On the Record- the Complete Collection

by Lee Winter

  “It was built in the ’20s,” Ayers said quietly as she put her keys away. “A racetrack owner is rumored to have built it, thinking he could lure the stars of the golden era of Hollywood to his parties. He wanted something intimate but beautiful.”

  “It is,” Lauren said. “How much did you pay for it?”

  Ayers glared.

  “Sorry,” Lauren said. “It’s late. I lose my censor button after eleven.”

  “Useful to know.”

  Lauren was distracted by a movement in her rearview mirror.

  “Your camera just turned to follow us,” she said, startled. “The one on the external wall we passed.”

  “It has a movement tracker. It’s sending video of your vehicle to my security company as we speak. I should get a call any minute about a strange car in my driveway.”

  A moment later she pulled up in front of the garage, and the red cedar door slid up automatically. “Neat trick.”

  “It’s automatic,” Ayers explained, pulling out her cell phone which had just begun to ring.

  “Ayers,” she answered. “Yes. Please log its plate number for the white list. By the way, I’m expecting security intrusions in the immediate future. Put my address on high alert. And do the external patrol. All the extras. I believe it may be professionals involved, so be vigilant. Thanks. Good night.”

  Lauren turned off her ignition and watched in wonder as the door behind them closed on its own and the interior lights of the garage came on, washing the room in warm yellow. Ayers’s infamous silver Saab was parked beside her, and the entire garage was meticulous with gleaming benches and an alcove for every tool.

  “My dad would love this,” she said in wonder.

  “Most men do,” Ayers noted and slid out. She rapped on the trunk and waited for Lauren to pop it, then reached for her two designer bags.

  Lauren tried not to think of all the men who’d probably gotten an invite to Ayers’s fancy, high-tech house over however long she’d had it. She hauled out her lone duffle bag, slung it over her shoulder, and slammed her trunk’s door a little too hard.

  Then her eye fell to the deep scratches cutting into the side all along her car. She scowled, and her heart sank in dismay. “Crap.”

  Ayers’s home was beautiful and tasteful, with polished timber floors, cream decor, artwork on the walls, and rooms and nooks bursting with books.

  As Ayers led them through the upper level, Lauren paused at one view from an office window and spied a little gazebo next to a stone bench and a pond. The gardens were extensively lit, and the trees had tiny twinkling lights embedded in their branches.

  It was magical, like a wonderland of lights and lush plants. It was warm and soothing and nothing like the lair she’d imagine for Ayers.

  Had to be a killer of an electric bill.

  “Solar lighting,” Ayers said. “And that’s my favorite view. It’s a creative place to write.”

  Lauren glanced down at a small writing desk. On it were framed pictures of Ayers with various noted names. Presidents. Entrepreneurs. Leaders. Nelson Mandela. Stephen Hawking. Sally Ride. Ayers looked poised in every photo except for one. She paused over that exception, taking in a much younger Ayers standing with an iconic political correspondent at a party on the lawn of the White House.

  She picked it up and examined the hopeful expression on the twenty-something Ayers’s face. “Helen Thomas, huh? Who didn’t idolize her?”

  Ayers glanced at her in surprise.

  “You know, Catherine, you’ve really got to stop underestimating my knowledge of political journalists,” Lauren said lightly. “I wasn’t entirely raised in a barn. Although you seem to think I was.”

  Ayers’s lips quirked. “I suppose that’s fair.” She took the photo from Lauren’s hands and studied it closely.

  “It was a different era back then,” she mused. “I’d just moved to Washington. It was a time when seeking the truth was still seen as the core goal of a political journalist.”

  “As opposed to what?”

  “Rehashing press releases. Debating political spin as real news. Being blatantly used by the parties. Helen saw it happening and called them on it repeatedly.” She sighed. “The political machine got her in the end, of course.

  “The golden rule of politics and the media is when the wolves start to bay, it’s irrelevant what you do or say after that. If you’re marked for extinction, they will get you. Seven decades of service to the truth, and her career ended in scandal. She certainly didn’t deserve that inglorious exit.”

