“Girls, girls, girls.” Brian Burrough’s baritone chuckle preceded his arrival on the set, his brown wavy hair perfectly matching the silk of his Melrose Avenue shirt. “No catfights now. We’ll just edit around that business with the spaceship.”
“I didn’t say spaceship,” Arianna shot back. “I was getting a rocket ship.”
Brian flashed a look over Arianna’s shoulder, directly at Carla. She didn’t have to turn to know that the little bitch had just rolled her eyes.
“The message was too strong to ignore,” Arianna said, yanking a tissue from the stylist’s box on the side of the set to wipe off the thick lip gloss they’d slathered on her.
“No one in those seats was on our preapproved list, Ari,” Carla continued.
“You don’t need a preapproved list,” Arianna replied, looking at Brian, preferring to fight with the show’s creator and producer, rather than the assistant with delusions of grandeur. “Just releases. I can do this without your spies sniffing out clues during the warm-up.”
“You never know when—”
Arianna held up a hand to stave off Brian’s “what if you go dry one day” speech. He’d never believed her. Not when they first started dating, not when he dreamed up the idea for this show, not even when she suggested someone was knocking on his telepathic door and she offered to give him a reading. He’d never believed. And that was at the root of their breakup, not his claims that he loved another woman. How could she love a man who didn’t believe her? Hell, how could she work for one?
“Believe me, Brian,” she said after she’d eliminated most of the goo on her lips, “I know who and when I can read.”
“Hey.” Carla put her hand on Arianna’s wrist to stop her from the automatic mascara picking she’d already started. “Don’t take the eyes off. We’ll have pickups before the crew hits overtime. Especially for that David scene.”
She made it sound like David’s reading was a disaster. Before Arianna could respond, Carla had swooped Brian away and was whispering something about scripting and editing. And Brian seemed mesmerized by whatever she was saying.
Well, he was the executive producer, the moneyman with five hit shows to his credit, so he called the shots. And evidently, one of the shots he was calling was to give Carla Lynch way more authority than she deserved.
That, along with his thinly veiled disdain for Arianna’s gift, was getting very old, even though the ratings of Closure got higher every week.
She rounded the craft services table laden with snacks, snagged a chip and popped it in her mouth as she headed down the dimly lit corridor to the back exit. Before she reached it, the door whooshed open.
The yellow security lighting that should have spilled into the darkened hallway was blocked by a tall, broad silhouette. Arianna slowed her step and then stopped, hit by a force of energy so powerful and warm, all she wanted to do was . . . feel it.
She knew exactly who it was.
She waited for him to enter so she could see his face, but he didn’t move. The light caught black hair, cut short but thick enough to tempt a woman to finger-comb it. His shoulders damn near touched both sides of the doorjamb, and a sports jacket hung over his muscular frame.
Raw kinetic energy shimmered around him, drawing her in. Something else pulsed in his aura, too. As hard as he’d tried to radiate cynicism a few minutes ago, she’d seen right through it.
This man was safe, good, and right. Some things, she just knew.
“Does this mean I won you over?” she asked, purposely keeping her voice light and maintaining some distance.
“Not exactly.” He entered the hallway, finally giving her a chance to see his face again. A jolt of attraction zipped down her tummy, even stronger than the one she’d had when she first saw him.
“But you do want to continue the reading.” God, she hoped so.
“Not particularly.”
Then why was he here? “The studio audience was supposed to leave at the end of the taping,” she said, unable to look away from eyes the color of the Pacific Ocean after a Santa Ana wind cleared every cloud. “And this exit is for cast and crew only.”
“I was waiting at your trailer,” he said, as though that were a perfectly logical explanation. “But a studio page said you’d have more taping to do.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
His eyes narrowed. “You can drop the act. You know who I am.”
She did?
“Arianna Killian.” The loudspeaker crackled through the studio. “Ready for pickups on sound stage four.”
