So now what? Would Peter contact me again? Would he disappear out of my life forever? I wanted to believe that he would never abandon Rogue’s Gallery and the life he had built for himself in Innisdale, but he hadn’t behaved like the normal, innocent victim of a crime—he had not gone to the police. Brian naturally took the dimmest possible view of this, but I could not imagine a situation where Peter would voluntarily go to the police, no matter how clean his own hands were.
“Aaaaaand print!” called Friedman, and I snapped back to the present in time to see Tracy Burke, the film’s “Faith,” moving to take the place of the stuntwoman. Booms, and C-stands were shifted, grips moved, camera angles changed. So many people on a movie set—even for a little independent production like this one.
“It is effing fereeeezing out here!” Tracy complained loudly, tossing her long platinum hair. Except she didn’t say “effing.”
It was a strange feeling not to like the person who was supposed to be portraying you in your own real-life adventures, but I did not care for Tracy. In fact, although I didn’t want to admit it, so far I wasn’t wild about anyone I’d met on the set of Dangerous to Know.
Not that I disliked Tracy; she was fairly harmless, despite a mouth like a sailor (and that would not be one of the hands on the good ship lollipop) and a strange tendency to shed her clothes at the slightest provocation. She stood now in black stovepipe jeans and a teeny-tiny pink midriff blouse, hip sexily canted while she waited for the gold-leaf reflectors to be positioned around her.
A few yards down, I spotted Walter Christie, his face pinched and red with cold. He was watching Tracy, and even I couldn’t mistake the naked longing in his eyes.
“Let’s move it, people! This light won’t last much longer. Hell, this weather won’t last much longer. We’re losing our window of opportunity here,” Miles called. I glanced up at the increasingly ominous skies. The assistant director began running around like a harrying border collie, barking out directions, snapping orders. There were several groans and a smattering of language not approved for General Audiences.
“What will you do now?” Roberta asked.
I tuned back in. “About what?”
“Now that you’re home for good. Will you go back to teaching?”
For a moment it was as though she were speaking in another language. It took a few seconds to translate. “I’m not home for good,” I said. “At least…” At least I didn’t think so. That had never been the plan, and the idea that it might play out this way was shocking to me.
“Oh, but I was under the impression…”
Why should she be under the impression of anything concerning me? It was my turn to study the other woman. Roberta did not fit my idea of a movie producer: she wore jeans and a leather jacket and those funky little rhinestone glasses. She looked like someone who should be in an In Style photo spread. I pictured movie producers—when I thought of them at all—as fast-talking, ulcer-riddled, wheeler-dealer types—usually male.
“I’m here to visit my family and tie up a few loose ends,” I said. “My decision to stay in England was spontaneous—well, you know that from my book. I still plan on returning to Innisdale.”
“When?”
Why in the world did it matter? But apparently it did. Roberta was staring at me intently.
“Actually, I was hoping to book my flight this evening. I’d like to fly out within the next few days.” I closed my ears to the inner voice that questioned what I would do if Peter did not contact me soon—that perhaps there was no point in flying anywhere.
“Damn.”
“I’m sorry?”
Roberta smiled ingratiatingly. “It’s just that Miles and I had discussed asking you to take active part in the project. Specifically, we were thinking about asking you to hire on as a consultant.”
To my own surprise, my first thought was, How fun! Then I remembered the last time I had hired on as consultant to a theatrical production. I said, “Well, that’s very flattering, but —”
“The money’s pretty good,” Roberta told me quickly. “Very good compared to a teacher’s salary. Let alone what a writer earns. But then what isn’t, right? You know how it is in this industry. We throw money away. And I don’t guess you’re exactly rolling in dough these days.”
“Still…”
“And I’m sure you want this film to be right. All those little details. No one knows them better than you.”
That was almost funny. Never mind the little details, the challenge here would be getting the major plot points straight.
