Killing Kelly

by Heather Graham

  “But I’ll be there,” Mel said. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Hi!”

  Doug O’Casey eased his sunglasses back and looked up. He had been lying on the beach, something he seldom had occasion to do. Born and bred in South Florida, he was accustomed to sea, sun and surf. His recent musings, however, had been on the fact that, because of that, rather than in spite of it, he never just lay out in the sun on the sand. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the water, he just preferred to be out on it or taking part in sports involving it. And besides, it provided him with too much time to do nothing but think—and the thoughts racing through his head didn’t particularly make him happy.

  He’d come out here with Jane Ulrich, to keep her company. They were out on the private beach area of the Montage, an old deco hotel known for its old-world service. He’d never seen the place before today; it wasn’t one of the big, showy places that had become renowned. Last night, they’d put on a private performance for an embassy party. A weekend stay at the hotel had come with the gig. Therefore, an occasion to stop, to keep Jane company, to lie in the sand. Except when he twisted, he saw that Jane was no longer lying on the sand. He hadn’t heard her leave, and that disturbed him.

  “Hello!” the stranger said again, waving a hand, determined to draw his attention.

  The woman looking down at him reminded him of a stereotypical valley girl grown up. She was petite, compact, blond beyond blond, blue-eyed and…perky. On the beach, she was dressed in a short skirt and high heels that she was obviously having trouble standing in. Her smile was irritatingly cheerful.

  “Hi,” he responded, waiting.

  “You’re Doug O’Casey? Shannon said that I could find you here,” she said.

  He didn’t want to admit to his identity—not right away. He arched a brow slowly and carefully. The woman didn’t look like a friend of Shannon’s, or even an associate. She was too…Was there really such an adjective as Hollywood? She was simply plastic, from features that seemed stretched to the breaking point to breasts that seemed anatomically impossible.

  “I have an offer for you,” she told him. “A business proposition.”

  Offer, he thought, wondering why his heart had quickened for a minute. Not case, problem, dilemma…

  “My name is Ally Bassett, and I’m the head of Bassett Management.” When he didn’t respond she continued. “I represent one of the most popular actresses on the daytime circuit. She’s about to become involved in a special project, and I’d like to hire you to accompany her. I think we need a man with your special…qualifications, shall we say.”

  “My special qualifications?” he asked, slightly amused. “What’s your offer?”

  She sighed, shifting her weight in the sand, and he realized with an odd pleasure he shouldn’t have been feeling that she was entirely annoyed by the fact that her designer sandals were covered in sand.

  “Perhaps you’d be willing to meet with me in the café…say, in thirty minutes?”

  “What’s your offer?” he demanded again.

  This time her sigh was pained and impatient. “A very lucrative one, Mr. O’Casey. It has to do with a music video.”

  He arched a brow, unable to suppress the grin that came to his lips. “A music video? Who’s the group?” he asked, now completely intrigued.

  “Kill Me Quick.”

  It was a bizarre name, but he’d actually heard of the group. He’d heard quite a lot about them, in fact. Though hitting the rock scene with numbers that veered toward heavy metal, they were still incredibly geared toward the beat of their work, making it perfect for dance. Their timing was impeccable.

  “I’m sorry, I’m just not getting this. Do you want to hire me on as a teacher or as a dancer?” he asked, frowning. Of all the things he had expected as he pondered his next career move, this had not been among them.

  “Well, officially we want to hire you to teach my client how to dance. Unofficially, we want you there to keep an eye on her.”

  His brows shot up. “Sorry. I’m really confused now. You want a dancer or a bodyguard?”

  “Both, actually,” Ally said. “You’ve been highly recommended for your dance skills. And we know that you had a very different career before you went into dance. The skills you have from that job may come in very handy.”

  He rose, dusting sand from the back of his legs. Though he wasn’t interested in spending his time with some spoiled star, he had to admit that the “bodyguard” aspect of the job had him intrigued.