“Damn.” She gave a quick glance back toward the set. “I don’t really do private readings anymore, but if you want to wait a—”
“Arianna, there you are!” Carla’s adorable Aussie accent thickened, as it always did when there was a good-looking guy around. “We’re ready to go. Now.”
“I’ll be there in a second,” she called over her shoulder, but kept her gaze on the irresistible stranger. “I won’t be too long—”
“I’ll be here,” he said.
“Arianna!” Carla insisted. “The crew hits overtime in sixty minutes.”
Arianna winked at him. “Guaranteeing we’ll be done in fifty-nine.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”
Gorgeous and confident. Even better. “I’m not worried.” Intrigued. Interested. But not worried.
She headed back to the set, unable to resist taking one last glance. He watched her with an intensity that sent a crazy little zing through her whole nervous system.
She still felt zingy when she let the tech rewire her for sound and the stylist replaced the lip gloss, but tried to temper the sensation with a reality check. Regardless of how attractive he was, he made it completely clear he didn’t believe a word she said. Hadn’t she learned her lesson from the last man who thought she was a fraud?
Another production assistant pulled her out of her reverie. “We’re going to get four reaction shots on the reading with David first,” the young man announced, kneeling in front of her with a light meter.
The stylist picked at Arianna’s curls, while a page approached waving a pink script sheet. “Updated lines, Ms. Killian.”
“Why do I need new lines?” Her lines were perfect. They were real. Arianna skimmed the words and moaned. “Oh, please. These take suck to a whole new level. Brian!”
He stepped out of the shadow of a robotic camera, where he’d been checking the shot. “These have more kick, Ari. Honestly, it’s all about entertainment. Remember?”
How could she forget? Now she had to pretend to be speaking to a man—and his dead wife—who were long gone from the set and her head. “I hate this part of the job,” she said into the camera, tempering the words with a TV smile.
“Ari, we’re rolling in five, four, three, two . . .”
She centered herself with a slow breath, staring at the empty chair where David had finally come to terms with his wife’s death.
It didn’t matter that this part was acting. She’d given David some peace. Did it matter how it came across on TV? She’d still given him her gift, nothing more complicated than that.
Nothing like what her mother had done with her sight.
“Mary Jo is reaching out for you, David,” she said to the chair, sticking to the script on the pink paper. “She thinks you’re about to drink from the cup of happiness.” She choked softly, then looked directly into the camera. “I’m sorry, Brian. I just can’t say that with a straight face. I know you want to be entertaining, but whatever happened to integrity?”
For a moment, the whole set was eerily silent.
“Brian?”
“Uh, he stepped out, Ari,” someone said.
The AD moved forward, mumbling in his headset. “Joel wants to talk to you, Ari.” He took off the headset and handed it to her. The invisible director, who worked exclusively from the booth, was going to chime in with an opinion? Amazing.
“I know you hate thi
s part, Ari.” Joel’s voice in the headset she held was soft, calm, and kind. He was so against type for a director. “You’re right about the ‘cup of happiness’ line. I’ll edit it out. But could you just give us one take, so we have it in the can?”
She never said no to this guy. He was so nice, so unlike every other viper on the set. “Sure, Joel. I’ll give it my best shot.” She inhaled a few times, recentering herself. “All right, gang. Give me a second.”
Instantly, everything changed.
The vision grabbed her with enough force to double her over with the impact. Wicked, clammy fingers closed down every sense . . . but the sixth. As if she’d flipped on a wide-screen TV in her head, an image blinded her brain, blocking out everything else.
White headlights pierced a black night. Silver sheets of rain cascaded over the windshield. Dark, menacing shadows threatened to close in. A seat belt squashed both shoulder and breast, frightened fingers clamped over a steering wheel. Arianna began to shake from somewhere so deep and dark and secret, it felt like her bones might crack.
In front of her, a cat leaped, tiny, silver, glinting in the headlights. Then metal scraped against metal and she was jolted, rammed by a deliberate hit.
