by Joanne Rock
Several crewmembers tried to explain the concept of “closed set” to him on his way in, but he’d always been good with people and adept at using the authority of his position to get where he needed to be. He didn’t want to stop the shoot, but he had to admit a definite interest in seeing Tabitha Everhart at work.
And when was the last time he’d felt that kind of intense interest in any woman? Occasional nights with holster groupies had never engendered the kind of heat Tabitha had with nothing beyond her presence.
Slipping silently into the huge master suite where her scene was being shot, however, he began to realize maybe he didn’t need to see this. The room was darkened but crowded with camera people and crewmembers despite the “closed” label. At the center of the silent movement on the fringes of the room, Tabitha Everhart sat on top of a smug-looking bastard in a bed of rumpled white sheets and fat pillows. The two of them were highlighted by umbrella lights and spotlights with diffusers stretched over the lamps. The perfect lighting illuminated every square inch of Tabitha’s barely covered skin.
Warren had thought for one heart-stopping instant that she was buck naked on top of the guy, but soon he’d spotted the tiny cups that hugged her nipples and the hint of flesh-toned strap around her hip that gave away she must be wearing panties.
Her deep red hair was pinned up, possibly to make sure it was kept out of the shot. The director seemed fixated on filming the actor’s hands on Tabitha’s back, judging by the monitors stationed near his camera. The shoot seemed focused on body parts instead of facial expressions. That made sense given Tabitha’s job, but it was disconcerting as hell to watch lovemaking broken down into a step-by-step pantomime that seemed cold and calculated, stilted and awkward.
Once the fascination with the strange process wore off, Warren could focus on details besides the fact that Tabitha was mostly naked. He studied her expression and found her miles away from her job as if she consciously disconnected from the work. It bothered him to realize he liked that idea because her co-star looked totally into the moment, the guy’s superior “I’m the stud of the free world” expression really getting on Warren’s nerves.
But Tabitha was clearly distracted, her body moving automatically when the director called for her to slide her hand up her own thigh or—worse—slide her hand up the actor’s thigh.
How had she learned to disassociate herself from those touches, the practiced intimacy of the camera shots? Was it simply the mark of a professional body double to perform her duties with such clear distance? Or had Tabitha Everhart learned to remove herself from her work for personal reasons? Maybe she was unhappy with the job. Bored. Did she take it for granted that she was a beautiful woman whose curves were so perfect that other women clamored for her to stand in their place?
The thought bugged him almost as much as the fact that she’d lied to him through omission the night before. After growing up in a violent household based on keeping up appearances, Warren didn’t appreciate people who hid dangerous secrets. It wouldn’t matter how many thieves, dealers or murderers Warren kept off the streets through his job. He’d never bring his father back. He’d never fix the fact that he’d kept his family’s secrets until all their lives imploded.
“That’s a good take,” the director shouted, interrupting the dark directions of Warren’s thoughts. “Let’s get Maureen back in here,” the director continued, releasing Tabitha from her close clinch with the actor who held her a second too long after the shot was finished.
Was there something going on between her and the actor? Warren realized he didn’t like that idea at all. Not that he had any designs on the hot divorcée, especially if a deceptive personality went along with those killer curves.
But Warren recognized her cohort actor as a former big-league star who’d been a notorious womanizer and drug user.
The guy smiled wolfishly at Tabitha’s back view as she walked away from the set toward the door to the makeup room behind where Warren stood. She didn’t see him for a moment, her eyes blinking against the change in light, and Warren did all he could to keep his jaw off the ground at the sight of her. Heat rushed south along with his blood and his sense.
She had the kind of body men went stupid over. Lush, high breasts that swayed just enough when she walked to advertise the wares were 100 percent authentic gifts from God and not a surgeon. He’d only just begun to take the scenic journey to her hips when an assistant hurried over to give her a long white bathrobe to wrap herself in. A good thing since it was time for Warren to go to work.
He cleared his throat and breathed in a steadying gulp of air. Too bad her scent filtered through, seducing his senses with the knowledge of how she smelled.
Clean. Like soap rather than fragrance. The intimate realization made him want to know what her hair smelled like, too. Hell.
“Tabitha, may I speak to you a moment if you’re done with your day?”
He already knew she was finished since one of the assistants had told him the bed scene was her only responsibility to the production today. But after she’d given him half answers the night before, he was curious to see how far she would go to avoid speaking to him again.
“Detective.” Her hand flew to the collar of her robe, where she clutched the neckline just long enough to be sure it was closed. An odd response from a woman who’d just walked around a bedroom mostly naked in front of at least ten other people. Did he make her uncomfortable? Or was she as aware of the heat between them as him?
“Do you have a minute?” he pressed, struggling to keep his thoughts on the investigation. He was ready for some answers about her gun, the shot through her window and a marriage that had gone down in flames in a very public fashion.
“Of course.” She tugged at the clip in her hair and brought the whole red mass falling down around her shoulders in unruly disarray. “Just give me a minute to change and I’ll meet you by the front door.”
