Alias

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Darcy’s heart did a little leap at the way he looked at her son. Charlie’s own father hadn’t even held him when he was born. Maurice demanded she abort and when she refused, he threw her down the stairs, hoping she’d lose the baby. Pushing her kept his hands clean. An accident, he’d say. The memory blasted through her and she flinched, feeling each bang of the steps. Curling her body into a ball to protect her baby, the cool tile floor beneath her cheek.

  “Piper?”

  She blinked. Jack was standing close, holding the empty plates. How long had she fazed out?

  “You all right?”

  Tears burned her eyes and she quickly looked away. “Yeah, fine. Got powder in my eyes, I think.”

  Jack didn’t believe her, she could tell, yet he soaked a towel for her. “Let me see.”

  “It’s fine now.”

  “Let me see,” he insisted and tipped her face up, then blotted the wet cloth over her eyes. There was nothing there, but he pretended there was. He eased the cloth from her eyes and she opened them. Her vision filled with him.

  “Okay?”

  Darcy breathed him in, his strength, his scent. His face was so close, his mouth inviting. His gaze raked her face, as if searching for answers she knew he wanted. But he didn’t say anything.

  Then his head dipped, his mouth a breath from hers.

  “Don’t, Jack.” Yet she didn’t back away.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Oh, I know you’re not stupid and neither am I. Don’t take this friendship there.”

  “Are we friends, Piper? I figured I was just the hired muscle.”

  “Yeah, that, too.” She eased away from him. Instantly she felt more alone.

  “Friends trust each other.”

  “I trust you with my life, Jack.”

  His look went sour. “You give that to cops and firefighters.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “To know you.”

  “You do.”

  “No, I don’t.” He gestured to the array of chemicals and powders, makeup and fake hair spread across her kitchen. “I’m wondering if anyone does.”

  Darcy didn’t say anything. Because it was true. No one really knew who she was, least of all her. Jack stepped away, reaching for his jacket and hat. Darcy cleaned off her hands and walked him to the door.

  He had his hand on the knob when he said, “By the way, I saw Charlie on TV last week.”

  And the bottom of her world fell out.

  Chapter 5

  “A nd you, too.”

  Darcy froze. “You must be mistaken.”

  “I know it was you, because you don’t let anyone near your son except Meg. But it was Charlie I recognized.”

  Darcy felt instant and overpowering panic. Her knees went soft and she struggled for calm.

  “That’s not possible, Jack.”

  “It was a sound bite about a woman who was killed in a car crash. A lawyer.” He frowned slightly, thinking. “She went to that women’s school, the one that trains girls for spy work…Athena Academy, then Harvard.”

  “You couldn’t have seen him.”

  Jack moved closer, hemming her in, his cool stare leaving no doubt of what he saw. “I did, Piper. It was Charlie, and you were at that funeral.”

  Cornered, she let out a long breath and muttered, “Yes, I was.”

  “You went to Athena Academy?”

  “Me? No, no I didn’t. I knew Lorraine Carrington from college.”

  His gaze thinned. “She went to Harvard.”

  “Only for law school.” Another lie, she thought, a thousand problems shooting through her mind.

  Jack was scowling now. “You can’t even give me a straight answer, can you? Why can’t you trust me?”

  “I don’t trust anyone,” she snapped and stepped back. “And butt out of my private life, Jack. Or I’ll start prying into yours and you can tell me how you got that bullet hole in your shoulder.”

  His expression shuttered, he moved to open the door. “Fine. But I want you to know I’m here to help you if you need it.”

  “With what? I don’t need it.”

  “Yeah, sure. When you’re ready to tell me why you constantly look over your shoulder, why you’re terrified right now, we’ll talk again.”

  “No, we won’t.”

  Jack cast her a dark glance that made her shiver. Not talking wasn’t up for debate in his eyes and Darcy wondered how long she could avoid it. He left and she shut the door after him, sinking against the wall.

  Oh damn. Damn.

  What were the chances of anyone else recognizing her and making a connection?

