"Monday?” She nearly dropped the file. “That's the day after tomorrow."
"I know. It doesn't give you much time, but we want to get you in as soon as possible,” he said. “Meet Your Mate is entering into week five, and you, along with two actresses, are going onto the show under the pretext of being picked by the Andersons as best-suited for their son. Of course, Matthew will choose you to stay, while the other two will be sent home along with one of the four remaining contestants."
"Okay.” She nodded. “That seems plausible.” These shows always had hooks and twists. Adding her wouldn't be complicated. What bothered Brielle was that in order for her to stay, one of the actual contestants, who probably had feelings for Matthew, would have to leave. She frowned. It didn't seem fair, but with Matthew's life at stake, fair played no part.
Her gaze fell to the folder. On the bright side, this left her with only three suspects to investigate. Uncle Franco said he'd keep an eye on the eliminated girls, leaving her free to focus on her housemates. With any luck, she'd be out of there before the next elimination.
* * * *
What am I doing here? Brielle wondered two days later, the urge to flee tingling her toes.
Dressed in a fitted, black Faviana gown with a front-side slit and sequined bodice, she sat with the two actresses and a cameraman in a long white limo. I've lost my ever-loving mind. Focus on the positive, forget the negative, she silently scolded, drawing in a long breath. She had to admit, this case did have its perks. It wasn't everyday she got paid to dress up and suffer the attention of a handsome man.
She frowned. At least, she assumed Matthew was handsome. Uncle Franco had neglected to add pictures of the Anderson brothers to the file. Odd. Especially for Uncle Franco—he was always so thorough.
The car stopped.
So did her heartbeats. Time to get into character.
Adrenaline shot through Brielle, quickening her pulse and sharpening her focus. She loved the rush of a new job. It always made her feel so alive.
Taking the offered hand, she stepped from the limo and gasped. A massive four-story brick mansion with towering white pillars and a huge outdoor chandelier met her gaze. I'd hate to pay the light bill, she thought, closing her mouth.
A sour taste coated her tongue as bad memories threatened to surface. This will not be a disaster like the last time. She pasted a smile on her face while three white-tuxedoed hunks escorted them up the wide marble steps.
One of the two big wooden front doors swung open. Her teeth clenched. Uncle Franco owes me big time for this. Stepping inside, she ignored the hovering cameramen and drew in a breath.
The faint smell of citrus tickled her nose, and she fought back a sneeze. Everything was polished and massive, from the vases and artwork—which cost ten times as much as she'd make in her lifetime—to the grand spiral oaken staircase, gleaming before them like the sun hitting the Pacific Ocean on a California afternoon.
Have I stepped from reality, instead of into a reality show?
"Wow,” the actress next to her exclaimed. “Look at the mural on the ceiling."
Her gaze followed the pink-manicured fingernail pointing skyward.
"It's beautiful,” the other actress breathed.
Brielle nodded at the bevy of clouds and angels mingling in warm earth tones above them.
"There's another mural in the ballroom,” one of the hunks informed as the men stepped to the side. “Maybe you'll get to see it, if you're picked to stay."
The girls’ smiles disappeared, while a twinge of guilt hit her between the solar plexus. She shook it off. The actresses were getting paid for their part tonight, and she wasn't here to land a husband. She had a mystery to solve and an attack to prevent.
Straightening her shoulders, she peered around the foyer. No wonder Jack couldn't break the case. The place was like a museum. He could never keep an eye on all the girls with so many rooms, closets and hallways to hide. Please don't let the bachelorette mansion be this size. She stifled a groan. It would take days to search.
At the sound of a door opening behind them, she turned and watched a clipboard-toting, thin bespectacled man hasten toward them.
"Hi, I'm Bill Houston, the show's producer.” He shook their hands, confirming her thoughts. “The bathroom's in there if you want to check your appearance before you go in to meet Matthew and the others.” He motioned to a door with his clipboard.
The two actresses made a beeline for that room, but Brielle declined, wanting to have a word with him, instead.
"Is everything set?"
