Accomplice

by Kristi Lea

  “Excuse me,” Jess turned to walk away.

  The reporter put a hand on Jess's arm to stop her. The woman didn't quite dig her fingernails into Jess's bare flesh, but almost. “One more question before you go. How long have you and Brandon Kingsbury been involved?”

  Jess's head snapped back and she spilled her drink for real this time. A trickle of fear crept down her spine even as she tried to laugh and brush the liquid off the costly designer lingerie. “We aren't involved. Brandon was my husband's son.”

  “That's not what he said ten minutes ago in an interview on the Late Show.” The woman smiled like a cat with a cornered mouse.

  Jess's mind reeled. The bastard. After his failed attempt at negotiations this week, she knew he was up to something, but this was worse than she had imagined. “You must have misheard him.”

  She pulled away from the woman's grip and stalked off without knowing where to go. Everywhere around her, people were talking, chatting, laughing. The other models had changed into cocktail dresses before making their appearances, but Jess's clothes were all still inside her dressing room. The police inspectors didn't let her remove anything, and she could hardly have worn that huge robe to the party.

  This was part of her job for the night. Posing for pictures. Chatting up the donors. Coaxing them to open their wallets. She figured that showing up in the corset number couldn't exactly hurt her reputation. Hell, it was modest compared to outfits she'd worn to parties in the past.

  She shoved her nearly empty glass at a surprised waiter, and stalked toward a stairwell. Damn Brandon. No wonder she'd practically been mobbed by the media tonight. They were probably editing their interviews right now, pasting together photos of her bare ass, drinking and flirting and acting like the whore that they knew she was.

  If it were any other man, she might have been amused.

  That it was the same asshat of a man who had all but disowned his father and tried to steamroller her was just disgusting.

  She slipped her high-heeled shoes off and climbed the steps until she found the roof. It had a rough, white-painted tar paper surface and a huge A/C unit buzzing nearby. And no people.

  She walked to the edge of the roof and leaned out over the stucco facade, taking in the LA skyline. So damned many stars out there. Why couldn't fate bother one of them tonight instead of her?

  The slamming of a door scared the crap out of her and she whirled, shoes in hand, stilettos aimed like daggers at the potential attacker.

  It was the sexy FBI agent, Noah Grayson. In the shifting evening light, his black clothes faded into the background.

  She took a calming breath and lowered the shoes. Dumb things probably weren't sturdy enough to fend off an attacker anyway. Noah, at least, wasn't going to hurt her.

  “Are you all right?”

  She shrugged. “How did you know I was up here, Agent Grayson?”

  He didn't answer. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shuffled over towards the half wall where she stood. Close enough for her to smell a hint of his cologne, but not close enough to touch her.

  “Does this mean I can go back to my dressing room and change?”

  He glanced at her. She could see the flicker of white of his eyes, but couldn't read the expression. He shrugged off the suit jacket he was wearing and held it out to her. He had changed out of the pink Security t-shirt. “I don't know. I can call over and find out, if you want.”

  She stared at the jacket, wanting to refuse it. But the breeze carried a hint of rain and her outfit covered so little. “Thanks.”

  As she shrugged it on, his scent and lingering traces of his body heat surrounded her. He smelled of soap and sandalwood and maleness. She squeezed her eyes shut for half a moment. She couldn't remember the last time a man had been nice to her without asking something in return.

  “What are you looking for? It’s obviously not the Hearst Diamonds.”

  He glanced down at the street two stories below where cars rushed past. “I am not sure I can answer that question.”

  “Because you don't know what—or who—you are investigating, or because you can't reveal it?”

  His eyes flickered to hers and then back down again. “Mrs. Kingsbury--”

  “Call me Jess.”

  “That is not a good idea.”

  “We are all alone in the dark and I am wearing your coat. Call me Jess.”

  Starlight and streetlights glittered hard in his eyes. “Which makes the idea even worse. Jess.”

