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After introducing them, she’d seated Jules next to Jack, hoping he wasn’t one of those former military types who got all freaked out by the idea of an openly gay man. Because despite his advanced age, Jack was flaming. No doubt about it. Especially when he greeted Jules with “And aren’t you just absolutely adorable?”

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked after delivering their coffee. When she’d approached, they were talking and smiling in agreement. The FBI agent didn’t look as if he were eager to run screaming away. He was far cooler than she would have been—Jack Shelton made her nervous.

“Settle!” came the cry from the assistant director.

“That means you need to get comfortable fast,” she quickly told Jules. Jack had been on set plenty of times in his long, weirdly colorful life, and knew the drill. “She’s going to call action soon, and at that point you can’t speak or even move—not even to shift your weight. I’m sorry, but is your cell phone off?”

Jules nodded. “It’s on vibrate.”

“Oh,” Patty said. “No, I’m sorry, but even that makes too much noise. I’m going to have to ask you either to step outside or—”

His smile was warm and quite possibly a little flirtatious. My goodness, he was good-looking. “No problem.” He turned off his phone. “Actually, I’ve been on a soundstage before, so—”

“And. . . .” the director called loudly, drawing the word out. Patty put her finger to her lips, then closed her eyes. “Action!”

They’d already filmed this very same segment—two lines of dialogue and a reaction shot—so many times that she took the opportunity to rest. And have her favorite daydream.

Robin, winning the Oscar for Best Actor for his portrayal of Hal Lord in
American Hero.
He’d take the stage and thank his sister and HeartBeat Studios, as well as his supporting cast. And then, right there, on prime-time television in front of billions of viewers, he’d ask Patty to make his life truly complete by marrying him.

Photos of her face with tear-filled eyes, her hand over her mouth in heartfelt surprise, would be on the front page of every industry-related publication for the next week and a half—followed by invitations to lunch and job offers.

Patty Leshane Chadwick, associate producer.

As for Oscar night, she and Robin would attend endless after-parties, schmoozing with everyone who was anyone in Hollywood. Then, as dawn lit the morning sky, they’d go to the best party of all—a private party at the beach house they called home, where they’d make slow, glorious love until they fell asleep, exhausted, in each other’s arms.

Much in the way they were going to, tonight.

She was determined to make it happen.

“And cut!”

The set came to life again. Assistants and technicians who’d been frozen in place by the command to settle now prepared to shoot the scene again, moving the camera back to the starting point.

Patty turned back to Jules. “Were you part of the team investigating that Russell Crowe thing a few years back?”

He blinked at her with his enormously long, dark eyelashes. “Excuse me?”

“You’d said you’d been on set before, so—”

“Oh,” Jules said, “right,” as he realized she was continuing the conversation they’d started before the call for
action.
“No. No, I, um”—he cleared his throat—“lived with an actor a few years ago, and, uh, he was in this little indie movie that was filmed in New York, and—”

“Excuse me.”

Patty turned to see one of the extras standing beside her, a young man whom wardrobe had dressed in an American Army Air Corps uniform, complete with captain’s bars. It was pretty surreal that she knew that—just a few weeks ago, she hadn’t been able to tell a Marine sergeant from a four-star Army general. Now she could actually read rank.

This captain wore his brown hair slicked back from his face, and he juggled his hat into his left hand as he held out his right to shake. “Hi. Miss Leshane. I’m sorry to interrupt—”

“Patty,” she corrected him.

“Patty,” he echoed with a warm smile. “I am sorry to bother you, but every time I’ve had a break, you’ve been on the phone, so, I thought this would be . . . We were just given five, so I thought I’d come say, well, hi. I’m Wayne.”

“Wayne,” she repeated. Oh, God, was she supposed to know a Wayne? Was there a special guest who was on set today as an extra? She was pulling a total blank.

He looked amazingly unfamiliar, with brown eyes and a nice smile, good teeth—of course all American actors in L.A. had good teeth.

“Wayne Ickes,” he said, which sounded a small bell of recognition. She’d heard that name before, but where? “We spoke on the phone last night?”

Bingo. Right before Robin had returned home.

Right before that incredible, amazing, toe-tingling kiss that had turned her world, her life, her hopes and dreams completely upside down.

