Face of Danger

by Roxanne St Claire

  But he didn’t want six thousand better versions. He wanted her.

  “I need sunglasses. Have any?”

  “No.”

  “What kind of bodyguard doesn’t have sunglasses? Did you not see the movie? Kevin Costner?” She leaned to the right and looked in the rearview mirror. “Damn. I still look like her, don’t I?” She pointed her fingers to her face. “Come on, look at me objectively.”

  “I can’t,” he admitted.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not objective about you anymore.” His voice came out huskier than he meant it to, probably because there was a vise around his chest.

  “Some time to figure that out.”

  “I know.” He turned around, confident that Emmanuel wasn’t moving and neither was the traffic. “Lose the lip gloss.”

  She met him halfway, slipping her hand behind his neck and pulling her face to hers. “Do your job, Lang.”

  He kissed her, hard and long enough to transfer the sticky color to his mouth. Nothing could stop him from adding his tongue, tasting her, pulling her closer. When he broke the kiss, her eyes were closed. “And you need to get rid of the lashes, too.”

  Keeping her lids lowered, she grabbed the corner of one false lash and ripped it off, then the other.

  “Ouch,” she murmured, flicking the spidery things toward him, then rubbing the remaining makeup to a smudge.

  He studied her. “Something’s still not right,” he said.

  She made a face, crinkling her nose in frustration.

  “That’s it,” he said, tapping the side of her nose. “Your nose thing. Diamond. Stud. Thing.”

  “Good call.” Reaching for her bag, she dug into the secret inside pocket, pulled out a red silk pouch she’d gotten in Chinatown, and poured the diamond chip into her hand. “You’re my stud, Lang. This is my nose pierce.”

  He cringed when she stabbed it in and snapped the back on. “I’ve always wondered if it hurt to get that.”

  She shrugged a little, then ran another quick hand through her chopped-up hair. “Ahhh. I love my own skin.”

  So do I.

  He covered the jolt of that thought by ruffling her hair, which was as rough as grass and bumpy from the little extension knots close to her scalp. “You look best in your own skin, Vivi.” He let his hand fall, grazing her cheek with his knuckles.

  He saw her swallow and fight a response. “I just need to look completely ordinary.”

  “There is nothing ordinary about you, but you don’t look remotely like the woman he just saw in the bank, I promise. Are you armed?”

  She patted the little skirt and skimpy top. “A weapon hanging off my hip might bring a little too much unwanted attention. But I have this.” She grabbed the board from the passenger seat. “And this.” Slid out her cell phone. “And this.” She tapped her temple.

  “Use all three and I’ve got your back. What’s your plan?”

  “Plan. That’s funny, Lang.” She pointed to the funky letters on the board that spelled out Plan B. “Here’s my plan.”

  She dropped the board and kicked it to the uncobblestoned sidewalk, then leaned back for her parting shot. “Just think, Lang, we bring this guy’s operation down and you’ll be king of the FBI. They’ll be begging for you to come be the Special Head Honcho in Charge of Ass Kicking in L.A.”

  “Yeah,” he said softly, watching her roll off like a little Ninja.

  Except right now, L.A. seemed way, way too far away.

  With every bump, nausea threatened. In fact, there was no way Cara could make it across this Sound without puking.

  She rested her head against the cool glass of the ferry window, her gaze locked on the squatty lighthouse at the edge of Nantucket in the distance. That did little to quell the roll in her stomach.

  She didn’t want to do this, really. But it was the only way out. Sometimes the little people had to suffer so the great ones could have their day.

  Even for a great one, she felt very alone.

  No Joellen to annoy her, no stylist or publicity person or assistant or second-skin hanger-on to breathe down her neck. No media. No man. No agent, manager, stalkers, or gawkers. She was taking this challenge on her own.

  Well disguised for the moment, she bounced along on the ferry boat like a prisoner on her way to the gallows, certain of her decision. This really was the only way to get out of this horrible predicament. And if she handled it right, all the media about the Red Carpet Killer would just disappear—and so would Roman Emmanuel. Into the bottom of Nantucket Harbor.