“It’s just that I’ve stayed quite a bit longer than I planned as it is.” I was tempted, there was no denying it. After all, it was my book—my life—they were filming. Of course I felt a little possessive of it; and of course I wanted to see it done right. But…what about Peter?
Then again, I didn’t even know where Peter was at the moment. He might not be in England. Wasn’t the next move his? And wouldn’t it be easier for him to make that move if he knew where to find me?
“Think about it,” Roberta urged.
Chapter Three
Brian crammed the last of the nachos in his mouth, washed them down with the final mouthful of Corona, glanced at his watch and said regretfully of the tortilla chips and cheese, “I shall miss those.”
“And all the Mexican restaurants in the West Valley and vicinity will miss you,” I returned. “I hope our local economy can withstand the hit.”
He smiled, but distractedly. “I suppose I should be making my way to the gate.”
“I suppose so,” I agreed reluctantly. It was Wednesday evening. We were sitting in the crowded El Paseo café in the Tom Bradley International Terminal at LAX waiting for Brian’s ten o’clock flight. I was sorry to see Brian go. Not because I was falling for him, although I did find him awfully attractive, but because he was a living, breathing link to my life in Innisdale. Brian took it for granted that I would be coming home, that for me “home” was now the English Lake District.
Rising, he gathered his Mac and his briefcase, and laid the tip on the table. We moved together from the restaurant, Brian taking my arm—which reminded me of Peter, of all those little Old World gestures, the tiny courtesies that had initially grated on my independence but which I had come to think of as separating the men from the boys.
“What are you going to do about this film?” Brian asked. “Have you decided?”
I shook my head. “I could use the money of course, but the filming could go on for months—likely will. I don’t want to delay my return too long.”
“No,” he agreed, and the glint in his blue-gray eyes was warming, although I didn’t want to encourage him unfairly. If it weren’t for Peter—but there was no point even acknowledging that thought because Peter was a fact, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. That much I was sure of, although as certainties went, it wasn’t much to base a future on.
I said, “You’ll let me know as soon as you hear anything?”
“Of course I will. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve arrived.”
That was well beyond the call of duty—and more than I wanted, really.
We had reached the security checkpoint. Brian began the inevitable removal of watch, pocket change, shoes, tossing them into the gray plastic bins and setting them on the conveyer belt.
Even in his socks, Brian had dignity as he turned one last time to me.
“I’ll say good-bye then.”
“Good-bye,” I said. “Safe trip.”
Brian’s hands closed on my arms, bringing me forward and kissing me gently but definitely on my mouth. As kisses went, it was rather nice, Corona and nachos notwithstanding. He’d obviously had a fair bit of practice. As he released me, he seemed to be waiting for some reaction.
But I found myself at a loss for words.
“Take care, Grace.” He smiled. “See you soon, will I?”
I nodded, surprised to find myself unexpectedly choked up.
Brian let me go, turning away and taking his place in line. I stepped back behind the roped-off dividers, watching until he was through the security checkpoint. Shoes on, he picked up his briefcase, and Mac, and turned to wave a brief final good-bye.
I waved back, watching ’til Brian vanished in the press of people. Feeling strangely adrift I started back for the arrival hall, avoiding the usual obstacle course of suitcases on wheels, potted palm trees, and Starbucks-sloshing travelers. I went down the elevators, wriggled my way through the serpentine lines of check-in, and walked out through the glass double doors into the smoggy night.
Even at this time of night the sidewalk was crowded with people and their luggage. The noise of voices and car engines bounced off the concrete. The air was thick with exhaust as cars, taxis, shuttles screeched up to the curb.
My attention was caught by a recognizable set of shoulders on a tall, lean man moving a few yards ahead of me through the crush of people. I stared.
Surely not?
Apologizing, I pushed and twisted my way forward, gaze pinned on the back of a well-shaped head that seemed as familiar as my own—more familiar, truth be told.
