by J. Kenner
“Great,” he said, sure his voice lacked even an ounce of enthusiasm. He nodded to the bartender, acknowledging the drink order even though he had no intention of having any himself. A drink like Dom could only be shared with a special lady, and Bitsy just didn’t fit the bill. Hell, maybe no one did.
The problem now was how to extricate himself from this unwanted and impromptu date.
“You know,” Bitsy began, taking a sip from the champagne flute put in front of her, “I’ve always wanted to be a model or an actress.” She aimed a little pout in his direction. “Maybe you can help me? Do you know any directors?”
“I really don’t—”
“My portfolio’s in my car.” She nodded toward the door. “Maybe you could buy me dinner and I could show you?”
“I’m not really—”
“I could show you more than that, too,” she cajoled, stroking his arm.
He had to get out of there. “Look at that!” Hale pointed across the empty room.
“What?”
“Over there. Isn’t that cool?”
The blonde squinted, swiveling on her stool to look in the general direction he was pointing. “I don’t see anything,” she said, turning back.
And Hale knew just how true that was. She really didn’t see a thing, at least not him. He’d completely dematerialized. Invisibility was a rather handy superpower when you got right down to it.
“Hale? Where’d you go?” The woman twisted around, searching the room for him, until her gaze focused on the mirror that backed the bar’s bottles of bourbon and rum. “Oh! There you are!”
Hale grimaced, realizing she must have seen his reflection.
In a second, she’d whipped back around so that she was looking in his direction—but again she couldn’t see him. Confusion flashed across her perfectly made-up face.
“Where are you?” She turned in her chair to look toward the mirror again, so Hale dropped down below the bar.
That was the one annoying thing about his particular superpower. He could turn invisible, yes, but reflective surfaces still picked up his image. Usually that was little more than an annoyance. Right now, though, it might foil his entire plan for escape.
Very quietly he crouched down, making sure his head was below bar level as he crept away. Disgust with himself—a superhero—for taking the chicken’s way out welled inside him, but not enough to suffer through an evening with this woman. No matter how ripe and lovely she was.
Still invisible, he headed for the stairs, avoiding the polished elevator doors and all other reflective surfaces and cursing himself the whole way as the blonde’s confused voice echoed after him. He had to be coming down with something. No other explanation made sense. He was Hale, Protector First Class, a direct descendant of Zeus, and he had a heck of a reputation with the ladies. The Hale he knew simply did not turn tail and run from bikini-clad women.
Hopping Hades, what was wrong with him? Flu? Leprosy? Consumption?
As he climbed the stairs, her voice drifted up from the lobby, calling his name as she searched for him. She couldn’t see him, but even so he raced ahead, zipping up the stairwell at lightning speed until he reached his room on the fifteenth floor. Only after he’d slammed the door behind him did he materialize.
Elmer looked up, his beady little eyes curious. He opened his mouth, but Hale held out a hand, in no mood to be razzed by his furry friend.
“Don’t say a word. Not one word.”
The ferret managed a shrug. I wasn’t going to say I told you so. Really I wasn’t.
“Just get ready,” Hale growled. “We’re leaving.”
2
“Sit. Sit. Sit!” Tracy sighed and dangled the doggy treat closer to Mistress Bettina’s cold, wet nose. “Please, Missy, you’re making me look bad—an animal trainer who can’t handle her own dog?”
Apparently Mistress Bettina couldn’t care less how Tracy looked, because the dog just sniffed, waggled her fuzzy little pedigreed butt, and yawned.
Resigned, Tracy tossed her the treat, which Missy promptly gobbled. “Thanks for nothing. Just remember who brushes you so that you turn all the boy dogs’ heads.”
“Does she talk back?”
Tracy yelped, her heart pounding as she turned around to face . . . him. Leon Palmer. America’s latest heartthrob—and Tracy definitely counted herself among the Throbettes.
Behind her, Missy growled low in her throat. It was not particularly threatening considering the dog was tiny, but certainly not polite either. Tracy looked back over her shoulder. “Hush, girl. It’s Leon Palmer.”
