by Shayla Black
“I like my privacy, and I’ve never had a situation I couldn’t manage. I’ll admit it was a rude awakening to realize I could no longer do my own grocery shopping or visit my local gym without being mobbed, so I hired out what I could and changed my habits.”
“Do you hit restaurants and clubs much?”
“Not alone. I usually go with Tower Trent.”
“Your boyfriend, right? Does he have a detail?”
She frowned. “He does, and Raoul seems to be enough. But while you’re here, you can comment about my home security and other arrangements if they’re not what you think they should be.”
“I’ll be happy to, but I understood this was an urgent matter?”
“It is.” And now came the hard part. She couldn’t say too little . . . or too much. “A while back, someone took a video of me in a dressing room. Naked. Without my consent and against my will. I-I didn’t realize it until I recently received a text, demanding money in exchange for silence. I have no idea who could have obtained this clip or how anyone even knew I was shopping at that store. I have to pay this person on Wednesday or have what’s left of my privacy shattered. I’d rather not handle the money drop alone. That’s where you come in.”
As he sat in the chair opposite her, he opened his water bottle and took a long swallow. Watching his throat work was somehow a sexual experience. Shealyn admonished herself and directed her wandering stare out the window.
“Well, you’re right that you shouldn’t go alone. It could be dangerous. The blackmailer may have a completely different motivation than money. But I also think you should get to the bottom of this situation. Stop it, rather than simply trying to buy him off.”
Before he even finished speaking, Shealyn was shaking her head. “I understand what you’re saying, and it’s appealing to think we can catch the bad guy and justice will prevail, but I just need to make this go away. Without meaning to, I’ve become America’s girl next door. A wholesome ingénue. Their sweetheart. A naked video of me could destroy my career, Mr. Bryant.”
“Cutter,” he corrected absently. “I know you think so, but what will you do if he comes back for money again? And again? I don’t know you, but I can’t imagine why you’d waste what you’ve got without trying to solve the problem. Have you thought about calling the police?”
“I want to keep this situation private. I know that won’t happen if I involve a bunch of people, especially the police. Evidence like mine has a nasty habit of falling into the press’s hands in this town.”
“Then let me investigate, find a way to stop this. No one will know I’m looking into the situation.”
“I hired you simply to be beside me when I make the drop, in case my blackmailer has other ideas.”
His expression didn’t change, but she sensed his disapproval.
“Do you even know who’s threatening you?” he asked.
“No.” She’d racked her brain . . . and come up with nothing.
“And you don’t care?”
“I do. I simply care more about not being exposed in public. Literally. My sister is getting married in less than three weeks, and this would completely upstage her wedding. My grandparents raised me. They’re getting older, and this video releasing to the public would devastate them. They’ve always been pillars of their community . . .”
Cutter pursed his full lips into a grim line. “I understand.”
He seemed to, but she also sensed he was loath to watch her bow to fear. Shealyn hid her grimace. In truth, it wasn’t the way she liked to operate, either.
“So you’ll make the drop with me on Wednesday?”
“Yes. And I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. That’s my promise to you.”
“Good. And if, by next Monday, I haven’t heard anything more from the blackmailer, I’ll consider this matter closed, you can go home as scheduled, and we’ll both move on.”
He leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees, and looked straight into her eyes. “What if it’s not that simple?”
CHAPTER 3
The following morning, Cutter woke just before six A.M. Actually, he wasn’t sure he’d slept more than a wink.
Shealyn West was . . . distracting.
She’d cut their conversation short last night, as if she didn’t want to face the possibility that paying off her blackmailer wouldn’t end her ordeal. Then she’d tried to shoo him out of her house and over to a suite with a canyon-view patio she’d booked for him at the Hotel Bel-Air. He’d steadfastly refused. The ensuing disagreement told him she didn’t really want a bodyguard. Only pointing out that if someone could collect her secrets so easily, he or she could also inflict bodily harm had changed Shealyn’s mind. With a grudging sigh, she’d shown him to a guest bedroom at the other end of the house, given him a Wi-Fi passcode, then said she had to be at the studio early before shutting herself away in her bedroom.