Blood slammed through her veins, pumping violently as everything spun and whirled and twisted. A flash of lightning illuminated a guardrail as she made impact, her teeth cracking, her neck snapping, her whole being lost in a free fall over the edge.
Then there was only blackness. And the soft rush of rain, the drenching, soaking kind that bleeds into the California earth and drags homes and hillsides into one another.
Rain that washes away everything . . . including evidence.
“Arianna? Ms. Killian!”
The image faded. The rain stopped. All she could feel was that full-body numbness she’d experienced any time she’d seen a vision in black-and-white. The icy knowledge that she’d just witnessed something utterly and purely evil.
“Ms. Killian? Are you all right?” A man crouched in front of her, covering her body, shielding her with one powerful arm over her chair, and in his other hand, a gun.
Not a man. That man. The good man who radiated safety and security underneath a layer of smoldering sensuality. That man who claimed she knew who he was. What was he doing here, holding a gun?
“Who are you?” she rasped.
“I’m Chase Ryker. I’m your bodyguard.”
Oh. Oh. Of course. She’d called for a bodyguard days ago, the last time this vision exploded in her brain. But he wasn’t supposed to . . . “You’re early.”
“Usually.”
She closed her fingers over his, lifting his hand from her arm and using it to cover the microphone clipped to her sweater. “Come closer,” she said, her voice barely audible.
He did, still exuding all that power and energy, emitting something that felt protective. Well, that made sense. He was a bodyguard. And not just any bodyguard . . . a Bullet Catcher.
With her other hand she touched his chin, turning his face away from hers to place her lips directly against his ear.
“I just witnessed a murder.” She felt his whole body stiffen. “And when I figure out who the killer is, I’m going to be next.”
Denial vibrated through him, his disbelief as obvious as the menacing weapon in his hand. Was he going to dismiss her vision and deride her? Or would he wrap her in the safety net she’d suddenly needed so desperately when she’d called for someone just like him?
What was he made of, this skeptical, fearless, handsome man who’d come to keep her safe?
“Not as long as I’m here.”
She dropped her head on his broad, strong shoulder and gave in to a rolling wave of relief.
• • •
Her trailer was a mess. Clothes strewn over chairs, a cluttered makeup table that lined one whole side, shoes cast about the sitting area. Yet Arianna’s dressing area was inviting in its chaos, like the wild red-gold curls around her face, and it drew Chase in just as effectively.
The disorder did make it more difficult to secure the premises, and to determine that the trailer was not only empty, but unbugged. He explained that to her when she asked why he was turning over chairs and opening drawers to root through her belongings.
“You think someone bugged my honeywagon?” At the vanity, she dipped two fingers in an open pot of white cream and started smearing it on her face. “Are you serious?”
“Most of the time,” he said. “But until I clear us for conversation, don’t tell me anything substantive.”
As he continued his search, she disappeared into the powder room, turning the water on and leaving the door open.
“Then how about you tell me something substantive,” she called out, her voice muffled from a towel. “I thought your firm didn’t have anyone available until tomorrow.”
“Lucy Sharpe did some juggling.” Juggling and maneuvering being his boss’s greatest strengths.
He crouched down to run a hand along the bottom of the wardrobe rack, found a stray high-heeled sandal and placed it to the side. “Didn’t she tell you that when you talked to her today?” he asked, locating the mate and lining it next to the other one.
“I didn’t talk to anyone from the Bullet Catchers today.” She stepped out of the powder room, stuffing something in her backpack before she dropped the bag on the floor. “I spoke with Lucy a few days ago, and she said she’d have a bodyguard available by tomorrow. She couldn’t tell me who it would be.”
He stood, brushed his hands on his pants, and surveyed her face, which looked entirely different with the sprinkling of freckles and the arched brows no longer darkened by pencil. Why did they put so much junk on her face? She was a natural beauty.
