He squeezed her hands. “It is perfect. I love it. You did a very thoughtful thing. I’m happy, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.” She held his gaze, her eyes shiny with tears and relief. Her color had returned, so he thought she was out of shock and almost back to normal.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for dessert.” He unwrapped the barmbrack, which was black on the bottom.
“We can eat the top part,” she said, taking the loaf from him. “At least enough to find our fortunes.”
“You put in fortunes?”
“Of course.” She handed him a piece.
Inside, he found a green gummy candy shaped like sunglasses. “Ah.” He licked it clean and held it out.
“That means your future’s so bright you’ve got to wear shades.” He saw that she held a yellow candy shaped like a sun.
“And yours means…?”
“Good fortune will shine on me.”
“Sun and shades. Our fortunes match,” he said.
“That’s because they’re the only shapes I used.”
“It was fixed? You’re a girl after Ma’s heart.” His own heart felt so big he thought he might crack a rib. He leaned across the table to kiss her. “I’m so lucky I met you.”
“Lucky? I begged you to hire me.”
“Then I’m lucky I said yes.”
She smiled. “I feel lucky, too, Brody. Very lucky.”
“Ma will love you.” The words just burst out of him.
“You want me to meet your mother?”
“That’s what people who care about each other do, right? Meet the parents?” Too soon maybe, but, hell, he didn’t know how this all worked. He’d blunder through as best he could.
“But we hardly know each other, Brody,” she said, her eyes full of hope all the same.
“I know all I need to know about you,” he said, hoping it was true. “What I don’t know I’ll figure out. Isn’t that how it works? You uncover the story after you get the footage.”
“That’s what I always say,” she said, but there was a hesitation in her voice, a flicker in her eyes, as if something bothered her about that.
“There is one thing I want to tell you,” he said. “Remember I said I might want to write a novel? The truth is I’ve already started one. It’s a thriller called Night Crimes.”
“Really? That’s wonderful, Brody.”
“Except I’m stuck at the moment. So I’m thinking that if you read it you’ll give me some ideas. Would you do that? I know you’ll be honest. You’re the most clear-eyed person I know.”
His words seemed to trouble her. “I’d be honored to read your book, but don’t give me so much credit. I’m not clear-eyed all the time. I get confused, I change my mind, I don’t always know what I’m doing. There are things you need to know, too.”
“We’ll get there. Don’t worry.” He was hoping out loud, behaving as if he were as clear-eyed and sure as Jillian always was. Maybe he was getting there.
14
TWO DAYS LATER, Jillian was back at the Xanadu, the shoot finished and the wrap party that night. Her work with Doctor Nite was over. But her relationship with Brody was just beginning. They were falling in love, which excited and scared her all at once. What would happen when they returned to their ordinary lives? Would they grow closer or fall apart?
Brody’s words haunted her: What I don’t know about you I’ll learn. Isn’t that how it works? You uncover the story after you get the footage?
What he didn’t know about her was the full scope of her documentary. She needed to share that. Instead of telling him, she’d decided to show him her rough cut.
With a hopeful sigh, she slipped the DVD she’d just made into its plain brown case and set it on the table beside her laptop to wait for the right moment.
First, Brody had to do the DVD handoff with Fake Madden—a prospect that scared her, though Brody seemed excited about it.
After that, in a calm moment, she would show him her movie and ask him if he would tell the truth about Doctor Nite on camera, turning her documentary into one We Women would buy.
The timing would be tricky, depending on when he planned to leave the show, but it could work. Love made all things possible, didn’t it? Or was she dreaming?
Brody was due any minute. The meeting with Fake Madden was in a couple of hours. She was worried, even though police would supervise. Brody had insisted on making the handoff and Fake Madden had acted skittish enough the investigators had reluctantly agreed to let him.
She didn’t like to think of Brody in danger. The idea hollowed her out inside. Fake Madden had never been armed, but still…She hoped the police stayed close.
