Seduced

by Angel Payne

  “Crap on a stick!”

  A starlet below, outfitted in a formfitting gold toga for an episode of the superhero show that taped down the way, stopped and exclaimed it to her friend, who was outfitted in a turquoise-blue version of the same ensemble.

  “Another broken nail?” Tait mumbled.

  “Pffft.” Kell peered through his hand scope. “She’s looking the wrong direction. I’ll bet the double-sided tit tape isn’t working on that slick fabric again.”

  “We can only hope.”

  His friend hummed in surprise. “Not a broken nail. A broken heel.”

  “A what?”

  “Shoe,” Kell explained. “Her left heel snapped right off.”

  “That’s new.”

  “No shit. I wonder if Wardrobe checks the costumes for issues like that.”

  Tait shoved back and leaned against a low wall that framed an industrial air-conditioning unit. “And I wonder if we’ll ever have a conversation about something that really matters again.”

  “Fuck.” It was Kell’s way of agreeing. Not that he dropped the scope for a second.

  They passed several more minutes listening to the buxom blonde and her leggy friend go over the options she had with the broken shoe while continuing to keep one eye apiece on the side door to the Dress Blues soundstage. While this entrance got used less by the show’s cast and crew, they took an educated stab at this being the best area to observe Lor’s comings and goings, since his on-lot offices were closer to this door. But so far, the only thing they’d seen the guy do was talk on his phone, fix his hair, pace to his office, talk on his phone some more, hit on gold toga and turquoise toga, and then talk on his phone even more.

  At first, all that cell chatter had given them hope, but after accessing and translating both sides of the conversations, they had nothing except recordings of Lor talking about production deals, selling his mansion, and bawling out his nutritionist that, after taking thirty supplements every day, he wasn’t gaining the muscles the guy had apparently promised. Tait and Kellan had started to throw down bets as to when the nutritionist would grow the balls to address the man’s nonstop cigarette habit. So far, their joint ante totaled forty-two dollars and fifty cents.

  “Okay, let’s feed the kitty,” Kell offered. “A buck says Aphrodite girl decides to go for the exotic look and barefoots it.”

  Tait snorted. “Are you serious? She’s pea green over the bestie’s height. Not a chance she’s giving up the heels.”

  A voice from directly over his head drawled, “Sounds like you boys are having a grand time.”

  Tait joined Kell in whipping out his pistol and turning on the source of the quip. “Holy God,” he spat, exasperated and relieved at the same time. Though he matched Kell’s inhalation to try to regulate his heartbeat to normal, there was a slim fucking chance of success when Luna stood there outfitted to the brink like the studio accountant she was impersonating. Her dark-brown wig was styled in a demure bun that topped double pearls at her neck, a gray vest over a white dress shirt, and a black pencil skirt with matching black pumps.

  “Somebody rang for God?”

  She strutted forward, taking the saucy secretary image to a whole new level. Tait couldn’t rip his stare off her. Holy fuck, what he wouldn’t do for a three-piece suit and a desk with bondage hooks about now.

  Kell broke into that wet dream with a line of blazing rage. “Are you fucking nuts?” he charged.

  “Maybe,” Luna returned. “Scratch that. Yeah, probably.”

  Kellan held up his pistol while he dropped back into position to scope out Lor’s door. “These are called firearms, Luna. We pull them out when there’s the possibility of hurting or even killing someone with them.”

  To Tait’s shock, Luna dipped her head and kicked at the cement below them. “You’re right. Sorry.”

  After Kell acknowledged that by throwing up his hands, forgiving her and ignoring her in the same gesture, Tait shifted closer toward her. Watching her even inch toward submissiveness with someone other than him was, he now openly admitted, a massive problem. “How the hell did you get up here? In those shoes? It’s a twenty-foot vertical climb after you clear the soundstage catwalks.”

  “What?” Her eyes, covered by contacts that darkened them to midnight blue, narrowed in confusion. “They’re platform heels, Weasley, not strappies.”

  “Well, shit. Now I feel so much better.”