"Yes, Ms. Chapman, it is.” He placed the clipboard under his arm. “You are going to be introduced as Gabrielle Bennett, twenty-five-year-old dance instructor."
She nodded, having already given her uncle the go-ahead on her cover. “And Matthew is aware of my real reason for being here?"
"Yes. Only he and key members of my staff know.” Bill removed his glasses to clean them on his shirt. “No one else is aware and don't worry about them.” He paused to nod to the cameramen. “It doesn't matter if the world knows because this won't air until the show's in the can."
"Okay, good,” she said, turning toward the six-foot mirror hanging on one of the side walls. Her heels echoed as she walked across the foyer. “Although, I still say it's a mistake not telling Jack."
"That's out of my hands. Your uncle and the Andersons are calling the shots on that. I just want to get my show done without casualties."
Her steps halted in front of the mirror, and she studied his reflection carefully. These threats made for good television. He pushed his glasses back onto his nose and looked at his watch. She chewed her lower lip, then released it. Uncle Franco had ruled out the producer and the possibility of this being a publicity stunt. These threats were real and came from an insider.
Her gaze swung to her own reflection. She hardly recognized herself. Dark brown hair, which normally fell several inches below her shoulders, was twisted into an upsweep, while several loose tendrils framed her face and brought attention to her chocolate brown eyes. She turned sideways. Amazing.
The designer gown transformed her five-foot-eight-inch frame into an hourglass figure. “Must be Hollywood magic,” she muttered, although getting a date had never been her problem. It was keeping their interest once they realized their fantasy about her and her handcuffs was not a realistic one.
She blew a curl out of her eye and scowled. Over the past year, her lack of male suitors had even prompted Uncle Franco to attempt to fix her up with so-and-so's nephew-brother-etc. What a nightmare. She shuddered. Thank goodness he'd listened to her wishes and accepted that she was perfectly happy being his niece and concentrating on work.
Smoothing a hand over her hips, she willed her sudden apprehension to go away. The other reality television case was in the past. Uncle Franco's reputation was intact and would remain that way. No one in the company could best her investigative skills. Her anxiety was unfounded. She'd been in much more harrowing situations in her undercover work.
Like when she'd busted a smuggling ring on a fishing boat full of three-handed men who'd smelled worse than the catch of the day. She wrinkled her nose, then turned from the mirror. And this case certainly wasn't worse than when she'd donned skimpy outfits and danced around a pole in front of a bar full of men for almost a month. She drew in a breath and recalled her time at The Limelight.
Last year's undercover work had helped stop a home-invasion ring that had plagued the Los Angeles area. She'd had reservations about that role, too, but had taken solace in the fact that no one would recognize her. Not only because she'd lived two hours up the coast, but because her appearance had been radically changed.
Using the name “Ariel,” she'd donned blue contacts, worn heavy makeup and dyed her long hair auburn, which she'd teased to fit in with the other performers. It had been unnerving dancing exotically in front of those strange men—all except for one.
That had been unsettling in a differ
ent way.
A smile pulled at her lips as she recalled the man whose presence drew strange reactions from her body.
Dodger.
She'd given him that nickname because of the logo on the baseball cap he'd always worn. They'd never met. Never spoken. But his face became one of the few bright spots that kept her going.
Three nights a week, Dodger would show up at The Limelight and sit off to the side during her show. He had looked like the other patrons, with a pitcher of beer in front of him. But that's where the similarities ended. Dodger's fit body stretched his T-shirt and jeans—not to mention her professional resolve—to their limits. Closing her eyes, she brought his face to mind.
Long dark hair curled to his shoulders and a two-day beard scuffed his wickedly sexy features. He looked dangerous, capable—a man, hardened by the world, looking to her for some pleasure in order to forget.
She'd gotten used to his disconcerting presence and often-friendly smile and, after awhile, found herself searching for him and his smoldering blue gaze. Electric, erotically seductive, the blazing arousal in his eyes pulled her in and set her whole body aflame. Hypnotized, mesmerized, Brielle had danced just for him.
