Watching You

by Leslie A. Kelly

  “Well, hopefully it will improve for you.”

  “You’re certainly talented, Jessica. I’ve always seen you writing comedy, however. This dark angst might not be exactly right for you.”

  She managed not to laugh in his face. Dark angst was why she reverted to comedy much of the time, verbally and in her writing. Getting herself out of bad situations with caustic humor had become second nature. That didn’t mean, however, that the darkness wasn’t still there, lurking beneath the wisecracks. She didn’t dwell on the things that had happened in her past—the loss, the heartache, the fear—and she had mostly good memories, thanks to her mothers, biological and adoptive. Memories had a tendency to lurk, however. She’d felt the need to exorcise those demons through her fingers on the keys.

  Maybe she would throw the whole thing out, hit delete on her laptop file and consign it to the recycle bin. And then empty that bin. Even if she failed, even if she never pitched it, at least she’d gotten the words out, and could, she hoped, move on to new things.

  Alan reached across the desk and patted her hand with his pale, wrinkled one. She knew he didn’t like to give harsh criticism, and he usually tempered it with praise. “You’re an excellent student. I have no doubt you will go far.”

  “Thank you. That means a lot.”

  He moved a pile of papers on his desk—scripts from other students who were probably going to get better grades—his expression growing serious. “As for the reason I asked you to stop by today, you’ve been offered an internship.”

  She gasped. “Really?”

  “A well-paying one.”

  Her jaw fell. She’d been prepared to work like a dog for pennies. That was how things went in Hollywood. Everybody was interested in cheap labor; any student wanting to break into the industry prepared for indentured servitude as part of the dues-paying process.

  “Where?”

  His mouth twisted. “The offer is from Win or Lose.”

  “Son of a bitch,” she snapped, immediately throwing herself back in her chair.

  “So you’re not interested in working with Mr. Winchester?”

  Right now she’d like to give Mr. Winchester the same treatment she gave to handsy, grabby customers at the bar. Anything from a drink in the face to a knee in the crotch. Because the man she most wanted to avoid was the owner of Win or Lose Studios.

  It was a small outfit, but there was nothing small about its films. The company had a great reputation, winning a lot of prestigious awards. If anybody else in the world owned it, she’d leap at the chance. But how could she work with Reece Winchester, given what had happened between them? How could she trust him with her career when she didn’t trust him with her body? Get real. You don’t trust yourself around him.

  “I’m not interested in him at all,” she mumbled.

  Alan’s brow went up in skepticism, but she told herself she meant it. Reece had humiliated her in front of paparazzi. He’d sucked her into his stalker drama, as if she didn’t have enough of her own in the past year. He’d put the police in her life and the media on her tail. He’d caused her to lose her much-needed hours at Hot Buns. Now he thought he could make it up to her with a job?

  She didn’t wonder how he’d found out she was in need of an internship. Judging by the things he’d said Friday night, he’d been interested enough in her to research her background. Her status as college senior wouldn’t have been too hard to find out for someone with his contacts.

  “I can’t do it,” she said.

  “I concur.”

  “You do?”

  Her advisor nodded. “You don’t want to get further entangled with the man. The world might think he’s the golden child of the industry, but his life is riddled with secrets and scandals. Believe me, I know. I worked with him.”

  Jessica gaped.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, seeing her reaction. “Without my writing and direction on Walk Along with Me, Reece Winchester would never have become so famous.”

  When she’d learned during her first class with him that Bent had written and directed one of her all-time favorite childhood movies, she’d been surprised. Alan was fussy, staid, highly literary, and old-school. “That was such a popular film.”

  “It wasn’t in my regular line. Honestly, I was in a financial bind.” He wrinkled his nose. “I did it for the money.”

  That was not a surprise. As a teacher, Alan was about the art. Everything they studied in his classes involved scripts with deep themes. A hit kids’ movie didn’t qualify.

  “Well, no matter why you made it, I want to thank you for it. I loved that film. It got me through some rough days as a kid.”

  He nodded to acknowledge the compliment, then returned to his point. “The whole Winchester family was bad news. The boys were wild, and the poor sister wasted on drugs. Their mother was obsessed with fame. The ultimate stage mom. I had her banned from my set.”

  Jess suspected he wanted her to prompt him for details about the whole family. But she knew better than to indulge in backstabbing and gossip. Here, words were repeated and embellished, often creating feuds and scandals. She didn’t need to start her career that way.

  “What if I don’t get another job offer in time?”

  “You might get something, or you could pick up a job in the fall.” He cleared his throat, straightening and appearing a bit pompous. “Perhaps I could help. I do still have some connections in this town.”

  Connections like an Oscar-winning writer and director who created hit movie after hit movie? Hmm. The more she thought about this, the more she realized she might have to do what was right for her future, no matter why she’d been offered the position.

  “God, this is confusing. The trouble is, with work and classes in the fall, summer is really the only time I can do an internship. I need something to happen now.”

  “Don’t decide yet. Let me make a few calls.”

  “I appreciate that. But I have to admit, a recommendation from him would open doors.”

  He nodded curtly. She hadn’t meant to hurt Alan’s feelings, but she had to wonder if he really had any connections left in this fickle town.