  Her name on his tongue slid over her like the finest silk. “Now that that is settled, maybe we can make some kind of deal, Agent Grayson.”

  “Noah.”

  She rolled the word around in her mind before she finally spoke it. “Noah. What if I could help you?”

  The words hung there in the air between them like the haze of smoke in a bar.

  He faced her then, hands still in his pockets and shoulders hunched like a sulky schoolboy. “How?”

  She inched closer. Just a step, but he didn’t retreat. “I know you are still investigating my husband, even though he’s dead. If you tell me what you're looking for, I might be able to help. I met almost everyone that he did business with. We had parties. We travelled together.”

  He pushed himself back from the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. The short sleeves of his dark t-shirt revealed cleanly muscled arms. Protective arms

  She inhaled, took another step. “Maybe we can make a deal. I give you whatever information you are searching for. And in return--”

  He sucked in his breath, his eyes flicking down to her mouth and then back up. Three or four inches separated them. His crossed arms were only a shimmy and a deep breath away from her breasts. A hint of breeze blew between them and her nipples puckered. What would his kiss taste like? Mint or brandy? His lips were supple, firm, frowning.

  His face was shrouded in the deepness of night, but yellow streetlights lit his eyes. His pupils were dilated, his breath hitched. A hot vein of desire plowed through her, making her knees shake. Dear lord, she wanted this man. Wanted his arms around her, not just his jacket. Wanted his hips between hers. His mouth on her skin. She leaned forward and touched her lips to his.

  It was an invitation. A tease. A plea. It was all she could do not to beg. His mouth moved under hers and with a groan he kissed her back. Hard, demanding. She melted into his kiss.

  She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck, wanting to draw him closer. Couldn’t bring him close enough. His jacket fell from her shoulders, leaving her bare to the night sky again. He captured her hands just before she reached the hair at the nape of his neck. His thumbs traced sensual circles on the insides of her wrists and she moaned against his lips, straining her body towards his.

  His tongue lingered on her lips until she parted them, drawing him inside. He kissed her hungrily, frantically almost. His hands left her wrists and skimmed up the bare skin of her arms, leaving trails of pleasure in their path.

  When he reached her shoulders, he drew back.

  Jess sucked in a cold, empty breath, her head spinning, nipples aching, panties damp with need.

  “No.” His voice was thick and heavy but the beneath the lust in his voice, she heard a tone that smacked of disgust. The air between chilled as he pulled away.

  “I can't make a deal with you, Jess.”

  “But--”

  His phone rang and he turned away to answer it.

  Jessica wrapped her arms around her waist, chilled now that the jacket was on the ground. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Noah had reminded her of a Boy Scout from the first glance. Upright. Honest. The kind of man who would never fall for the act she had just given. The kind of man who would never fall for a woman like her.

  She had thought for days that maybe, just maybe, she could get protection from the FBI. It couldn't be a coincidence that all of these events revolved around the missing necklace. Someone knew her secret.

  The thought turned h
er guts to ice and ash. She didn't have anyone she could trust. Neither Lindsay nor Tony had any inkling—she had hired both of them after Charles had died. She still didn't know how the thief had gotten into her house, but the logical conclusion was that someone on the inside had helped. And Brandon was actively trying to bring her down through the courts and the media.

  And now she had just blown what small chance she had of a plea deal by throwing herself at the man investigating the case. In all likelihood, his search would lead him right to her. Maybe it already had.

  Noah stood twenty feet away, talking in a low voice. She picked up his jacket from the ground, dusted it off, and laid it neatly on the ledge, then made for the stairs. She couldn't hide from the press any longer tonight. May as well give up trying.

  Chapter 5

  The woman in the mirror was a stranger. Black, inch-long hair gelled to spiky points all over her head. Raccoon-like eyeliner. Dull skin. Brown-painted lips. Shadowed, baggy eyes.

