When Uncle Franco asked her to go undercover as a contestant on a bachelor reality TV show to investigate threats made to the groom, Brielle knew one of two things. Either she needed her hearing checked or Uncle Franco needed his head examined. When he’d repeated the request, it had become clear. A CAT scan was definitely in his future.
Maybe a full neurological workup.
Franco DeMarco, owner of DeMarco Investigations, had been a confirmed bachelor until she’d arrived twelve years ago at the age of fifteen, just after the death of her parents. Brielle’s younger bubblegum-chewing, rocker T-shirt, blue-jeaned clad image flashed through her mind. She smiled. Uncle Franco had been great. Having lost his own father at a young age, he’d known when to give her space and when to keep her busy.
As much as she loved her mother’s brother, though, Brielle had had every intention of turning the assignment down. And she had. Several times. The fact the client was an old war buddy of her uncle’s never swayed her decision. No. The case wasn’t for her. She’d learned the hard way to avoid investigating a television show, no matter the reason. Lesson learned.
Once upon a time, she prided herself on being good at her job, not just through hard work and training, but from listening to her intuition when it made itself heard. Her one-time lapse in judgment had nearly cost her everything. Heart. Job. Her uncle’s business. What if she made a similar mistake?
“No,” she’d told him, yet again. “The variables are endless. Too many people have access to the groom. Between the crew, contestants and mansion staff coming and going, you can’t possibly account for everyone every minute of the day or keep them from contaminating evidence. This job has all the makings of a disaster.”
He’d argued, of course, but she’d held her ground…until the Andersons arrived and double-teamed her. Patsy. One look at the tears in the mother-of-the-groom’s eyes and Brielle had caved like a hollowed out donut. Sophia Anderson insisted her son was in trouble. Even with her older son on the set to provide security, she felt Brielle would be an asset investigating the contestants at the bachelorette mansion.
The woman had made a point. A good point.
Dammit.
So, here she was, seated next to two actresses, all three of them going on the show under the ruse of being women the Anderson’s picked out for their son, Matthew, the groom. Brielle insisted on telling both sons the truth about her presence, but only gained approval for the groom.
“This way he can keep choosing you to stay and inform you of any new threats,” Uncle Franco had said. “The producer and a few of the crew will know, too.”
Unfortunately, try as she might, she couldn’t get anyone to agree to Jack Anderson knowing her real identity. According to his parents, the oldest son, a former Army Ranger, would insist she leave because he couldn’t protect her in a different mansion, even though he’d be well aware of her qualifications.
Never one to prejudge people, Brielle found it difficult in this case. What was he, a Neanderthal? The image of a big, bulky, stern military man, who thought his stuff didn’t stink, flashed through her mind.
So, she’d informed the Anderson’s she preferred to be Lancelot over Guinevere and didn’t need protecting, to which they’d readily agreed and thanked her profusely.
And that’s how she ended up a plant on another reality show.
Idiot.
The urge to flee tingled Brielle’s toes. Not exactly an option. Dressed in a fitted, black Faviana gown with a front-side slit and sequined bodice, she sat wedged between the two actresses and a cameraman in the white limo.
I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.
A long, deep breath helped her focus on the positive. Fancy digs. Fancy rides. Fancy clothes. Okay, so the case might have some perks. It wasn’t everyday she got paid to dress up and suffer the attention of a handsome man.
At least, she assumed Matthew was handsome. Uncle Franco had neglected to add pictures of the Anderson brothers to the file he’d given her on the contestants. Odd. Especially for Uncle Franco—he was always so thorough.
The vehicle slowed to a stop.
So did her heartbeats. Time to get into character.
As the door opened, adrenaline shot through Brielle, quickening her pulse and sharpening her focus. She loved the rush of a new job. The jolt always made her feel so alive. Only one thing better. Great sex. But, being she hadn’t had any since last year, and that had been a fluke, and in a dressing room of all places, she intended to embrace the rush for as long as possible.