  “It is, of course, your decision.”

  Jess had come too far in her life to lose an opportunity just because she questioned why she’d gotten it. Besides, if Reece Winchester was hiring her to get in her pants, he was in for a big disappointment. Zipper up, buttons buttoned, buddy.

  “I think I should do it.”

  “With your personal connection to him?”

  She couldn’t even respond. Yes, she’d let herself get caught up in the glamour, the excitement, the atmosphere, and the stupid Flaming Orgasm the bartender had made for her. Heavy on the orgasm. All of that might have made her a little reckless with Reece Winchester, but should it affect an important decision about her future?

  Reece had hurt and embarrassed her, yes. He’d also protected her, however. When the shot rang out, and the glass burst inward, he’d thought only of her safety, not his own. He’d covered her, wrapped himself around her, physically sheltering her as no one ever had in her life. Like she was precious. Like she mattered to him.

  She’d tried to block out those memories. Late at night, though, when she was alone and could no longer believe the lies she’d been telling herself, his tenderness was what she remembered. Even more than the kisses, than the touch of his hands on her naked skin. It was the way he’d held her. The way he’d protected her. That she couldn’t get over.

  Jess slowly let a deep breath ease out of her mouth. Emotion couldn’t overwhelm logic. Too much was at stake. Her heartbeat slowed from its rapid rhythm, and a calm settled over her. She might be disappointed—in fact, she probably would be, since he was a man, and a spoiled one. But that dive, that embrace, those soft whispers and the brush of his hand through her glass-strewn hair, meant she had to give him a chance.

  Maybe he just wanted to get her into bed. Maybe he thought she owed him.

  But m
aybe it was something else.

  “I’m going to say yes.”

  Alan nodded, his mouth pinched. Reaching for a piece of paper, he jotted down an address. “They’d like you to come in today at two.” When she lifted her hand to take the paper, he added, “I assume I don’t have to warn you about how cutthroat this business can be.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I’m going to anyway. Watch yourself. There are rogues and thieves who live to take advantage of the young and vulnerable.”

  Rogues? He really was Errol Flynn–era Hollywood.

  “Don’t trust. Don’t share your ideas. Definitely don’t share your script, especially not with your new boss. It would be the worst mistake you’ve ever made.”

  “Are you kidding? I haven’t even told my sister what it’s about. I’m paranoid about leaving my laptop at home because I’m so worried she or my roommate will snoop.”

  Not that they would. She knew that logically. Emotionally, the fear was always there.

  “You’re in good company then,” Alan said with a chuckle. “No one has neuroses like a writer. I’m afraid it never gets better.”

  Wonderful.

  “You have to be determined and must truly want to succeed in order to make it in this industry.”

  She was. She did.

  He wagged his index finger and warned her one more time. “Remember, trust no one.”

  She had dreams of Hollywood success—on her own terms, not on the coattails of a man who’d gotten her naked within an hour of meeting her. Ugh. But she wasn’t stupid. She’d been around the block a time or two, and had been burned. She was taking enough of a risk by agreeing to accept Reece Winchester’s job; she wasn’t about to trust him enough to hand over her guts, soul, history, and dreams in written form. Since she was soon going to be working with the man, probably closely, considering the trouble he’d gone through to make this happen, she only hoped she didn’t live to regret trusting him with her body.

  One thing was sure. She would never—ever—trust him with her heart.

  * * *

  After his brightest pupil walked out, Alan Bent listened to the door close and the click of Jess’s footsteps fading down the hallway. He sat in silence for a long moment, evaluating everything that had just happened. Once it sank in, he let his anger loose and swept a shaking hand across his desk. Papers flew, rubber bands snapped, sending pages of scripts flying. Seeing his dreams slip out of his grasp, he couldn’t bring himself to care about the mess.

  “Damn that man. Damn that girl. And damn this town.”

  Everything had been going so well. He’d laid out a clear path for his triumphant return to mainstream moviemaking, and had begun taking the first few steps down it. He’d worked hard to rebuild connections, calling in favors, putting out feelers. He wasn’t remembered as he should’ve been, which infuriated him. Cashing in on his least favorite but most successful film, Walk Along with Me, at least got him through the doors of lower-level studio executives.

  They were interested. All of them, interested. He was once again fielding calls and taking lunches, part of the world he loved that had been denied to him for so long.

  He’d envisioned studios competing for rights, giving in to his demand to direct and offering full creative control. His return would be covered by Variety. He would cast Farrah Allen, the hottest child-actor in the country, in the lead role. He foresaw a record-breaking box office, awards, and smooth sailing right into a new future.

  Then Reece Winchester hired his prized pupil, threatening to rip away everything he’d dreamed of. Again.

  Isn’t ten years long enough? He looked at the awards on the bookshelf, proof he belonged here, that he deserved a spot at Hollywood’s table. “I did my time in purgatory.”

  Plus, he had changed. He wasn’t the man he’d been during his heyday, when drugs had been so easy to get and dark cravings so simple to indulge. If given a chance, he would prove that to everyone. Even Mr. High-and-Mighty Winchester. No, especially him.