  “I’ll meet you in the café. Give me twenty minutes,” he told her. He was smiling slightly, shaking his head as he turned toward the hotel. She was swearing as she made her way through the sand in his wake.

  Strange, he’d been lying there thinking he was ready to take his life in a different direction. And now…What the hell. It just might be interesting. He liked the music. And, yes, he did want to know what celebrity was being wooed for the project.

  CHAPTER 3

  Kelly wished she were just about anywhere else in the world.

  The party on the yacht was pretty much what she had expected—full of strangers. These were people she was supposed to work with, but so far, they seemed to be a group of suntanned beach bums and bunnies, heedless of anything beyond the pursuit of another drink. As she leaned against the railing, sipping a cosmopolitan with Mel by her side, a bone-thin, huge-breasted woman walked by, offering a smile that was surely half collagen. “Drinks, anyone?”

  Kelly smiled back. “Still have this one, thanks.”

  “Fine, thanks,” Mel said. When she had moved on, he asked, “Having fun yet?”

  “Um—sure,” she lied.

  “We don’t have to stay that long. You should just meet a few more people.”

  Beyond Mel, she saw a tall blond man. He was broad-shouldered, deeply bronzed and decked out in a handsome suit that gave credence to the width of those shoulders and the tapered line of his hip. She was certain that the guy was artificial, like the woman—pumped up on steroids, the kind of man who spent his every waking hour in a gym, or in the sun, or shaving or waxing his chest, or God knew what else.

  He turned, as if aware that he was being watched. He didn’t smile, just assessed her gravely in return. His face was both classic and rugged, with clean strong lines and eyes an almost shockingly deep blue. Contacts, probably. And his posture was so perfect, it made him seem even taller than the six two or three that he must be. He wore the handsome suit with a casual ease that made her think of a later-day Cary Grant or Errol Flynn.

  Gay? she wondered.

  He belonged on a remake of Baywatch, she decided. And she felt a moment’s discomfort, aware that they were both staring at each other, and that he was surely doing the same sort of mental deduction regarding her. She didn’t know why, but she was afraid that his assessment of her wasn’t a very good one. Maybe he was deciding that she’d had a nose job, and that her lips were mainly collagen. That she was anorexic, maybe a cocaine freak.

  She flushed suddenly as the man inclined his head slightly, then turned away. She had no right to be judging him. She knew how unfair stereotypes could be. Those who worked in soap operas far too often endured the snobbery of critics and their peers.

  The “producer” was a rich, middle-aged, super-tanned, silver-haired, would-be Casanova named Marc Logan. She’d seen him before. He’d been in the crowd her last night of work on the soap. No surprise. The video offer had been on the table then; she should have met him that night.

  She’d forced a smile and slipped from beneath his arm about forty times already tonight. She flushed, lowering her head slightly, thinking again that she had no right to judge these people. She was just feeling so…well, lost. And betrayed. And paying for something that hadn’t been her fault!

  When she looked up, she realized that Marc Logan was watching her. He was against the opposite railing, across the deck from her now. When he lifted his glass to her, she forced a smile an
d lifted her own. Okay, so he had been a little too touchy. But his admiration for her seemed genuine. He had been there the night of her accident, and he seemed to admire her all the more for her “get back up and go!” attitude. And, she had to admit, he didn’t seem the least concerned about hiring her. For that alone, she knew she should be thankful.

  “You sure do look beautiful on this old scow!” he called to her.

  Right, the yacht was an old scow. He was waiting for her to reply, to say that it was a magnificent vessel. Then he could walk over and start talking.

  She called out a simple thanks, and he started walking toward them, anyway.

  Luckily one of the bikini-clad waitresses snagged his attention. He slipped his arm around the girl, and his hand fell—slimed—down her back. She didn’t seem to mind.

  Kelly turned away, wincing. Okay, so he was admiring and flattering. He still made her uneasy. Was she really going to take a job working for him? She shook her head, amazed to feel the prick of tears behind her eyes. “I can’t believe Joe Penny would fire me—and that I’ll be reduced to this!” she whispered.