  Jess gulped and patted the oversized sweatshirt with the USC logo. She placed her hand on her hips, drawing in the fabric, to remind herself that there really was a body inside the shapeless clothes. Her body. She let go of the sweatshirt, leaving dampish smears from her cold, sweaty palms.

  She opened the faded army-surplus duffel and rifled through the contents one last time, flipped through the small stack of plastic credit cards that she had hidden in the hollowed out section of a paperback romance. She had more in a runner’s pouch fastened around her waist. Do they strip-search passengers boarding greyhound busses?

  Jess pushed the thought aside and re-zipped her duffel. Outside, she heard the tell-tale creaking of the automatic gate and the muffled rumble of cars passing through. More engines started, and someone peeled out, tires squealing on the pavement.

  The chase was on.

  She wanted to watch, but it was too dangerous. Someone might catch her profile at the window and the game would be up before it began.

  The smell of the hair dye was beginning to make her nauseous. Jess’s stomach turned over. She hadn’t eaten all morning. She hadn’t eaten much for the past week. Acid burned the back of her throat as she fought the urge to throw up again.

  This was worse than her first photo shoot, when she’d slammed three shots of tequila to loosen her up, and the alcohol had gone straight to her head. Flushed and giddy, she had begun stripping off her clothes before she had staggered halfway down the hall from the makeup room. Rick, her agent, had caught her before she got the cow-print brassiere unfastened, and dragged her onto the set.

  “Don’t waste all your energy on the cleaning crew,” he’d whispered into her ear, before licking her earlobe and squeezing one butt cheek. She had yelped when he smacked her on the bottom and walked away, leaving her standing in the hot spotlights of a faux-farm scene, the photographer and lighting technicians laughing at her.

  There was no strategically placed fringe or blue denim thong today. And this costume covered her entire ass and then some. But that didn’t calm Jess’s nerves. There was no script for this play and she could get a lot worse than a whack on the rear if she screwed up. She wondered if concrete shoes came with spike heels and fishnets.

  She waited until the cars had been gone for more than twenty minutes. By now, her town car would be stuck in interstate traffic on the way to the airport. Hopefully with most of the paparazzi close behind, hoping for a shot of the Black Thong Widow, as one of the tabloids had dubbed since the runway show.

  She hoisted the heavy duffel over her shoulder. The weight of it nearly threw her off balance and she had to steady herself on the back of the vanity chair, her black-lacquered fingernails gouging expensive silk.

  It was now or never. Jess straightened her shoulders under the awkward bag and stepped to the door, allowing her fingers to trail gently over the framed photo of herself and Charles, taken shortly after their wedding in a chateau in the south of France. They had stopped for coffee in a quaint bistro in Paris, and had asked the waiter to snap their photo. He looked so young and virile in that photo, so happy. Tears threatened to swell up in her throat, but she forced herself to breath. The time for tears was long over.

  The back staircase led past the kitchen and down a short hallway to one of the garages. Most of the staff had left early, but she had to hurry. The groundskeepers might still be here, and at least one security guard stayed on round the clock. The fewer potential witnesses to her exit, the better.

  The old Escort wagon was parked in its usual spot. Dull gray with a slightly crooked bumper and a missing hubcap, it was usually reserved for the housekeepers to run errands. She had sent Claudia, one of the maids, on half a dozen errands the past week alone. The woman's short haircut had been the inspiration for Jess’s disguise. She hoped that the ruse was enough to fool any reporters who were inspired or lazy enough to stick around and stalk the rear gate.

  Jess pushed the button for the automatic garage door opener with her elbow. She threw the duffel in the back seat of the Escort and climbed behind the wheel. The keys were on the dashboard, right where they were always kept for convenience. She started the car and checked the gauges. A full tank. Excellent. She slid the driver seat forward, adjusted the mirrors, and drove out of the garage.

  Ten yards from the rear gate was a small keypad. Everyone in the place had a unique pin number, so that security could track the comings and goings in the place. Jess hesitated, her fingers a few inches from the pad. It used to be that the staff only needed a PIN to enter the grounds for their shift, not to leave also. That was back when she trusted them.