“If Lucy didn’t tell you I was coming, then how did you recognize me in the audience?”
“I didn’t recognize you,” she said indignantly. “I’ve never seen you in my life.” At his look of disbelief, she added that saucy smile, the bright and pretty invitation he’d gotten in the studio. “Believe me, I’d never forget you.”
He smirked at the compliment, certain she was lying. She hadn’t pulled the rocket and Michael’s name out of thin air. “Why don’t we start with looking at the e-mails you’ve been getting,” he suggested. “Lucy indicated you have a cyber stalker, and that’s why you need protection and an investigation.”
She turned to the vanity and riffled through a stack of papers, slid a coffee cup out of the way, and presented a pack to him. “Yeah, I do. There’s no shortage of people who like to dis what I do. There are whole Web sites devoted to dismantling my every word. But this guy is elevating it to something scarier. Here.”
He took the papers.
“Each one gets a little nastier,” she said, tapping the page in front of him. “Look at that last one—he knows exactly where I live. He describes my view, which you have to get behind a big wall to see.” She gave a dramatic shudder. “That totally weirded me out.”
“I can see why,” he said, rereading the message slowly. “But what makes you so sure it’s a he?”
She drew back, surprised. “Because chicks don’t send disturbing e-mails to other chicks that say things like ‘I’m always watching you.’ ” She thought about it for a moment. “Although this is Hollywood. You think a woman wrote that?”
“There’s not a single overt sexual reference.”
“Maybe he’s . . .” She squinched up her face in a charming scowl. “Lowvert?”
He couldn’t help it. He smiled. “Covert.”
The scowl bloomed into a grin, and her eyes sparkled with a little victory. “Oh, there is a sense of humor in there. I like that. Anyway, you’re right. These notes are more about my job than me. Still creepy, though.”
“A competitor?”
“Maybe.” She kicked off her shoes and lost three inches, putting her at about five four, and not an ounce over a hundred pounds. And still a force field of solid energy.
“Any phone c
alls?” he asked, flipping through the notes for key repeated words. Phony. Scam. Fraud. Liar. “Letters? Any contact other than e-mail?”
“Nope.” She played with the hem of her sweater, thinking. “Nothing unusual or that sounds like these.” In one move she yanked the top up, revealing a thin white camisole, a tiny waist and the source of that sweet, feminine cleavage he’d been admiring.
Well, it was her dressing room.
He didn’t even bother to pretend to look at the paper; the words weren’t nearly as interesting as the half-dressed woman they were sent to. “Do you have any enemies?”
She snorted softly as she walked to a clothes-laden wardrobe rack. “Enemies? This is Hollywood. Of course I have enemies.”
“Ex-boyfriend, husband, or jilted lovers?” With that body, hair, and face, she probably had a dozen. More.
She threw him a look over her shoulder as she stepped behind the rack of clothes. “An ex who doesn’t have the time or inclination to write anything like that, no husband, and not a single lover, jilted or otherwise.”
“Have you attempted to trace these e-mails?”
He heard the soft whoosh of her silk pants hitting the floor, the sound as enticing as her shadow on the wall. “Yes—at least, the computer people at the studio did for me. They said all the messages came through free servers, and that whoever sent them was probably using an Internet café or something.”
A bullshit answer from someone who didn’t feel like doing a little work. Every e-mail could be traced. “My firm can get something more definite,” he said. “How many times have you changed your e-mail address?”
“Three. But then a day later, he sends me another message.”
That took a certain amount of expertise. Or access.
She stepped back into the open area, holding her hair up with both hands, a silver clip in her mouth. The camisole was pulled high enough to reveal the dip of low-rise jeans. Very low. A lavender and violet tattoo—something with wings—floated in the concave between her navel and her pelvic bone.
Yeah. This was Hollywood.
“Vadyousinkof . . .” She popped the clip out of her mouth and stuck it into her hair. “Catburd? That’s what he uses on every e-mail.”