There was a knock that sounded like Brody’s, so she yanked open the door. There he stood, so handsome in his bomber jacket she could hardly stand it, could hardly believe he was hers. He gave her a quick kiss, then patted both pockets. “DVD here…Tape recorder here.”
“Are you scared?” she asked.
“Not really. My guy is a sweat-stained wimp, Jillian.”
“Be careful, okay?” She bit her lip, nervous for him.
“Come on. I’m a hard-bitten thriller writer, remember?”
“When are you going?”
“He should call to confirm in an hour.” He took off his jacket and set it on the table beside her computer. “You working?” He nodded at her laptop, which she’d left on.
“A little. Yeah.”
“I sent you Night Crimes as an attachment. Check your e-mail while I’m gone.”
“I can’t wait to read it,” she said.
“I think you’ll like the P.I. She’s this wisecracking woman with hair like red licorice sticks, a smile that lights her eyes and a no-bullshit soul.” He pulled her into his arms and murmured into her hair, “She’s also very good in bed.”
“Brody,” she breathed, feeling the familiar rush of heat and need.
He lifted her onto the table, leaned her back, kissing her, shifting her body, knocking things from the table, making her laptop wobble. She didn’t care. She loved when Brody behaved as if he had to have her, as if she were absolutely irresistible.
He swooped her up into his arms and carried her to the bed, chasing away all her doubts. Maybe it would work out. Brody was leaving Doctor Nite in his dust. Maybe he would help her with her movie and she’d have everything she wanted and then some. It seemed too much to hope, but she hoped it all the same.
THEY’D FINISHED making love and Jillian was in the bathroom when Barry White sang from the floor where Brody had tossed his pants. Good timing, Fake Lars, he thought with a smile, going after the phone.
His readout said, Private Call. Probably the guy. “Hello?” he said, his body tensing, his breathing shallow.
“Donegan?” It was him. “We’re on. One hour. Aviation Services.” Fake Lars had already declared that the handoff spot at LAX. Jeffers had gone over the directions with Brody ad nauseum. An LAPD team was probably already on-site, prepared to make the arrest.
“I’ll be there,” Brody said, then hung up, startled to see Jillian wrapped in a towel, looking on, her forehead creased with worry. “It’ll be over in a couple hours. Relax. Go take your shower.”
She didn’t move.
He dialed Jeffers, dressing as he listened to another lecture about recording all he could, asking questions, but none that would make Fake Lars suspicious, backing out if things got hinky, and on and on.
When Brody hung up he went to kiss Jillian, who’d stayed in place, listening, eyes wide. “You worry too much.”
“I can’t help it, Brody. If anything happens to you…”
“If there were real danger, they wouldn’t let me near. Go take your shower. No, make it a hot bath. A long one. With wine. I’ll think of you getting all pink and soft and warm. Maybe I’ll be back before the water cools.” Not likely, but he had to calm her somehow. She looked so sweet and small and scared.
“I wish I could come w
ith you,” she said, gnawing her lip.
“What, and bring a pot of Irish stew, just in case?”
“I’m thinking the barmbrack. It was hard enough to take out fillings.” She tried to smile.
“I’ll be fine. There’s a SWAT team out there already.”
She threw her arms around him and held him tight, trembling. “Just be careful, Brody. I love you.” She put her fingers to her lips, as if she’d surprised herself by saying that.
He stilled, realizing this was the first time either of them had said the L word, though they were both feeling it. “I love you, too.” He kissed her again, his heart filling with emotion. This was scary, but good. Very good.
He liked having a woman care so much about him. “Now, go.” He turned her toward the bathroom. “Make it long and hot.”
She gave him a quick smile, then did as he’d said. He waited to hear her start the water. Loud. Full force from the faucet. She was doing a bath, like he’d suggested. She must really be scared if she was taking his advice.
He bent for his jacket, which had fallen with everything else when he attacked Jillian at the table. When he lifted it, his mini tape player tumbled from the pocket. Bending to grab it, he noticed the DVD had slid under the table.