The rapid rise and fall of Dodger's chest and the way his shirt clung to his suddenly sweat-soaked torso told her he'd felt the same frenzied pull. Never had a man made her feel so desirable ... so turned on ... so achingly hungry for his touch.
Her eyes snapped open and she drew in a breath. That man had been one of a kind, and the kind best left to fantasy. She'd detested her attraction to him, yet yearned for it at the same time. That had been dangerous. He could've been married, or worse, a criminal. Grounded by past experience, she'd resisted temptation and made a point to never socialize around him.
That job, by far, had been the hardest she'd ever made herself do. This nervousness that ran through her now was foolish. It was like comparing Mt. Everest to a pitcher's mound. Completely ridiculous.
Several steadying breaths later, she focused on the present and rejoined Bill as the actresses returned from their primping session.
"We're ready,” she told him.
"Good.” Bill looked at his watch again before he signaled to the cameramen. “It's Showtime."
Adrenaline shot through her veins and washed the last remnants of apprehension from her body as she glided with the others across the foyer. If one of the contestants is the perpetrator, will I be able to spot her off the bat? Would it take several days? The timeline didn't matter, as long as she flushed out the culprit before someone got hurt.
Bill ushered them toward the Gathering Room doors beginning to open. Having studied the blueprints of both mansions, she understood the Gathering Room to be a fancier, blown up version of a common living room. Trust the rich to rename it and make it bigger. Adopting a dancer's grace, Brielle Bennett and her two sidekicks breezed onto the landing and straight into—the seventh layer of hell.
She stopped dead.
This can't be happening!
Thankful her toe hit the mark and her distress went unnoticed, she eyed the men standing across the room. Handsome in their designer Italian suits, only one of them sent her pulse into a tango. Broad shoulders, dark hair, blue eyes—
Dodger.
She swallowed. Why did he have to be an Anderson?
Forcing her lips into a smile, her gaze jumped from one Anderson male to the other. Which brother was he?
The groom or the guard?
Chapter Two
"Hello, ladies. I'm Greg Phelps, the show's host,” an attractive Hollywood blond greeted them from the center of the room. “Welcome to Meet Your Mate."
The actresses gushed like he was the cat's meow. Lips turned up, Brielle's training kicked in and nerves disappeared.
Tension, emanating from the left, prickled her skin. She turned her gaze to the four contestants, while Greg explained the newcomers’ arrival. Observing the women's reactions, she noted that although not pleased, none of the ladies appeared hostile.
Was that good or bad?
Reluctantly, she returned her attention to Greg, as one by one, he introduced the new girls to the groom. It didn't matter which brother Dodger turned out to be—groom or guard—and yet she couldn't explain the relief shooting through her body when Greg pronounced him the groom's brother.
Why should it matter?
It didn't, she insisted. Her relief had nothing to do with the fact those four beauties wouldn't be throwing themselves at Dodger. She dismissed the absurd notion the moment it surfaced. Her chin rose. She was just relieved to know which brother was which.
As the actresses each stepped forward to meet the groom, Brielle swept her gaze around the room again. Two thumbs up for the show's producers for scouting out and renting such a beautiful mansion, although it seemed a bit over-the-top for a bachelor and his brother. But that's Hollywood for you. She noted posh furniture, shiny mahogany floors, French doors to the outside, tapestry drapes and an open door to what appeared to be a study on the left. The owners can't be all bad, she reasoned, as her gaze settled on their taste in artwork. An Andy Matthews original painting hung above the handsome men patiently standing before the fireplace.
Uneager to give them her attention, she swung her gaze back to the other contestants.
On her left, the red-dressed brunette frowned. Brielle recalled the files mentioning this woman to be a twenty-seven-year-old marketing director. The blonde in blue looked worried, chewing her lower lip. She acknowledged this curvy woman as the hand model.
Heat, like an open oven, blasted Brielle's face. Dodger's stare. She ordered her mind back to task and forced her scrutiny to the pretty brunette in white, surprised to see warmth behind the woman's smile. Taking in her shorter fingernails and lack of ‘polish’ to her appearance, she acknowledged the teacher.
