about this Peggy Ryan. Of course, what Adam didn’t know could be used to drive the bastard crazy.

  Cosmo Richter chose that moment to emerge from Patty’s office. The sound of the copier had stopped.

  Adam clearly hadn’t noticed when the SEAL had popped his head out of the office earlier. Now he gave Cosmo a full once-over, obviously checking for a telltale rainbow keychain trailing outside of his pants pocket. Or a triangle tattoo on his massive biceps.

  Dude made Adam’s gym arms look practically atrophied.

  “Dream on,” Robin murmured to him. Still, he could understand the fascination. The guy looked like he could bench-press a refrigerator. “He’s straight.”

  It was hard to tell if Adam was seriously interested in the SEAL, or if he was only playing the “I don’t care—you didn’t really hurt me” card for Jules’ benefit. “No one’s completely straight,” Adam said. Obviously he didn’t care whether or not Cosmo overheard him.

  “Are you finished in there?” Jules asked Cosmo, clearly preferring to use Patty’s office instead of Jane’s for his phone call.

  “Just taking a break for, uh, lunch,” Cosmo told him, glancing at Robin and Adam, too.

  As they all watched—well, he and Adam watched; Jules had already gone into Patty’s office and shut the door behind him—Cosmo opened the door leading downstairs.

  “Studio cafeteria’s the other way,” Adam said helpfully.

  The SEAL paused. “Yeah, I know. I’m . . . Costume department’s in the first level of the basement, right?”

  “Yeah. I’ll show you where it is,” Adam volunteered.

  “I think I can probably find it,” Cosmo told him.

  “You strike me as the type who can find whatever you’re looking for,” Robin heard Adam say as he followed Cosmo down the stairs.

  Way to get the shit stomped out of you—hit on a Navy SEAL. Although, truth be told, Cosmo seemed tolerant enough. He’d been very cool with Jack—the real Jack, that is.

  So maybe Adam wasn’t about to be killed. He was, however, gone. Which was good. Let him stay as far away from Jules as possible.

  Adam’s disappearance also provided Robin with the opportunity to make absolutely sure Jules understood that all that prolonged eye contact had been part of his act.

  “She isn’t going to like that,” he heard Jules say on the phone in the other room. The soundproofing out here was for shit. Then, “So you’re actually suggesting we shut down production? Doesn’t it bother you, even a little bit, that the Freedom Network’ll see it as a win?” Another pause. “No, I’m not accusing you of—” Jules sighed. “No, ma’am.” A longer pause. “No, ma’am. I’ll make sure she’s aware of your recommendation, yes. But I also intend to call Max and—”

  “Hi! Oh, my goodness, I’m sorry—are you waiting here for me?”

  Patty.

  Just perfect.

  She came through the studio door and was bearing down upon Robin with her clipboard and kneesocks and freckles and clogs—a bizarre combination he’d found so alluring just a few days ago. Amazing what a little time and distance could do.

  “Hey,” he said. “Wow,” he said. “Uh, yeah . . .”

  Patty swooped down upon him and kissed him. It would have been a full tongues affair if it had been up to her. He was the one who kept it both dry and short.

  He kept her from noticing that he hadn’t truly kissed her by saying, “It occurred to me that we better make plans to have dinner together—to, you know, put the date into our Day-Timers.”

  She lit up and he felt like a total asshole. Still, he plunged on. “We’re both so busy, it’s probably going to be a few weeks before we find a night that we both have free. Do me a favor, will you, babe, and send me a copy of your schedule?”

  “We’re probably going to get rained out tonight,” she said, “which means—”

  “Oh, hey, sorry, tonight’s not good for me,” Robin said quickly. “I’ve already made plans to do some, uh, more research. You know, prep for playing Hal. Being Gay 101.”

  “We could meet when you’re done,” she suggested.

  “Um . . .” Robin searched for a reason why that wouldn’t work. He suspected that Because I’ll be totally shitfaced and unable to drive wouldn’t cut it.

  Jules rescued him, using that very moment to throw open the office door. “Where’s Jane?” he asked. He had on what Robin thought of as his Detective Joe Friday face. Mega serious.