That would have been a disaster, showing up without that. He shoved both items into his pocket, then headed for the door.
His pocket felt bulky, so he reached in to move the recorder to the opposite side—no way did he want that falling out in front of Fake Lars. He felt two DVD cases. Two? Huh?
His DVD must not have fallen. He’d picked up one that had slid from the table. Something of Jillian’s.
The two cases were identical. Which was Kirk’s? Damn.
He decided to check on Jillian’s laptop. He slid in one and clicked the Play button. Instead of strippers and men in suits, he saw a woman he recognized from one of the bars where they’d shot the show. She complained about men who only wanted sex, not marriage. There was a quick cut to another who claimed the Peter Pan boys were spoiled by their stay-at-home moms. This had to be Jillian’s movie. A title zipped onto the screen. Peter Pan Prison: How Men Who Play Pay.
But her documentary was on dating, wasn’t it? Weird. He was about to stop watching, get going, when he caught a visual from his show and Jillian’s voice began to narrate:
In a woman-hating milieu of beer-guzzling bachelors, Doctor Nite exhorts men to seduce, score and escape. The show is a runaway hit and Doctor Nite has become an icon, the heroic ideal for the unattached male. Just as women today can’t be too thin, it seems a man can’t be too single.
Wait a minute. Next came a head shot of a woman with bookshelves behind her, a Ph.D. after her name. Of course, this man and his television show are symptomatic of a culture of self-worship, of narcissistic self-involvement. This man is the express embodiment of the Peter Pan syndrome.
The Peter Pan syndrome? Huh? He had to get going, but he was frozen in place, like someone watching a car wreck, unable to take his eyes off the disaster. He could hear Jillian’s bath still pouring. He could get to LAX in forty minutes easy.
On screen, a male psychiatrist described Doctor Nite’s personality: misogynistic…egoistical…self-hating fear…dysfunctional role models in childhood. The guy was insulting his parents now?
Next, Brody’s face filled the screen. He recognized the dating interview he’d given Jillian. In the context of the preceding insults, the Brody on screen sounded arrogant, crude and bombastic. He’d been showing off, dammit, laying the Doctor Nite act on thick to help Jillian with a film that was supposedly about dating.
But that wasn’t it at all. Her movie was a hit piece on him. She’d described him as a selfish, woman-hating scumbag, then set him up to prove it with his own words. Very clever.
The water was still pouring in the bathroom and he thought he could hear her humming. He wanted to demand an explanation, but he had to go. This instant, if he didn’t want to be late.
Numb with shock, he hit Stop, made sure he had the right DVD in his pocket and headed out, this new pain in his chest taking out any tension he felt about the handoff.
TRAFFIC WAS GOOD and he’d lost little time, so Brody parked on the outskirts of Aviation Services right on schedule, fighting to focus on the task ahead, feeling the weight of what he’d learned like a lead suit dragging him down, making him sluggish.
The reception area seemed ordinary enough—cheap paneling, plastic chairs, chipped laminate table with faded magazines, and the sour smell of day-old coffee from an ancient coffeemaker on a card table in the corner. No one sat at the reception desk, but a guy in a golf shirt and khakis seemed to be expecting him and led him down a short hall, not saying a word. Brody turned on his recorder, set on voice activation.
At the first open door, the guy waved Brody inside a small office, then retreated. Brody was surprised to find Fake Madden had company. He slumped in a chair beside a cheap desk, where a man sat with an open laptop. Behind him stood Meathead, the real Lars Madden, and he sneered at Brody in recognition. Was that a lump on the side of the guy’s oversize skull?
Good going, Jillian.
“What’s going on?” Brody asked Fake Lars, realizing this must be a repeat of his first encounter. “What’s with all the company?” He didn’t see any guns, but he felt menace in the air.
Fake Madden shrugged, head down, as if he’d gotten caught. “Just give him the DVD,” he mumbled to Brody.
The guy at the desk held out his hand.
“Who are you?” Brody asked, wanting the guy’s name for the recording. Did the police outside know Fake Lars had company? Had he been ambushed? Or was this all part of the plan?