  “You’re not being fired. You’re being a savvy businesswoman by keeping your name out there!” Mel assured her.

  She gave his arm a little hug. “If I’m not being fired, why are you so worried about me? Worried and determined that I take this video job. Mel…these people are scary!”

  He laughed and seemed more at ease. “Kelly, you just don’t know them. Hey, you’ve survived Hollywood a long time. You can deal with anyone.”

  “You really want me to work for him?” she asked Mel, indicating the producer.

  “He’s just footing the bill. Trust me,” Mel continued, “Logan won’t be around much at all, he’s just getting things going. And he’s spent hours bitching about every cent of the budget except for the off-the-chart money he’s willing to spend to have you.”

  Money. She suddenly knew why she’d felt such fierce betrayal and fear. She had actually been so complacent about her work, without ever really looking to the future and change. Valentine Valley was easy and comfortable. Her job paid the bills and paid them well. She loved her house off Sunset Boulevard, and loved having the wherewithal to take her nieces and nephews on trips to theme parks around the States, to help out when her sister and brother wound up in any kind of trouble. She’d bought the house in Palm Springs for her folks, and when her mother had been ill, and then her father, she’d been lucky enough to pay for the best private care available until she had lost both. And she’d been given time then, twice. Everyone had been so understanding.

  As if reading her thoughts, Mel spoke softly again. “Kelly, I can see your mind working. And I know what you don’t want other people to know.”

  “Oh?”

  “Your role was a sure thing. You’re scared for your future. But it’s good for you to take a few chances.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, Logan is a sleazebag, yes. But he’s a rich sleazebag. You probably won’t even have to see him again. Jerry Tritan is the director you’ll be working with, and I swear, he is ‘A’ list. He’s the new ‘it’ man for this kind of work.” Mel began to tick off a number of recent videos the man had done. She’d seen a few and they were good—almost like miniature movies rather than bursts of op-art images. “He’s the guy in the nice suit, with the very serious dark eyes and shaggy haircut.”

  She felt somewhat mollified. Jerry Tritan was known to be exacting but ethical. Shy, not much of a player. He was in the midst of a serious discussion with the tall blond man, and both seemed to be listening intently to each other. They both looked up, as if a sixth sense warned them they were being watched. The blond man stared at her. Jerry Tritan lowered his head in a polite acknowledgment and she returned the gesture.

  “See?” Mel said softly. “It will be all right.”

  “Sure, if you say so!”

  If her spine were any stiffer, it would probably crack. She forced herself to look out over the water. The scenery was actually very beautiful. The downtown lights from Miami and Miami Beach reflected on the bay and the sky was touched with a few puffs of clouds just visible in the night.

  It was beautiful here. If she just gave it a chance…

  “And here comes another principal in our new venture,” Mel murmured.

  “There she is!” came a cry.

  One of the beautiful people on board, a young man with a thick head of blond hair that curled at his nape, was coming toward them. He was slender, dark-eyed, with a lean, almost classic face. She had seen him before as well, she was suddenly certain. He’d been with Logan, hanging around behind Mel on the night she had fallen.

  “Kelly! Kelly Trent.” Arriving directly in front of her, he took both her hands, smiling at her. His look was thoroughly adoring, and she should have appreciated it more. However, what with recent revelations…

  “Kelly, this is Lance Morton, lead singer with the group Kill Me Quick.”

  Kill Me Quick. Great name.

  “Lance, how do you do? A pleasure,” she murmured, wishing she could extricate her hands from his. She didn’t mean to be impolite; she was just feeling ill.

  “Great. Thrilled. I wanted you, you know. Right from the very beginning. As soon as we heard we were getting the contract and the video,” he told her. He looked at her sheepishly. “I was there in L.A., dying to meet you, but after the accident we all kept our distance. But…wow. I feel like a little kid getting to meet my idol!”