  But not if Winchester found out what he was up to and ruined everything.

  “They should never have met,” he mumbled. “I should have gone to that gallery and prevented them from ever speaking.”

  It was too late, though.

  How long would it be before the intern asked her boss, the extremely successful writer/director, to read her screenplay?

  She can’t do that.

  Not if Alan wanted to sell it under his own name.

  Opening a desk drawer, he reached inside and withdrew his working copy of A Child in the Street, which he’d renamed Street Girl. Although he’d had the original in his possession for only a couple of weeks, the copy he had made was worn and crumpled from rereading. Penciled notes filled the margins. Yellow highlights emphasized turning points and edited dialogue. He’d jotted in more detailed character descriptions and ideas for additional scenes.

  Street Girl was the best screenplay he had ever read. It represented his future, his comeback, and the answers to his financial problems. As for taking it? Well, everyone in Hollywood lifted something from time to time. It was the price of being in the business.

  The story was not that unique, but the way she presented it certainly was. Every turning point was perfectly placed, the beats laid out with precision. The dialogue sparkled, and the ending killed. Audiences would fall in love with a precocious little girl, only to have their hearts ripped out at her fate.

  Until Jessica had met Reece, Alan hadn’t worried about what would happen when she found out about his movie deal. She might learn what it was about and grow suspicious. But who would believe her? Besides, movies took years to get off the ground. It would have to get backing, financing, then get made and released before she would ever know for sure.

  This was a rough town. She might have given up by then.

  Maybe she wouldn’t even be alive. Accidents happened, after all.

  Even if she put up a fuss, it would be his word—the word of a respected, experienced moviemaker—against a nobody. She’d said many times that she’d never even told her family what she was writing about. She had handed him what she claimed was her only printed copy. As for her laptop, which she carried to school and where she kept the file…well, something could be done about that. He already had a few ideas…

  It was the perfect plan. She was young and talented. She’d have other chances. But this was his last one.

  “Unless Reece Winchester ruins everything for me again.”

  There had to be a way to stop that from happening. He couldn’t give this up without a fight.

  Alan leaned back in his chair, his fingers entwined on his chest.

  He had some thinking to do.

  Chapter 6

  Mr. Winchester? Ms. Jensen is here.”

  Reece jerked his head up from the pile of crew reports he’d been shifting around on his desk. He’d kept his eye on the clock more than the paperwork, knowing his new intern was scheduled to come in today and wondering which Jessica he was about to see.

  The sultry beauty who’d been in his arms in the gallery?

  The enraged wronged woman who’d slapped him across the face?

  The college student? The faithful sister? The terrified victim covered with glass?

  She walked in.

  Ahh. The prim professional.

  She wore a blouse buttoned to her throat and a plain knee-length gray skirt. With her hair twisted into a tight bun on the back of her head and a pair of glasses perched on her nose, she could have come out of central casting as a secretary from a 1950s period piece.

  He had to laugh.

  “What?” she snapped.

  “Nothing, Jessica. Absolutely nothing.” Rising from his desk, he walked around to greet her. “Thank you for coming in.”

  She extended her arm straight out from her body for their handshake. “Mr. Winchester.”

  Hiding a smile, he shook, and then stepped closer, reached for her chin, and tilted h
er face up. He studied her, looking for the cuts he’d seen on her cheeks last week, seeing redness and one or two tiny scabs. God, how they enraged him.

  “How are you?”

  She licked her lips and stepped away. “Never better. What about you?”

  “Totally fine.”

  “Did you ever see a doctor?” she asked.

  “Not necessary.”

  Her head swung toward him and her eyes narrowed. “Yes it was. You had blood on the back of your neck and your hands, and shards of glass on your clothes and your head.”

  “Paying pretty close attention, were you?”

  As he’d been paying close attention to her. They’d both apparently worried about the other more than themselves.

  “Only because of the glass,” she insisted. So stubborn. So sexy in a buttoned-up schoolteacher way. He could come to like this woman even more than he wanted her.

  “I was fine. No real damage done.”

  Except to his mood. He’d walked around for days in a state of rage that someone with an ax to grind against him had endangered a completely innocent woman. Whether it had been Sid, the psycho who’d burned down his house, or someone else, he hoped he got to them before the cops did. He ached for payback for every tiny mark on her face.

  He didn’t doubt the shooter would be caught. After the fire, he’d hired a private investigator recommended by his brother Raine. Now the man had more work to do. He trusted the police, but it seemed clear Reece was in somebody’s crosshairs. While he could take care of himself, he wasn’t about to let anybody else be endangered.

  “Have you heard anything more about the investigation?”

  “Not really. Whoever did it was smart enough to stay out of range of the security cameras covering the exterior of the building.”

  “I heard.”

  “As for any other clues, well, footprints on a popular beach in June won’t help. They did say judging by the bullet they recovered in the gallery wall, the gun was a nine millimeter.”

  According to his brother, that was a good thing. Since the shot had probably come from down by the water, it had been a long-distance gamble to take with a handgun. Rowan had told him if a rifle with a scope had been involved, it could have been a lot worse. The shooter could have hit his target. Or worse, missed his target and hit this woman.