“Explain to the man,” Computer Guy said sharply.
“The DVD belongs to them,” Fake Lars said. “Hand it over.”
“I don’t know…” Brody said, trying to read the situation, his neck tight, hairs prickling.
Meathead moved closer to him, looming, his body language and beady eyes saying, Give me an excuse, smart guy.
Brody got the message and handed the case to Computer Guy. “What is this all about?” he asked, hoping for more for the police.
“Pay the man,” Computer Guy said to Fake Lars, not looking up, busy putting the DVD into his computer.
Fake Madden pulled an envelope from his ill-fitting jacket—brown instead of navy this time—and held it out to Brody. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Just go.”
“Wait!” Computer Guy snapped.
Meathead moved to block the door.
Uh-oh. Brody was considering a side kick to the guy’s kneecap, when Computer Guy said, “I’m verifying. Hold on.”
In a few seconds, Brody heard from the computer’s speakers the muffled sounds of laughter, chatter, ice rattling, along with the heavy beat of stripper music—definitely party noises. Computer Guy clicked around for a bit, then nodded at Brody. “You can leave.”
Brody left, wishing he’d done more, racing for his car, dialing Jeffers as he went. Sitting inside the car, he told Jeffers about the surprise.
“Sounds like you handled it well,” he said. “We’ve had a change of plans. There’s been a break at Canter’s. Contact has been made, possibly as a result of your exchange. We want to follow that before we tip off anyone where you are.”
“We still don’t know my guy’s name or how he fits in.”
“We’ll put someone on him.”
At that moment, Brody saw Fake Madden step out of the building, blinking in the sudden sun, slumped with defeat. “He just came out,” he said into the phone.
The guy started across the lot and seemed to be heading across the street. “I’m going to talk to him,” Brody said.
“Don’t. We’ll follow him. We’re a block away.”
“The guy’s not armed. If I talk to him, he doesn’t have to know the authorities are involved yet.” He clicked off before Jeffers could object, watching as Fake Lars reached the far side of the street a
nd the lot crowded with cars. Brody sprinted to catch up, approaching from the passenger side. He watched as Fake Lars hit his electronic key and when he heard the clunk of the locks releasing, Brody opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.
“What are you doing?” Fake Madden slammed himself against the driver’s-side door as if he feared an attack.
“I’m not here to hurt you. I want the story, Lars.”
“My name’s not Lars, okay?” He relaxed and shook his jacket into place.
“What is your name?”
The guy looked at him for a few seconds, then shrugged. “I’ll tell you while I drive.” He started the car and pulled out of the lot.
Brody clicked on his tape recorder, noticing a car waiting on the street. No doubt police who would follow.
“My name is really James Toomis, okay?” he said.
“Why did you pretend to be someone else?”
“Because Jed Bascom is a lying, cheating sack of shit and I had to prove it to my sister with that friggin’ DVD.”
“Your sister?”
“So she would divorce the bastard. She’s married to him, okay? What a joke. Have you seen him on TV, that self-righteous ass, all moral about drugs and pornography? Meanwhile, he’s shooting heroin at sex parties with you and your crowd.”
“Hang on. That wasn’t a sex party. And there was no heroin. Or needles.”
“Whatever,” Toomis said gloomily.
“So you hate Bascom? Is this a blackmail deal?”
“Blackmail? Are you kidding? I was trying to save my sister.”
“How did you get into the convention? And how did you know about the DVD in the first place?”
“I work for Bascom, right? I was between jobs and Lydia—that’s my sister—got him to give me this gofer job. Getting coffee, making reservations, fetching dry cleaning. I’m this flunky, like some college intern. So, I’m about invisible to them—like maids and janitors, you know? And I happened to overhear them meeting after the robbery got flubbed. Bascom was all hot about what might be on the film, and Madden insisted they check out a copy and see how bad it really was before they harassed the guy with the camera again.”
One-Click Buy: April Harlequin Blaze Page 90