  Darcy headed back into the kitchen, her hands shaking. She’d covered her tracks, she knew she had.

  Pay cash, use disguises, don’t make conversation with strangers for long. Check everyone out. The last thought reminded her that she hadn’t done that with Jack. All she knew of him was what she’d learned since the moment they’d collided on a rescue till now. And now he knew she’d been at Rainy’s funeral. She hadn’t worn a mask when she’d gone to Arizona, because she’d been among friends, not rescuing a woman from a dangerous attacker.

  This pushed her plan to go to L.A. next week to sooner than she wanted. She had to work fast in case Maurice had seen the broadcast and found a way to track her from Arizona to here.

  If he did, she was history.

  One week later

  Hollywood

  Dressed in a berry-colored designer skirt and top she’d bought at a secondhand store on Rodeo Drive, Darcy sat under the covered porch of a bistro, sipping her soda and watching the people stroll by.

  She recognized several: a couple of agents, one action-adventure actor who shouldn’t be wearing leather pants anymore. She remembered making him look as if he’d been burned for his third film. She brought the glass to her lips, liking that men were noticing her, but then she wore another’s face. A little closer to Julia Roberts today.

  This morning she’d been a bag lady pushing a shopping cart outside Maurice’s offices. She’d gone there to watch his daily routine, and fortunately, it hadn’t changed. She was almost nabbed when the cops showed up, but instead of hauling her in for vagrancy, they’d escorted her to a women’s shelter. If she wasn’t so terrified that Maurice would spot her, she’d be amused that she could slip around the city within thirty yards of the man. She’d no intention of getting any closer.

  From her position, Maurice’s chauffeur wasn’t hard to spot. He wore a gray uniform while all the others lined up on the street in the hills wore black. He was the same man who’d worked for her husband when they’d married.

  Oh goody. She paid her bill and stood. She’d used everything at her disposal to do what she needed, and right now she had it all displayed in a slim hip skirt with a matching top, cut low and fitted to accent her waistline. Time to put the ball into play, she thought, walking toward the limo, aware that Maurice was inside a restaurant just up the street.

  A little nervous twinge swept up her spine. She was afraid that if she saw him, she’d walk up to him and punch his lights out. Instead she strolled toward the driver, hips swaying, and her long legs in spike-heel sandals drawing attention. She rarely showed her body off like this, it practically screamed available and desperate.

  She stopped, waiting till the driver noticed her. When he did, her resolve slipped a little.

  It’s a role, she thought, and everything had to have a purpose. Coyly, she chewed her lip, glancing left and right, then sauntered up to him.

  “Hi, there.” A French accent did nicely this time.

  “Hey yourself.” He squinted through the smoke from his cigarette, then straightened, obviously thinking she was that actress.

  “No, I’m not her,” she said. “But I want to be.”

  His attention dissolved. “So does everyone else, kid. Beat it.”

  She took a step nearer, eyes wide and hopeful. “But isn’t this Maurice Steele’s car?”

>   “Yeah, so.”

  She giggled. “I was hoping to have a chance to speak with Mr. Steele.” What she wanted was the driver, a man Maurice kept waiting for his beck and call, to give up some details. Old ones.

  “Send him your portfolio.”

  Clearly, he wasn’t interested. She had to make him want her, then. “I have, but I need the edge, n’est-ce pas?”

  The driver, Mike something, she recalled, eyed her from shoes to hair.

  “You sure look like his type.”

  “Really?” she said brightly, toying with her hair. “You think so?”

  “Breathing is his type, lady.” Then in a moment of concern he said, “You sure you want to be near this man? He could make or break you.”

  “I want him to make me.”

  “Oh yeah?” Clearly he thought it would be the latter choice.

  She cocked her head. “You don’t like him much, do you?” Her voice was sexy and smooth, her accent just enough to intrigue him.

  “Baby, what’s to like?”

  “I heard he was tough, but very smart.”

  The driver scoffed, pitching his smoke.

