Public Secrets

by Nora Roberts

  doused that pain with whiskey.

  She wandered out, then detoured to the bathroom to freshen her makeup. There had been some talk about winding down at a local club. Tired or not, she was going to go along, and keep an eye on her father.

  When she opened the door, she could only stand in speechless shock. The pristine white tiles were streaked with blood. The smell of it, cold and metallic, mixed with the raw stink of vomit, had her throat slamming shut so that she reached up with her hand, pressing and squeezing to dear it. She backstepped quickly, nearly tripping before she managed to turn and race back into the studio.

  “Da!”

  He was finishing up his drink with one hand while struggling into his coat. The flush of success was on his face, but the laughter at something Johnno had said died when he saw Emma.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “In the loo. Quick.” She grabbed his hand to drag him with her. “It’s all over the walls. I don’t—I can’t go in.”

  She stood back, gripping Johnno’s arm as Brian pushed open the door.

  “Goddammit.” After one quick glance, he slammed the door again. “Get somebody to clean this up,” he snapped to Pete. Taking Emma’s arm, he started to haul her back into the studio.

  “Clean it up?” She pulled away from him. “Da, for God’s sake, there’s blood all over the walls. Someone’s been hurt. We have to—”

  “Get your coat, and let’s go.”

  “Go? We have to call the police, or a doctor, or—”

  “Ease down, Emma,” Pete murmured. “There’s no need to call the police.”

  “No need?” She spun on him, then her father. “We have to call them.”

  “We’re not calling anyone, and you’re to forget it.”

  “But—”

  “It’s Stevie.” Furious, Brian took her by the shoulders, and turned her to where Stevie had nodded out in a corner. “He’s using heavy again. You can’t jam a needle into any available vein and not lose some blood.”

  “My God.” A horrible afterimage of the red-streaked walls flashed into her mind. “He’s doing that to himself? He’s killing himself.”

  “Very likely.”

  “Why aren’t you doing something about it?”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?” Snatching up her coat, he dragged it over her arms. “It’s his life.”

  “That’s a despicable thing to say,” she whispered.

  Stepping in as peacemaker, Pete touched her shoulder. “You can’t blame Brian, Emma. He’s tried, I promise you. We’ve all tried. As soon as the album is finished, we’ll convince him to go into detox again.”

  “As soon as the album’s finished,” she repeated. “The bloody album.” Revolted, she swung back to her father. “He’s your friend.”

  “Yes, he’s my friend.” He didn’t bother to tell her of the times he’d begged Stevie to get help, of the times he’d covered up the problem by disposing of needles and mopping up blood. “You don’t understand, Emma.”

  “No, I don’t.” After one last look, she turned away. “I’m going home.”

  “Emma—” Torn, he turned back to stare helplessly at Stevie.

  “Go on along,” P.M. told him and half lifted Stevie to his feet. “I’ll get him to bed.”

  “Right.” Brian caught up with Emma outside. The snow had stopped, and the moon had come out to shine blue light. Automatically he clamped his coat together to shut out the keen wind. “Emma.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. It was enough to stop her, but she didn’t turn. “I don’t blame you for being upset. I know it’s a shock to see something like that, to know that someone you care about is into that sort of thing.”

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath before she turned to face him. Her eyes were very clear. “Yes, it is.”

  “I don’t use needles, Emma. I never have.”

  There was a quick wave of relief, but she shook it away. “And everything else is all right?”

  He dragged a frustrated hand through his hair. “I’m not saying it’s right or wrong. I’m just saying it’s reality.”

  “Not my kind of reality.”

  “I know, and I’m glad of it.” He cupped her face in his hand. “Emma, if I could, I’d shield you from everything that hurts or upsets you.”

  “I don’t want to be shielded. I don’t need to be.” They both turned as P.M. and Johnno carried Stevie out to a waiting car. “Is that the kind of life you want? Is that what you’ve worked for, what you’ve dreamed of?”

  She made him ashamed by asking. Made him furious because he wasn’t sure of the answer. “I can’t explain it, Emma. But I know you don’t get everything you want, and you sure as hell don’t get everything you dream of.”

  She turned away again, but didn’t leave. Gently he pressed a kiss to her hair. They didn’t speak as they walked to the car. Like a shadow, Sweeney fell in behind them.

  LIVING NEAR HOLLYWOOD all his life hadn’t spoiled the fantasy and glamour for Michael. He appreciated star-watching as much as the next guy. Nor did he mind spending a few days in February working crowd control and security for the filming of Devastated, It had been a disappointment that Angie Parks hadn’t been involved in the early location shots. Still he enjoyed watching the twin girls who were playing Emma.

  Casting had done a remarkable job of finding a pair of kids who resembled Emma. Of course, Emma had been prettier, he thought. Was prettier. Her eyes were bluer, bigger. And her mouth … It didn’t do him a hell of a lot of good to think about her mouth.