  And he would be the Red Carpet Killer who tried to kill her but she vanquished. Sure, there would be an investigation, but the authorities would believe her. Who would think Cara Ferrari would lie? And she’d have all that evidence to back up the truth.

  She’d kill the Red Carpet Killer herself—and become a national legend. If everything went according to her plan, by this time next year she’d be starring in a new film, all her misdeeds a thing of the past.

  With a little luck and distraction, all of the misdeeds would be forgiven, forgotten—or dead.

  Nausea rolled through her again. She tried to use the lighthouse as a focal point to cure the queasiness, but that didn’t work as well as it usually did. Instead she looked around the ferry, into the nearly empty rows of seats, her mind whirring, barely noticing a man in a black leather jacket cruising down the other aisle. As he passed she caught a glimpse of him, then they both looked away.

  Oh, God. His eyes were so blue. Not the blue of the water around her, but the icy cold blue of… the man on the beach.

  He disappeared into the back and Cara gripped the armrest as the white heat of fear threatened to consume her.

  Had he followed her onto this ferry?

  She turned to look back, but the bulkhead that housed the bathrooms blocked her view of the back deck. There was a stairwell to the lower level, and he might have gone down.

  Was he the person who’d broken into the house and tried to make her death look like an accidental electrocution? That blue-eyed man from the beach? He could ruin everything! And what would he do here? Lure her to the deck, throw her body over—

  He came back up the aisle, brushing by her but not looking. He smelled like the woods and danger, the jacket expensive and loose, but big enough to reveal that he was mercilessly strong.

  He sat down a few rows ahead, in the middle section. She could see his right hand resting on faded jeans, a strong hand. A hand designed to close over someone’s throat and squeeze the last breath out of it. A hand designed to reach into that jacket pocket and produce a pistol.

  If she didn’t move, he couldn’t just take her out right here in her seat, could he? There were at least a half-dozen people around.

  Plus, the real Red Carpet Killer would make it look like an accident.

  A flash of her body tumbling into some kind of knife-sharp propeller at the back of the ferry burned in her brain. To erase it, she searched for the little lighthouse and estimated how much longer until they reached Nantucket.

  There, she would end this. She’d meet Roman, as planned. They’d go to the lighthouse, he’d take her out to the landing, and she’d kill him.

  She let her mind play the scene like a movie, refusing to think about Blue Eyes.

  It had to be the same man from the beach. She’d never forget those mesmerizing, gas-flame-blue eyes. Or was this her imagination on steroids again?

  Then she thought of a way to find out. She opened her bag and slipped her hand into the side pocket, pulling out the white card he had flipped to her on the beach.

  Taking her phone, she carefully dialed the number. Then hit Send.

  In her ear, the phone rang. He didn’t move. Another ring. He moved—was he reaching in his pocket left handed? Her heart slamming, she refused to hang up. She had to know. She had to.

  On the fourth ring, he stood very deliberately, his back to her. She saw his left elbow bend, into the jacket pocket.
<
br />   A gun?

  Slowly, he turned, steel blue eyes locking on her, narrowing, pulling something out.

  She jumped as the deafening blast of the ferry horn screamed over the Sound, the very moment the man revealed his phone. He thumbed a button and the ringing in her ear stopped.

  Then he smiled like Satan himself, revealing white, wolflike teeth.

  A stalker. A fan. One of Roman’s killers. It didn’t matter. Her stomach clenched in fear and sickness. Shaking, she looped her bag over her arm and shot up, practically running for the bathroom. She’d stay there the rest of the trip if she had to. She wouldn’t get off the ferry then. She’d just take it back to the Vineyard and come up with another idea.

  Dragging open the heavy bathroom door, she threw herself inside, then leaned on the cold steel of the door. A woman was in one of the stalls, so Cara just dropped back and closed her eyes.

  On the other side of the stall door, she heard the clicking of someone pressing phone buttons. Her gaze dropped down to the shoes, gorgeous Coach sneakers. They looked exactly like hers, even had the little black smudge—

  Holy shit, they were hers.