Didn’t Missy realize what a big deal this was—the Leon Palmer . . . talking to her, Tracy Tannin, assistant animal trainer and Hollywood nobody? She really couldn’t believe it.
She wanted to savor the moment, but Missy’s growls and yips weren’t exactly enhancing the mood. She shot an apologetic smile Leon’s way, then bent over and scooped up the dog, rubbing her between the ears until Missy finally settled down and Tracy could again concentrate on Leon.
He must be lost. After all, the trailer that Paws In Production used to house the animals’ kennels was parked on a far corner of the backlot. It was well away from the day-to-day action of the filming of Mrs. Dolittle, Private Eye, so hardly any of the sitcom’s crew ever wandered back here, and certainly none of the cast ever did. Especially not stars like Leon. Tracy considered swooning but decided it would be terribly uncool. Instead, she rubbed Missy’s head, silently reassuring the dog that having Leon Palmer nearby was a good thing.
Leon grinned, apparently used to women staring at him in awe. After a moment, he flashed the full-blown for-the-photographers smile that was currently gracing a dozen entertainment magazines. “You okay? I didn’t mean to startle you.” His glance shot down toward Missy, his features tightening. “Or the dog,” he added.
“Oh. No. I mean, yes. I’m fine.” She squeezed her hands into fists and counted to ten. “I mean, don’t worry about it. I just didn’t realize anyone else was around. We’re pretty secluded back here.”
“I can see why.”
The corner of her mouth drew down. “Huh?” Oh, he must mean keeping the cameras away from the smell and noise. “The animals are all trained. Well, all but Missy here, but she’s not actually one of the company’s. She’s my dog, and she’s un-trainable.” Tracy shrugged. “Anyway, all the other animals behave themselves.”
His grin displayed that famous dimple. “No, no. I just mean that I can see why they’d keep you in seclusion.” He leaned toward her. “Wouldn’t want a pretty thing like you distracting the actors and making the actresses jealous.”
“Oh. I . . .” She swallowed, wondering about his definition of pretty, but was flattered nonetheless. “Oh.” She gulped again. “So, uh, how can I help you?”
“I was hoping to meet my new co-star before shooting started this morning.” He paused, looking Tracy up and down. “Are you Melissa Carpenter?”
“I’m Tracy.”
His polite expression faded.
“Mel’s assistant,” she added, pleased to see his smile return. Clutching a squirming Missy under one arm, Tracy wiped her free hand on her jeans, wishing she had worn some makeup, had brushed her hair, and hadn’t been covered with fur. She held out her wiped-clean hand for him to shake, hoping it didn’t reek of doggie sweat. “Good to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Tracy. I’ll have to come back here more often now that I know what treats the producers are hiding.”
Tracy tried to smile, but wasn’t sure she managed. Men never noticed her. Never. So she wasn’t exactly sure what sort of response to make. Something more brilliant than drooling, that was for sure.
“Uh, fine. You can come by whenever. We’ve got lots of treats.” She fished in her pocket, then held one out. “Mostly doggie treats.”
He stared blankly, then, almost as an afterthought, he cracked a tiny smile.
Good going, Trace. What a way with men.
>
“So, uh, can you introduce me to my co-star?” Leon asked after a moment.
Tracy cleared her throat. Best to focus on business and not attempt jokes. “Yes, well, she’s still back at the compound. Mel does most of the training there.” His “co-star” happened to be a particularly uncooperative female ferret named Penelope, and training the little beast was going terribly.
“That’s too bad. I was hoping we could make friends today.” He glanced at Missy, giving the dog a wary look. “I . . . uh . . . was hoping we could get used to each other.”
“We were told those episodes didn’t start shooting for another week or so. Did someone tell you she’d be here?”
“No.” He waved off the question. “I just thought maybe I’d get lucky.” He smiled and moved closer. A low growl rose from Missy’s throat, and Leon jumped back. After a few seconds, he managed to regain his composure. He caught Tracy’s gaze. “I just didn’t realize how lucky.”
Oh, my. He was flirting with her.
Unbelievable.
