Public Secrets (26 page)

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 undying 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 murder?”

“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 irony was beautiful.

“I’ve never had a cop,” she murmured as she nipped at his lip. “You’ll be the first.”

He felt the breath back up in his lungs, thick and hot. He shook his head to clear it. He had one flash, achingly lucid, of sitting with Emma on the winter beach. Then Angie stood up. With a flick of her hands, she unsnapped her belt. She had only to shrug her shoulders to have the red silk slithering to the floor. Beneath it her body was white and lush and naked. She ran her hands over it, lingering, caressing as adoringly as a lover. Before he could find the strength to stand, she was straddling him. On a groan of pleasure, she pressed his mouth against one perfect, polished breast.

“Do things to me,” she murmured. “Do anything you like.”

T
HE SUPERMARKET TABLOIDS
had a field day.

A
NGIE
P
ARKS’S
R
OOKIE
L
OVER

The Inside Story

T
RIANGLE OF
P
ASSION AND
M
URDER IN
H
OLLYWOOD

They leaped on the connection with the McAvoys and played it like a brass band. In New York, Emma tried to ignore the gossip and prayed it wasn’t based in fact.

It was none of her business, she reassured herself as she spent hours in her darkroom. Michael was no more than a friend—an acquaintance, really. They had no actual ties, and certainly no relationship. Except for the kiss they had shared.

She was romanticizing. One kiss meant nothing. She hadn’t let it, couldn’t let it. Even if she had felt—she wasn’t sure what she had felt. It hardly mattered. If Michael had indeed been drawn into Angie’s web, she could only feel sorry for him. The idea of feeling betrayed was ludicrous.

They each had their own life. He on one coast, she on the other. And she was at last, at long last, doing something with hers.

She was working for Runyun. She might be a lowly assistant, but she was Runyun’s lowly assistant. In the past ten weeks, she’d learned more from him than she had learned in years of classes, stacks of books. Working by the glow of her red light, she gently
moved a print in the developing fixer. She was getting better. And she intended to be better yet.

One day, she thought, she would give Runyun a run for his money.

Professionally, she was going exactly where she wanted to go. Personally … her life was in upheaval.

Her mother. How could she explain what it felt like to know that the woman she had faced in the dim room in London had given birth to her? Would she ever be able to separate and understand her feelings? And her fears? No matter what reassurances Bev had given her, she’d never be able to shake the greatest fear of all. Could she be like Jane? Deep down, were there seeds that would sprout one day, changing her from what she wanted to be into what she had been born to be?

A drunk. A cheap, bitter drunk.

How could she escape a fate that rushed at her from all sides? Her mother, her grandfather. Her father. No matter how she blinded herself to it, she had to accept that the man she loved most was as much a slave to drink as the woman she wanted to hate.

It terrified her.

She didn’t want to believe it. She was afraid not to.

No good. It did no good to dwell on it, she told herself and hung the rinsed print to dry. Emma studied it, critically, before moving back to her enlarger.

Since she was sick of worrying about herself, she decided to worry about Marianne. Emma knew her friend had taken to cutting classes, meeting Robert Blackpool for lunch or drinks in whatever spot was currently trendy. From there they would often crawl the clubs—Elaine’s, Studio 54, Danceteria—where Blackpool could be seen.

There were nights Marianne came in at dawn, shadow-eyed and bubbling with stones. Worse were the nights Blackpool stayed in the apartment, in Marianne’s studio. In Marianne’s bed.

With all her heart she wanted to wish for Marianne’s happiness. Marianne was happy. She was wildly in love for the first time with a man who by all appearances adored her. She was living the exciting, glittery, and decadent life they had both pined for while trapped within Saint Catherine’s prim walls.

It annoyed Emma to find herself jealous and critical. She
resented not having Marianne to talk to, and called herself petty. It irritated her to see the glow of lovemaking on Marianne’s face. And she called herself spiteful.