  “She’s down in Costume with Jack Shelton,” Patty said, wide-eyed. “What’s going on?”

  “There’s been another e-mail. Find Decker,” Jules ordered Patty. “H
ave him meet me down there.”

  She dashed off—for which he owed Jules, big-time. On her way out the door, she nearly ran over an actor dressed in uniform. “Not now, Wayne,” Robin heard her say.

  The extra, a kind of goofy-looking Tom Hanks type waved to them. “Hey, Jules, how’s it—”

  “Hey, sorry, Wayne, we’re kind of busy.” Jules waved back, then grabbed Robin’s arm, pulling him into Patty’s office and kicking shut the door. “This place is crawling with extras today.”

  “Yeah, we’re filming part of the big love scene this afternoon. Not mine—the hetero one. Virginia and Milt.” Thank God. He was not at all ready to film any of the intimate scenes between his character and Adam’s. That was going to be unbelievably hard to do.

  Jules was blinking at him. “A love scene with seventy-five extras?”

  “They were a little unconventional, Gin and Milt,” Robin said. He laughed. “Look at your face—you believe me. I’m kidding. The scene starts in a crowded bar. Janey wants this solitude in the midst of chaos thing. You know . . .” He sang. “ ‘I only have eyes for you, dear. . . .’ ”

  “I need you to get them all out of here,” Jules said. “The extras. And the crew. Now.”

  Robin laughed again, but then stopped. Jules was not kidding. In fact, Robin had never seen him more dead serious.

  “Anyone who hasn’t had a proper background check,” Jules continued, “and—”

  “You’re talking about shutting down production,” Robin interrupted. “I don’t have the authority to—”

  “Who does?” Jules asked, then answered in unison with Robin, “Jane. Shit.” He opened the door. “We better find her.”

  “She’s not going to shut this movie down.” Robin followed him out into the hall. “No way. Just because we got another crazy e-mail from Mr. Insane-o?”

  “He’s in town,” Jules said. “We have reason to believe that as of seven twenty-five this morning, Mr. Insane-o is here in Hollywood.”

  “The navy blue, I think,” Jack said, “although we won’t know for sure until he tries them on.”

  The elderly man clapped his hands at Cosmo from his perch in the director’s chair that Jane had dragged down to this main costume room. She knew that his hip was bothering him, although he’d never mention it.

  “Out of those awful cargo pants, Mr. Richter,” he continued. “I swore when I left the service I would never gaze upon that particular shade of olive drab again, and here I am making a movie filled with it. But to have you walk in, wearing it by choice . . . ?”

  As Jane watched, Cosmo looked from Jack to Adam and finally over at her as he took the wooden clothes hanger and dry cleaner’s plastic-covered suit from her hand. “Is there someplace I can—”

  Jack cut him off. “Trust me, there’s no one in this room who hasn’t seen even the most ungodly worn-out tightie whities. Don’t be shy.”

  “Yeah, um . . .” Cosmo said, and Jane realized the problem as he met her gaze again.

  She’d thought it had been a too-close-to-laundry-day incident—that night he’d come into her room and started to pretend to unfasten his pants. But apparently, she had been wrong. Apparently, Cosmo Richter was neither a boxer nor a briefs man.

  She started to laugh.

  How . . . interesting.

  Jane swung two rolling racks that were jam-packed with WWII-era Marine uniforms, cutting off a small corner of the big basement.

  “Instant dressing room,” she said briskly, because, oh my God, the big bad SEAL was actually embarrassed. He was blushing.

  It was adorable.

  Or maybe a more accurate way to put it was that she adored him even more because of it.

  Patty had told her about the way he’d faced down the tabloid reporters when they’d asked a question that particularly disrespected her. Is Mercedes Chadwick as good as they say?

  Although dear sweet Cosmo, by trying to defend her virtue, had done exactly the wrong thing. By stopping and talking to the reporters—even though it was only to reprimand them—he’d revealed that he was vulnerable to their pressure. He’d let them know that they could get under his skin. Which they would try to do again. And again and again.

