Lime Ricky (Romantic Suspense)

by Jill Winters

  Gretchen glanced over at the rest of the crew, who were waiting impatiently, tiredly. Shawnee rolled her eyes and blatantly scratched her crotch. Nepotism was probably the only way one could pull off mouthing off to Susanna, who obviously had no compunction about firing people.

  "Well, you said you make it every year for your husband's birthday. Is there something different you do then?" Gretchen asked, searching for a way to be helpful.

  At first Susanna just blinked at her. Then recognition seemed to hit. "Oh, I don't really make this cake every year. Bless your heart, sweetie—no, that's just what the cue card says." Don't ask Gretchen why she was surprised. This was show business, after all. But, still. "I haven't made that cake in at least five years," Susanna went on, "and now I see why."

  She shot her eyes to Gretchen's as though struck by something. "Gretchen, you taste it. Tell me what you think. It's bad enough this recipe is immortalized in my first cookbook." Would telling her that the cookbook's out of print make her feel better? Probably not. Gretchen glanced over at the rest of the crew, who all looked bored and irritated, then refocused on Susanna and her eggnog cake; she grabbed a clean fork from the drawer, broke into the soft cake, and stabbed a small piece. As she chewed it, she instantly realized that it was good—very good, in fact. But it was missing something special. The zing of the fresh nutmeg, the richness of the egg yolks and heavy cream, it was all there, but it just needed something else...

  An orange glaze! It would be a simple and possibly perfect touch. Susanna liked the idea. "Of course. Why didn't I think of that? It's so obvious!"

  Smiling, Gretchen patted her arm and said, "Great. I'll get the ingredients assembled on the counter right now, and should I tell Kit you're ready?"

  "Yes, would you?" Susanna said, then yelled, "Makeup! Come touch me up!"

  A few minutes later, tape rolled again and Susanna was saying, "This orange glaze is so sweet, and yet tangy—my husband always asks for extra glaze..."

  * * *

  Linking her arm through Gretchen's elbow, Susanna walked in the direction of her dressing room and said, "Run down to the food court and get me a turkey sandwich from Lemberto's, will you? And a Perrier." She clasped her throat and made frog faces to indicate how parched she was. Earlier she'd eschewed the food on the craft table because it was "sitting out."

  "Sure, no problem," Gretchen said. Though she couldn't help thinking: wasn't this the kind of thing a personal assistant did? But it wasn't a big deal; it was just a sandwich, and if it would keep Susanna happy..."Should I bring it to your dressing room?"

  "Yes, that would be great. Thanks. You're the best." Gretchen attempted to disengage from Susanna's grip and the grip tightened. "And wait, before you go... there's something else I need you to do for me..."

  This is when Susanna hit her with the pitch, the pitch that would become a running theme. Susanna wanted to get a guest spot on Brett's show—a few guest spots, actually. With her first prime-time show, Dining Elegance, debuting in June, Susanna seemed concerned about garnering a nighttime audience. She obviously hoped to tap into Brett's fan base and drum up some early interest in her new show. She didn't spell it out exactly like this, but it was clear even to Gretchen.

  Gretchen supposed it made sense, though she was a little surprised that, at this point in her career, Susanna would feel insecure about her popularity. "What do you think?"

  "Sure, guest spots sound like a great idea," Gretchen agreed. Then Susanna clutched her elbow a little tighter.

  "So maybe you could suggest it when you see Brett," she added, coming to a halt.

  "Me?" Gretchen said, confused. "How come? I mean, have you mentioned it to Abe?" She didn't know much about the cable network world yet, but she was still pretty sure Susanna's producer was in a better position to make this happen.

  "Well..." Susanna began as they descended the small set of steps to get to her dressing room. Susanna let her gaze wander off to the side, up to the gold star on her door, then ultra-casually back to Gretchen. "I don't want to get all official about it yet, you understand. But I thought if you happened to see Brett, you could bring it up."

  Hmm... maybe Susanna was afraid of rejection?

  Or was she just reluctant to clue Abe in on her niggling insecurities about the success of her new show?