  It was a better idea to concentrate on his job—which was not, as some of the vets had sneeringly called it, pansy duty. Fans turned out day after day. The hard-core Devastation fans weren’t pleased with Jane Palmer’s book, or the fact that it was to be a movie. Some carried banners or placards, others just booed. There were a few, wearing leather and sporting mohawks and dog collars, who looked as though they would have enjoyed knocking heads with the cops.

  Added to them were clutches of young girls who shrieked and giggled every time Matt Holden came in view. The young actor who played Brian McAvoy was the current teen dream. Michael had had his ankle kicked, his shoulder bruised, and his uniform wept on by adoring fans.

  Glamour, my ass, he thought as he stood on the studio lot. The sun was high and hazy. The air-quality index was in the disgusting range, even for L.A., Michael thought. The producers had decided it would make good press to invite some of the fans to observe a few days’ shooting, play extras, fill in the background. Security had enough trouble keeping the mobs back behind a police line. Now, with people free to mill around what stood in for a London cross street, every muscle had to stay on alert.

  Then there she was. Angie Parks. The lusty, busty movie queen who redefined the term hot sex. The press had already fallen gleefully on the irony of P.M. Ferguson’s ex-wife playing the role of Brian McAvoy’s ex-lover.

  Men broke into sweats as she walked by in her snug skin and cotton blouse. Her hair was brushed smooth, puffed at the crown, tipped up at the ends in the fashion of the early sixties. She smiled at the fans—a friendly gesture, but more aloof than a wave. After a huddle with her director and her co-star, they were set for the first run-through.

  It was simple enough. Jane and Brian were walking down the dingy street, arms tight around each other’s waist. There was a sense of romance as well as intimacy. As the morning wore on, they repeated that stroll for different camera angles, for close-ups when Jane’s face was tipped adoringly toward her lover’s.

  It wasn’t until the lunch break that Michael noticed Angie staring at him. Abrupdy his collar seemed too tight and his brow, under the shade of his cap, pearled with sweat.

  He watched her murmur something to one of the assistants that hovered, then stroll off on the arm of her director.

  They ran the dialogue later in the day. The same walk, the same movements. For the life of him Michael couldn’t remember what was being said. Something about und
ying love, promises of devotion, plans for the future. He only knew that between every take, Angie sent him one long, level look. Each time she did, his stomach muscles jolted.

  She was coming on to him, Michael thought with a dull, throbbing excitement that bordered on raw fear. And she wasn’t being subtle about it. Despite his fascination with her, he hadn’t missed the envious glances and rude remarks of the other officers on security duty.

  Still, it was a shock when the scene was wrapped and she signaled him by crooking one long finger. “My trailer’s over there.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My trailer?” She smiled, the slow, seductive smile he’d seen a half-dozen times on the screen. Her mouth was painted a bright pink for the scene. Watching him, she flicked out her tongue and ran it over her top lip. “I have to change and get out of makeup. You can wait outside.”

  “But—”

  “You’re taking me home,” she said and began to walk.

  “Miss Parks. I’m, ah, on duty.”

  “Yes. You’re assigned to me now.” She smiled again, enjoying that particular phrase. “I’ve been getting some threatening letters —about this role. I feel so much safer having a strong man around.” She paused, flashing that smile as she signed a few autographs. “The producers arranged it with your superiors this afternoon.” She slanted a look at him under her lashes, then strolled off to her trailer where she was immediately surrounded by a bevy of assistants.

  Michael stood where he was.

  “Kesselring.”

  Michael blinked, then focused on the wide, red face of Sergeant Cohen. “Sergeant?”

  “You’re to escort Miss Parks home. Until your orders change, you’re to pick her up every morning, drive her to the studio, then accompany her back to her residence.” Cohen didn’t like the arrangement. It was obvious from the way he bit off the words. Michael thought if the man hadn’t been in uniform, he would have spat on the street.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I expect you to conduct yourself in an appropriate manner.”

  “Yes, sir.” Michael was careful to keep the grin off his face until Cohen turned away.

  She came out of the trailer thirty minutes later wearing a loose red jumpsuit cinched at the waist with a studded leather belt. Her scent flowed with her—a hot, heady fragrance designed to make a man’s mouth water. Her hair was attractively tousled, her eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses. She tipped them down to take another long look at Michael, then waited beside the patrol car until he opened the door for her.

  She gave him the address, then closed her eyes and remained chillingly silent along the drive. Long before they had reached the gates to her estate, Michael had decided he’d mistaken her intentions. He felt both relieved and foolish. Hadn’t he heard that she was having a screaming affair with her co-star? Of course, a lot of that gossip was just speculation and publicity, but it certainly made more sense for her to be attracted to an up-and-comer like Matt Holden than a lowly uniformed cop.

  She signaled the guard at the gate so that the ornately worked wrought-iron swung majestically open. Michael remembered driving to the house before, Emma beside him in the old Chevelle, their surfboards strapped to the roof. It made him smile a little. And regret. She wasn’t going to be a part of his life except in his own fantasies.