  “Stop being a Neanderthal.”

  He grinned. The opening was too damn good. After making sure the toga girls had really secured Kell’s attention again, he couldn’t resist forming a hand around the perfect swell of her ass. He leaned down and grated into her ear, “You crave Neanderthal.”

  Her breath instantly hitched, igniting every inch of his body, before she countered, “You have no idea what I crave.”

  “I have every idea what you crave.” He moved his hand around her body. “And every idea of how to give it to you.”

  She reached a hand to stop him but stopped it at his forearm, betraying her own need by gripping him tight there. Since they were working this op out of sight, he and Kell were dressed in camo tops and bottoms, but that didn’t stop the magic of her touch from penetrating the thick cloth.

  “What?” she murmured. “You going to wave your magic wand at me, Weasley?”

  He ran his lips down the column of her neck. “Flinging long, blunt objects might have something to do with it, yes.”

  She dug her grip harder. The action pulled at his arm hair. The tiny rasps of pain fired his desire even hotter. “We…we have to…stop.”

  He groaned. “Did you have to pick the second I discovered your thong line to say that?”

  A little laugh sounding like sultry music spilled from her before she stepped back and deliberately kept him at arm’s distance. “This is business, okay? I’m up here, even in this getup, because Franzen and Dan sent me.”

  For a second, he was actually grateful for her no-nonsense stance. It helped him leapfrog over the observation that she’d said Dan again, with that little pitch of familiarity smoothed on top. Nope. Don’t go there, dude. Not now.

  He called back to Kellan, “Yo, Slash. Get your adorable ass over here.”

  Kell shoved to his feet and trudged over. “My ass is none of your business, dickwad.”

  Normally that would earn the guy another line of snark, but Luna now braced her posture like his, doubling his curiosity about her purpose in coming up. When she had Kell’s full attention too, she started. “Bernardo Galvaz contacted Dan late last night.”

  Tait traded a glance with his partner.

  “The guy Runway chatted up in the desert last week?” Kellan confirmed. “Colton reinserted him back in with the Aragons after the interrogation, right?”

  Luna nodded. “He called on the private line for the branch. Wouldn’t speak to anyone but Dan. Apparently the Aragons are planning quite a party, cartel style.”

  “Meaning?” Kellan prompted.

  “The compound has become more lively than usual. Galvaz even said he felt like they were preparing to become a war zone. The two Aragons themselves, who usually appear publicly in nothing but pricey suits and designer shoes, were greeting new recruits in battle camos.” Her brow furrowed and her full lips twisted. “The fact that they were greeting recruits at all raises a flag. Mateo and Alex aren’t usually ones for denting their manicures on the boys who run their smack.”

  Tait voiced the logical conclusion to that. “If the guests are drug hustlers at all.”

  “That was Galvaz’s point.” Luna raised her hands to her hips in emphasis. “He went on to tell Dan that these guys didn’t seem like street dealers. They walked past tables full of new heroin bricks without blinking. Their goal was clearly something else.”

  Kellan leaned against the air-conditioning hutch, shoulders tight with concentration. “Professional mercenaries, then? But for what purpose?”

  Aggravation pressed on Tait. “Da
mn it. We need to get into that laptop.”

  Luna took a measured breath. “That’s why I’m here.” She tossed a glance across the roofs of the studio lot then back to both of them. “They’ve sent out a second laptop.”

  “What?” He joined Kell in growling it.

  “It left the compound after midnight in a Mercedes with California plates, with four of those new mercenaries inside. It was the main reason Galvaz called. The guy is wigged. He negotiated with Dan on the line for his family’s safety because he’s sure he’ll be dead at the end of all this. He’s also sure he won’t be the only one.”

  “Fuck,” Kellan muttered.

  Tait was tempted to echo his friend’s sentiment. There was something about the way Luna’s face softened as she said that, almost like she commiserated with Galvaz, that made his arms clench with the need to pull her close again and keep her there this time.