If he would just turn so that I could see his profile…
For a moment I lost track of him behind what appeared to be a just-arrived Zulu dance troop. Mountains of luggage and many exotically garbed tall and willowy people called to each other in a foreign tongue, managing to block my way. I began to fear that this was going to turn into one of those scenarios from my favorite suspense writers—a Mary Stewart moment, perhaps—and that the man with Peter’s haircut would vanish into the teeming mass of humanity, leaving me uncertain as to whether I’d really seen what I thought I had.
It would have to be an awfully amazing coincidence. Not that coincidences didn’t happen, but—
The blond man moved swiftly, purposefully through the crowd. Stepping to the curb, he raised his hand to hail a taxi, and I caught a clear glimpse of his features.
“Peter!” I shrieked.
He didn’t seem to hear me as a cab squealed to the curb.
I abandoned courtesy, shoving through the crowd, yelling, “Peter! Peter!”
And to my relief, he paused, turned, and spotted me. Just for a moment I thought his expression lightened, but it was hard to tell in the artificial glare.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, reaching him. Almost tentatively I reached out to touch his sleeve. He didn’t disappear and I didn’t wake up.
There was something funny about his smile. “Grace.”
It was unbelievable. It really was Peter. In the flesh—and a very nice bronze-green Burberry mac. Peter in Los Angeles. It seemed…fantastical. Like finding a unicorn galloping down the 101 Freeway.
He looked tired, little lines of weariness radiating from his so-blue eyes, the glint of golden bristle on his unshaven cheek—but he looked so good. I’d forgotten—and how could that be?—how sharp-edged and vital the reality of him was: those intense eyes beneath the dark V of his eyebrows, the contrast of gilt-fair hair—looking unusually ruffled this evening—the thin, sensual mouth that was curling into a smile that was half pleasure, half…something else.
“Thought I’d see for myself what was keeping you,” he said, and he sounded perfectly casual, as though picking up the thread of a previous conversation.
I looked past him to the taxi driver who was leaning on the hood of his cab, waiting for us to get the reunion over with. “I’ve got my car,” I said. It occurred to me that he was not taking me in his arms, not kissing me hello; in fact, there seemed to be an invisible force field between us—and I was pretty sure I was not the source.
“Right,” he said, and nodded to the driver who raised his shoulders and got back into his cab.
I glanced around for his luggage, and he said, “I didn’t stop to pack a bag.”
And there it was, right out in the open. “What happened?” I asked. “Brian told me —”
“I imagine he would,” Peter said, and his hand cupped my elbow, guiding me towards the crosswalk. I looked up, trying to read his face, but it had never been an easy face to read.
“I’m in parking lot three,” I said, pointing the way. “And, anyway, it’s not like it’s the kind of thing you could hide: armed men bursting into the shop and opening fire on you.” I wanted to stop and put my arms around him, reassure myself that he was all right, that he was still in one piece, that he was still…mine. But he hustled me along, hurrying me through the cars that barely slowed down to permit pedestrians safe passage.
And then we were in the chill, sickly artificial light of the concrete parking structure—and I was still talking—and still not getting any answers.
“I can’t believe you’re here. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Why didn’t you let me know you were all right? I was so worried!”
“Were you?” His smile was a little wry.
“Of course I was. What does that mean?”
He shook his head. “Where are you parked?”
I led the way to my Honda Accord and unlocked the door. Peter folded his lean length into the passenger seat with a sigh of relief.
“How did you get out of the country without your passport? Or do I want to know?”
“I have my passport. I keep a copy in a safe place for emergencies.”
“Of course you do,” I said grimly. He gave me a cool look.
“I’ve a reservation at the Hyatt Regency,” he said as I pulled out onto Century Boulevard.
I opened my mouth to object, and then closed it again. Even if I were convinced that Peter or my family would be comfortable rubbing shoulders, I couldn’t invite a man who might have some kind of team of international assassins after him to stay at my parents’ house.
