Killing Kelly

by Heather Graham

  “Wow!” Serena said, bursting into laughter when the two men were out of earshot. “You are something, Doug. Will you take a seat, join us?”

  “Don’t let her scare you,” Jennifer said, smiling. “She’s married. To a big he-man-type P.I.”

  “Oh, good Lord, I wasn’t scaring the man,” Serena said.

  “You’re salivating!” Jen warned.

  “I am not!” Serena said indignantly. “I have a really wonderful husband, just as you said, Jen. But I also have good eyesight and instincts. And it’s delightful to meet you, Doug. Especially here and now,” she admitted.

  “Thanks.” He took a seat easily. Until he freed himself to do so, Kelly hadn’t realized what a death grip she’d maintained on his arm.

  “We were all sisters,” Jennifer explained.

  “I see,” O’Casey said.

  “On the soap,” Serena said.

  “He doesn’t watch soaps,” Kelly said.

  He shrugged ruefully. “I don’t really watch any daytime television,” he assured them.

  “If he did, he wouldn’t watch soaps,” Kelly said, and wondered why she was now feeling so awkward.

  He turned to her, that deep, chilling sweep of his eyes raking over her once again.

  “I think he likes cop shows,” she heard herself say. What the hell was she doing? She actually owed him a thank-you.

  “I’m into the old sitcom reruns, actually,” O’Casey said to Serena and Jen.

  “The older the better,” Jen said, agreeing with him. “I Love Lucy, The Honeymooners, My Favorite Blonde—”

  “To name a few,” O’Casey said with a rueful half smile.

  “While you’re here, we’d love to have you for dinner. I mean,” Serena said with a frown, “you are here for a while, right?”

  “A week.”

  “It would be lovely,” Serena said. “Jen and her husband could come…and your mom, Jen.” Her eyes were light and wickedly teasing again. “You have heard of Abby Sawyer, haven’t you?” she asked O’Casey.

  “You bet. She’s one of our finest living actresses,” O’Casey said, gazing at Jennifer. “She’s your mother?”

  Jennifer grinned. “Yep, she’s my mom. She’s a delightful person, too. But if we all have dinner, be warned. Serena has a one-year-old boy who is just learning to walk. He’s a terror.”

  “My child is not a terror!” Serena protested, but with laughter. “Here’s one for you. Jen has a darling little girl and twins. The twins are infants, and they scream blue blazes.”

  “I’d love to come,” O’Casey said.

  Kelly frowned fiercely at Serena, but Serena just ignored her. “It’s a date. Friday night. Jen, is that good for you?”

  “You bet.”

  Frustrated, Kelly stared around the table. They hadn’t even asked her. Assumptions were being made far too easily.

  O’Casey was the one to look at Kelly. “Do you mind?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she lied quickly. “It’s a…fine idea. Just fine.”

  “The food is actually very good here,” Serena said. “Now that we’ve nabbed you away from your table, you should order.”

  “What do you suggest?” O’Casey asked.

  “The penne with vodka cream sauce,” Jennifer said, and when the waitress appeared, that’s exactly what he ordered.

  “Jerk!” Serena muttered.

  “Pardon?” O’Casey said.

  “Matt Avery. Since he shot up to CEO at Household Heaven, he’s had a thing for Kelly, though Kelly didn’t have a thing for him. He’s a jerk. He caused this whole mess.”

  “Serena, really, we don’t have to discuss this now,” Kelly murmured.

  “What do you think about Joe agreeing to all this?” Jennifer asked, as if she hadn’t heard Kelly speak.

  “Joe is a nice enough guy. He’s capable of being a little jerky himself, but we all know he’s really decent beneath. In his way,” Kelly said. She lifted her hands. “Hey, with the trouble before, he had his hands full. And he has to bow to Avery.”

  “You think he sold out. I think he’s really frightened for you,” Serena said.

  Kelly let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t think he sold out. And it’s really no big deal.”

  “But that woman, Dr. Sumter, was killed,” Serena said. “And Liam says that from what he’s seen and heard, the ex-husband just might not be guilty.”

