Hot Secret (7 page)

“No.”

“I see,” she said. “Whose choice?”

“It was mutual.”

“I see.”

His lips curved just slightly. “Do you really?”

Actually, what she saw with a flash of vivid insight was a night of pure, unadulterated lust and a morning filled with regrets. She toyed with the tantalizing prospect of ignoring her common sense, indulging in some hot, steamy sex, and simply dealing with the regrets when the time came.

Then she decided regretfully that she and Michael had skirted enough danger for one night. There were too many questions she wanted answered before she slept with a man who fascinated her the way Michael O’Hara did. Tonight she was too exhausted to ask a single one of them.

Since she feared that she’d murmur something incriminating if she opened her mouth at all, she remained silent for the rest of the drive back to Key Biscayne.

“You going to invite me up?” Michael inquired as they pulled into the driveway at the Ocean Manor condominium. His tone was casual, but the look in his eyes was anything but.

“Not tonight,” she said finally.

“Too bad,” he said, still keeping it light. “I was going to tell you what Sergeant Jenkins found when he checked the airlines about flights from L.A.”

Molly chuckled at the deliberately devious ploy. “You can tell me that right here.”

He shook his head. “I think I’ll save it for breakfast.”

“Breakfast?”

“I’ll pick you up at ten.”

“That’s not breakfast. That’s brunch, especially with an eight-year-old boy in the house.”

“Give Brian a bowl of cereal to tide him over until I get here. I usually refuse to budge before nine thirty on my day off. I’m making an exception for you.”

“Oh, in that case, I suppose I should be suitably grateful.”

He leaned over and pressed a quick kiss against her lips. He was there and gone before the gesture had time to set off sparks. “Don’t tax yourself. Just try to stay out of trouble until I see you again.”

“I’ll do my best,” she promised. She had a feeling she’d already dodged the worst of it. A seductive Michael O’Hara—an apparently available Michael O’Hara—represented trouble with a capital
T
to most any woman past puberty. To one who’d clung to celibacy as fervently as Molly had ever since her
divorce, he lured like those sirens who beckoned ships to their doom.

Even so, she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to court disaster.

CHAPTER
SIX

It wasn’t until she was upstairs that Molly realized how cleverly Michael had stranded her right where he wanted her—far from the scene of the crime. If she hadn’t been quite so exhausted, she might have dragged Liza out to chase after the sneaky detective who’d left her with nothing to drive. She wondered what would happen if she called the police to report that he’d made off with
her
car.

So much for the chance to race back to Miami Beach to do a little more sleuthing. There were plenty of people she hadn’t really talked to after the discovery of Greg’s body, beginning with the film’s somewhat enigmatic director of photography, Daniel Ortiz.

Sternly reminding herself what curiosity did to that ill-fated cat, she checked her answering machine for messages instead. There were half a dozen from Vince, all self-described as urgent, and one
from Liza telling her that Brian was sound asleep in her guest room and that he might as well stay the night.

“I, however, am waiting up for you,” Liza’s taped message reported. “I want to hear everything the minute you get home and I do mean
everything
, including how you’re getting along with the hunk. Whoops! Probably shouldn’t have said that. He could be there listening. Sorry. See you.”

Molly chuckled at Liza’s belated sense of discretion. She started for the door, only to hear the key turning in the lock. Obviously, Liza had heard her come in and hadn’t trusted her to stop by and fill her in.

“Hey, there. It’s me,” Liza called from the doorway. “You alone?”

“What if I weren’t?” Molly said. “It’d be too late now.”

“True, but nothing shocks me anymore, and I’m a specialist at hasty exits.”

“Right. Like the time you got out of Spain one step ahead of that bullfighter who took a fancy to your …”

“Never mind what he took a fancy to,” Liza said, curling up on a corner of the sofa and tucking her bare feet under her. Her moussed, flattop hairstyle gave her the look of an innocent pixie, but the expression in her eyes was every bit as intent as Michael’s in mid-interrogation.

“Okay, tell me what happened,” she demanded. “Who killed Greg Kinsey?”