  She punched in Claudia's number. She had her own, of course, but that would be easy to trace back later. She could make up a random number, but after a couple of bad entries, then an alarm would sound somewhere.

  There was a lone, dark colored sedan still watching the employee entrance. As she pulled up to the curb, her blinker on, Jess saw two men lean forward in their seats. Her heart thumped so loudly that she was sure they could hear it. Jess pulled away from the drive, turning right onto the narrow side street, the shadows of her privacy wall looming above the passenger side of her car. She fought the urge to slam on the accelerator.

  Drive casually, she thought. Like you are going to the grocery store for eggs and milk and bread. Not running for your life.

  In her rearview mirror, Jess saw the two men relax backwards into their seats, their engine off. Two blocks later, she took a left onto Elm. No one followed.

  She was free.

  ***

  “Tell me this is a bad joke. How the hell did you lose a Playboy Bunny?”

  Noah held his tongue. Rage had already turned his boss’s corpulent face an alarming shade of magenta, and Noah was afraid that any backtalk would cause the man to burst a blood vessel. CPR training was mandatory for all field agents, but Noah had no wish to place his lips anywhere near Agent Billy Bob Cutlass’s greasy mouth.

  He schooled his features into what he hoped passed for respect and gave his report. “Mrs. Kingsbury was scheduled to depart for her Cayman estate two days ago. Our agents in the field reported spotting the subject departing her estate in her chauffeured town car.

  “They followed the car to the private airstrip where her jet was fueled and waiting. Lacking a search warrant, they were not permitted onto the premises, but the agents captured several still photographs of a red-haired woman fitting Mrs. Kingsbury’s description boarding the jet. As did photographers from several media outlets.

  “The flight plan filed with the FAA showed a direct flight to the Caymans. No unscheduled stops were reported, and the jet landed as planned.”

  “So what?” Cutlass spat the word at Noah, one wet droplet hitting Noah’s folded hands. “We have diplomatic ties to the Caymans. Turn over every seashell on every beach. She has to be under one of them.”

  “I don’t believe that will be necessary, sir. We have already verified that she isn’t there.”

  “She went parachu
ting out of a jet over the Gulf of Mexico?”

  Noah swallowed a sigh of exasperation. “I don’t believe she ever boarded that plane. Customs officials in the Caymans have already confirmed that Mrs. Kingsbury did not enter the country. All of the passengers and crew onboard the plane disembarked and the plane is currently parked in a private hangar. She never left California.”

  “Why,” Cutlass said slowly, nastily, “Did it take you two days to come and tell me this?”

  “Sir, we only have two agents currently on the ground down there. And they were on the wrong island, working another operation. It took time to reach them, and time for them to travel, and then they had to gain access to her private compound, and determine whether or not she was really there.”

  And in their failed attempt at celebrity sight-seeing, the two agents in the Caymans lost the trail of the arms dealer they were assigned to be trailing, but Noah didn't mention that. He hoped like hell that Cutlass got chewed out by the director for pulling rank like this.

  “Time is a luxury that you don’t have. Find the bitch, and find her fast. We have a case almost ready to present to a grand jury. The attorney general would prefer to have the criminal in hand when the indictment is issued. We already have near irrefutable proof that she was in the extortion plot from the beginning with her husband. Hell, by the time our investigation’s complete she might have masterminded it.”

  “What evidence is that, sir?”

  Noah barely kept from flinching when the man’s steel gray eyes lighted on him. “I worked with your father on a couple of cases, you know.”

  Noah’s shoulders stiffened. “Is that so.”

  “He would stop at nothing to bring down his target. Never failed to get his man. Well, almost never.” Cutlass quirked his lips in a grin that was half smirk, half sneer. “I keep hoping you would live up to his memory. Don’t fuck this one up, Grayson. Find the girl and take her down.”