Nodding, Warren headed to the living area of the spacious apartment that someone had given over to the day’s shoot. He settled in on a sofa to wait for Tabitha and tried not to imagine her peeling off those tiny pasties in a room down the hall.
* * *
WHEN SHE CAUGHT HERSELF swiping a brush through her hair for at least the fiftieth time, Tabitha realized she couldn’t stall any longer on the inevitable talk with Detective Vitalis.
She’d changed into a long khaki skirt and a yellow tank with a sweater over it, but she couldn’t quite shake the feeling of nakedness around him since he’d first seen her in a skimpy nightgown and now he’d watched her work, for heaven knew how long, in little more than a thong. Surely if she made it through today’s interview with her head held high she could call her old insecurities dead and gone.
And there was a chance she could have done it if only she had a few more layers of clothes. A burka maybe. Or a poncho at the very least. Her attraction to the man made her feel far more naked and aware of herself than her body double gig.
Tucking her brush back in her work bag, she said goodbye to the stylist and the makeup person before venturing out into the ultramodern living room furnished with white plastic cubes for tables and white sectional pieces that could be moved all around the room for optimal seating. Manny had hired a decorator to do their house in all white once, a decorating palette as cold and unforgiving as their marriage had eventually become.
Tabitha’s apartment as a single woman looked like a living patchwork quilt with colors thrown everywhere as vivid reminders she’d survived the isolating hell of marriage Siberia.
The detective stood as she entered the room that suddenly reminded her of a padded cell for crazy people. And while Tabitha appreciated the well-bred manners of a man who stood when a woman came in the room, she needed to be out of this apartment without delay.
“Hi, Detective. Sorry it took me so long, but I wondered if we could move our conversation to somewhere more private and less…white?” She didn’t know how else to say it, but getti
ng away from the inside of this icebox room was high on her list of immediate priorities.
Being shot at made a woman feel vulnerable enough without having the added complications of knee-weakening attraction and memories of a bad marriage to go with it. The attraction she couldn’t help. But the surroundings had to go.
“No problem.” He didn’t hesitate, only moved toward the door to open it for her. “Where would you like to go?”
“There’s a coffee shop a few blocks down. I got a latte there on my way in this morning.” She could breathe again once they left the apartment behind them.
“Not exactly more private, is it?” They took the stairs down two flights since the old-fashioned building had a beautiful staircase central to the residence, instead of the emergency stairwells built on new structures like an afterthought.
“Actually, it was really quiet earlier, but if you have another idea?” She adjusted the strap of her work tote on her shoulder as they left the building and strode out onto the street into mild afternoon pedestrian traffic. The neighborhood was more residential than commercial, with elegant facades and a wealth of domestic help walking dogs, parking cars and carrying groceries into the buildings where they worked.
“No. That’s fine. But what have you got against white?”
“It’s a long story I refuse to bore anyone with. Not even a detective intent on asking me questions.” Her mood lifted out on the street, her comfort level higher hanging out with dog walkers and personal shoppers than the high-powered people who could afford those luxuries.
“I wouldn’t be here today, Tabitha, if you’d been honest with me last night.”
That halted her in her tracks.
“I was very honest with you.” She’d admitted she owned a gun—a weapon forced on her by Manny as a Christmas gift one year.
She pointed out the coffee shop as they cleared the next street, her apprehension returning as quickly as it had fled. Her state of agitation wasn’t helped by the fact that Warren’s strong arm reached around behind her to open the door, his torso coming in momentary contact with her back. Awareness skittered down her spine to pool at the base and tingle through her hips.
“You neglected to mention you and your ex were at one another’s throats during your divorce when I asked about enemies.”
Just when Tabitha had caught her breath from feeling his chest close to her back, he lay one palm lightly on her spine to steer her toward a table in the far corner of the shop. The place was decorated with Italian marble and granite tabletops, but Tabitha would venture into the most upscale of businesses if there was good coffee to be had. The colors were yellow-gold and brown with a few muted blues mixed in the Venetian artwork. Best of all, there were several empty tables spaced far apart.
Tabitha waited until Warren’s hand disappeared from her spine and they were seated safely across from one another to respond.
“I didn’t mean to suggest my ex-husband and I like one another, Detective. I just wanted to make it clear that my ex wouldn’t purposely try to hurt me. Physically.” He’d sure as hell put her through the wringer other ways, but violence? Not his style.
“Are you sure about that?” He held up a hand to the waitress who approached and the woman backed off to give them more time.
“Yes.” She didn’t appreciate his tone that implied she would lie. “Look, if Manny Redding wanted to hurt me he would have done so when I broke up his Valentine’s Day rendezvous with an up-and-coming actress. He’d been angry enough then at my public meltdown in the foyer of a friend’s house party where Manny had been banging his starlet in a downstairs bathroom.”
“Ah, hell.” He scrubbed a hand through his shorn hair, not moving the bristly strands one bit. “I know the questions must suck, but—”
She interrupted, unable to tamp down the old fury that still surprised her sometimes.