  Which was unacceptable. It was intolerable.

  Especially since they were close—so close—to having it all disappear. Especially since Jane had worked so hard to make it all go away.

  Especially—damn it!—since she’d taken all of her young, tender, fledgling feelings for this incredible man and stomped them relentlessly back.

  She wasn’t involved with him. She wasn’t going to be involved with him.

  And tomorrow the National Voice would hit the racks in the grocery store checkout lanes—she wouldn’t legitimize the tabloid by saying it would hit the newsstands—with the pictures taken at Victor Strauss’ party.

  When those pictures came out, Cosmo would be, like, so fifteen minutes ago.

  Except now that he’d given this interview, maybe he wouldn’t be.

  Jane would have to call Victor again. Ask him to visit her here on set. Have a lot of people see her bring him into her office and close the door. Send out for lunch.

  And as for Cosmo . . . She was wrapping him up, putting a bow on him, and sending him special delivery to Sophia, the bitch, who goddamn better appreciate what she was getting.

  “I would have dressed for the occasion if I’d known I was going to be putting on a fashion show,” Cos said quietly, so the others couldn’t hear him, as he went inside the area she’d partitioned off.

  “Actually, you’re not putting on a show,” she countered, pushing the clothing racks against each other, sealing off the corner and giving him privacy from at least the chest down. “You would be if you weren’t getting changed in here.” Oops. There was a definite gap where the two metal poles met. Or rather, didn’t meet. “I’ll just stand in front of this,” she said.

  “Thanks.” But he didn’t wait for her to turn around. Sure, he had his back to her, but he just dropped his pants and . . .

  Well, golly.

  Nice . . . legs.

  She turned and found Jack watching her watch Cosmo, his elegant eyebrows raised. Amusement made his eyes dance.

  Jane shook her head at him. He had an interview later today with the entertainment reporter from some small cable news station. She didn’t doubt for one moment that he would be asked about Mercedes Chadwick’s relationship with one of her bodyguards. Which really pissed her off. The reporter would be sitting there with a man who’d fought in WWII, a hero who’d helped save the world from Nazi oppression, and instead of talking about that, they’d discuss behind-the-scenes dirt on the Party Girl Producer.

  Which was Jane’s own fault, wasn’t it? This was the image she’d used to get back into the public eye. She really shouldn’t complain when her hard work paid off.

  So okay. Jack would get asked about her.

  But if Jack mentioned seeing any kind of spark between Mercedes and Cosmo, that would only add to the fire the SEAL had rekindled this morning.

  What Jack had to do instead was mention that Cosmo already had a girlfriend.

  “What the . . . ?”

  Since she’d definitely heard the sound of a zipper, she turned back.

  Cosmo was looking at the cuffs of the shirt that she’d given him, trying to make sense of the fact that they flopped down past his wrists.

  “You need cuff links,” she said, rolling back one of the racks and coming to his rescue.

  The dismay on his face made her laugh. “Can’t I just wear a regular shirt?”

  She dug in the jacket pocket for the links—cheap, gold-plated, and engraved with the initials C.F.K. Charlene from Costume swore up and down that Orson Welles had worn them during Citizen Kane. “Do you have a regular shirt?”

  “Yeah,” he said as she folded back the right cuff and hooked the link in place. “It’s cool. It’s black and it has a skull on the back, along with this red and orange flame. . .
.”

  Jane stared up at him. He was kidding. Wasn’t he? “And you are so completely conning me, aren’t you?”

  He broke down and laughed. Damn, he had some smile. “I’ve got a few plain white shirts in my closet, too.”

  “Too? You mean along with the hideous skull-and-flames number?”

  “Show a little respect,” Cosmo said. “Chicks dig the skull and flames.”

  He made no effort to button his shirt. He was just standing there with it hanging open, so she began buttoning it for him. There was only so much half-naked Navy SEAL that a person could bear. “Don’t tell me—it’s your lucky ‘wear it and score’ shirt. I hate to break it to you, Cos, but I think you’re probably getting laid in spite of the shirt—not because of it.”