“About the only thing I can say with certainty is that it wasn’t me,” Molly told her from the kitchen.
She poured them each a glass of wine before joining Liza.

“Is Michael working on the case?”

“Officially, no, but he can’t resist checking out clues any more than I can. Thanks for sending him over, by the way.”

“Sending him?
Are you kidding? I mentioned murder and the man flew out of here. I barely had time to tell him where you were. God, I love all that macho protectiveness.”

“I told you, he can’t resist a good homicide investigation. It doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Molly said, deciding Liza did not need to know just yet that Michael had all but invited himself into her bed tonight.

“Right. The man decided to spend his one night off chasing a killer who’s not even in his jurisdiction. I’m telling you, Michael O’Hara would not have gone anywhere near Miami Beach tonight if you hadn’t been involved.”

Molly couldn’t stop a wistful, unliberated sigh. “I have to admit I was glad to see him. It’s as if whichever side of my brain is supposed to do deductive reasoning goes into high gear the minute he’s around.”

“To say nothing of your hormones.”

“Okay. That, too.”

Liza drank the last of her wine and stood up. “You look beat. Since you can’t offer me anything juicier than speculation, I’m going home. I’ll send Brian over in the morning.”

“Just make sure he’s back here before ten. Michael’s picking us up for brunch.”

“Oh, really? Maybe I’m getting out too soon after all. Isn’t there some other little detail you’d like to share with your best friend?”

“Wipe that smirk off your face. There are no details,” Molly retorted. “I’m going to bed. Let yourself out.”

As it turned out, going to bed was achieved far more easily than getting to sleep. She kept remembering the sight of Greg Kinsey lying dead and the sound of the heated argument that had preceded it by what must have been no more than minutes.

•   •   •

“Tell me about Kinsey,” Michael suggested midway through brunch the next morning, after he and Brian had filled Molly in on every detail of the soccer game she’d missed. Her son beamed as Michael lavished praise on a shot he’d made. She knew how he felt. She wouldn’t mind basking in a little of Michael’s admiration.

Michael had arrived precisely at ten, wearing perfectly pressed navy blue slacks, a pale blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and an expensive gold watch no thicker than the very masculine hairs that subtly shadowed his arms. Lord, the man was sexy, Molly had thought then and thought again now. What had possessed her to send him away the night before?

At the sound of Michael’s chuckle, she blinked and stared. “What?” she said blankly. Regretfully, she forced her gaze away from his hands and her attention away from the decidedly wayward thoughts about what those hands could have been doing to
her during her long, sleepless night if she hadn’t had an attack of conscience. Or cowardice. Probably the latter, she decided with a sigh.

A knowing twinkle sparked in his dark brown eyes. “Kinsey,” he reminded her. “Tell me what he was like.”

“You mean when she found his body with the bullet hole in the middle of his forehead?” Brian asked hopefully. At eight he was fascinated with anything that made Molly squeamish. The more gore, the better.

“No, I mean when he was alive,” Michael told him, barely hiding a grin. “I pretty much know what dead guys are like.”

Brian looked disgusted. “If you guys are gonna talk about all that boring stuff, can I go play on the beach?” he asked. “I finished eating a long time ago.”

“Go,” Molly said. “You know the rules. Stay within sight and don’t go in the water.”

“And be careful crossing the street,” Michael added, glancing toward Ocean Drive’s parade of convertibles and open Jeeps filled with teens and practically shaking with the sounds of rock. “The traffic’ s bumper-to-bumper.”

When Brian had successfully navigated the street in front of the outdoor café, Molly considered Michael’s question about Greg.

“He was driven,” she said finally. “I’ve never met anyone so totally absorbed in what he was doing. He seemed to have this vision of what a scene should look like on screen, how it should be played. More important, he knew how to communicate that
vision to those around him. I think everyone on the picture was really psyched about working with him.”

“Had all of them worked with him before?”

“I think most of the crew had. I’m not so sure about the actors. I know this was the first time he’d worked with Duke Lane. Laura had insisted on casting him, and Greg respected her judgment when it came to box-office decisions.”

“Why was she so anxious to get this Lane in the picture? Isn’t he one of those hunk-of-the-month types?”