With a firm grasp of the offered hand, she stepped from the limo and gasped. A massive, four-story brick mansion with towering white pillars and a huge outdoor chandelier met her gaze. Damn. She’d hate to pay the light bill.
A sour taste coated her tongue as bad memories threatened to surface. This time will be different.
She pasted on a smile while three white-tuxedoed hunks escorted them up the wide marble steps. Enjoy the perks, she silently chanted, clutching the muscled forearm of a good-looking man the size of a stone wall. She took a closer look. Clean shaven, short haircut, earwig in his ear—security. Her gaze went to the other two escorts. Same thing.
A shaft of admiration flowed through her. Smart. Jack Anderson was smart. His men pulled double duty. Her gaze returned to her escort’s profile. Jack? Her mind dismissed the possibility. The former Ranger would stick to his brother.
One of the two big, wooden front doors swung open, and she forgot about the security Ranger as her stomach clenched tight. Déjà vu reality TV style. Did all producers share the same brain? Uncle Franco owes me big time for this. Once inside, she ignored the hovering cameramen and drew in a breath.
The faint smell of citrus tickled her nose, and she fought back a sneeze. Everything was polished and massive, from the vases and artwork—which she estimated cost ten times as much as she’d make in her lifetime—to the grand, spiral oak staircase, gleaming before them like the sun hitting the Pacific Ocean on a California afternoon.
“Wow,” the actress next to her exclaimed. “Look at the mural on the ceiling.”
She let her gaze follow the pink-manicured fingernail pointing skyward.
“It’s beautiful,” the other actress breathed.
Brielle nodded at the bevy of clouds and angels mingling in warm earth tones above. A lot of work and love went into the fresco.
“There’s another mural in the ballroom. Maybe you’ll get to see it, if you’re picked to stay,” one of the hunks informed before the escorts turned and walked away to enter a room down the hall.
The girls’ smiles disappeared, while a twinge of guilt hit Brielle between the solar plexus. She shook it off. The actresses were getting paid for their minor parts tonight. Their arrival and eliminations were in their contracts, leaving Brielle with the three contestants the groom decided to keep on. Those women—the suspects—were her main concern. She wasn’t there to make friends or land a husband. She had a mystery to solve and an attack to prevent.
With her mind back on the case, she peered around the foyer and immediately understood one of the problems plaguing the investigation. No wonder Jack Anderson couldn’t break the case; the place was like a museum. He could never keep an eye on all the girls with so many rooms, nooks, crannies and corridors to hide in. Even with security cameras. According to her notes, the bachelorette mansion was nowhere near this size. Thank God. The place would take days to search.
At the sound of a door opening behind them, she turned and regarded the clipboard-toting, bespectacled man hastening toward them. The producer, no doubt.
“I’m Bill Houston, the show’s producer,” he said in confirmation of her thoughts. He motioned to a door with his clipboard. “The bathroom’s in there if you want to check your appearance before you go in to meet Matthew and the others.”
The two actresses made a beeline, but Brielle declined, wanting to have a word with him instead, since he knew her secret.
“Is everything set?”
“Yes, Ms. Chapman, it is,” Bill replied, shoving the clipboard under his arm. “You’re going to be introduced as Brielle Bennett, twenty-seven-year-old dance instructor.”
She nodded, having already given her uncle the go-ahead on her cover. “And Matthew is aware of my real reason for being here?”
“Yes. Only he and key members of my staff know.” The thin man removed his glasses to clean them on his shirt. “No one else is aware, and don’t worry about them...” He paused to nod to the cameramen. “It doesn’t matter if the world knows because this won’t air until after the show is in the can.”
“Okay, good,” she said, turning toward the six-foot mirror hanging on one of the side walls. Her heels echoed as she walked across the foyer. “Although, I still say it’s a mistake not telling Jack.”
“That’s out of my hands.” His reflection shrugged. “Your uncle and Mr. and Mrs. Anderson are calling the shots. I just want to get my show done without casualties.”