  It made sense to want to project only confidence in this kind of business. And is that why she didn't simply mention it to Brett herself? It would certainly put him in a position to turn her down—or worse, to agree but then openly know that Susanna considered him a bigger star.

  Gretchen supposed if she suggested it, it could look like her idea—like a brainstorm she'd had—and then Susanna could act surprised and accommodating. This was assuming that she'd pegged her boss's motivations correctly, of course.

  "Sure, no problem," Gretchen said finally. Again she tried subtly to extricate her strangled arm from Susanna's choke hold. No luck—at least not with the subtle method—and her other arm was powerless, cradling both a clipboard and a fat notebook with the Susanna's Kitchen episode log.

  "Great, thanks!" Susanna said, smiling. "And now, if you could."

  "Now?"

  "Well, we're done taping till this afternoon, and I'm not going to need anything else from you until then... except this, of course..."

  "Okay... but where is he?" Gretchen said.

  "Just try his dressing room," she suggested, finally letting go and turning around. Then, glancing back, she added, "And use your tact and discretion, of course." She flashed a warm, grateful smile right before she shut the gold star in Gretchen's face.

  * * *

  Brett's set, a huge room marked "Stage B," was also on the eighth floor. Gretchen circled around the corridor and looked for him there, but the set was empty and his dressing room, which, like Susanna's, was tucked behind the set, was quiet. She knocked twice and waited. Right arm aching, she switched her overstuffed clipboard and episode log to her left.

  She didn't know why the prospect of talking with Brett alone made her nervous. She supposed she wasn't yet 100 percent desensitized; in her mind, he was still a huge celebrity. Maybe it was all that winking. In any event, there was a slight fluttering in her belly as she knocked again. Nothing. Oh, well, she'd just have to try him later.

  Down at Terra Cottage, Gretchen waited on line for half an hour at Lemberto's, slowly working her way around a yellow zigzagging rope. By the time it was her turn to order, she felt beaten down, tired of getting shoved, and in the mood for a drink. She was so dumb—she hadn't even thought to drop off her stuff in her office on the second floor before coming to the food court and now her arms ached, and she still hadn't gotten Susanna's dumb lunch.

  "Hi, can I please have a turkey sandwich?" she said despite its dumbness (hey, she was still feeling irritable).

  "Lettuce and tomato?"

  "Uh, sure." Personally Gretchen didn't go for lettuce on her sandwiches, but she'd better play it safe and get it for Susanna.

  "Alfalfa sprouts?"

  "Yes...?" Gretchen said tentatively, figuring Susanna would probably go for that.

  "Bean sprouts?"

  "No, no... just one kind of sprout is fine," Gretchen said, thinking, Bean sprouts and turkey? Ew."

  Mayo?"

  "Um... mustard, I think." What had Susanna said again? "Honey mustard, barbecue mustard, cranberry mustard, or chipotle mustard?"

  Jeez, now Gretchen was really kicking herself. Here she'd waited an eternity in line and hadn't even planned any of this. She supposed she hadn't been anticipating the choices (too busy giving annoyed looks to people who'd elbowed her—which was a lot of annoyed looks). "Well, what mustard do you recommend?" she asked, then almost laughed at her own idiocy. For pete's sake! She was a trained chef, and here she was asking the minimum—wage clerk at the food court what was good in a sandwich.

  That was it. If Gretchen's expertise were to be taken seriously, she'd have to make an executive decision (if you could really ca
ll mustard an executive decision). Susanna hadn't given her a million specifications for her order, that was true, but maybe that was because she trusted Gretchen to select something that was up to her standards.

  "You know what, let me start all over. Here's what I want..." After ordering turkey breast on rosemary—sage focaccia with provolone cheese and chili—Dijon sauce, she contemplated a Diet Coke and Greek salad for herself, but then realized there was no way she could juggle all that. So she paid for Susanna's lunch, added the take-out bag to her pile, and finally broke free of the yellow zigzagged prison.

  As Gretchen maneuvered through the crowded food court, triceps nearly throbbing now, she suddenly spotted someone she knew. Or recognized anyway. Her eyes shot wide open and she came to an abrupt halt. Her jaw dropped. Her stomach began fluttering wildly.