“Do you have any idea who tried to kill you?”
“No, I don’t.” He met my eyes. “I’m as startled as you, believe me.”
I wouldn’t exactly have described myself as “startled.” Horrified maybe. Worried, definitely.
I asked delicately, “Had anything…happened…recently?”
“Happened? Not that I recall. And I should think I’d recall my doing something liable to result in someone actively pursuing my removal from the bloody planet.”
Unsurprisingly, Brian believed that the attack was the result of Peter resuming his former criminal activities—and perhaps attempting to double-cross his newest confederates. I didn’t believe it. Not only because I didn’t want to believe it; after two years I felt I knew Peter well enough to be certain he had no interest in returning to a life of crime. For one thing he worked far too hard at Rogue’s Gallery.
It seemed more likely that yet another of Peter’s former criminal associates had resurfaced with a grudge—real or fancied. I couldn’t think of a tactful way to suggest that, however, and the thought was bound to have occurred to him in any case.
It took only about ten minutes to reach the Hyatt Regency on the Avenue of the Stars. Peter’s reservation was confirmed, he checked in without complication—did he keep spare copies of his credit cards as well? That couldn’t be a good sign, could it? Surely there was such a thing as being too prepared?
“I can’t believe you actually made a hotel reservation,” I remarked, as we got into the elevator.
“Don’t you make hotel reservations when you travel? A woman as well organized as yourself?”
“I’m usually not fleeing one step ahead of a hit squad.”
“You underestimate yourself. Besides, two goons with shotguns don’t make a hit squad.”
“I bow to your superior knowledge. What are they supposed to be? Unhappy customers?”
“Possibly.” He yawned, and then smiled apologetically. It was the smile that undid me; it was so unguarded, so genuine. He was dead on his feet, that much was clear.
Reaching his room, Peter unlocked the door, felt inside for a light switch.
I stared about the spacious, well-appointed room furnished in
soothing cream and earth tones. Peter’s eyes went straight to the enormous king-size bed.
“Are you staying?” he asked simply, and it was clear he was thinking in terms of sharing precious sheet space and nothing more.
And to my surprise, I—for once—didn’t have to think about it. “I’m staying.” I hesitated. “That is, if you want me to.”
He had moved to the picture window, staring past the private balcony to the Los Angeles skyline. Beneath the starry skies, the myriad city lights twinkled, and a river of headlights flowed slowly through the gleaming towers; streetlights, office lights, porch lights, and the lights of several million windows glittered in the night.
“You’re joking,” he said without turning. “Of course I want you.”
Oh. All right. That was reassuring. It could have been said with a little more enthusiasm, granted, but still…
“Do you think they followed you?” I asked his back.
Peter did turn then. “I don’t think they were professionals. They came in guns a-blazin’ in the middle of the afternoon when the shop was full of customers.”
“Do you think it was some kind of a threat? Could it have been a—a hoax?”
“Not that, no. I think they’d have been happy to top me. They certainly gave it their full attention. But I don’t think they were pros.”
He drew the drapes shut. “I think I’ll have a shower. Break open the mini-bar, will you?”
“Shall I order you some kind of dinner from room service?”
“Just drinks for me. Order yourself whatever you like.”
“Why do I suddenly feel like Nora Charles?”
“Whom?”
“Mrs. Thin Man.”
Peter winked at me and disappeared into the gleaming bathroom. I went into action. I phoned home, leaving a brief message for my parents who were dining out that evening, then I flipped through the hotel services booklet and called down to room service, ordering from their selection of desserts. I took Peter’s room key, got ice from the machine down the hall, and returned to ransack the contents of the mini-fridge.
Peter strolled out of the steamy, deliciously-scented bathroom a little while later, and stopped short. The bed was turned down, the lamps cozily lit, a tempting selection of desserts sat on a side table.
Docketful of Poesy Page 3