“Pretty much,” Molly agreed. “But unlike some of the others, he can act. That was critical to Greg. He would never have agreed otherwise, I’m sure.”

“Was this Laura more interested in his acting or his body?”

“Duke and Laura?” She tried to envision it and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay, what about the others? Was Veronica someone Greg had used in other movies?”

“No, and that’s what was so odd about him choosing her for this role. No one, from Laura to Hank to the production assistant, thought he should take a chance on her.”

“Why? She has an incredible track record.”

“Had
an incredible track record,” Molly corrected. “Her last couple of films were disasters, primarily because of her drinking. Supposedly she’s gotten herself straightened out, but until Greg came along no one wanted to risk another overbudget debacle. She delayed her last film by nearly a month while she sobered up enough to shoot the final scenes.”

Michael regarded her doubtfully. “Wasn’t that vodka she was swilling down like water last night?”

“It was.”

“Looks to me like she not only fell off the wagon, but is headed for a crash landing.”

“I know. I don’t think she was drinking when production started, though. In fact, I’d swear she was stone-cold sober every time I was on the set.”

“When did that start to change?”

Molly thought back to the first time she realized Veronica had started substituting vodka for her bottled mineral water. “A week ago, maybe less.”

“When did the fights with Kinsey start? About the same time?”

“Oh, no. She and Greg started battling on the first day of production. I’ve never seen two people go at it the way they have, especially two people with no past history.”

“You’re sure there’s no past history there?”

“Not according to anyone I’ve talked to, and that includes Greg and Veronica. The tension on the set was beginning to take its toll. Yesterday, between that and the heat, everyone was snapping.”

“What were the fights about?”

“The script and Duke Lane. Veronica wasn’t wild about either one of them, and she was not shy about expressing her opinion. The writer, a newcomer named Jonathan Fine, has hidden out in his hotel room since the first day of production. She humiliated him in front of everyone. Greg had to talk him into staying around to make any script changes he needed.”

“And Duke?”

“Duke steered clear of the set whenever he could. I have to give him credit. He never let her attitude get to him, at least not in public.” She looked up just then and caught sight of the actor waiting for a table. “Speak of the devil.”

Michael followed her gaze. With his eyes hidden by sunglasses, Molly couldn’t see his reaction, but his surprised tone said it all. “That’s Lane?”

“Yes.”

“I thought he’d be …” Apparently words failed him.

“Taller? Sexier?”

“More imposing,” Michael countered, which was a nice way of saying that Duke Lane wasn’t exactly ready to do health club ads. Molly had had the same initial reaction. On-screen he had a larger-than-life presence. In person, with his slight frame and five-feet-seven-inch height, he was unimpressive, as ordinary as the boy next door.

Until he smiled. Then any woman would be able to say exactly what all the excitement was about. That smile combined a boyish eagerness to please and sleepy sensuality in a way that invited thoughts of wild sexual adventures. The glint in his eyes promised intelligence and fun. Molly had discovered that the expression didn’t lie. Duke Lane was both smart and witty, facts too often lost in the Hollywood hype. She wanted Michael to see that side of him.

“Think we should ask him to join us?”

Michael gave her a wry look. “Could I stop you?”

“Admit it,” she said. “You’re every bit as curious as I am.”

He leaned back in his chair. “True. Bring him on.”

Molly stood up and walked over to the young actor, who was wearing faded jeans, a T-shirt, and cowboy boots. It was the same laid-back clothing style affected by his character Rod Lukens, the dressed-up boy-toy of the film. Either he liked to stay in character or he didn’t waste his millions on wardrobe.

“Duke?”

He turned toward her and the famous Duke Lane grin spread across his face. “Molly! What a relief! I hate going out by myself. Some chick spots me and the next thing I know I’m mobbed. If I’d had one more hamburger from room service, though, I think I would have thrown up.”

A pleasant image, Molly thought. “I’m with a friend. Come join us.”

She led the way back to the table and made the introductions. She neglected to mention that Michael was a cop. Since he wasn’t here in any official capacity, she figured it wasn’t relevant. Interestingly enough, he didn’t offer the information himself.