  Lauren caught a strange inflection. “But you think you did?” she asked, confused.

  Ayers tilted her head. “While I deserved most of the blame, I know that certain people who contributed to my downfall were not held accountable at all. Look, it’s complicated. But as I said, once you’re in their crosshairs and they want you gone, you’re gone.”

  Lauren held her breath and willed Ayers to explain the mystery no one fully understood. How could someone as smart and politically savvy as Ayers, blow everything with one spectacularly bad story?

  “So what went wrong?”

  Ayers shook her head in irritation and placed the picture of the veteran print journalist in its pride of place on her desk. She adjusted it and then took a step back, obviously forgetting how close Lauren had been standing.

  Lauren could feel Ayers’s body heat curling across her skin.

  “It’s late,” Ayers said, her voice vibrating close to her ear. “And I think our dash to the gates of hell and back tonight has put me in a reflective mood. But no good comes from rehashing the past.”

  Lauren almost slumped in disappointment.

  “Your room’s this way.” Ayers left.

  She trailed after Ayers, entered the guest room, and dropped her duffel bag on the floor. She looked around. It was cosy and adorable. A double bed, a white dresser, and matching white wardrobe. An exotic timber ornamental ceiling fan added unique flair. Ayers pointed to a door. “Guest bathroom’s right there. If you need me, I’m at the end of the hall. Sleep well, Lauren.”

  “You too, Catherine,” she said. Ayers sauntered out as though she hadn’t just spent eight hours on the road followed by one near-death experience.

  She opened the curtains and then sat on the bed to review her day as her tired eyes focused on the enticing gardens below.

  It was hypnotic. Giving herself a shake, she sleepily headed for the shower. Her head leaned against the tiled wall, water running down her back, as her brain helpfully supplied her with two important facts.

  One, Catherine Ayers, the closed-off, famously private journalist, was letting her stay in her house.

  Two, Catherine Ayers, the alluring woman, was probably naked as a jaybird in the shower herself right now.

  Lauren groaned and gently thumped her head against the wall as she willed that scorching image from her mind.

  Dawn had barely broken when Lauren’s eyes fluttered open. It took a moment to place where she was, and then her heart did a double flip with a half pike. She stared incredulously at the ceiling fan. She’d woken up in Catherine Ayers’s home.

  Her empty stomach grumbled. She rose, quickly used the en suite, and then rummaged through her bag. She found only a lonely, sad mint, which she unwrapped, popped in her mouth, and chewed hungrily while she hunted for a granola bar she thought she’d packed. She came up empty.

  After a few minutes, she gave up her search and padded through the hall, ears straining to hear if she’d woken her host.

  The house was silent. She could hear a ticking of a clock from somewhere and the chirp of birds outside, but nothing else.

  She headed toward the stairs intent on finding the kitchen when she came to an abrupt halt. Below her in the low light she could make out a stunning lounge and entertaining area, with wide glass windows and w
hite sofas on a polished timber floor.

  But that’s not what had caught her eye. All the way down the cream stairway wall were photos. She realized she was staring at a gallery of Ayers’s life. She edged closer.

  Polished black frames held several photos of a well-dressed older couple, jewels glittering on them. She could see the resemblance to Ayers in the aristocratic angle with which they held their heads. Two little girls were at their side in the pictures. The smaller one smiled dutifully, a fixed vacant expression. The taller girl, with long auburn hair and intelligent, sharp eyes, didn’t bother to hide her boredom.

  Lauren smirked. No doubts as to who was who.

  She took a step lower and saw the same two girls, older now, on horses, with matching equestrian outfits and silly grins. Ayers’s hair was in a long braid, and she sat easily in the saddle patting her mount.

  Two steps down, and she was looking at a wedding. The younger Ayers girl was being married to a tall, red-headed man with freckles and a pleasant face. He had pale skin, a weak chin, and reeked of old money. He looked a little overwhelmed. Ayers’s parents watched the happy couple approvingly in the background.

