And then it was Kimberlee Novara who had taken him into the bathroom and locked the door. “Do you want me to?” she’d asked, and it never occurred to him to say no. Truth was, he didn’t want to say no. He’d liked the way she made him feel. And when word spread around school that she’d done what she’d done, he was a hero. The same boys that would have beaten him up a year earlier were slapping him on the back. Inviting him to hang out after school.
Kimberlee was obnoxious and stupid and not particularly attractive, but “going out” with her didn’t mean they spent a lot of time together. At least not time spent talking. When Robin went to her house, she’d take him down into her playroom and . . .
Sex was sex. And most of the time the lights were off.
Kimberlee turned into Ashley, who turned into Brianna, who turned into Lisa, Tawanda, Jacki, Christy, Deena, Susan, Chloe, Mara . . .
And no one called him little faggot ever again.
How could he even consider going back to the abuse, the disrespect, the relentless fear?
Janey was probably right—he was just getting too caught up in this role. He was spending too much time as Hal. And despite his sister’s casting choices, he’d somehow identified Jules as Jack. That was what this was about.
Robin wasn’t gay—he was just an incredibly talented actor who truly lost himself in his part.
“Are we filming tomorrow?” he asked Jane. “Or are we shutting down production because of . . .”
She shook her head. “God, I don’t know.”
“Don’t shut down,” Cosmo said.
“It seems so disrespectful to just continue, as if—”
“It’s not,” Cosmo said. “If it were me in the hospital, I’d want production to continue. Don’t let this guy win.”
She nodded. Looked back at Robin. “Yes, we’re filming tomorrow.”
Ah, shit.
“All right.” Robin unzipped his backpack, took out his script.
He was as ready as he’d ever be for that scene with Hal and Jack’s first real kiss. But there was another scene they were filming tomorrow, too, and it had a kiss as well. Jesus, all he was doing, all movie long, was kissing fuckin’ Adam Wyndham.
“I hate this movie,” he said.
“Right now, I do, too,” Janey said.
Tomorrow’s second scene was Hal and Jack’s big farewell. In it, his character gave a letter to Jack. It was sealed in an envelope upon which was written the cheery message, “Open in the event of my death.”
The contents of that letter would be revealed toward the end of the movie via voice-over.
Robin flipped to that page in the script, dog-earing it. He’d read the letter several times in the morning, right before shooting the scene. Because even though the audience wouldn’t hear it until later, the words Hal had written had to show on his face.
He held the script up so the page caught the glow from the headlights of the car behind them and he could read.
Dearest J., the letter started. Huh. He’d never really noticed that before. It was kind of funny, in a pathetic way. J. was what Adam called Jules.
God, he had to stop thinking about him.
By the time you read this, I will be gone.
I may be killed in battle, or a prisoner of the Germans, or safely on my way home to Alabama.
Whichever outcome fate chooses for me, the man you know and love will be dead. He must die—if not in body, then in spirit. If he does not fall in battle, I must do the deed and cast him, and you with him, my dearest, from my heart forever.
If I am truly dead, please do not grieve for me. With you I finally knew happiness. Your love was a gift I never expected to receive. What we shared made my life complete—I left this world with no complaints.
If I should survive the war, please forgive me for not being strong enough.
Please do not write. I will not answer you. Do not come to see me. I will not know you. And you will not know me—the man you loved is gone.
The only place he will live on—and I fear his days are numbered—will be in your heart.
Respectfully,
H.
Robin’s reaction, when he’d read that letter back when Janey had first shown him this script, was that Harold Lord was truly conflicted. What a terrible choice he’d had to make.
Now he wasn’t so sure that the man hadn’t simply been a flipping coward.
Cosmo brought a cup of tea into her bedroom.
It was enough to make Jane’s eyes flood with tears. Again.
God, she was on the verge of tears at the drop of a hat. Never mind that she’d allowed herself to let loose in the shower for a solid fifteen minutes after they got home. Cosmo probably could have come into the room to discuss the weather and she’d well up and start sniffling.
“Any word from the hospital?” she asked as he set the mug on the table next to her bed.
“Not yet,” he said without the slightest trace of exasperation, even though she’d asked the very same question ten minutes ago. He sat down on the edge of her bed. “Janey, it’s really okay if you cry.”
“No, I’m all right,” she said. “I’m just . . .”
“What?” he asked, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear, his touch unbelievably gentle. “Talk to me.”