But with all that aside, Emma couldn’t make herself comfortable with Marianne’s romance. He was a gorgeous, exciting, and talented man. There was no denying that, especially as she studied the drying prints. She had agreed, with Marianne’s urging, to photograph Blackpool. He had been a perfect gentleman, Emma remembered. At ease, amusing, flattering—in the platonic manner suited to her roommate’s lover.

Lover. With a wistful little sigh, Emma frowned at the prints. Perhaps that was the crux of it. She and Marianne had shared everything—every thought, every deed, every dream, for over ten years. This was something they couldn’t share, and Marianne’s bubbling happiness was a rub—a constant reminder of something Emma had never experienced.

That was something to be ashamed of, she thought. She could justify her feelings day in and day out. Blackpool was too smooth, he was too experienced, he was too fond of clubs and women. His eyes were too dark when they rested on her—and too cocky when they rested on Marianne. But the truth was, she was desperately envious of Marianne.

It didn’t matter that she didn’t like him, Emma told herself. It didn’t matter that Johnno didn’t like him and continually made snide comments about Blackpool’s penchant for leather pants and silver chains. What mattered was that Marianne was in love.

She switched on the light, arching her back. Spending the best part of the day developing had given her a ravenous appetite. She hoped Runyun and the contact she’d made at
Rolling Stone
would approve of the shots she’d taken of Devastation in the recording studio.

She was scrounging in the refrigerator for something more interesting than molding bologna when she heard the elevator open. “I hope you bought supplies,” she called out. “We’re getting down to science projects in here.”

“Sorry.”

Emma whipped around at Blackpool’s voice. “I thought you were Marianne.”

“No. She gave me a key.” He smiled easily, holding it up
before tucking it into his jeans. “I’d have stopped by the deli if I’d known I’d find a hungry woman.”

“Marianne’s at class.” Emma checked her watch. “She should be back soon.”

“I’ve got time.” He swung into the kitchen to peer over her shoulder. Emma shifted away automatically. “Pathetic,” he decided, but helped himself to the imported beer Marianne kept stocked for him. There was a brass opener screwed into the wall. He popped the top, then studied her.

She’d scooped her hair on top of her head to keep it out of the way while she worked. At his scrutiny, she became aware that her jeans were too tight and her T-shirt too big. She dragged at it as it slipped off one shoulder.

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything else.”

He merely lifted a brow, smiled, then drank. “Don’t worry about it. Just think of me as one of the family.”

She didn’t care to be backed into the tiny kitchen with him. When she started through the doorway he shifted just enough to have their bodies brush. It was deliberately suggestive, and shocking because he’d been nothing but the polite friend of a friend to that point. When she jerked away, he laughed.

“Do I make you nervous, Emma?”

“No.” It was a lie, and not a very good one. She had tried not to think of him as a man, not the way a woman thought of a man. But his thighs had been long and hard when hers had knocked against them. “Are you and Marianne going out?”

“That’s the plan.” He had a habit of running his tongue over the top of his teeth before he smiled, like a man about to enjoy a long, succulent meal. “Want to join us?”

“I don’t think so.” On the one occasion Marianne had talked her into going with them, Emma had found herself dragged from club to club, dodging paparazzi.

“You don’t get out enough, sweetheart.”

She jerked her head back when he reached out to toy with her hair. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Speaking of which, did you ever print those shots you took of me?”

“Yes. They’re drying.”

“Mind if I have a look?”

With a restless move of her shoulders, she started toward her darkroom. She wasn’t afraid of him, she assured herself. If he was
testing the waters to see if she wanted to make it a threesome, she would set him straight quickly enough.

“I think you’ll be pleased,” she began.

“Ah, but I have very high standards, Emmy luv.”

She stiffened at the sound of the pet name, but continued on. “I tried for moody, with a touch of arrogant.”

His breath was warm on the back of her neck. “Sexy?”

Her shiver was quick and uncontrollable. “Some women think arrogant is sexy.”

“And you?”

“No.” She gestured toward the prints that hung drying. “If there’s one that suits you, I can blow it up.”