  Catherine, who looked to be in her mid-twenties, was off to one side in a bridesmaid’s outfit of shiny green taffeta with a plunging neckline. Somehow she managed to make the hideous garment work, although the faintly incredulous expression on her face said it all. The round, homely creature beside her—a cousin, perhaps, given she shared the same eyes and chin—had a lot less luck with pulling off the fashion travesty. A green toffee apple came to mind.

  Three steps lower, and the couple now had a baby; another two steps saw the photogenic teenage boy at high school age, striking a superhero pose and laughing.

  One photo later, Lauren stopped cold and stared at it in shock.

  She heard a movement from below and pulled her eyes away to see Ayers making her way up to her, hair slicked back, with a white towel casually slung over her shoulder. She wore a one-piece black swimsuit and an interested expression as she scrutinized Lauren’s outfit.

  Lauren followed her wandering eyes. Oh right. Still in her boxers and tank top. Not that Ayers could get too obnoxious about the liberal amount of skin on display. Lauren’s gaze shifted to long, pale, toned, bare legs, and the high-cut, damp swimsuit.

  “Pool?” She reddened. Of course the woman had been swimming. Idiot.

  “What gave it away?” Ayers retorted as she joined her on the same step. “But if you’re asking because you want a swim yourself, I’ll show you where the lap pool is after I get dressed.”

  “Nnngh,” Lauren replied helplessly as she took in a close-up of Ayers in little more than thin black nylon. She could see the swell of her breasts and the muscle definition in shoulders and arms well-used to sliding through water.

  Goddammit. She spun back to examine the photo that had captured her attention before Ayers’s arrival, hoping to prevent her fritzing brain’s complete meltdown.

  “Ah,” Ayers said as she studied the photo in front of Lauren, leaning just over her shoulder. Her cheek was almost against her ear. The hairs on the back of Lauren’s neck shot to attention and practically saluted.

  “I see you’ve met my nephew. Again,” she purred.

  Lauren’s mouth fell open. She turned.

  “Wait, what? You let me believe…no, you let everyone believe you were dating him. But he’s…Catherine, your nephew is Tad.”

  “Yes, Thadeus is my nephew.”

  “Did you enjoy playing me for a fool?”

  “Yes,” Ayers said with an amused look. “Well, at first.” She met Lauren’s eyes challengingly.

  “To think I actually agonized over whether to tell you about him hitting on Josh. I lost sleep over that!”

  “Well I didn’t know you were giving yourself an ulcer about it. How could I?” Ayers countered.

  “And if you had known, would you have told me then?” At her silence, Lauren shook her head in disappointment. “That’s what I thought.”

  “No,” Ayers said. She crossed her arms. “If people jumped to that conclusion, that’s hardly my fault.”

  “Oh please,” Lauren snapped. “You knew exactly what you were doing. Just tell me why?”

  “What possible difference would it make to your life knowing that?”

  “It’s about trust,” Lauren said angrily.

  “I’ve never lied to you, Lauren.”

  “Semantics, and you know it.”

  “No, there is a distinction,” Ayers said defensively. “Thadeus has been my date to dozens of events, and not one person asked me who he was in my life. Everyone just presumed I had to be sleeping with him. How pathetic is that?”

  She pinned Lauren with a quelling look. “Everyone’s so fixated on the body beautiful in this shallow little town that it didn’t enter a single person’s mind that I wasn’t taking him to my bed. And before you get too indignant, that includes you, too.”

  Lauren wished she could deny it. Her jaw worked in irritation.

  Ayers’s eyes lit in triumph. “See what I mean about assuming?” she drawled.

  Lauren was torn between anger and disappointment that Ayers was as much a fraud as anyone else in this plastic town. She remembered all the times her stomach had knotted over the thought of Josh and Tad hooking up behind Ayers’s back, and it made her furious all over again.

  “Does Tad’s family know he’s gay and you trot him out at events like some prized pony?” Lauren sniped. It was beneath her, some part of her brain noted, but she was too annoyed to care.