“College roommate’s sister lives in Tulsa . . . ?” he tried, because she was still standing there, gaping at him.

“Yes,” Patty said, realizing he was still holding on to her hand. “Right. Wayne. Of course. I’m sorry. . . .” She pulled her fingers free.

“It must be hard to recognize any of us,” he said, giving her a good excuse. “You know, with the uniforms, and the hair . . .”

“Right,” she said. “Yeah.” He was sweating, poor kid. “You must be dying, wearing that, under the lights.”

“Oh,” he said. “No, it’s not bad. It’s kind of cool, actually. I mean, not cool cool, because it
is
pretty warm in here, but it’s . . . See, this was my grandfather’s uniform. It’s the real thing. Which is probably why I was hired—because I had my own uniform. Not that I’m complaining. A job’s a job and . . .” He rolled his eyes. “Sorry, I must sound like an idiot.”

“No,” she said. He was actually kind of cute, the way he was falling all over himself. She gave him a “gotta run” smile, but he mistook it for an invitation to keep chatting.

“My grandfather flew a B-29 Superfortress—a long-range bomber,” he told her. “He was stationed first in India, and then in the Mariana Islands. This was his winter uniform—he rarely wore it, I mean, considering where he served.”

“That is really cool,” she lied. Her eyes had started glazing over at
long-range bomber.
It
would
have been cool if only there were more hours in the day. Everyone had their own important story that they just had to share, but she had a list of forty things that she had to do
right now.
On top of that . . . She scanned the set, searching for . . .

Robin. He was finally coming over to her, working his way through the crowd. She met his eyes across the room, and he smiled and her heart leapt and . . .

“My schedule’s nuts, too. I work over at Cedars-Sinai. The hospital. I’m an orderly. It’s a good job—not the most glamorous, I know, but I like helping people and my boss is flexible. Anyway, I was thinking if you weren’t busy one of these nights,” Wayne was saying, flipping his hat over and over, “there’s this great place that serves the best barbecued—”

“Excuse me,” Patty interrupted him.
Weren’t busy one of these nights—
what a joke. “I’m sorry, but I need to . . .” She pointed toward Jack and Jules. And Robin, who had made his way to them, and was shaking hands with both.

Wayne was immediately contrite. “Oh, no,
I’m
sorry. I didn’t realize this wasn’t—”

“I’m just so overwhelmed and . . . Did you need something? One of those forms for additional pay?” The costume department was providing an additional stipend for extras who came with their own period clothing. Someone named Carl Something had asked her for one of those forms about an hour ago, but now she couldn’t find him to give it to him.

“No,” Wayne said. “Thanks. I’ve already got that. I’ll, uh, see you later.”

Patty turned back to Jules and Jack.

And Robin.

“. . . don’t suppose you harbor some secret desire to become a movie star,” Robin was saying to Jules, who was laughing and shaking his head.

“No, I’m happy right here on the sidelines, thanks,” the FBI agent said.

“Oh, come on.” Robin teased him the way he teased everyone. “You can’t tell me—a guy with a face like yours—that there’s not this part of you that doesn’t look into the mirror and think ‘I could be the next James Van Der Beek’—you know, thirty-something and still playing a teenager?”

“Yeah,” Jules said, “thanks, but no thanks. My days playing a teenager are over. I did a number of undercover assignments, going into high schools, dealing with gangs. I just . . .” He laughed again. “No thank you.”

“I’m not saying you have to play a teenager,” Robin said. “Just that you could. It gives you range in terms of roles, you know?” He sighed. “It’s just we’re still looking for someone to play Jack and . . .” He turned to Patty. “Don’t you think it’s uncanny?”

She had no clue what he was talking about. Of course, anytime he got this close, all words—all thoughts—left her.

“Look at them,” he continued. “Am I nuts or am I nuts?”

Patty didn’t know what to say. But he was Robin—he didn’t need agreement or acknowledgment or even confirmation that she’d heard him. Once he was running with something, he just kept going.

“Jack, my man,” he said, “tell the secret agent here how overwhelmingly fun it is to make a movie.”

“I do see what you’re talking about,” the elderly man replied. “But it takes more than a pretty face to make an actor. You, darling, more than most, should know that.”