He was distracted enough by his own image to abandon the flirtation. They’d held the shoot informally, right in the loft. He’d gone along with the idea because Marianne had been so set on it, and because he’d wanted a chance to ply a little of his charm on Emma. He preferred younger women—fresh off the farm, so to speak—particularly after the ugly breakup with his wife. She’d been thirty, sharp as a scalpel, and prone to bitchiness whenever she’d suspected him, rightly enough, of being unfaithful.

He enjoyed Marianne’s quick enthusiasm, dry wit, and her uninhibited responses in bed. But Emma, young, quiet Emma, was a different matter. He’d wondered what it would be like to peel away that cool reserve. Certain that he could. It would make her father crazy—a fact that added to the intrigue. Blackpool had entertained more than one fantasy about luring both women into bed. Two slick, lithe bodies, two agile young students. His suspicion that Emma was as virginal as Marianne had been only heightened the appeal.

But he put that thought aside a moment and studied the shadowy black-and-white prints.

“Marianne said you were good, but I thought that was because you’re her friend.”

“No.” Even in the small room, Emma managed to keep at arm’s length. “I am good.”

He laughed at that, a low rumble that rushed along her skin. When she felt her muscles tighten, she shifted farther away. Dammit, he was sexy. But beneath the primitive appeal was something that repelled her.

“So you are, sweet thing.” When he turned she caught the
light scent he carried with him—leather from his jacket, sweat, and the faint whisper of beer. “So, still waters run deep.”

“I know my work.”

“It’s more than work.” Casually he braced a hand against the wall and effectively trapped her. There was an element of danger here he couldn’t resist. “Photography’s an art, isn’t it? An artist is born with things other people lack.” He reached out and plucked a pin from her hair. She stood still, as jumpy and dazed as a rabbit caught in the beams of a truck. “I know. Artists recognize each other.” Slowly, he drew out another pin. “Do you recognize me, Emma?”

She couldn’t speak or move. For an instant she couldn’t even think. As she started to shake her head, he swooped, dragging his hand through her hair, scattering pins, crushing his warm and ready mouth on hers.

She didn’t struggle, not at first, and would always hate herself for that stunned moment of torrid pleasure. He invaded, delighted most of all by her perfect innocence. His tongue stabbed through her parted lips. As she moaned, the beginnings of a protest, his hands raced up and under her shirt and caught her breasts, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, while she fought to catch her breath.

“No. Don’t.”

He only laughed again. Her trembles had ignited what had only been a passing interest into real fire. He ground himself against her until her reluctant passion turned to real fear.

“Let go of me.”

She fought him now, nails scraping down the leather of his jacket, body bucking. When he slammed her back against the wall, bottles clattered from the shelf. Now there was terror, like an animal inside her, clawing until she couldn’t find the courage to scream. His hands were on her zipper, dragging at her jeans. She didn’t know she was weeping, or that it excited him.

He released her to tug at his own jeans. Freed, she looked wildly for a means of escape. With terror still pumping through her, she snatched up a pair of scissors and gripped them in both hands.

“Stay away from me.” Her voice was low and raw, as shaky as the hands that held the scissors.

“What’s this?” He was clever enough to know that the wild look in her eyes meant she would strike first and be sorry for it
later. He’d been right about the virginal part, he thought while his breath heaved. And he wanted to be the one to relieve her of the obstacle. “Defending your honor? You were ready to cast it aside a minute ago.”

She only shook her head, jabbing with the blades as he took a cautious step forward. “Get out. I want you to get out. Don’t come near me again, or Marianne. When I tell her—”

“You won’t tell her a thing.” Through his fury, he smiled. “If you do, you’ll only lose a friend. She’s in love with me, and she’ll believe exactly what I tell her. Imagine, coming on to your best friend’s lover.”

“You’re a bastard, and a liar.”

“Quite true, Emmy luv. But then you’re a frigid tease.” Calmer, he picked up his discarded beer and swigged. “And here I was, trying to do you a favor. You’ve got problems, sweetheart, big ones, but nothing a good fuck wouldn’t cure.” Still smiling, he rubbed himself. “And believe me, I’m a very good fuck. Just ask your best friend.”