  Soundlessly, she opened the next stall door and slipped in, stepped up on the toilet, and looked over the top.

  Marissa Hunter was sitting on the toilet, texting.

  Closing her mouth to keep from gasping, Cara squinted at the phone screen, catching some words.

  Meeting Pakpao’s replacement.

  This time she couldn’t hide the gasp, and Marissa jerked up with one of her own.

  Marissa. In a stall. Talking about… Sunisa Pakpao? The floor rolled under her and she had to grab the top of the stall to keep from falling, losing her footing anyway and stumbling to the floor.

  “Cara!”

  “Marissa.”

  This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. The toilet flushed. The sound of her career, her life, the people she once trusted. And yet she couldn’t move. She had surprise on her side and she used it, stepping into the bathroom to face her assistant.

  Marissa opened the stall door, blinked once, and at least had the decency to blush. “What are you doing here, Cara?” she asked.

  “No, that’s my question.” And why are you texting Roman Emmanuel?

  “I couldn’t let you come alone.” She dropped her phone in a bag and stepped out. “I was worried about you, Cara. Even with this disguise.” She waved at the cap and sunglasses that covered makeup-free eyes and the baggy clothes. “Someone is bound to recognize you. And, really, you can’t forget that there could be a killer out there.”

  There was. About twenty feet away. But the real threat was right in front of her. “Who were you talking to?”

  “My agency. The employment agency that you used to find me.”

  Pakpao had the made-up title of director of something at RE Global, but Cara hadn’t used them to hire Marissa Hunter. “Why? Are you looking for a new position?”

  “I’m… yes, Cara. I am. I’m sick of your sister’s snide comments regardless of what a good job I do for you.” She walked to the sink and turned on the water.

  Why was she lying? “Marissa, you were texting Roman Emmanuel, weren’t you?”

  “He owns the employment agency.” She started to wash her hands. “The old agency was bought by one called RE Global.”

  It was possible. It was actually remotely possible. Maybe Roman had bought some little employment agency to gain more access to Cara. “Why would you talk to the owner?”

  “Because my employment with you is very high level, and important to him.”

  The lying bitch. “What did you tell him?”

  “That I’m leaving because… of Joellen. I don’t like her. I’m not going to let her ruin my life.”

  A bolt of anger rocked her so hard she almost raised her hand and slapped the woman. “What does he pay you to do?”

  “Nothing, Cara. They got a commission when you hired me.”

  She removed her hands from the sink, shook them, and reached for a paper towel.

  “Does he pay you to spy on me?”

  She didn’t answer, calmly drying her hands, then reaching in her purse again.

  “Does he?”

  Still no answer. Nausea threatened one more time, enough to make Cara close her eyes, and when she opened them Marissa’s horribly homely face stared expressionless, a small pistol in her hand.

  Cara pressed into the door, vaguely aware that danger lurked on the other side. Which was worse? One of Roman’s pawns ready to kill for him or a stranger who may or may not be a copycat killer?

  She leveled her most imperious look at Marissa. “Put that away.”

  “Yes, he pays me to spy on you. He paid me to get on this ferry so he doesn’t have to see you when you land. He pays me for a lot of things, Cara. I help him run that business. And we need to get rid of you. Frankly, that’s been my job all along, but when the possibility of you winning an Oscar made it easier to get away with, well…”

  Cara put her hand on the door, giving Marissa her haughtiest look. “You don’t have the nerve to kill me,” she said, delivering the line like a camera was right in her face. “You think you do because Roman makes you think you can do anything.”

  The color in her cheeks deepened, confirming that Cara had hit the mark.

  “Trust me, I fucked the man plenty,” Cara continued, an idea forming. Maybe she could make Marissa realize that Roman was using her, make Marissa hate him and turn on him. Maybe she could make Marissa kill him when they got to Nantucket! Perfect.

  “He has a way of making you feel like you’re the only woman in the world, doesn’t he?”

  Marissa took a slow, steadying breath, her nostrils fluttering.