  No way—it couldn't be!

  Squinting, though, she confirmed that it was. The arrogant fireman from two nights ago was standing only twenty feet away from her! He was on line at a hut-shaped stand with a sign overhead that read: TALL COOL ONE. What on earth was he doing in her office building?

  And in a tie?

  She was sure it was him even though he looked different from this angle, and when he wasn't being all angry and intimidating, glaring down at her with his rumpled black hair, heavy black coat and boots.

  He turned his head toward her and she ducked quickly behind a pillar.

  Then a thought occurred to her: Could he be there to see her? It sounded ludicrous even in her own mind, but then again... he had seemed a little overly interested in her situation, grilling her about why she hadn't been more careful, harassing her about that whole sleeping-through-the-fire bit. Jeez, maybe he was stalking her now!

  Suddenly she remembered the fire extinguisher left at her door. Was he the one who'd left it after all? Was it one of those sick valentines—like when psychos sent pig hearts in the mail? Maybe he'd formed some unnatural attachment to her, or some biding interest. She supposed stranger things could happen. Especially when she recalled the low-cut nightgown she'd worn... the way his eyes had wandered down, lingering.

  On the other hand... Maybe he was just a normal, hot-blooded guy and this was a total coincidence?

  Either way, did she really have time to find out? Susanna's lunch was waiting and Gretchen's arms were about to falloff. So she tried to wiggle behind a mob of businessmen so she could make her way over to the elevators without—what was his name, Pellucci?— spotting her.

  Looking over her shoulder for only a second was her downfall.

  She slammed right into someone who hadn't been looking either. The mob dispersed as Gretchen's clipboard and notebook crashed hard to the floor. The bottle of water shattered. Several sheets of paper flew out of the episode log and into the puddle of Perrier that yawned wide across the floor, spreading itself underneath the table nearby. People shifted their feet and scooted their chairs. Face flaming hot, Gretchen murmured apologies and sank to her knees to gather up her stuff.

  Damn it! Heat still flooded her face as she tried to get her papers out of the water before they were ruined, and also to find Susanna's sandwich, which had rolled somewhere. It was a very human moment, of course, could happen to anyone, blah blah blah, but still, she felt degraded by her position scrambling on the floor. Her knees were sore; the only thing between them and the bare hard floor were her sheer black stockings. She'd had to hitch her dress up several inches so it wouldn't get dirty.

  She'd have to get a custodian to mop up the water and pick up the broken glass. Now she was grateful she hadn't gotten herself a soda and salad.

  "Is this yours?"

  Gretchen turned and trailed her eyes up a man's legs to his brown belt and white shirt and blue tie and…

  It was him. And he was holding out Susanna's sandwich, wrapped in cellophane.

  Gretchen's heart started racing. Her mouth ran dry. He was right there, so close, and for some unknown reason, intimidating and overpowering all over again.

  "Thanks," she said quickly, not looking at him but down at the floor as she gathered items up in her arms. "Thanks very much... I got everything now, but thanks..."

  He'd leave in a second, any second now. Maybe she was being absurd to think he would remember her. He had to put out dozens of fires a week, right? Then again, on the off chance he was stalking her, clearly he remembered her. Still, it didn't seem likely.

  "Hey, it's you." His voice was deep with a slight rusty timbre to it—it was unmistakable. He was still there and he'd recognized her.

  Chapter 8

  Rick was discovering quickly that Tall Cool One was Brett's favorite haunt. The first time they'd been there had been that morning right after Brett's meeting, which he hadn't said much about. And now, after a few hours of Rick shadowing him around his set and waiting for him outside a private meeting with his producer, here they were again.

  Rick had heard the loud crash over his shoulder and shot his head around to see a brunette put her face in her hands, then drop to her knees. Suddenly she disappeared from view behind more people shuffling to get their lunch. He felt a stab of pity for her, but his brother had just shrugged, nonplussed, and since he hadn't wanted to lose his place on line for his second carrot-kiwi-kelp smoothie of the day, Rick had left him for a moment and crossed over to help the girl.