Her steps halted in front of the mirror, and she studied his reflection carefully. Threats made for good television. Maybe Bill knew more about them than he let on. He pushed his glasses back onto his nose and glanced at his watch. She chewed her lower lip. Uncle Franco had ruled out the producer and the possibility of this being a publicity stunt. No sense wasting her time on Bill. The threats came from another insider.
Her gaze swung to her own reflection. She hardly recognized herself. Dark brown hair, which normally fell several inches below her shoulders, was twisted into an upsweep while her side-swept bangs and several loose tendrils framed her face, bringing attention to her chocolate brown eyes. She turned sideways. Not bad…
The designer gown transformed her slightly taller than average frame into an hourglass figure. “Hollywood magic,” she muttered, although, getting a date had never been a problem. It was keeping the guy’s interest she failed at once he realized the real reason she carried handcuffs.
Over the past year, her lack of male suitors even prompted Uncle Franco to attempt to fix her up with so-and-so’s nephew, son, brother…etc. She blew a curl out of her eye and scowled. What a nightmare. Thank goodness he’d finally listened to her wishes and accepted she was perfectly happy concentrating on work.
Smoothing a hand over her hips, Brielle willed her apprehension to go away. The other reality television case was in the past. Uncle Franco’s reputation was intact and would remain that way. No one in the company could best her investigative skills. Her anxiety was unfounded; she’d been in more harrowing situations in her undercover work.
Like when she’d busted a smuggling ring on a fishing boat full of three-handed men who'd smelled worse than the catch of the day. She wrinkled her nose. And this case certainly wasn’t worse than when she’d donned skimpy outfits and danced around a pole in front of a bar full of men for almost a month at The Limelight. She released a slow exhale. Last year’s undercover work had helped stop a home-invasion ring plaguing the Los Angeles area. She’d had reservations about that role, too, but took solace in the fact no one would recognize her. Not only because she'd lived two hours up the coast, but because of the radical change to her appearance.
She’d been glad to shed the shells, get back to her natural hair color and get rid of those God-awful blue contacts. She used the name Ariel, donned the contacts, wore heavy makeup, dyed her much longer hair auburn and teased it to fit in with the other performers. Exotic dancing in front of strange men had been unnerving—except for one.
That had been unsettling in a very different way.
A smile pulled at her lips as she recalled the man whose presence drew strange reactions from her body.
Dodger.
For nearly three weeks, the attractive man in the Dodger’s baseball cap had shown up at The Limelight and sat off to the side during her show. He’d looked like the other patrons, with a few bottles of beer in front of him. But that’s where the similarities had ended. Dodger’s fit body stretched his T-shirt and jeans—not to mention her professional resolve—to their limits.
Closing her eyes, Brielle brought his face to mind. Long, dark hair curled from under his hat and a two-day beard scuffed his wickedly sexy features. He appeared dangerous, capable—a man hardened by the world, looking to her for some pleasure in order to forget.
She’d gotten used to his disconcerting presence and often-friendly smile and, after awhile, found herself searching for him and his smoldering blue gaze. Electric, erotically seductive, the blazing arousal in his eyes pulled her in and set her whole body aflame. On her last day, after her tip about one of the dancers led the L.A.P.D. to make their arrests, she’d stayed to see if Dodger was one of the perps, or if he’d show for her performance. He’d shown, so, she took the stage one last time. Hypnotized, mesmerized, she had danced just for him.
The rapid rise and fall of the sexy man’s chest and the way his shirt had clung to his suddenly sweat-soaked torso told her he’d felt the same frenzied pull. Never had a man made her feel so desirable…so turned on…so achingly hungry for his touch. When he’d unexpectedly shown up at her dressing room afterwards, fighting the attraction had been the last thing on her mind.
For the first time ever, Brielle had had a one night stand. She’d given herself permission to enjoy the fantasy man. Just the memory of the most crazy, thrilling wild sex she’d ever experienced made her heartbeat push against the evening gown.
“Okay, we’re ready.”