  “Who is Liam?” O’Casey asked.

  “My husband,” Serena explained. “He’s a private investigator.”

  “Great. Will I get to meet him?”

  “Of course,” Serena said.

  “Good.”

  O’Casey appeared to be more intrigued by the idea of meeting a P.I. than even meeting Jen’s mother, even though he had said he admired her.

  Serena looked at Kelly. “Liam is actually a little worried about you, you know.”

  Kelly moaned. “A woman, reputed to be one of the greatest bitches of all time, was murdered. I’m not saying that it should be…understandable that she was murdered. Not at all. What happened was terrible. But I’ll say it again. I’m a soap actress. She was real. And of course the ex-husband is denying the charge. Everyone denies the charge!”

  “There was that other advice therapist killed in Ohio,” Jennifer reminded her.

  “In Ohio. She drowned in a bathtub.” Kelly tried not to show her irritation. She really wished they were not having this conversation with O’Casey at the table. True, she had dragged him over. And true, he had done a great job in front of Matt and Joe. But now…She sure as hell didn’t want his sympathy or pity!

  “Regardless of whatever crock Matt has been feeding Joe Penny and the other powers that be, it remains a crock. The point is, it doesn’t matter. Admittedly I’m a little scared right now. But you two haven’t been on the show regularly in the last years—” She paused, glancing at Doug. “Maternity leave sent Serena off to Egypt, and Jennifer has been doing a lot of theater work, so she’s supposedly been off doing all kinds of international travel as well. Anyway, the show hasn’t been the same in a long time. And I’ll be damned if I’ll ever suck up to Matt Avery. I’m not in any danger. I won’t even say that I rejected the wrong person because he’s a jerk and I’d do it again. But let’s not turn it into anything else!”

  They were all staring at her as she finished her tirade. No one responded.

  She groaned, burying her face in her hands, then looked up again. “Please! I am not in any danger.”

  “Well, you were nearly killed on the set,” Jennifer reminded her.

  “This is California. An earthquake could swallow us all up at almost any time,” she reminded them.

  “But was it an accident?” Serena mused.

  “Oh, please. You’ve been married to a P.I. too long,” Kelly said, shaking her head. “You guys are supposed to be my friends!” she pleaded. “Do you want to turn me into a paranoid?”

  “Of course not,” Serena murmured.

  “We want you to be careful,” Jennifer said.

  “I am careful. End of subject, please!” Kelly pleaded.

  At last, Serena looked at O’Casey. “How’s the penne?”

  “Very good, thanks.”

  Jennifer looked at her watch. “Well, this has certainly been an interesting lunch. And long. You two are due at the that dance studio in a little less than two hours.”

  Marc Logan’s South Beach office was in the penthouse of one of the tallest buildings in the area. Though not nearly as tall as some of the skyscrapers now gracing downtown Miami itself, the building still gave Marc one hell of a view. From his height, he could see the Intercoastal waterway and the bay. Gorgeous. Plate-glass floor-to-ceiling windows, rich carpeting, solid dark oak furniture, a fantastic bar—his office had everything. He liked his yacht, but he liked his office even better.

  In fact, he thought with a smile, he just liked being Marc and being exactly where he was. Because here, no matter how old a man might be,
no matter what his looks, money could buy almost anything—sex, drugs, beauty, revenge…anything. As a young man—one with a big nose, a thin build and a lack of natural charisma—he’d put in some major elbow grease. He’d used his mind and he’d made a hell of a lot of money.

  Now, of course, there were three exes in the picture, scattered about in various places collecting on his hard work. The first was living quietly in a fine community on the west coast of the state. She collected her alimony and kept her mouth shut. The second was a royal pain, always asking for more. With his third marriage, he had seen to it that he had a prenuptial agreement, so she didn’t have much of a leg to stand on. She’d been a trophy wife, but not a terribly bright one, so despite her scheming, she wasn’t much of a thorn in his side. After her, he’d decided that it was better not to marry. Yes, he paid a great deal for companionship at times. But wives were just the same, really, only more expensive in the long run. Then again…

  He was smarter these days. Women were essential. They could be hell, but they were one of his weaknesses, he had to admit. But he had learned better how to deal with them. And after his last escapade, he had learned a whole lot better. These days he was just damned careful.