  Now that he stood before her and saw clearly who she was, it nearly blew him anyway. Gretchen Darrow. Talk about a small world.

  He looked at her up close and their eyes locked, stayed fixed on each other. It was like a shot of adrenaline. Damn, she was pretty. Her light tan skin looked smooth and soft, and her dark eyes were sexy, inviting. Most of her hair was falling down her back—the rest was pulled away from her face in a messy spiky little bun. It didn't appear she was wearing makeup, which was exactly what he liked, except her lips were flushed dark pink. He didn't know if that was natural or not, but he couldn't take his eyes off that mouth.

  She broke the spell by looking down for a second, shifting the weight of her stuff in her arms. Her sandwich slid off the top of the notebook she was carrying and hit the floor again. Her eyes shutting for a moment, Gretchen sucked in a breath like she was barely containing her temper. Rick grinned—he couldn't help it.

  He whistled. "You must be some kind of walking disaster," he said and bent down to swipe it up effortlessly. "Here's your sandwich again."

  Her jaw tightened as though she was holding back a sigh or something else. "Thank you—again," she said briskly, letting him set the sandwich on top of her pile. With a cordial but perfunctory smile, she added, "Well, I guess I'll see you around—"

  "Whoa," he said, touching her arm. "Going already? Seems like you've gone to a lot of trouble to get my attention here. Besides, you haven't even threatened to rip my face off yet. Which was pretty mature, by the way. What's your rush?"

  His smug grin was irritating; besides being the last thing she needed at the moment, it also reminded her of his arrogance the other night—the things he'd said, his bombastic sense of entitlement. "I have to get back to work," she explained simply.

  "What, you work in this building?" he asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

  "Obviously."

  "Wow, no kidding."

  "You didn't know that?" she said with a touch of skepticism in her voice. The words came out before she could censor herself... not that she necessarily would have.

  "How would I know it?" he challenged.

  She shrugged. "I don't know. I thought maybe you were following me or something."

  He let out a short, brusque laugh. "Following you? Wow." After a negligible pause, he added, "Actually, I'm here visiting someone... who also works here."

  Involuntarily, Gretchen glanced around, looking for this person—she assumed it was a girl—who Rick was visiting. He'd said "someone." He hadn't said his buddy or some guy. He'd said "someone." She felt a pinch of jealousy at the thought, which was absurd and she knew it. Then she spotted the big pudd
le of water and shattered glass behind her that she'd somehow forgotten. "Oh, shoot—I'd better find a maintenance person to mop that up."

  "Looks like he's got it," Rick said, motioning to a man in a green jumpsuit who was crossing the room, pushing a mop and bucket in front of him. Even though it was his job, Gretchen felt a stab of guilt. Maybe it was because she remembered what it felt like for those few startling, horrific moments when she'd thought she was TCN's new cleaning lady.

  "Oh... well... good," she said lamely, gazing up at him again.

  The pale blue of his tie brought out the startling blue of his eyes. She swallowed hard, having trouble looking away. He exuded cockiness—cockiness she was done with, it had been decided—but yet...

  There was just something sexy about him—a viscerally potent quality. Maybe it was the concentrated way he looked at her, or the thickness of his deep, masculine voice. It was as though his body thrummed with a kind of heat, an energy that seeped into her space, nearly swallowed her up. Definitely stole her ability to speak like a human.

  Boy, those eyes... Clear and bright like a mountain dog's, and just as watchful and intense. And she had to admit, the shirt and tie were an extremely hot touch. What man didn't look better in a tie? That's what she wanted to know.

  But why did he irk her so much? He made her uncomfortable, rattled her nerves. And she still didn't get what he was doing here. Who was he "visiting"? And where were they?

  "Do I make you nervous or something?" he asked. It was like he'd read her mind.

  "No, of course not," she lied, refusing to look away or around or to chew on her lip, all of which would betray her. Instead she tilted her hip, leaning her weight on that side, and kept looking at him dead-on.

  "Bullshit," he stated bluntly. "You're like a little bunny."

  With a false, smart-ass comprehension, she humored him. "Meaning what? That I'm fluffy and hop around a lot?"