Hollywood Hit (16 page)

A blush crept up Aunt Cici’s neck. “I do,” Cici purred. “Those were good days.”

“Your aunt ever tell you how wild she was? All the fun she used to have before she settled down and married a suit?” While his tone was playful and flirtatious, an impudence underlined his words that underscored his belief that Cici’s marriage to Ted Robinoff was the waste of a truly good woman.

“Nikki, you look just like your aunt did when we made that film together.” Jackson’s eyes appraised her.

Heat flushed through Nikki, his attention an electric touch against her skin. He compared every curve, every crevice, to all the curves and crevices of Aunt Cici. Curves and crevices that Jackson had once upon a time explored.

“Good-looking apples don’t fall far from the tree.”

Nikki reached for her water. What did you say to that—what did you say when one of the sexiest men who ever lived mentioned that you were hot?

“Thank you,” Nikki said.

“You’re welcome,” Jackson said. He nodded his head. A hard shake. “Good girl.” He turned to Cici. “She knows how to take a compliment. I like a woman who can take a compliment and doesn’t give you every damn reason why you shouldn’t give it. For fuck’s sake, take the compliment and run.” He turned his gaze back to Nikki and stabbed a finger toward her. “I like you.”

Nikki’s lips curved upward. She liked to be liked—who didn’t? She wanted to be liked and respected and successful.

“Makes it all the more painful for me.” Jackson reached out and grasped Cici’s knee. “I so wish I could do your film.”

Nikki’s heart faltered. Fear inched into her chest and a hard, tight ball lodged behind her lungs. She glanced from Jackson to Aunt Cici. Cici still wore her killer charm-infused smile.

“But you
can
, Jackson,” Cici said, her voice a sultry combination of sex and seduction. “You must.”

“Must I?” He locked his gaze onto Cici.

Cici nodded. She grasped Jackson’s hand, which had moved from her knee to her thigh, and clasped it tight between her palms. She stared at him and brought his hand to her lips.

“My darling Cici, you have a prick for your director.”

Cici threw back her head and a giant laugh erupted from her full lips. Her smile devoured her face. “Since when has not liking a director prevented you from making a film?”

“I’m older.” Jackson rubbed the flat of his palm against his chest. “I have less patience. And the desire”—he turned his gaze back to Cici—“my desire to tolerate self-inflated egos just to make a film isn’t as great as it once was.” His eyes scanned the horizon, and he waved his arms at the vast expanse. “I need a good reason to leave paradise.”

“You remember Mallorca?” With Aunt Cici’s question, electric sparks popped between her and Jackson. Nikki squirmed. Sitting opposite the two stars, enmeshed in their sexual chemistry, was like watching soft-core porn. Cici pressed Jackson’s hand to her breast. Cici’s eyes implored him—looked at him as though she wanted him to grab her and fuck her on the chaise on the lanai, right in front of Nikki, in front of the world.

“Oh, Cici.” Jackson’s voice was gravel. Filled with a lusty want.

“I need you for this,” Cici whispered. She leaned closer to him. Cici’s fingertips pushed a wayward strand of his sun-kissed hair behind his ear. “No one else can do this with me. It’s too raw. Too hard. Too… too…” Her voice faltered. A pause. A moment of intense silence that whetted anticipation. “Too…
sexual
to do this with someone I can’t trust.” Cici leaned closer, tighter to Jackson. Her body melded into his side.

Nikki wanted to look away. Wanted to walk away. Wanted to pretend she wasn’t seeing this physical interaction, this intimate attraction, but she couldn’t. Nikki’s eyes were metal to their magnet. She couldn’t look away from the chemistry, the electricity, the intensity. Heat infused the entire patio. Nikki gulped her water.

Jackson took a giant breath as though quelling his desire, succumbing to where on this earth that they were and finally acquiescing to what Cici wanted. He gazed at the ocean, so blue and so full of pleasure and promise. Finally a sigh broke Jackson’s pause. His gaze refocused on Cici and again the fishhook smile tugged his lip upward. “Baby, back-end points and I’m yours.”

*

Sun danced through the low-hanging clouds and dappled the lanai with shadow. Christina pulled her wool cardigan tighter around her shoulders. Bradford was in a session with his therapist, and she’d been escorted to this spot to wait for him. She stared out over the ocean, which reflected the grayness of the sky.