With a shrug, he’d walked the interior and exterior perimeter of the house, ensuring every point of entry was as secure as it could be for the moment. Once he’d finished, Cutter had begun digging deeper into Shealyn’s mess, despite her being thin on details. He was determined to unmask this dirtbag and make him disappear, preferably before she had to pay out a small fortune in unmarked bills.
He’d spent half the night researching her life, especially since joining Hot Southern Nights. This blackmailer didn’t function like a nut job, so Cutter ruled out a crazed fan. No, this individual had either been in the right place at the right time and seized on the chance to capture a video of Shealyn naked . . . or had shaped the situation with the intent to create a blackmail opportunity. The latter possibility worried Cutter far more. Mere greed was easy to spot, but evil glee often hid behind a persona their victim least expected. Hell, the blackmailer could be one of Shealyn’s co-stars, assistants, or friends—and she might not know until it was too late.
Nothing in her personal life had given Cutter anything concrete about any single suspect who might want to drag her through the mud. Instead, he’d found a whole cast of characters who worried him.
Gary James, a former child star and the show’s first director, who’d been fired after she’d complained about his drunkenness on set. Her former co-star Jessica Jarrett, who had originally been selected to share the show’s spotlight. There was some controversy about why that changed, but the producers had suddenly insisted the writers kill off Jessica’s character to focus on Shealyn’s star power instead. Tower’s ex-girlfriend Nicole Rogers seemed bitter after the man had unceremoniously dumped her in an ugly, public breakup for his younger, more beautiful blond leading lady. And those were just the suspects Cutter had found in the first five minutes.
Shealyn was a lovely white rabbit in a field of vipers.
When he delved into her more distant past, he didn’t find much that would help him with the situation now, but her upbringing told him a lot about her. She’d been born in small-town Texas to a teenage mother, who’d eventually dumped her and her younger sister on her own mother’s doorstep and left. Shealyn had done all right in school. Pretty girl, reasonably popular. She’d had a high school sweetheart, Alex, whom she’d left behind when she moved to Hollywood. She’d done some face and hair modeling until she landed a few commercials, then several guest spots on established TV shows before the current drama about fame-seeking country singers and their greedy lothario of a corporate record executive had launched her into stardom. Now, she graced magazine covers and appeared on the most-viewed late-night talk shows. She’d also signed a recording contract and a book deal. And through it all, she’d apparently remained down-to-earth, according to everything he could find.
Her steamy on- and off-screen relationship with Tower Trent, which had started about a year ago, was a favorite go-to topic for TMZ and the like. They were often spotted during their off hours, holding hands and looking at each other
like no one else existed. The former professional bodybuilder looked like the side of a fortress, so Cutter supposed the stage name had been an obvious choice. He hailed from San Diego, capital of douchebags, in Cutter’s experience. But Tower seemed totally devoted to Shealyn—at least on the surface. He’d have to find out for sure what lurked beneath the actor’s skin.
Next, Cutter had scoured the Internet to see if he could find any hint of the video the blackmailer threatened his gorgeous client with. He’d come across nothing, other than still nudes that were so horribly photoshopped they were laughable. But when he’d widened his search parameters, Cutter had gotten an eyeful that made his jaw drop. Stills of Shealyn in bikini tops and short-shorts with cowboy boots, in little skirts with breast-hugging shirts, or in nothing but a skimpy tank top she pulled between her gently spread legs as she sat on her knees and bit her lip like she ached for a man’s touch.
Cutter had stared at those images until he’d begun to sweat.
Hands down, she was the sexiest women he’d ever met. Even with her hair in a ponytail and without a shred of makeup, watching her stare out at the lights twinkling beyond her Southern California balcony, he’d been afflicted by powerful lust.