  “I’d do anything to get the chance to speak with him. Privately.”

  “What’s anything?”

  Darcy swayed up to the driver, letting her breasts and hips do the talking for her. She blushed, but the facial mask hid her embarrassment. She touched his arm, leaning into his side and whispering in his ear as if she were sharing an intimate secret.

  “Oh mon cheri, what wouldn’t I do.” She could feel his muscles tighten and hoped his imagination was going wild. “And I’d do anything with someone who’d get me there.” Her voice was breathy and a little sound worked in his throat.

  “Thinking of the casting couch, are you?”

  She glanced pointedly at the silver-gray limo and let that speak for her.

  He arched an eyebrow, practically smacking his lips in anticipation.

  The sun was setting and he checked his watch. Maurice loved long, slow dinners, Darcy knew. All she needed was enough time to get this guy to talk.

  “He’s with a director and a couple writers going over the last draft of a new script. He’ll be there awhile.”

  They’ll be there half the night, Darcy thought. “And that means what to you and me, cheri?”

  He simply popped open the car door, and she climbed in. Through the window, she could see him checking the area, signaling to another driver before slipping inside with her. Darcy already had the mini-tape recorder in her purse turned on.

  She sat primly on the velvet seat, remembering riding in this car to premieres, to appointments and dinners. Just as she remembered the ugly things Maurice had said to her while the soundproof glass was between them and the driver. Maurice thought he’d made her into a lady, that she wouldn’t be anything without his personal touch. Well, he’d touched her all right, beating down her self-esteem so badly that she’d been a shell of who she was now.

  The driver leaned toward her, and she couldn’t let him get too familiar or he might sense the facial mask. It had taken her hours to get the look she wanted, suggestive of a certain celebrity’s face, but not too alike.

  He tossed the hat aside and pulled off his jacket. She scooted away.

  He scowled. “You teasing me?”

  “No, cheri.” She gave him an innocent look laced with seduction. “But I’m not playing with you till you can guarantee I get time with Mr. Steele.”

  “Honey, you can be in this car, waiting for him if you want. When we’re done, of course.”

  Her stomach knotted, yet she plastered on a smile and crossed her legs. His gaze followed them up to her skirt hem. “Tell me about him first, because when I’m done with you, you won’t have the energy to talk.”

  He grinned. “He’s a prick.”

  Her eyebrows shot up.

  “He uses people and you’re better off not knowing him.”

  “Then why do you work for such a man?”

  “Money.” His gaze raked over her like a hungry wolf’s. “And the women.”

  She behaved as if that last comment went right over her head. “But I met him once, a long time ago, three years I think. He was very sweet to me. I recognize this car.”

  He scowled. “I remember every person that’s been in this car, lady.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t in the car, I met him…” She chewed her lip provocatively, sliding closer to him and running her hand up his thigh, dangerously close to his crotch. He reached for her and with an odd tenderness, he touched her breast.

  Darcy’s skin crawled as she suffered through it. She needed information.

  “When did you meet him?” Mike asked.

  She spit out the date. “October twenty-first. I believe it was late afternoon. I thought he might audition me for his movie—the one that’s coming out now—Dead Game.”

  Mike stiffened, scowling. “That date sounds familiar. Were you at the studio, waiting?”

  “Oui, I was.”

  “The man never changes his schedule, but that night he’d stopped by Studio Eight, back lot.”

  Studio Eight, Pegasus Studios? She knew that area. It was storage for special effects-stunt division.

  “I remember because it was the only time he didn’t have me hang around.” The driver gave her a hot look. “Now I know why.”

  “Oh, mais non, he wasn’t with me, not that way.” Or she wouldn’t be playing this game, dumb ass.

  “If he was, he’d have had your skirts up, kid.”

  Darcy doubted that. “He only said hello, and that he had an appointment. Perhaps another woman, oui?”