Jane just shook her head. How could this be real? Guns and bullets and people getting shot—that was make-believe. It was Hollywood magic. In her world, the director would’ve called cut, and Murphy and Angelina would have stood up, laughing and joking, and gone to shower off all the pretend gore before joining friends for a late-night snack.
In her world, wars were fought with prop guns that didn’t really fire, with bags of fake blood, with latex body parts.
In Cosmo’s world, death and destruction were commonplace. Danger was a given.
Right now he was checking out the stitches in her arm, making sure she was okay. Stitches like that were nothing to a man who knew how to administer first aid to a sucking chest wound.
“We’re so different,” she told him.
He smiled. “I was just thinking how alike we are.”
God, if he thought she was like him—brave and strong and solidly determined—she really had him fooled. Here sat another victim to the famous J. Mercedes Chadwick charm.
She did the only thing she could do. She made a joke. The alternative was to start crying and never stop. “Yeah, people always mistake me for a Navy SEAL.”
Cosmo laughed, and she had to force back a fresh rush of tears. Which was crazy. She loved making him laugh. It was her new favorite pastime.
Except now he’d stopped laughing and was looking at her with such concern in his eyes. She reached for the mug so she didn’t have to keep up the eye contact while she worked to will her latest bout of tears away.
“All this must seem so surreal,” Cosmo said quietly.
“Yeah,” she agreed as she took a sip of tea.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
Jane had to laugh, because—amazingly—he meant it. The most attractive man she’d ever known was offering her his complete support. She tried to imagine Victor—or any of the losers she’d dated before—uttering those words and . . . Nope. She couldn’t do it.
She tried to imagine one of them giving up a well-paying job for her. Or bringing her a cup of tea. Or throwing himself in front of a bullet for her.
The thing about it was, she wasn’t worth dying for. She was nothing like him—and sooner or later Cos was going to figure that out. The knowledge made her throat ache.
“Talk to me, Janey. Tell me what you need,” Cosmo implored her.
She put down her mug because the tea wasn’t helping, and she reached for him. “You,” she said, her voice catching pathetically. “Cos, I need you.”
He didn’t hesitate. He kissed her.
And that was good because that meant his eyes were closed, too, and he couldn’t see the tears that leaked out from beneath her eyelids.
&nbs
p; And her ragged breathing could well be the result of passion, couldn’t it? Either way, he didn’t mention it as he joined her on her bed, stopping only to help her kick free from the sheet and blanket that covered her.
She reached for the light, needing total darkness, but he got there first, switching off the lamp for her.
There was a rustling sound then, just for the briefest moment, then, God, he was back, kissing her again. His clothes had vanished, and the sensation of all that smooth skin made her desperately want . . .
Yes. He knew what she wanted. She tried to wipe her eyes with her T-shirt as he helped her pull it over her head, but it was futile since her tears kept on coming.
She knew he wouldn’t fail to notice her wet cheeks or the salty taste as he kissed her, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t stop, didn’t so much as mention it. He just murmured, “It’s okay, Jane. It’s all right,” as he kissed her again and again.
“Please.” She only had to say it once. He’d already covered himself, protecting them both, and as she lifted her hips to meet him, he pushed inside her, no games, no delay.
She’d learned last night that he was an exquisite lover, possessing an incredible sensitivity, an ability to empathize that took her breath away. He was capable of turning sex into an art form.
But what she needed and wanted right now, however, was a good old-fashioned shagging.
Which was exactly what he delivered.
She let herself cry, really cry, as he rocked her, as she clung to him, as she gasped and sobbed her release.
And then he held her, just silently stroking her hair, as she cried herself out.
It was later, much later, before she realized, before she lifted her head to ask, “Did you even . . . ?”
She heard him smile in the darkness. “I’m all right,” he told her. “Go to sleep.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER
TWENTY
P atty’s mother wanted her to come home.
She had about a million messages on her voice mail. The phone just would not stop ringing as the story about the shooting in Malibu hit the news.
She’d dressed for the crowd of reporters that she knew would be waiting outside the studio, and she’d read a brief statement that Jane had e-mailed her. Production would continue despite last night’s tragedy. Both victims of the attack remained in critical condition. Security on the lot would be increased.
Jane’s message to her had been just as succinct. Help make sure the filming went smoothly today.
Not an easy assignment for her, considering Robin was here.
She’d passed him on his way down to makeup. He looked awful—another day, another hangover. What a jerk.
She wasn’t sure what got into her, but she stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop.
He met her gaze only briefly. “I deserve whatever you have to say,” he admitted. “I know it.”