  He funneled his frustration into a tight-lipped outburst. “Haven’t these jerkoffs heard of the Internet? What’s so important that they can’t encrypt the shit out of it, press Send, and become the problem of the cyber-spooks in Langley?”

  Kell didn’t bite on the bait of his rant. The guy rarely did. It was why they worked well together. Instead, his friend lifted a nearly serene gaze back to Luna. “So you’re saying we now keep eyes open for the second laptop.”

  She nodded again. “And radio straight to Franz if you see it.”

  It was the answer they both expected, so Kell didn’t say anything at first. He swept an even gaze across the cityscape, raising it to include the iconic letters on Mount Lee—H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D—before murmuring, “We’re still only doing half the job if we don’t get that data stick.”

  The comment made Tait wince on behalf of Rhett, Rebel, and Ethan. As much as this part of the op sucked ass, he and Kellan had a cakewalk compared to the world of glitz, glamour, and insanity through which their friends had slogged the last few days.

  “I can speak for the spooks in saying we wholeheartedly agree with you, Sergeant Rush.” As if to prove the point behind her tense tone, Luna squirmed against the confines of her outfit. Fucking great. Just when Tait’s crotch had settled into a comfortable state of stand-down, she went and let all that fabric rub her body in all the places he wanted his hands. “And I’m glad to say we might be catching a break there too.”

  “Thank God,” Kellan declared.

  “You’re welcome.” She smirked. As Kell snorted and shook his head, she continued, “I’m not so sure Runway’s concurring with your take, but he’s being a good sport about things.”

  “A ‘good sport’?” Tait let his eyebrows dance in amusement. “Please tell me this involves the guy having to put on some makeup. Some of that pancake stage shit?”

  Luna’s smirk became a little laugh. “Actually, worse.”

  That got even Kellan’s interest. “Worse?”

  “The network is the key sponsor of a small but pricey fundraiser event at the Loews Santa Monica tonight. Wounded vets organizations are sharing the proceeds. Ethan and Rhett are going as special guests at Enzo Lemare’s table.”

  “What about Rebel?” Tait queried.

  “He begged off with a sore throat.”

  Tait openly scoffed. “Sore throat, my ass. Rebel Stafford is half pirate. Even the devil won’t touch him. Every virus and bacteria on earth swore him off ten years ago.”

  Luna shrugged and fingered her pearls, a pure feminine move that still didn’t help the damn tempest in his pants. “Well, he’s also a good actor, because it stuck. He’s confined to checking script accuracy for the afternoon. Runway and Double-O are on their way to have manicures, scalp treatments, shaves, and hair styling while their dress uniforms are prepped.”

  He and Kell waited for a second of respectful silence. Then let their laughs explode.

  “Scalp treatments?” He emitted a lingering snicker. “And manicures? And somebody’s going to take pictures of the pretty little ponies when they’re all done, right?”

  Luna’s gaze met his, sparkling with merriment despite the contacts. Damn, it felt good to give her some happiness. “With the entire Hollywood press corps invited and half the limos in town booked? Uhhh, yeah. You could say that.”

  Tait turned and bumped fists with his friend. “Epic.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  An early season hurricane had hit Mexico last week. The debris from it, nasty balls of tangled seaweed and mud, had started to wash up on California beaches a couple of days ago.

  Except for the wad that had made its way to Ava’s throat.

  She did her best to smile through the agony while she kept to the shadows near the Loews hotel’s pool deck. While a small ensemble filled the air with a grandpa’s jazz take on “Blurred Lines,” flashbulbs popped to record the gripping, grinning, air-kissing, and flirting of upper-tier Hollywood. Nearly all the one-namers were present, including Brad, Angelina, Kerry, Channing, Jenna, Leo, and George. Diamonds sparkled. Evening gowns swished. Champagne flowed.

  And Bella draped herself all over Ethan every chance she got.