One of the great tragedies of Los Angeles was the weather. Once you inhabited the southern coast of California you couldn’t appreciate the pure glory of Southern California weather. The bright orb of sun shone down at such an incessant rate that the radiance became a background image for your mind, an image that barely registered. Even in February, when your psyche realized the rest of the world was freezing—bundled in parkas, wearing gloves and mufflers and boots—you still sat on a lanai, feeling a chill despite the wool cardigan about your shoulders, even though the lowest the temperature would dip today was sixty-seven. Only with the dappled-gray sky and the threat of some sort of imperfect weather event on the horizon did Christina realize how much she took for granted the perfection that was a California blue-sky day.

“Hey,” Bradford said.

Christina tilted her head upward and toward him as he reached for the latte she’d brought. His voice was thick with the gravel of unrestrained emotion, his face drawn tight with his jaw hard. His lips were a tight seal formed after an hour of being forced to disclose emotion. His gaze met Christina’s for the briefest moment.

“Thank you for the coffee,” he said and pulled his cigarette pack from his back pocket. He sat on the edge of the seat across from her.

Exhaustion hovered about Bradford, and yet an underlying tension crackled across his skin., His jaw muscle worked as he bent forward to light his smoke. She wouldn’t ask about his therapy session. She didn’t ask about anything Bradford did at Clarity. She came, she brought coffee, she sat; sometimes in silence and sometimes not. Her undefined role was somewhere between supportive friend and companion. Their past seemed as though it might prevent them from ever being simply friends. There was too much emotion, too much pain, too much youth wrapped up in their long-ago love affair. She hadn’t seen Bradford, aside from a glancing hello at a premiere or a charity event, in years. But since his entrance to rehab, she’d been his companion of a sort.

She wasn’t clear on her feelings for him, but her feelings didn’t matter. She was here to support Bradford, to help in any way that she might to get him well.

“My grandfather found out I’m here.” Bradford blew out smoke and his gaze skirted toward the ocean.

Christina’s lips tightened. Bradford was third-generation Hollywood royalty. The product of a supermodel and an award-winning actor. Bradford's grandfather was an acting powerhouse. There were expectations that came attached to that high-level DNA. One expectation was success. Another was no failure. Christina remembered the late-night conversations during their long-ago romance in which they both disclosed the expectations laid upon them from entertainment families.

“He wants me to come and stay with him once I’m out of here.” Bradford stubbed out his cigarette and stood. He settled his hands upon his hips and stared at the ocean. “I’m not sure that’s a great idea.”

Bradford hadn’t spoken of leaving Clarity. He hadn’t mentioned where he was going or what he was going to do, and Christina hadn’t asked. She wanted to place no pressure on him, but instead to be a stable beam of support.

Bradford ran his fingers through his hair and even with the haggard looks and his body still too thin, it was hard for her not to let her jaw drop with the abject perfection of Bradford. From the cut of his jaw, the Cupid ’s bow of his upper lip, his nose, his eyes, every bit of his face was spectacular. Her heart quivered with the image of her beneath him, an image she’d not allowed herself to conjure up from the depths of her memory in years. She pictured his ass, firm beneath the palms of her hands. Christina looked away from Bradford, embarrassed by her own desire. Her jaw tightened. He was male perfection, even now, even still, and he had been, for a short while, hers.

“I talked about you in therapy today.”

Christina slowly turned her gaze back to him. Even with the  gray sky she still wore her sunglasses. The deep black lenses were a protective cover for her innermost thoughts. The colored plastic allowed her an apparent nonchalance. Bradford watched her. His look was not unkind but studied, still serious with that undercurrent of agitation that permeated the air surrounding him on this day. He slipped another cigarette between those angelic lips. The lips that had kissed hers, that had dragged long hot trails of furious heat down her body, that had enveloped the tight bud of her nipple, that had spread her thighs and consumed her and pushed her toward the rough edges of pleasure. Those lips jerked upward into a smile. The flame of his Zippo flickered.

“She asked me when was the last time I was happy.” The fire was cast out with an iron clang.

Christina closed her eyes behind her sunglasses. She relaxed her lips. This was a compliment, not a heartbreak. Years ago she’d suffered through the tears of losing Bradford, and now she was being a steadfast and reliable friend. He flicked his ashes and they drifted on the wind.