  Ayers’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “How is that any of your business?”

  “He’s dating one of my best friends. I’d like to know how potholed the road is ahead for him. Josh is an artistic soul—he gives his heart too easily. And to people who don’t deserve him. I don’t want him being anyone’s dirty little secret.”

  Ayers rolled her eyes. “If you must know, I’m the only one aware of his preferences in our family. And he doesn’t know that I know. But despite the secrecy, I believe he’d never treat Joshua with disrespect.

  “As for his escort duties, it’s entirely his choice. When he turned up on my doorstep with his bags, only then did anyone in our family realize how serious he was about becoming an actor. His mother—my sister—was horrified. I agreed to take him in and keep an eye on him and introduce him to entertainment industry contacts at various events until he found his feet and got his own place. And on the morning we left for Nevada, he decided to move out. Apparently I was cramping his style, among other reasons. But the straw that broke the camel’s back was Joshua refusing to date Tad because he lived with me.”

  Lauren felt a flash of relief that her friend had acted honorably. She owed him an apology.

  “Okay,” Lauren said. “But why not tell people he was your nephew? Plenty of people take relatives as plus ones to events.”

  Ayers shifted uncomfortably. “He had an image he wished to protect. Or invent, I suppose.”

  “That explains the games you play with strangers, but why pretend to people closer to home? Those who work with you and respect you? Like me or, say, Mariella. She deals with a ton of closeted actors. It’s not like we couldn’t keep a secret about Tad. He’s not even in a small minority in Hollywood.

  “Or is it that you think we wouldn’t keep it a secret?” Lauren stared at her. “Come on, you can’t seriously think I’d out Tad and ruin his acting chances or something?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why? I can’t think of a single reason for your fake dating game that makes any sense.”

  Ayers regarded her, fingers gripping tighter on her towel. Her icy eyes, usually so mocking and confident, seemed conflicted.

  “I’m sorry. I won’t discuss it.”

  Lauren felt the words bite into her. Of course
it would be too much for Ayers to explain anything. Now she knew exactly where she stood on Ayers’ friendship scale. Sub-basement level.

  “You’re right,” she said tightly, “it’s absolutely none of my business. Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your way.” She took a step back up the stairs.

  “Lauren.”

  She glanced down to find Ayers gripping her arm. She lifted her head in confusion.

  An index finger slowly stroked up Lauren’s bicep and then curled behind her neck. Ayers tugged Lauren’s head to hers and took a step closer so their lips were millimetres from touching.

  “What are you doing?” Lauren asked.

  “Explaining.” Ayers closed the sliver of space between them and dusted her lips across Lauren’s as gently as a breeze.

  Arousal flooded Lauren, and she leaned forward, kissed her hungrily, and opened her mouth under teasing lips. After a moment’s hesitation, their tongues met and tangled.

  Lauren’s hands slid to Ayers’s firm ass, squeezed it, and then found the smooth bare skin at the small of her back and stroked. The tips of Lauren’s fingers slid under the nylon of the swimsuit with each downward stroke and elicited a gasp against her lips.

  Ayers rolled her hips and pinned her hard against the wall. Lauren’s knees almost buckled at the sensation.

  Jesus.

  Ayers suddenly stepped back. Those watchful eyes were dark and half-lidded. Her lips were swollen. She exhaled and licked them.

  “That’s why,” she breathed, staring hard at Lauren.

  “You…you’re?” Lauren swallowed. “Oh!”

  Ayers dropped her eyes, but not before Lauren saw a flash of something dark in her intense gaze. “And now you know,” she said coolly. She turned. “Help yourself to the kitchen. I need to get changed.”

  “But,” Lauren said, watching her go. “Wait!”

  Lauren stared after her, lips on fire, and her nipples rock hard. She traced her fingertips across her mouth to assure herself that the impossible had indeed happened.

  Catherine Ayers had just kissed her as if she knew her way around another woman’s lips. And she’d admitted that was pretty much the status quo for her.