“You have no idea. But if Manny wanted to hurt me physically, I guarantee he would have done it right then. If you have evidence to the contrary, by all means, please share it.”
“Fair enough.” The detective leaned forward over the table to reach for her hand. He glided his fingers over the back of hers for a moment before he seemed to catch himself. He backed off slowly.
The gesture caught her off guard coming from the man who’d pointed a gun at her the night before and who seemed to think she’d deliberately withheld information. Still, the misplaced nature of the touch didn’t make it any less potent. The heat he’d started inside her last night simmered again, reminding her it wasn’t going away anytime soon.
“Tabitha, when you told me last night that you owned a .38, you didn’t say anything about the gun being missing.”
Blinking, she tried to ignore the hedonistic wants of her body to make sense of his words.
“It’s not missing.” Confused, she waited for him to explain what the hell he meant by that. “I keep it in a gun case in my closet. The same place since I first moved in to the apartment.”
“Have you opened the gun case lately?”
A sick feeling bubbled in her stomach and not even the scent of coffee couldn’t take away the impending nausea.
“I—I’ve always hated the sight of that thing.”
“Your ex reported the weapon stolen from the home you shared over a year ago.”
CHAPTER 3
HE NEEDED TO BACK the hell off.
Warren scrolled through old newspaper archives on his home computer the next afternoon and told himself he shouldn’t be spending his day off digging through Tabitha’s past after the flood of inappropriate thoughts he’d been having about her from their first very unorthodox meeting. But then, if he was being honest with himself, hadn’t he taken the day off from work purposely to see what he could find out about this ex of hers?
“Producer’s Partying Puts Wife Over the Edge” read one headline on his most recent search, making Warren incensed that tabloid journalists could soft sell infidelity as partying.
Technically, a stray shot through a woman’s window was not an official NYPD investigation yet. He’d filed a report in case she had any more trouble, but without any concrete reason to suspect she’d been targeted, the work Warren did this afternoon was strictly out of personal interest.
Personal because—hell, he couldn’t deny it—he was attracted to Tabitha. When they’d parted ways at the coffee shop the day before, he’d had to hold his tongue firmly beneath his teeth to keep from suggesting he escort her home and be there at her side when she looked to see if her gun was in its case. He wanted to be there for her because he knew what she would find—a gut hunch confirmed by her phone call an hour after he’d gotten back to the precinct. There was no gun in the case, just a pile of bullets nestled in the foam cutout of the gun to weigh down the pouch.
“Aspiring Actress Loses Prime Part Amid Blackball Accusations.” The next headline that caught his eye was taken from a more reliable source than the article about Tabitha going “over the edge” about her ex’s partying.
Apparently Tabitha had wanted to be a character actress at one point—a more prominent role in the community where she now worked as a silent participant. According to the story, she’d lost a recurring role on a popular soap opera after she’d filed for divorce, and she’d publicly accused Manny of pulling the strings to make it happen. Bastard.
The more stories that Warren scrolled through, the more pissed off he became at a guy who would try to railroad his wife’s career simply because she didn’t let him get away with flagrant adultery. Warren couldn’t help but relate to the woman whose life had been steered off course by someone hell bent on revenge. But it wasn’t until he discovered an old photo of Tabitha in a decorating magazine ensconced on a pristine white couch in the middle of a snow-white living room that he knew he couldn’t back off Tabitha Everhart.
She sat alone and off center in the photo of a palatial living room, a vibrant woman with flaming hair and a heart-stopping smile. A woman with dreams she’d b
een forced to reroute because she’d gotten involved with a man who thought what she wanted didn’t matter.
Shutting down his computer, he whistled to Buster and decided to take his run early today—right past Tabitha’s place. There was no law against what he was thinking about doing, no code of ethics that prevented him from seeing her again on a personal level since there hadn’t been an official investigation into the incident at her place.
He had no idea what he was going to say to her, but then, if things went his way, maybe they wouldn’t be talking at all.
* * *
MAYBE THE GUN really had been stolen.
Tabitha stared at the empty case on the middle of her coffee table and tried to remember those last few days in her old house before she’d moved out. Manny had hardly spoken to her. His fury at the scene she’d made had embarrassed him, putting an impenetrable wall between the two of them. So maybe he’d just been too angry to let her know there’d been a break-in, too caught up in his silent grudge to speak to her about anything, but he’d done the right thing and phoned in the missing weapon to the police.
She hoped that’s what happened.
Still, the incident didn’t add up.
Day had turned to evening while she ventured back in time in her mind. The blanket she’d stapled over her newly replaced front window wasn’t attractive, but it provided a thicker barrier than her curtains until she could afford massive drapes that made her feel less on display.
She revealed enough of herself at work without having her whole life visible through her front window. There was only one man she might like to reveal a little more of herself to, and she knew that had the potential to be a big mistake. Besides, Detective Vitalis had seemed mistrustful of her the last time they met. What good could come from an attraction tempered by suspicion?
So it came as a surprise when she heard a bark outside her front door a few moments later, followed by a quick, efficient knock.