At last there was something she could say—a way to participate in this bizarre conversation. “Mr. Cassidy knows about making movies—he’s been on set before,” she told Robin. “His roommate is an actor.”

“Was,” Jules corrected, adding, “Not that he’s not still an actor, because he is. We just no longer, um, live together.”

“Come on, Patricia,” Robin said. “Back me up here, baby. Don’t you think Jules would make a perfect Jack? Haven’t you seen those portraits of him in uniform? Jack, I mean.”

Understanding dawned. Oh, dear. “I guess there’s a slight resemblance,” she said, unwilling to contradict Robin, even though she didn’t see it at all. Although, okay, yes, both men were compact and trim—short, in blunt non-Hollywood-speak. But Jack was effeminate and Jules was hot.

He was also a high-ranking federal agent.

“Your sister called and asked me to meet her here.” Jules now changed the subject. “Any idea what that’s about?”

Robin shook his head. “It could be anything from letting you know that she had four hours free last night, so she flew to Idaho and personally took out the leader of the Freedom Network, so thanks, she won’t need your assistance anymore, to maybe she noticed your uncanny resemblance to our Jack so she’s drawn up a contract and filled out your SAG application for you, or—”

“Places!” came the call.

“Gotta run,” Robin said. He shook hands with Jules again. “Think about it. As Jack, you’d get to do a big-screen kiss with me. How’s that for enticement?”

He waggled his eyebrows at the FBI agent while, aghast and amused, Patty exclaimed, “Robin!”

Fortunately Jules Cassidy had a sense of humor—he was laughing.

Robin turned to face her, walking backward, away from them. “You’re coming back to the office later, right? For the dailies?”

“If you want me to.” She ran to catch up with him.

“I want,” he said, and the heat in his eyes sent her heart into triple time again. He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice. “I have to talk to you, baby. Privately.” He laughed softly, ruefully. “Which is going to be ridiculously hard with Janey breathing down my neck.”

“Maybe,” she said, and her voice came out little more than a whisper. She had to clear her throat. “Maybe you could come over to my place? I mean, later tonight?”

He made a sound, as if he were in serious pain. “God, baby,” he said. “You’re killing me. I don’t think that’s a very good idea . . .”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Patty whispered. “My place, at eight.”

He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no, either. And then she had to turn away, hurrying toward the door as she saw Jane and her bodyguards enter. She could feel Robin’s eyes on her all the way across the room, and she knew he’d be there.

Patty laughed aloud at her amazing good fortune.

“What’s with the TV crews in the parking lot?” PJ Prescott asked Decker as he joined the team already gathered in the studio.

Cosmo was just a few steps behind him, and Deck waited for the SEAL chief to move close enough before he gave his response. “Ms. Chadwick’s giving a press conference in just a few minutes.”

Cosmo was unflappable as usual, but PJ’s eyebrows rose. Deck himself had to shake his head at the absurdity of the words that had just left his mouth.

Nearly all the ops he’d ever been on had been covert assignments. First for the Navy SEALs, then for the Agency, and now for Troubleshooters Incorporated, almost all of his deployments had been quiet ones. As in no fireworks or twenty-one-gun salutes to celebrate going wheels up; no ticker tape parade upon return home. And no talking about where he was going or where he’d been to anyone, not even to his live-in girlfriend—back when he’d had a live-in girlfriend. Forget about holding a press conference.

But this was Hollywood. Tom Paoletti had warned Deck that this job might be a little different. Mercedes Chadwick was high profile. In fact, she actively sought the limelight.

The traditional response to receiving a death threat was to lie low. The average threatee went into hiding. Very few people sent out press releases about it the way Mercedes had done.

“It must be a slow news day,” Murphy commented. The former Marine was sitting on some kind of packing crate next to Dave and Lindsey, the seventh and eighth members of Deck’s team. Dave Malkoff was former CIA—enough said. And at barely five feet tall, with her timid-seeming, nearly constant smile, Lindsey Fontaine looked to be the least likely bodyguard in the entire history of personal security. But her seven very productive years with the LAPD proved that looks could deceive.

“This really going to happen outside?” Cosmo asked.

“Yeah,” Decker said shortly. “Believe me, I advised against it. . . .” He shook his head again.