  He ran his fingers through his rich silver hair. The color wasn’t exactly natural, but then again, neither was the hair itself. Transplant. He touched the bridge of his nose. Now it was a damned good one. And as for his skinny build, it still required a fair amount of work to keep the paunch down and the muscles up, but he had never shirked hard work.

  And there was still some hard work in his business, but he could delegate. He had bought the right stocks and his stocks made money. He had a nose for selling off when something was going to take a dive. He had a construction company and good people to manage it. So now he could take a few chances. Most times, even those were calculated. He could make money on things he enjoyed. He enjoyed music. Loved it. If he hadn’t been a bone-skinny kid from the Bronx who had to make it somehow, he would have tried to be a drummer. He loved the drums and he’d always enjoyed the whole rock thing. The sounds, the action, the energy, the fans…screeching women throwing themselves at musicians.

  But now he had discovered that most of the screeching women figured that the money behind the music was damned cool, too. So it all worked for him. Producing Kill Me Quick’s album and video was pure enjoyment for him.

  And then, like icing on the cake, there was Kelly Trent.

  And because he was who he was, he could afford Kelly Trent. He was still basking in the pleasure that he’d accomplished that coup. She didn’t know just how good she was going to look once the video was complete. He meant to be there for the filming, even though he’d hired a producer, a money cruncher. He still meant to be around. To watch.

  With a smile, he left his window view and went to his desk. He pushed a button. “Betsy, get me Harry Sullivan on Dead Man’s Key.”

  “It’s after five, sir. We might not catch him.”

  “After five, yes, but I’m willing to bet he’ll be available for me.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll put the call through immediately.”

  A second later, he heard his secretary’s voice. “Harry Sullivan on line one, Mr. Logan.”

  “Thank you, Betsy.”

  In a number of instances, his hiring practices didn’t have much to do with ability. But not in the case of his secretary. She was pure efficiency. Tall as a man, built like a Norwegian lumberjack, ugly as sin and as capable as they came. The trophy wives had never been able to complain about her.

  “Mr. Logan, good evening. What can I do for you?”

  “Harry, I’m just checking on my arrangements for the video.”

  There was a split second of silence. “Sir, Betsy assured me that—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure Betsy has seen to the facilities. I just want to double-check on the arrangements. You’ve made sure that we’ll have the island entirely to ourselves? No one there but absolutely essential personnel?”

  “Two cooks, four maids, four housekeepers and me, Mr. Logan. Other than that, the island is yours, entirely yours. There won’t be any spying eyes around, trying to catch the action before it’s ready. I’ve made certain that you’ll have everything you want. And, of course, I’ll see to it that you get anything else you might require while you’re there.”

  “Good. Privacy for an assurance of safety is what I want, Sullivan.”

  “Yessir! I understand that.”

  “You’re a good man, Sullivan.”

  “May I say, Mr. Logan, that we’re grateful for your business, and will happily do anything in our power to assure that you’re pleased with every amenity.”

  “You may certainly say so. What I want, Sullivan, is your absolute assurance that my star is going to be safe on that island of yours.”

  “Safety. Of course! It is an island, sir. No bridges. Pleasure boats will be forbidden from docking. There will be people out on the waters, but—”

  “Yes, yes,” Marc said impatiently. “But no one gets on the island.”

  “Right. Absolutely right.”

  Marc had a few more questions for the man, and when they were answered satisfactorily, he hung up and smiled. Arrangements guaranteed. No idiot fantasy freaks were getting close to his Kelly!

  CHAPTER 9

  With lunch over and a little time to spare, Kelly had suggested they walk a bit on Sunset. They’d stopped at a music store and an antique store, and Doug had to admit that he’d been impressed with her friends. Both beautiful women, they were grounded and fun. He looked forward to the dinner.