You’re only here a week or two. She’ll never take you seriously. You’re practically engaged. Sleeping with a client is unprofessional.
His self–pep talk hadn’t helped. He wanted her naked and under him and begging him with those soft green eyes.
Telling himself that wasn’t happening, Cutter had instead looked at some of the video results for Shealyn West on YouTube. There were a few clips from talk shows or red-carpet walks, but most were from her nighttime soap, depicting her in bed with Tower Trent. Cutter watched a few of the scenes, but since seeing her bare arms and legs as she sighed and gasped her way through simulated sex wasn’t cooling his libido, he shuttled his laptop and started thinking.
Why would a woman who exposed that much skin on camera from week to week be so worried about a nude video of her in a dressing room?
The question was still nagging at him the following morning when he finished dressing for the day and exited his bedroom. He went in search of coffee and his client. The microwave’s clock told him it was ten minutes after six. Shealyn hadn’t indicated what time she had to be on set, but he figured “early” for Hollywood folks was nine A.M.
In the sink, he spotted an empty coffee cup. Beside it, a clean plate and fork rested. A peek in the trash can revealed an empty carton of egg whites and a banana peel. The lights all over the house were off. Dawn hadn’t risen yet. Cutter tiptoed to the other wing of the house. Shealyn’s bedroom door stood open, revealing a wall of windows overlooking her enormous balcony and the tree-lined canyon below. Inside the expansive space, her rustic four-poster bed looked both cozy and perfectly made.
Where the hell had she gone? Surely she hadn’t left for the studio already.
He darted through the house and out the front door, sprinting through the gravel, around the corner. Her black truck was gone.
Goddamn it.
How had he failed to hear her leave? He must have been in the shower. That’s the only time he might not have picked up the sounds of her moving around the kitchen and exiting through the front door. Whether she’d timed her departure to avoid him or it had been coincidence, the incident still annoyed him.
He grabbed his phone from his pocket. It didn’t take more than a couple of clicks to figure out where Hot Southern Nights filmed. It was a closed set, of course. But Cutter was good at what he did. Once he got in, he’d have a sit-down with Shealyn and make it clear that he was glued to her side until she fired him. Despite what she thought, he wasn’t here merely to facilitate her one-time money drop. He definitely hadn’t left Brea and flown west to spend the rest of his time kicking back and soaking up the California sun.
After a quick search around the porch, Cutter found a house key under a flowerpot. He sighed. Did she think she still lived in Comfort, Texas? Yes, her house was surrounded by a guarded gate she shared with a few other high-profile figures, but that would hardly protect her from a professional, if one wanted to threaten her where she was most vulnerable.
Shaking his head, Cutter pocketed the key and locked the door behind him. They’d definitely talk about a security system soon. The house had clearly been built before home security became all the rage, and he saw no evidence of the place being retrofitted.
That needed to change immediately.
Hopping in his rental, he followed the GPS to the studio’s address. He drove around the gated block, assessing strengths and weaknesses of their first layer of security. The guard at the south entrance kept nodding off. The east entrance took deliveries, and the guard there didn’t check anyone, just waved through all vehicles with an “official” logo on the side.
Pulling over to the curb and marveling at the thick slug of Southern California traffic already jamming the streets, he Googled until he found the name of a network executive who had an office here and the set manager for Hot Southern Nights. That should be enough.
Revving the engine of his SUV again, he drove around to the south entrance once more. The guard roused long enough to buy his bullshit spiel about reporting for his first day on set. Cutter rattled off the names he’d looked up. The guard groused that no one ever bothered to update his lists when they approved new people, and it was too early to call for confirmation. Cutter supposed he must look trustworthy—or the guard simply didn’t care. The uniformed twerp raised the traffic arm and let him in.
In three minutes, Cutter had parked and was walking onto the appropriate sound stage.