  “Well, thank you very much,” she said. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “No, thank you. It’s just way beyond rad that we’re going to be working together. Way beyond.”

  “Well…cool,” she said, finally drawing her hands from his grip. “But the deal hasn’t been finalized,” she murmured, glancing at Mel. “It isn’t exactly written in cement yet.”

  “Oh, but it will be!” he told her, giving her a thumbs-up sign and offering Mel a broad grin. “We start in two weeks, and it will be the time of my dreams!” He was being summoned, she realized, by one of the cocktail waitresses, a dark-haired beauty in a bikini and sailor’s cap. But before leaving, he kissed her cheek, managing to slobber enough that her face smelled like sour bourbon and old smoke.

  “Mel!” she said, when he had walked on. “This is no done deal.”

  “Kelly, they’re offering big bucks for you. Really big bucks. And you need it, Kelly. You need to sock it away in case…well, you just need to sock it away. What’s to say no to?”

  “Hmm, let me think. Some videos come out like pure crap, and the exposure could turn on me. I’m sorry, Mel, but it is true!”

  “Kelly, Lance Morton may be a bit…rad, but the money people behind this are the best. Hey, you guys could take Best Video at one of those music-award things—and you could wind up hosting a show. Trust me, the good outweighs the bad. And once again, you need it.”

  She flushed. She was bad with money. Horrible, as a matter of fact. She should have accrued a savings account that would have seen her through such an unforeseen circumstance, but…

  She cleared her throat. “Okay, Mel. You and Ally got me here, so let’s get to it. What am I supposed to do? Just stand around looking ethereal? Jump off a cliff…what?”

  “You’ll be dancing, doing some backup singing…. It will be great,” Mel said.

  “What?”

  “Dancing, doing some backup singing, that’s all. It will be easy. A piece of cake for you. This will pay more than some feature work might. Seriously, wait until you see this contract. It will be an easy slide into the future.”

  She groaned. “No, it won’t.”

  “Ah, come on. You can carry a tune. The boys have heard you—remember Marla Valentine’s stint as a nightclub entertainer? And you’ve always wanted to do musical theater.”

  “Yes, I can carry a tune.”

  “Then?”

  “I can’t dance.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone can dance.”

 
“Well, I can’t. Honestly, Mel. I can’t dance.”

  “You majored in theater arts—”

  “And the dance majors laughed at me when I took the compulsory courses. I have two left feet.”

  “We’ll deal with that,” he assured her confidently. “They’ve already been advised that you need a coach.”

  “All right. Tell me about the video.”

  “The song is called ‘Tango to Terror.’”

  “‘Tango to Terror’—by Kill Me Quick. You’ve gotta love it,” she murmured, shaking her head.

  He smiled. “It will be fine. You just have to tango.”

  “Oh, Mel. Please listen to me. I cannot dance.”

  “They’ve got that covered. You’ll have a coach.”

  “What I’ll need is a stand-in.”

  “Kelly! You sound like a defeatist. You’ve got a crackerjack dance coach,” he said.

  “She’ll quit in three days,” Kelly assured him.

  “He.”

  “Great. He’ll quit in two days.”

  “Ah, come on, Kelly. You sound scared, but don’t be. They love you, they want you.”

  “Yeah, well, at Valentine Valley they have affection and respect for me, and that’s why we’re in this situation. You want to explain that?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Kelly, Dr. Dana Sumter was murdered three weeks ago.”

  She frowned, not understanding what that fact had to do with her. “Yes, I know about that. It’s been on television and in the papers. But I understand that they arrested her ex-husband a few days ago.”

  “Yes, they did,” Mel said, making a clucking sound. “And motive? Hell, the guy had plenty. She completely emasculated the poor fellow. But he’s crying innocent.”

  “Most criminals do claim to be innocent,” Kelly reminded him.

  “All right! I doubt you’ve heard about this one because, in comparison, it was small time.”