Tracy fought the urge to pinch herself and see if she was dreaming. Instead, she just rubbed Missy’s head and forced herself to smile and act casual. Right. Casual. That was a much better plan than simply throwing herself at him.
His supremely confident expression suggested that he knew precisely how frazzled she was, and that he was more than happy to be the one doing the frazzling. Their gazes locked for a few seconds before his smile broadened. “Well, guess I better run. Don’t be a stranger.” One last show of pearly white teeth, then he turned away.
Tracy waved after him, her hand still limp in the air when Mel wandered up to the trailer a few moments later.
“Are you saluting? Or is this some weird new Southern California religious thing I just haven’t heard about?”
Melissa had moved to Los Angeles from Ohio years ago, and her favorite pastime was picking on Tracy’s hometown. Usually it got a rise out of her, but not today. Today, Tracy just lowered her hand, smiled at her boss, and passed her the dog. “He was here,” she said.
“He?” Melissa asked, shifting Missy under her arm. “Who he?”
“Leon Palmer.” Tracy whispered the name as if it were the key phrase of an incantation. “He asked for you.”
“Burke told me Leon was scared of ferrets,” Mel explained. “He probably came here trying to convince me to tell the show to use another dog or cat or something.”
Tracy frowned. “Really? He sounded excited about meeting Penelope. He even looked disappointed that she wasn’t here.”
Mel rolled her eyes. “Well, then he’s a good actor, because Burke told me yesterday that the whole cast knows the ferret’s being trained at the compound until we start rehearsals.”
Tracy wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Well, whatever his reasoning for coming back here, the point is that he ended up staying and flirting with me.”
“And this is a good thing?” Mel asked—as if Tracy had just revealed she was next in line for a brain transplant.
“Any man flirting with me is a good thing.” Tracy sighed. She was practically the invisible girl. Plain-Jane Tracy Tannin, the poor little Hollywood flop who hadn’t inherited her movie-star grandmother’s exotic looks or her father’s classic features. Not that it usually bothered her, but on occasion it would be nice to be noticed. And now, to be noticed by a guy she’d had a crush on for months . . .
“The man practically oozes ulterior motives,” Mel said. “He probably figured you could get him out of the Penelope mess as easy as I could.”
Tracy crossed her arms, determined to savor the moment. “No way. I told him you were training her, not me.” She refused to believe Leon just wanted something. He’d seemed so sweet, so sincere. She stood up straighter, hoping to convince herself as much as her boss. “He was flirting, Mel. I know flirting when I see it.”
“Forgive me if I don’t drool.”
“Oh, come on. You have to admit he’s cute.”
Mel looked at her over the top of her aviator sunglasses. “I’ll go you one better, kid. I think the man’s positively gorgeous.”
“See?”
“See what? See you making a fool out of yourself?”
Tracy scowled. “Okay. You win. I admit I might be getting a little bit carried away, but I haven’t even had a date in six months—”
“Maybe the men just can’t catch you. You work so much.”
“I work for you, remember?” Tracy countered.
“And I appreciate it,” Mel said, the sincerity in her voice ringing through. Although Mel had been in the business for years, she’d only recently opened her own company, and—except for the two college interns who fed the animals and cleaned cages—Tracy was Mel’s one and only employee. At first, Tracy knew, Mel had struggled just to bring in enough money to buy food for the animals and pay Tracy’s salary. But now, Paws In Production was taking off, its animals regularly appearing on Mrs. Dolittle and a few movies that were filming around town. The company’s success meant that Mel was leaving a lot of the daily details to Tracy while Mel ran around town, having meetings, interviewing potential employees, and generally building up the company.
All in all, the situation was great for Mel and for Tracy, who’d gained a lot more experience than she’d anticipated when she’d first hired on after her grandmother died. The only downside was that she often needed to work long hours, and that put a crimp in her social life. Not that she’d ever had much of a social life to begin with.
“Well, how much I work isn’t the point. The fact is, men don’t notice me. Therefore, I happen to think that a guy like Leon Palmer—who could have any woman he wanted—flirting with me is a pretty cool thing.”