Immediately he got an eyeful of Shealyn standing beside a rumpled bed, wearing a tiny champagne-colored silk robe. A slight man in a severe turtleneck was carefully arranging her teased blond curls while an Asian woman with gaudy orange fingernails brushed a rosy color over her lower lip. Beside Shealyn, Tower Trent murmured something in her ear. The glance she sent him was full of an emotion he couldn’t quite place. Sadness? Empathy?
After the director yelled at everyone, the two people grooming her scampered back. A young woman crept into the scene with a clapboard proclaiming this was scene two, take three. When she snapped the arm and leapt away, Tower suddenly loomed over Shealyn, now looking as if he couldn’t wait to eat her up. She blinked at him, seemingly desperate for his touch, her bedroom eyes rimmed in shimmering colors that made them look vividly green. Her expression had looked nothing like that ten seconds ago.
Tower grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her closer. “When you signed that contract, Annabelle, you didn’t just sign your voice over to the studio. You signed your body over to me.”
“We can’t do this, Dylan.” She halfheartedly tried to squirm away. “And you don’t own me.”
“The hell I don’t. Tell me you don’t want me.”
She looked so torn, Cutter almost believed it. “I do but . . . people are starting to talk.”
“Let them,” he growled.
“You have to go. You shouldn’t be here. We agreed to stop seeing each other except in the recording studio until your divorce is final.” Those were the words her mouth uttered, but the message her eyes conveyed said “Fuck me now.”
Cutter found his blood thickening, more than his interest stirring. What was it about this woman? Why did merely glancing at her arouse him as much as another woman stroking his cock?
Tower’s chest seemed to rise and fall like a bellows as he stared at her. “I can’t wait anymore, baby. I have to make love to you again.”
Then he curled his hands into her carefully styled hair and seized her mouth, melting with her down to the bed. They kissed feverishly. Watching them locking lips together stung Cutter with something that made his temper flare. It didn’t matter that he knew their embrace was staged . . . and oddly stiff. He didn’t like seeing another man’
s hands on her.
Whoa. He needed to shut that down.
Once Tower unknotted the loose belt from around Shealyn’s waist, the director started barking out more specific instructions. “Shealyn, you’re in love, and he’s reaffirming his devotion, not threatening bodily harm. Relax. Act like you can’t help yourself. Oh, come on, Tower. Kiss her like you mean it. I’ve seen dead fish with more passion. What’s with you today? Ease the robe off her shoulder.”
Tower did, revealing Shealyn all the way down to a pair of flesh-colored covers for her nipples and the G-string barely shielding her sex. But that left the rest of her pale, golden-peachy skin and lush curves totally exposed.
Cutter swallowed against a powerful punch of lust. God, she was gorgeous. He shifted uncomfortably.
“Tight on camera three,” the director went on. “No boobies on prime-time TV. Good. Yes. Now slide your leg between her knees and kiss her again. No. Ugh, what’s with the prune face when you move in close? Cut!” The bearded man hopped out of his chair and stormed toward the bed. “You two are usually pros at fake fucking each other on camera. Tabloids say you’re damn good at the real thing off camera. So why do you suck at it today?”
Shealyn shrugged her robe on again and belted it, putting distance between herself and Tower and bearing down on the director. “Don’t be a jerk, Tom. If you start filming at o’dark thirty on a Monday morning, then you have to let us wake up enough to act like we’ve had a few drinks on a lively Saturday night.”
Cutter frowned. She didn’t look sleepy confronting the bastard, who seemed content to ogle the cleavage visible between the lapels of her robe.
Had she and Tower been fighting? Because something was up between those two.
“You’re professionals, West. Start acting like it. America thinks your Romeo over there has a dick that’s so hard for you, he’s risking his empire and his fortune to fuck you right now. Give me passion! If you want the audience to buy that you’re in love enough to shatter all your little Nashville dreams for him, we have to feel that in your kiss. You two do great in front of the paparazzi. Give me more of that action.” He shook his head. “Take ten, damn it.”