“I’m supposed to get out of here in three days.” He said. The tension that crackled about him released with his words. “I can sign up for another twenty-eight days if I want.” His left shoulder jerked upward as if he were undecided on his fate.

Bradford's indecision at having to face the world evidenced to Christina that Bradford should stay longer at Clarity. He should be under supervision and his therapist’s care for as long as possible. He should stay away from the countless distractions and temptations that abounded in Los Angeles. If he asked her, if he reached for her opinion, she’d gladly give it. But he didn’t.

Bradford grabbed for his coffee once more and again nodded toward Christina. “Thanks for the coffee.” He flicked his cigarette toward the lawn and without another word to her, walked toward the door.

“Here’s my concern,” Ted said and faced the ball on the fourth tee at the Riviera golf course.

Rush stood behind Ted and waited. Ted was one of the most powerful men in the world and yet, as he stood behind his ball, club in hand, golf, the great equalizer, could lay the man low. His stance was good but a nasty shank often grabbed hold of Ted’s swing. On this golf course, Rush and Ted often discussed the security of Ted, his assets, his business holdings, and his family. Ted liked to work the expensive cover he’d created for Rush—up-and-coming young film producer. On the greens, at the tee, as they drove around the course, they had complete privacy. No ears listened and few eyes watched. During today’s game they would dissect the protection of Ted’s niece, Nikki Solange.

Whoosh!
Ted’s swing cut through the air and the ball hopped upward. The perfect white sphere soared high into the blue. Rush’s sniper eyes lost sight of the round orb for a millisecond before it dropped to the green grass, yards down the fairway. Ted turned to Rush.

“I’ve spoken with the chief of police and the detectives on the case; they’ve scoured Jeb’s background. Known enemies, fan mail, anyone he owed money to and so far”—Ted tilted his chin toward the ground—“nothing.”

Rush settled his golf ball onto the tee. Ted stopped speaking and Rush pulled back his arms. His abdominal muscles and triceps tightened as he pulled downward into his swing. The jolt of the ball connecting with the head of his driver tingled through his fingers and forearms. Rush knew before he caught sight of the ball in the air that this was a good swing. The ball dropped five feet closer to the green than Ted’s had.

“Nice shot,” Ted said.

Rush stuffed his club into his bag and settled behind the wheel of the cart.

"That leaves one very free felon on the list," Rush said.

Ted sat in the passenger seat. “My primary concern is that Calvin Geckler may be involved in Jeb’s death.”

Ted was a man who tunneled toward a goal like a terrier after a rat. A calm knowing surrounded him, but an itchy persistence scratched beneath the surface. Even now, in the middle of this storm with a dead D-lister and a pedophiliac felon who had jumped parole, Ted clasped his hands loosely and stared down the fairway toward his ball.

“They’re looking. We’re looking,” Rush said.

“I want you to concentrate your efforts on Nikki's protection.” Ted locked the reflective lenses of his sunglasses on Rush. “I have someone searching for Geckler.” Ted unfolded his body from the cart. “I need you to remain as close to Nikki as possible. Be with her all the time. I’ve guaranteed her safety with Cici without telling her how I’m doing it. The only person who knows about you is me.” Ted stared forward, down the fairway. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

An unfamiliar hardness lodged in Rush’s chest. He refused to name the feeling. He had no time for guilt. Guilt was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He was being paid to do a job and as long as he remained emotionally distant, he would cover Nikki.

“She’s young and she’s vulnerable. I think the rock star was her primary interest since she’s been in Los Angeles. We’re digging further back to when she was in high school, before her mother died. She seems to have been surprisingly tame—at least less wild than someone related to my wife might be.”

Celeste’s antics were Hollywood legend. Ted must be incredibly secure in his relationship with Celeste to poke fun at all the known and unknown lovers Celeste had maintained.

“So whatever is needed to keep Nikki safe.” Ted approached his ball. “Anything.” Ted glanced up. “Do I make myself clear?”

Rush nodded. The muscle in his jaw tightened. Ted was clear on what he required Rush to do, and in the beginning Rush had been clear on how he would do it. Lately as Rush spent more time with Nikki, got to know Nikki, his thoughts, his feelings, his emotions were growing muddled.  Muddled got you killed.