  “Hell if I know. I came back an hour later, but no one else was there but Steele. And he was pretty eager to leave and pissed that I was two minutes late. The man doesn’t think that L.A. traffic applies to him.” He frowned. “Forget him, come here.” He pulled her onto his lap, shoving his hands under her skirt and cupping her behind. She moaned and wiggled appropriately, biting his neck and wanting to spit afterward. She ground onto his crotch, feeling him get hard, and knew she had to end this or be raped.

  “Come on,” he said, “you’ve got me hard enough to crack nuts.”

  Well wasn’t that graphic. “If we have time, cheri, then why rush things?” She pulled his shirt free, running her hands up his chest, then shifted, straddling his hips and gave him her version of a lap dance. He pawed her. She had to get away before his mauling wrecked her disguise.

  Darcy wanted to run like hell to the nearest shower.

  “I wonder who Steele was waiting for, if not me?” she murmured. “All I can remember is that he was wearing a dark suit. Looking very handsome.”

  “Yeah, yeah, handsome, rich, and still a prick. And he wasn’t wearing a suit.” He stilled and frowned at her.

  Before he wised up, Darcy quickly cupped him through his trousers, shaping his erection and dragging his mind into desire. He moaned, grinding her hand on him.

  Men were so easy sometimes.

  “Feel good, cheri?” she purred when he buried his face in her breasts. He was massaging them as if they were softballs, almost painfully, and she decided it was time to end this before he separated the facial mask from her breasts. She rose up, wrapped her arms seductively around his neck, pushing his head to the side. She pressed and squeezed and kept the pressure on. In a few seconds, his hands slowed to a stop, a few seconds more and he was out cold. She released him and sat back.

  Thank you, Athena Academy.

  The sleeper hold wasn’t dangerous, just cut off air supply for a bit. He’d rouse in a few minutes. She checked his pulse, then righted her clothing before she searched him and the car for anything useful. She found a supply of condoms in the bar console and a couple scraps of paper, which she pocketed, then she stepped out of the limousine. The sun had set and the streets were lit with gas lamps, and she glanced back to where the three other drivers were gathered. They grinned at her and she put her fingers to h
er lips, giving them a sassy wink before walking off, behind swaying and boobs bouncing.

  So, the studio was where Maurice had gone that night.

  That was unusual. Maurice rarely stepped on a lot unless there was trouble on a film. And he was never around the Special Effects department because he had no reason to be. He had people who did that errand stuff for him.

  She had to get a look at exactly what was stored in the area, though she recalled only one large warehouse with several garagelike doors.

  She hailed a cab, the driver taking her past Maurice’s production offices. She closed her eyes for a second, trying to recall the layout. While it had a side-alley rolling door to bring in equipment, Maurice’s office was on the top floor. The entire top floor.

  Darcy glanced back briefly. Anything Maurice wanted to keep secret would either be there or at the house, and going to the house was out of the question. The office she could hit later tonight. First she had to get on that lot and see what was there.

  In the morning, Darcy took the tour of the studio with fifty other guests to sunny California. She’d dressed like a middle-aged tourist because in her natural state, she’d probably be recognized. A half hour into the tour, they were near the same lot where the driver had left Maurice. Slipping away from the group was easy. Once she was out of sight, she hid behind a giant metal storage box and stripped out of the cheap clothes, rolling down her jean pant legs and adjusting the plain top she wore beneath. She clipped on her old IDs, which she’d altered with a couple changes to the picture and name, then slung the bag on her shoulder. She started walking. People were filming two blocks away, but Darcy was interested only in this particular spot. She moved fast, knowing that security would find her if she was seen or made noise. They took the security on sets very seriously.

  The tall, wide doors to the studio warehouse building were locked. She checked behind herself before she pulled out her lock-picking set and worked the padlock. In a minute, she was slipping inside. There was little inside beyond various size crates, barrels and rows of metal cylinders. The stunt crews used the CO2 canisters for things like making a car roll over or lifting fake buildings off the ground to give the effect of earthquakes. Not as if they needed that around the San Andreas Fault, she thought cynically, moving into the dark.