The Player's Club: Lincoln (11 page)

“Something where you aren’t the center,” he said bluntly, and she paused to stare at him. “Come on. The nerdy kid was a nice angle, but you ran that scene. You’re coming to me with a show about the Player’s Club…damn it, I want to see some of these players.
That’s
the show I want.”

She frowned at him. “This is going to be my show, Stephen.”

“You’ll be one of the executive producers and you’ll get writing credit,” he said. “You’ll be a star player…heh, no pun intended. But the thing that’s going to hook an audience is this rich-boys-prank club, Jules. You show me more of that, and we’ve got a deal.”

She rubbed at her temples. If she didn’t need the money so badly, she’d tell Stephen Trainer to shove his production deal someplace dark and very, very painful. But she did need him, so she bit her tongue.

“And you might want to work on the production values,” he added, as her blood pressure inched higher. “Unless you’ve got something seriously hot.”

“I can’t exactly cart a camera around for these things,” she groused, then winced as his eyes narrowed. “This was on a hidden mini.”

Now it was Stephen’s turn to frown. “I can’t show any of these guys on TV without releases, either. How were you planning on getting around that?”

“I’ll get releases,” she assured him, with a confidence that she didn’t entirely feel. “And for those guys who don’t want to sign releases, I’m sure we can just pixelate them out. In fact, that might add to the notoriety. You know, like those prison shows where they can’t show a guy’s face because he might get killed.”

“Hmm. Might have something there,” Stephen said, and she let out a pent-up breath. “You know what would really sell this, though?”

“What?” she asked, hoping he wasn’t going to say sex or maybe the fight club aspect.

“Who started it? Getting some details on the history of this thing could be good.”

She rolled her eyes. “The footage I brought you is too boring, but you want the history of the Player’s Club? How is that not a snooze fest?”

“You don’t get it,” he said impatiently. “These guys—the Players—they have the lives guys want to live. They’re the Scarlet Pimpernel mixed with the frickin’ Rat Pack. They have hidden identities, they have life-threatening adventures. They probably dress better and make more money than the viewer, and the viewer loves them for it. They’re like superheroes who party with George Clooney. They’re the ultimate.” His smile grew crafty. “Get me some footage of an interview with one of the founders, find out his story—and if you can get me some real screen time, not this pixelated crap? I’ll ink you a deal ASAP.”

Her mouth went dry. “As it happens,” she murmured, thinking of Lincoln, “I do know one or two of the founders of the club.”

Of course, Lincoln would probably rather roll naked over red-hot coals before going in front of a camera. But Finn was a founder, too, wasn’t he? And Finn was the type who would do almost anything once.

She’d just convince Finn, that was all.

“I’ll get you the interview as soon as I can,” she said.

“Not just the interview,” he said, “although, that’ll seal the deal. I want some real footage. Something that knocks me out. None of this touchy-feely, reunited-with-lost-love crap.”

“You got it,” she said, heading for the door. There was always Terrence’s next challenge: something about painting a building. She’d just have to film that, that’s all. And then…

“There is one more thing.”

She bit back on impatience, turned to him. “Sure, of course. What else?”

“There’s another guy who wants a producer credit, and who really wants in on this project.” She gathered from Stephen’s apologetic tone that it was going to be an unpleasant addition. “Actually, he brought up a similar idea a while ago, and I thought…”

“Who?” Juliana interrupted, but she was afraid she already knew.

“An old friend of mine. George Macalister.”

Oh, God. She felt bile rise up in her throat. “No.”

Stephen’s face puckered. “What? Why? When he found out that I was working on this, he insisted. He used to be in that damned club, you know. In fact, he…”

“Claims he was one of the founders. Yeah, that’s a bunch of crap,” she spat out, more viciously than she’d intended. “He’s not even in the club anymore, and that’s because they kicked him out.”

“He had a difference of opinion, according to him, with the current leaders,” Stephen said, and his expression and the shrug of his shoulders suggested that he didn’t particularly care what happened. “Whatever. The point is, he knows a lot of the stuff they used to do, and he knows what they like…and he has a lot of contacts, a lot of stories. He’d be a good interview candidate. He’s already set up a lot of reenactments, and they’re pretty spicy.”

She wanted to punch him. She wanted to throw things. Instead, she quirked her lips, keeping her expression calm. “I know George, too, and I don’t think we’d be a good partnership on this project.”

Stephen waited a beat, then crossed his arms. “You work with George on this,” he said quietly, “or you don’t get a deal with me. Got it?”

She waited, her hand closing on the doorknob. It felt blessedly cool beneath her fingertips—she felt hot enough, sick enough, to pass out.

Lincoln is going to hate you for this.

She closed her eyes, picturing his face. Then pictured the red letters of Past Due on her last two condo mortgage payments.

“Fine,” she said, “I’ll work with George.”

At least Stephen didn’t look smug, which she appreciated. Instead, he sighed.

“Tell you what. If you can get me some kind of footage that I can use in the next two weeks, I’ll personally front you some cash until we get a deal. That’s how confident I am, that this would get picked up.”

Her ears pricked up. “Really?”

He nodded. “I’ve been where you are, kiddo. And I think you’ve got enough spirit—and balls—to make it, if you can manage to keep your head above water. In fact, I pity the guy who tries to get in your way.”

She smiled at that, ruefully. “All right. I’ll see you in a week and a half.”