  “Did he tell you how he’d take care of you? And your family?”

  A vein in her throat pulsed, but Marissa didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

  “I know what Roman Emmanuel can do for a woman who needs help,” she said softly, remembering how she and her sister had returned to the bog house and found a “squatter” at the bog—and that man turned out to be generous, caring, so wonderful she’d turned half the property over to him. “I know how he makes you feel in bed, too. Like a sex queen.”

  “I don’t have sex with him,” she said. Maybe she didn’t, Cara thought. Maybe she was too ugly even for Roman’s indiscriminate dick. Then she had some other weakness.

  “You want to be a movie star, rich, famous, what?”

  Marissa looked disgusted. “Hardly.”

  Family. It must be family. “He’s helping you with something, isn’t he? What is it, Marissa? A sick parent? A dying kid? Roman feeds off the desperation of others.”

  “My sister… is in a hospital.”

  “Oh, of course.” Confident she was safe now, Cara leaned forward and gave a knowing smile. “Sisters are his specialty, you know. Mine’s a murderer, our mother is a recluse, and I needed help for them, so he took care of it. Small price to pay for peace of mind, isn’t it? I gave him land, you give him… what? Information on me?”

  “Yes.”

  Cara frowned, thinking about the events of the past few days. “Then why send someone to kill my decoy?” she asked. “Didn’t you tell Roman it wasn’t me?”

  “There was a slight miscommunication.”

  Just as she’d thought: an amateur. “Did you try to put the hair dryer in the tub, too?” She didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. She was a try-hard, uncreative Red Carpet Killer. Roman had really lowered his standards.

  “Put the gun down, Marissa. I need your help.”

  She didn’t lower the weapon. “To do what?”

  “Kill Roman Emmanuel.”

  “No.” The bellow of the ferry horn burst through the loudspeakers, making Cara jump, and Marissa pull the trigger.

  The sound of the shot covered by the horn, Cara stumbled backward, even though the actual impact seemed eerily soft in her sleeve. Then searing, hot, vicious pain shot thro
ugh her arm.

  The world spun, taking her with it. “Marissa…” Cara’s voice sounded distant already.

  Just as she started to slump, Marissa grabbed her under her arms.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Cara said.

  “I know. I missed.” She yanked Cara toward the stall. “He’ll hate that.”

  Cara started to fight, but Marissa put the gun to her temple and forced her into the stall, kicking the toilet seat down and throwing Cara onto it. Then she stepped back and aimed.

  “No—” Cara tried to lunge, but Marissa stepped back, looking up at the loudspeaker.

  “Come on!”

  Once again, the ferry whistle wailed long and loud, and Marissa fired. Cara opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out, the bullet hitting her in the shoulder this time.

  As the blood and hope drained out of her, Cara’s head fell back. Marissa positioned her against the toilet tank, lifting her feet off the ground. Vaguely, Cara knew what she was doing. Hide the victim in the stall, to be found… sometime. Later today, tomorrow?

  And Marissa? Maybe she’d meet Roman at the dock. Get on the same ferry back to the Vineyard. He’d find her, figure out how to make it look like suicide. That’s what he’d do.

  From under shuttered eyes, she watched Marissa lock the door, then crawl underneath the stall and disappear.

  The door opened and closed, the whistle wailed again, and blood oozed from Cara’s wounds.

  She tried to move, tried to open her mouth, tried to do anything, but she was just lifeless. Except for the bile that rose in her throat, and this time she couldn’t fight he nausea. Her body’s instinct won and she dropped her head and vomited.

  In the distance, she heard the door open. Please, please, help me.

  “Ew, gross, Mom. Someone’s puking in there. I’ll wait till we get off.”

  And the door closed.

  So this was it. Cara Ferrari, Oscar-winning actress. A victim of betrayal, not a Red Carpet—the headlines formed in her mind’s eye, swimming around, gurgling.

  No, that was the sound of her blood pouring out of her body.

  “Cara.” A man’s voice. Dark. Low. Distant. She opened her eyes to see booted feet, faded jeans.