  Conscious of his duty, he got out, rounded the hood, and opened the passenger door.

  “Come in, Officer.”

  “Ma’am, I—”

  “Come in,” she repeated, then moved up the steps in her patented style.

  She left the door wide for him to close, then walked through the foyer without a backward glance. Angie didn’t doubt he would follow. Men always followed. After tossing her sunglasses aside she turned into what she liked to call the drawing room. She opened a Louis Quinze cabinet and removed two glasses.

  “Scotch or bourbon?” She knew he was in the doorway, hesitating.

  “I’m on duty,” he murmured. His eyes were drawn, and she had known they would be, to the full-length portrait over the fireplace. He’d seen it before, standing in the same spot, with Emma beside him.

  “Of course. It’s comforting to know you take your duty seriously.” She turned to the bar, chose a soft drink, and poured it into a glass. “You do take your duty seriously, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Smiling, Angie held the glass up. “You’re allowed a Coke, right? I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes. Get to know you.” She took a sip from her own drink, her eyes steady over the rim. “Since you’re going to be taking care of me for a while. Come on.” She ran her tongue over her top lip. Angie considered each word, each move another strand in the web she enjoyed weaving. There was nothing more satisfying than catching a man in the soft, sticky web of sex. “I won’t bite.”

  She waited until He’d accepted the glass before she spread herself on the sofa. It couldn’t be called sitting. She arched her back into the corner plumped with cushions, stretched her arm lazily over the back. The silk of her jumpsuit rustled quietly as she crossed her legs.

  “Sit down.” She sipped her drink again. Beneath the practiced seductive smile an excitement was building. He was so young, and lean. His body would be hard as rock. And he’d be eager. Once she eased him over his initial shyness—that itself an attraction—he’d be beautiful. She decided he was just into his middle twenties, and able to fuck for hours. Angie wagged her fingers at the neighboring cushion. “Tell me about yourself.”

  He sat, because he felt like an idiot standing in the middle of the room with a glass of Coke in his hand. He wasn’t stupid. His initial impression of her intentions had been right on the mark. The problem was, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do about it.

  “Second-generation cop,” he began. “Native Californian.” He drank, telling himself he was relaxed. For Christ’s sake, he was twenty-four. If the amazing Ms. Parks wanted to flirt, he could oblige her. “And a fan.” He smiled. Angie nearly purred.

  “Really?”

  “I’ve seen all your movies.” Once again, his gaze was drawn to the portrait.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yeah. It’s stunning.”

  Her movements slow and fluid, she reached over to pluck a cigarette from a Lalique holder. She held it up, watching him until he remembered himself and reached for the matching table lighter. “Help yourself,” she told him, indicating the cigarettes.

  He was already planning on what he would tell the guys in the locker room. They’d drool with envy at the thought of him sitting on Angie Parks’s sofa. “I’ve seen it before.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The portrait.” He drew smoke in and nearly relaxed. “It’s funny when you think of it. I was here, seven or eight years ago, I guess. With Emma.”

  Angie’s gaze sharpened. “McAvoy?”

  “Yeah. I ran into her on the beach one summer. We’d met a few years before that. I gave her a lift home. Well, here. I think you were in Europe filming.”

  “Mmmm.” She considered the idea a moment, then smiled. It made it all the more interesting somehow. Here she was on the verge of seducing one of little Emma McAvoy’s friends—and playing Emma’s mama in what was sure to be the hottest movie of the year. And it would be all the more interesting to think of herself as Jane while they made love. “Small world.” She set her glass aside to lean forward and toy with the buttons of his shirt. “Do you see much of Emma?”

  “No. Well, actually I saw her last month when she was in town.”

  “Isn’t that sweet.” The first button popped open. “Are you two … involved?”

  “No. That is … No. Miss Parks.”

  “Angie.” She blew a light stream of smoke in his face, then crushed out her cigarette. “And what is your name, darling?”

  “Michael. Michael Kesselring. I don’t—”

  Her movements stopped. “Kesselring? Any relation to the investigating officer on the McAvoy murde
r?”

  “He’s my father. Miss—”

  She laughed then, long and loud and delighted. “Better and better. Let’s call it fate, Michael.” Her hand slid up his thigh. “Relax.”

  He wasn’t stupid. And he wasn’t dead. When she closed her hands over him, the pleasure speared through him like a heated blade. And so did the guilt. It was ridiculous, he told himself. She was gorgeous, dangerous—every man’s darkest fantasy. He’d had his share of women, starting with Caroline Fitzgerald on the night before his seventeenth birthday. They’d lost their virginity together, sweatily and clumsily. He’d learned a lot since good old Caroline.

  Angie slipped the cigarette from his fingers, leaving it to smolder in the ashtray as he hardened against her palm. He was going to be sweet, she thought. So very sweet. And the irony—the