  The woman wasn’t shy about making sure there were a lot of chances. Ava knew this for a fact because her whole body felt electrocuted with each occurrence. Every time the woman stroked his chest with demure possessiveness equaled a sixty-watt heartache hit. The knob got cranked to a hundred twenty if Bella rested her head against his shoulder, cheesy girlfriend style. That doubled any time the woman trailed her fingers along the firm line of his jaw. Thank God someone at the salon had convinced him to throw some product in his hair and slick it into a sophisticated neuvo-Euro look so Bella’s grip couldn’t get anywhere near the thick waves.

  Thank God he looked like he didn’t know whether to grin or puke from all of it. Welcome to the club, Sergeant Archer.

  “Avvvvaaaa!”

  Bella’s interruption to her brood was a shock. She’d only diverted her eyes for a second, captivated by the last rays of the sunset over the waves, apparently one second longer than allowed.

  “Shit,” she muttered. “Shit.” The repeat happened when it was clear Ethan was right on the woman’s heels. And that was surprising…why? The two had been the giggling, flirting golden couple on the set for four days. As thoroughly as Ava had fought to ignore the development, the rest of the world hadn’t. The web leaks had likely made it to neighboring galaxies by now. Tonight’s event was clearly doubling as their coming-out soiree.

  Bella herself sealed the deal on that speculation, as well as Ava’s heartache, by insisting Ava dig out a cocktail dress and shadow her with the styling bag for the night. Unless Ava came down with the plague, absence wasn’t an option. It wasn’t like she didn’t know the drill, having been tagged as the woman’s glamour secret service before. She was to be out of sight and out of mind unless there was a hair, makeup, or dress disaster that needed life-saving intervention. Apparently, one of those emergencies had struck.

  As Bella paced closer, she performed a fast visual to try to spot the calamity. Her assessment yielded nothing out of place, but that didn’t mean anything. Bella didn’t give her any clue, gliding closer without a waver of her smile or champagne flute. That also didn’t warrant surprise. The woman had once given a flawless interview to Entertainment Tonight on the red carpet as Ava crouched at her feet resewing two inches of hem that’d been ripped during the limo exit.

  She forced her face into composure, ready for anything. Not an easy feat, considering Ethan looked even better up close. His dress jacket, which brought out the layers of cobalt in his eyes, was pressed and perfectly fitted on his wide shoulders. He’d also been treated to a manicure and professional shave and then dunked in something that smelled wonderful on him. Damn. No wonder half the women out here risked Bella’s backlash by giving him lingering gawks. No wonder every cell in her body burst open in new awareness—followed by livid castigation.

  Maybe this all happened for the best, Ethan.

  She still believed that. She h
ad to believe that. Her throat convulsed on the painful swallow she forced as affirmation. Not that simply looking at them couldn’t accomplish the same thing. They were the most perfect couple on a patio filled with perfection. The noble soldier and the breathtaking starlet. She had no doubt half the producers in the room were already scheming ways to develop their story for the screen.

  Mierda. Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe?

  Thank God Bella didn’t share the challenge. “Oh, Ava, Ava, Ava,” the woman chirped. “Ethan needs you.”

  Seemed that shock therapy came in handy as a good warm-up. The thousand volts that hit her now were a little easier to handle, especially as she looked to Ethan for confirmation. His gorgeous face was etched in a mix of bewilderment and embarrassment that made her heart pinch until her brain retaliated. She couldn’t forget he’d asked for this bed as much as she—for the last four days, to be exact. If he was uncomfortable, maybe he should’ve researched the linens a little better.

  “What’s the problem?” she asked as diplomatically as she could.

  Bella giggled. It was the laugh she got after refusing to eat all day, resulting in half a glass of champagne flying straight to her head. “Me,” she said, snickering again. “I’m the problem!” She wiggled her fingers in the air. “Oopsie!”

  Ava deliberately swung her gaze out to the beach again. There were times when reacting to Bella’s “humor” in any fashion wasn’t a good idea. She wasn’t sure if the woman was feigning the frivolity or if the bubbly was hitting her that hard.

  A huff came from Ethan’s direction. When she looked up, his irritated glare was tough to miss, even past the tumble of his hair. “Bella,” he muttered, dragging the stuff backward with one hand, “honestly, this isn’t—”