“Fine. Whatever. But don’t start thinking something’s going to come of it. He flirts with everybody and dates someone new every week. The guy’s a jerk.”
“He seemed perfectly nice just now.” A little arrogant, maybe, but Tracy had met enough Hollywood types to know that was often just a cover for insecurity. Of course Missy hadn’t exactly been her usual friendly self, but it wasn’t as if the dog was always a good judge of character.
“If he was nice, it was only because he wanted something. Or else he has a brain tumor.”
Tracy crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “You’re not being helpful. Come on. Tell me what I should do now.”
“Be afraid. Be very afraid.”
Tracy kept on tapping, her mouth firmly closed.
Mel sighed, her long fingers stroking Missy’s head before she put the dog back on the ground. “That’s my best advice. I don’t even like the guy. I mean, jeez, if you’re going to go all ga-ga over some unattainable guy, couldn’t it be someone you can fantasize about? I mean Leon Palmer is so not fantasy material.”
Tracy laughed. “I can fantasize about him just fine.”
“I was thinking someone a little more removed from reality. Someone safe. Like one of the models on those romance novels you’re always reading.”
Tracy’s cheeks warmed at her employer’s perceptiveness. So what if she had a little crush on a romance cover model? Her fantasies were perfectly innocent. And considering how boring her reality was, she didn’t intend to give them up.
“I bet those guys are arrogant and conceited, too,” Mel continued. “But at least you won’t have to see it every day at work.”
“Now they’re arrogant, too? You’ve never even met one.” Tracy cocked her head. “You’ve got issues, Mel. Deep, dark issues.”
“What are those guys’ names?” Mel asked, like a dog with a bone. “The ones on the covers you’re always drooling over?”
“Cherif Fortin’s one,” Tracy mumbled. She tried to control her embarrassment. Mel might have issues, but apparently they were going to explore Tracy’s. “And there’s also John DeSalvo.”
“Yeah, but there’s that one you really like. The dark-haired guy with those amazing blue eyes.”
“Hale. His name is Hale.”
Tracy shrugged. “Maybe it’s like Cher. Or Madonna. I don’t know.” She let her head fall back as she sighed. Hale was always so nice in her fantasies. He’d come to her house dressed in a tux, planning to take her dancing. They’d never get further than the foyer, though; they’d whirl and twirl to the music until that last final note when they’d kiss . . .
Mentally, she sighed. Such a nice fantasy.
“Earth to Tracy, Earth to Tracy. Come in, Tracy.”
“Sorry. Distracted.” She shook her head, feeling a bit like Missy shaking off a bath. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Hale’s total fantasy, and if my crush goes any further than the two of us, I’ll have to hurt you.”
“Uh-huh.” Mel’s mouth twitched. “What I’m saying is, you should try to hook up with a real man, not some fantasy guy—”
“Leon’s real.”
“—but if you’re going to fantasize, at least do it about someone better than Leon.”
Tracy sighed. All her life, she’d been the invisible one, fading into the background against the bright light that was her grandmother. To be noticed—especially by a guy like Leon—well, that was a dream come true.
Mel didn’t look particularly sympathetic.
“Just help me out here, okay?” Tracy pleaded.
“I already gave you my best advice—run far, run fast.”
“Mel . . .”
“Okay. Okay. All I can say is talk to the guy. You know. Be yourself.”
“Myself?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, who else are you going to be?”
Who else, indeed? Tracy looked down at her tattered jeans and skinny legs. She didn’t have a mirror, but she didn’t need one to know that her shoulder-length, straight brown hair wasn’t exactly high-fashion. She’d pulled it back with a rubber band and as usual, a million tiny wisps had escaped to frame her face. For a model the look might be sexy. On Tracy, it just looked messy.
“Maybe I’ll be myself tomorrow. That gives me time to figure out what I’m supposed to look like.”
Instead of a sarcastic comment, Mel just gave her a stare, the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes softening the expression. “Is this really a guy you want to reinvent yourself for? I mean, fantasies are one thing. Do you really even want this guy?”