Turning her attention to the final contestant and suspect, her gaze collided with a frank green appraisal. The woman looked her up and down, then raised a perfectly arched brow. Knowing better than to glance away, she did some assessing of her own. Dressed in red, this exotic beauty with long, silky black hair oozed confidence and a tough-cookie demeanor. The nude model.
She should prove to be a fun roomie. Only when the woman dropped her gaze did Brielle refocus on Greg's approach.
"And this is Brielle Bennett.” He took her hand and led her down the four-stepped landing toward the Anderson brothers. “She's a twenty-five-year-old dance instructor from Sacramento."
Heart hammering out of control, she ordered the pounding to cease, and refused to look at Dodger. He's not why I'm here. Refocused on the case, she centered her gaze on her client, the groom.
"Brielle, meet Matthew Anderson, our bachelor.” Greg stopped in front of the good-looking man.
The epitome of tall, dark and handsome, Matthew confused her. With a smile that made his brown eyes sparkle, his cheeks dimple and showed his even, white teeth, she couldn't understand why he was on this show. Surely he could find a date? She made a mental note to ask him later when they were alone.
"Hello, Brielle.” He grasped her fingers and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “I'm glad you're here."
Her smile widened. “So am I, Matthew."
"This is my brother, Jack.” He placed her hand into Dodger's strong grip. “He's helping me out on the show."
Drawing a breath, she released it in a gush, taking comfort that her unease fit with her character. Not quite as tall as Matthew, Jack's strength and confidence filled the room, commanding attention. Beard gone, hair cut into a short alpha male style, Jack looked like a man hardened by world experience and ready to take on more. She hoped his mind was as broad as his shoulders and prayed Dodger/Jack wouldn't recognize her when she gazed into his eyes.
Those eyes ... those magnificent blue eyes pulled her into a place she longed to be, teasing her mind and body with memories of acute arousal.
Pulse jumping, mouth dry, she worked hard to keep any signs of recognition from he
r face, but failed to suppress the tremor of awareness shooting down her spine.
Jack blinked, then cleared his throat. “Hello, Brielle. Welcome to the show.” He released her hand, his smile guarded.
The sound of his deep voice vibrated her bones. Never in her wildest dreams—and he'd inspired many—had she thought Dodger would sound that way.
He was dangerous all right. Hell. Jack surpassed danger and went straight to lethal. Her attraction gave him top honors on her suspect list. She'd learned not to trust her judgment.
I didn't feel anything this strong for ... what's-his-name ... from that other show. Brent, right, I didn't feel anything this strong for him, and look at the mess that had gotten me into. No. She would not be fooled again.
So what if Jack was the groom's brother and investigating this show—he could still have motive and be the perpetrator.
Cool as a cucumber, you're as cool as a cucumber. She silently chanted the mantra before replying, “Thank you, Jack. It's nice to meet you."
He jammed his hands into his pockets and nodded.
"Brielle, if you'll join the other contestants, we'll get the night started.” Greg motioned toward the group of women.
Happy to distance her body from the blue-eyed temptation, she made her way across the room to where a trio of white-tuxedoed hunks handed out flutes of champagne. Taking a healthy sip, she savored the bubbly and listened to Greg explain the night's festivities.
"Ladies, tonight is elimination night. But with the arrival of the new girls"—the host nodded at them—"Matthew now has to eliminate three."
Groaning, the women turned to her and glared. Why did they only look at me? What about the two actresses? She sipped her champagne and snuck a peak at Jack. His intense blue eyes followed her every move. She shivered. This was going to be a long four weeks.
"But have no fear,” Greg continued with a smile, “Matthew and Jack will both get alone time with each of you tonight. So remember ladies, this is your chance to impress the men."
Her grip tightened around her glass. How did the women do this every week? It was nerve-wracking and the show wasn't even real for her. She glanced at the contestants. The things people put themselves through for love. Was it worth it?
Meet Your Mate Page 2