  Since she had her own car and he had a rental, they drove separately to the studio. It was a perfect space, nothing but an audio system and a vast hardwood floor. Mel was already there, delighted to give them the keys—it was theirs for the duration of the time in California.

  Mel had ordered a variety of practice and performance shoes for Kelly, and she chose a pair with which to start work, oddly enough more than willing to listen to his advice regarding her footwear. Mel didn’t stay after assuring himself that he had acquired the right supplies for his client. He gave them the keys and told them good luck.

  “So. Tango,” Kelly said a little awkwardly after he had departed and the door had closed.

  “Basically very easy.”

  She laughed softly. “I’m going to look like Jane Ulrich?”

  “Not by this afternoon, but we’ve got some time. So…we start with the basics.”

  And they did. Working separately in front of the mirrors, he showed her the very basics; then they worked together.

  “I’m not looking a lot like Jane,” Kelly commented ruefully.

  “Learn the steps, then the close contact, then the sharpness and the shaping. A lot of what looks so great is the shaping, and that will come,” he assured her.

  She was smiling at last, he thought gladly, realizing that once she started something, she was determined. She was also agile, light, flexible and toned. And whether she was willing to admit it or not, she must have had some kind of dance experience in the past, because she was up on steps.

  She was a pleasure to teach, quick to laugh at her own mistakes while ready to correct them. And she was a pleasure to touch, to hold. The scent of her hair teased his nose. The feel of her was warm and supple.

  This was a job, he reminded himself. He taught lots of women to dance. Young, old, thick, thin…it was something he did. He hadn’t gotten into it because he loved music, loved movement. He had an edge in him that liked to compete. He had discovered that he was a good teacher almost by accident. Simply by doing it. Since his affair with the brilliant champion who had wound up dead, he had forged a distance. And there had never been a chance of his becoming involved with either a fellow instructor or a student again. He hadn’t even been sure that he liked this woman. But now…

  The tango was close. Her essence was intoxicating, her laughter fluid and enticing. Once into this, despite her heavy den
ials, she was passionate. And time ticked away without either of them seeming to notice…

  Finally, Kill Me Quick’s electric rendition of Tango to Terror came to an end for the last time. They were locked together as the music ended. And for a fraction of time, they were left in silence, their eyes meeting. Then, as if on cue, they simultaneously moved apart.

  He cleared his throat. “You’ll be looking like Jane in no time,” he said lightly.

  “Do you really think that will be possible?” she asked.

  “You moved mountains today,” he told her.

  “Well, great.” And then she smiled again, a deep, happy smile for the work she knew had been well done. “Maybe!” she murmured. She backed away a step. “Same time tomorrow.”

  “Same time tomorrow,” he agreed.

  “Um…you’re all right here, right? The hotel, rental car, all that kind of stuff?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “Have you called Miss February yet?” she asked him.

  He lowered his head, smiled slightly, then looked at her again. “Not yet.”

  “Well, she was certainly…Miss February,” Kelly said, suddenly in a hurry. “Well, tomorrow, then.” She turned and departed quickly.

  He watched her for a minute and a strange sense of unease filled him. She didn’t seem concerned in the least, but he couldn’t forget the threats that surrounded her. And he didn’t like the way she had left.

  Maybe he was making a mountain out of a molehill just because he had once been a cop. And admittedly, putting death threats made against a soap star together with the murder of an advice diva was reaching. But he had been hired by Ally Bassett specifically because he had been a cop. And he missed investigative work. So…there was no reason he shouldn’t do some investigating. He just didn’t need to follow the woman everywhere.

  He shook his head and walked over to make sure the stereo equipment was turned off. And beside the shoe boxes he noticed a wallet on the floor. It must have fallen from her purse. Opening it, he looked quickly for her ID. Yes, it was her wallet.

  He set the wallet down, changed his own shoes and turned out the lights, ready to lock up. He would give Mel a call, let him know that he had the wallet. And he would return it to Kelly tomorrow.