Now, she just had to manage to tread water until then.

7

LINCOLN WAS POSITIONED OUTSIDE the gleaming high-rise, pretending to be perusing the newspaper while sitting on a stone ledge. He knew that Juliana had entered the building. Now, he was just waiting for her to come out.

I want to trust her,
he justified, even as guilt pricked at his conscience.
I just need to know what she’s up to, that’s all.

Lincoln had followed her here to the producer’s studio, tailing her easily. She wasn’t the most observant woman he’d ever met, he thought, as he slipped easily a few yards behind her, pacing her. God forbid she actually had a crazy stalker, the guy would be on top of her before she knew it.

Good thing she just has a nice, sane stalker, like you.

He winced, but kept on walking.

She was wearing a soft, moss-green number today, her brown hair up in a sexy, stylish ponytail with those romantic tendrils wisping around her face, her neck. He wondered what sort of perfume she was wearing. Something floral, romantic…meant to lure with a deceptive front of modesty and girlishness? Or would it be something in-your-face seductive that acted like a punch in the gut?

Funny, how either would work for her, in a way that wouldn’t with most other women.

He was getting…no. There was no “getting” about it. He simply
was
obsessed with her, in a way he hadn’t felt about any woman in years. Possibly ever.

That couldn’t be good.

He frowned, trying to force himself to get back to business. She didn’t mind walking, and those walking on the streets didn’t mind observing her doing so. Several men slowed their stride, turning their heads to watch her strut down the sidewalk. He grimaced, grinding his teeth together. A slightly exaggerated swing in her step was the only indication she noticed her admirers. When one man asked for her number, her only answer was a sassy smile, and a quick “not interested” as she dismissed him. At least he took it good-naturedly—Lincoln wasn’t sure what he’d do if the man had been too persistent.

Definitely too interested in this girl, he noted ruefully.

They managed to make their way to the jewelry district, shops lined up like glittery candy stores, with baubles in the windows making little faceted rainbows in the sunlight. She stepped into one of them, on Sutter Street…a fussy, female sort of place, filled with enough jewelry and crystal knickknacks to make his skin crawl. He wondered if she was buying to celebrate, or just indulging in retail therapy to soothe her ego.

Maybe the deal went well, he thought sourly. He’d done a bit of research on his iPhone, after he’d seen who she was going to meet: a Stephen Trainer, television exec based in the Bay Area. She’d mentioned in passing she might like to get into television somehow. Even if the idea made his skin crawl, he had to hope that she would move into acting, and leave his club alone.

She certainly had the looks for it.

He hovered at the window, then noticed she wasn’t asking them for a tray, wasn’t browsing. She had pulled a few velvet boxes out of her purse, and was looking grim as a gaunt-faced manager looked over her selection. She was sexy and fierce, but she was obviously haggling—the manager, now looking smug, was shaking his head.

She was selling the jewelry.

Which meant she needed money, Lincoln concluded. The manager obviously put that together, too, and likely had her over a barrel.

Lincoln found himself wandering inside, catching the tail end of the conversation.

“Come on, Henri. I know you can do better than that,” she said, her voice persuasive and charming. “I’ve bought pieces here for twice as much, and they weren’t half as valuable. It’s less than half you’d sell it for retail anyway, and it’s pristine. I take care of my…” She glanced over, then her light gold skin went pale. “Lincoln. Well, well.”

“Juliana,” he said, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek and casting an eye over her wares. A champagne-diamond choker, two emerald rings, a pair of sapphire-and-diamond earrings. “Nice collection.”

“I empathize with your situation,” Henri said, and he was looking down his nose at her, “but, given the circumstances, the demand, I simply can’t offer more than that, Ms. Mayfield.”

Juliana cringed. “Fine. I suppose I’ll just have to find somewhere else.”

Henri’s mouth pursed. “I doubt you’ll find anything better anywhere reputable....”

“It’s me, remember? Disreputable isn’t necessarily off the table,” she shot back, closing the boxes and dumping them pell-mell back into her bag. Without another word, she slung the glossy black purse over her shoulder and left.

Lincoln followed her. “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I was just…”

“You were just following me, Lincoln,” she said, and her voice was more weary than angry—a bad sign.

“I saw you, and thought I’d see what you were…”

“You’ve been following me since the Onyx building.”

He stiffened. Of course she’d noticed him. Had he really believed she wouldn’t? “Yes.”

“I was seeing a man,” she said, then her eyes widened. “Not that you deserve an explanation, but it wasn’t romantic. He is a…”

“Television producer,” Lincoln said, and was gratified to see her look stunned. He hadn’t been the only one underestimating talent here.

“You do quick work,” she said, raising her hand for a cab.

“I’ll give you a lift,” he said, putting his hand on her arm. She looked for a second as though she’d lash out at him, but then she shrugged. He wondered if she were considering whether or not she wanted to pay for the cost of a taxi.

Just how dire were her finances, anyway? He suddenly felt a cold chill and a sense of sympathy. He hadn’t always had the money he had now. He’d watched his mother do backbreaking work for it, meanwhile, he’d stolen and grifted for a short while. Then he’d received a boatload of it, along with a generous helping of guilt.

“My car’s not far,” he said, adding in a low voice, “you know, you might want to reconsider wandering around the city with all that jewelry in your bag.”