Her eyes snapped open and she drew in a deep breath. That man had been one of a kind, and the kind best left to fantasy. She’d detested her attraction to him, yet yearned for it at the same time. He could’ve been married—God, she hoped not—or worse, a criminal. She refused to think about him. Guilt over either would be too much to bear.
“I’m ready, too,” she said, turning from the mirror before joining the actresses in the middle of the foyer.
That job, by far, had been the hardest she’d ever tackled. This nervousness running through her now was foolish. Like comparing Mt. Everest to a pitcher’s mound. Completely ridiculous.
“Good.” Bill glanced at his watch again before he signaled the cameramen. “It’s showtime.”
While adrenaline shot through her veins and washed the last remnants of apprehension from her body, Brielle contemplated what lay behind the door. If one of the contestants was the perpetrator, would she spot her off the bat or would it take several days, weeks to discover? As she glided with the others across the foyer, she told herself the timeline didn’t matter, provided she flushed out the culprit before someone got hurt.
Bill ushered them toward the gathering room doors beginning to open. Blueprints she’d studied last night specified the room to be a fancier, blown up version of a common living room. Trust the rich to rename and make it bigger.
Adopting a dancer’s grace, Brielle Bennett and her two sidekicks breezed onto the landing—
And straight into the seventh layer of hell.
No friggin’ way!
She stopped dead.
Thankful her toe hit the mark and her distress went unnoticed, she eyed the men standing across the room. Handsome in their designer Italian suits, only one of them sent her pulse into a tango. Broad shoulders, dark hair, blue eyes...
Dodger.
Brielle swallowed back the gasp that threatened. He was an Anderson? She forced her lips into a smile, while her gaze jumped from one handsome brother to the other. The deep recesses of her conscience grabbed hold of the knowledge she hadn’t slept with a creep. A sizable relief. She could lay that demon to rest.
But with both Anderson brothers dressed to kill, was Dodger the guard…or the groom?
“Hello, ladies. I’m Greg Phelps, the show’s host,” an attractive Hollywood blond greeted them from the center of the room. “Welcome to Meet Your Mate.”
The actresses blushed and gushed like he was the cat’s meow. Greg wasn’t the one causing the flutter in Brielle’s stomach.
De
ar God what if he recognizes me?
He won’t, her mind reassured, thanks to the radical appearance change—no red hair, no blue contacts. Plus, the lack of accent and henna tattoo…and she’d gone up a dress size. Yeah, she really needed to lay off the French fries.
But she wasn’t the only one who’d changed.
Clean cut, impeccable clothes, strong air of authority, the man oozed testosterone. Damn him—he’d changed for the better. Like his gorgeous eyes and rock hard body weren’t enough to elevate him to smokin’ hot status. Cripes. Her body already dampened in special places.
Special places that were not to take part in this job.
She shook off her Dodger stupor and reminded herself of the mission.
Soon, nerves disappeared, allowing training to kick in. Tiny sparks of tension, emanating from the left, prickled her skin. She settled her gaze on the four contestants while Greg explained the newcomers’ arrival. The attractive women, ranging from short to tall, blonde to brunette, all wore similar, half-hearted smiles. Though not pleased with the arrival of more contestants, none appeared hostile.
Good or bad?
Bad, Brielle decided, because then she could’ve called the hostile one out and ended this nightmare before it even started.
With all the reluctance of a four-year-old at bedtime, she returned her attention to Greg, as one by one, he introduced the new girls to the groom. It didn’t matter which brother Dodger turned out to be—groom or guard—and yet she couldn’t explain the relief shooting through her body when Greg pronounced him the groom’s brother, Jack.
Why should it matter?
It didn’t, she insisted. Her relief had nothing to do with the fact those four beauties wouldn’t be throwing themselves at Dodger.
Not Dodger, Jack. He was Jack Anderson. The former Army Ranger her uncle had praised to high heaven. The Neanderthal, who—if he knew her real reason for joining the show—would pressure his parents and her uncle to make her leave. The sexy man standing thirty feet away was not Dodger. No. Dodger did not exist. That was the past. Over and done with.
She Does Know Jack Page 2