It was obvious he felt awful—or at least he was acting as if he felt awful.
She wanted him to feel worse. “My period’s late,” she told him, even though it wasn’t true.
That did the trick. The pure horror in his eyes would’ve made her laugh if she weren’t so angry with him.
Patty left him stammering some kind of apology. Was I’m sorry really the correct response to that news? Jerk.
She felt considerably cheered when one of her voice mails was from Victor Strauss. He’d called her himself, too, instead of relegating the task to his PA.
“Everyone’s probably calling to see how Mercedes is doing,” his message said. “But I thought I’d check on you.”
He was so sweet.
It was enough to give her the strength she needed to call Wayne Ickes and ask him to stop by the studio so they could talk.
He was early, of course, knocking on the door to Jane’s office, where Patty was sitting behind the desk. It was much nicer than her own, and Jane wasn’t using it today.
“I was actually a little surprised you weren’t on set, in the thick of things,” Wayne said, sitting down across from the desk.
Patty had been for a while. But the electricity that Adam and Robin were creating for the cameras was just a little too freaky to watch. She knew it was acting, but still. “With Jane working from home,” she told him, “there’s an unbelievable amount of administrative work to do.”
He nodded. There was so much hope in his puppy dog eyes as he asked, “So, what’s up?”
Like she was going to say, “Wayne, the way you follow me around endlessly and pathetically is just so romantic and appealing, I’ve decided I can’t wait another moment. Come have sex with me behind Jane’s desk.”
“I owe you an apology,” she said instead.
He laughed. “Uh-oh, that sounds like the intro to the ‘let’s be friends’ speech.”
Patty nodded. “It is. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner but—”
“You want to just be friends,” he finished for her. “Even though you’re not seeing Robin Chadwick any longer?”
She laughed. “How did you know?”
“Oh, come on,” Wayne said. “I saw the way you looked at him. I also saw the way he was avoiding you.” His gaze softened. “That must really hurt, huh?”
“Actually,” she said, “I’m more angry—and mostly at myself. He’s so . . . immature.”
“I’m very mature,” Wayne said. “I hold a very important, very grown-up job in a hospital—”
“Nice try.” Patty laughed. “Seriously, Wayne, I’d love to be friends with you.”
“Friends it is,” he said. “See, wasn’t that easy?”
It had been. Far easier than she’d imagined. He had such a nice smile.
“I’m already kind of on the verge of seeing someone else,” she admitted, thinking of Victor’s voice mail message.
“That’s good,” he said. “Forget about what’s-his-name.”
Her phone rang. She glanced at the number. “Darn it, that’s my mother,” she told him. “She’s, like, calling every hour. She wants me to come home. As if I would, you know?” She answered, “Hold on, Mom.” She covered the receiver with her hand. “I really have to take this so that I can tell her, ‘Nope, I haven’t been shot yet,’ ” she said. “Sorry about that.”
“That’s okay.” Wayne stood up. “Thank you for being so honest. I’ll see you around.”
“I’m glad you came by,” she said as he shut the door behind him.
Funny thing was, she honestly meant it.
“How’s Kelly?” Jane asked as Decker followed Tom Paoletti into her conference room.
“Doing well, thanks,” Tom replied.
Deck knew what Tom didn’t say was that he himself might never recover from last night’s attack. The fact that Murphy and Angelina were in a hospital ICU, fighting for their lives, was bad enough. But having the violence of his work follow him home, putting his wife and his unborn child at risk . . . He hadn’t put it into words, but Decker knew Tom was seriously shaken.
He wasn’t the only one.
Jane looked exhausted. Cosmo also appeared not to have had a lot of sleep in the past few days. He was in the corner of the room, making a pot of coffee. He nodded a greeting to Deck.
Their early morning meeting had been pushed to noon, mostly due to Jules Cassidy’s busy FBI schedule.
He breezed in now. “Sorry I’m late.” Jules set his briefcase down on the conference table and opened it up. He glanced around the room. “Are we all here?”
Decker did a head count. Tom, Nash, Tess, Lindsey, Dave, PJ, Cosmo, Jane, Sophia . . .
Sophia?
Decker crossed the room. “What are you doing here?” he asked her, even though he already knew.
“Replacing Murphy,” she told him.
He shook his head. Unbelievable. “Considering I’m team leader, didn’t it occur to you that you might want to ask me first?”
“I
have fifteen minutes, tops, to do this,” Jules said loudly. “So if we can all sit down?”
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