Star Crossed (30 page)

Would having sex be the right thing to do? Luke was relaxed, maybe drained from telling her his story. She was ready to sleep herself. He smelled good, and she liked the feel of his heart beating next to hers. She attempted to soak those sensations in, to
not
picture the boy he’d been shut up in a wardrobe. Where would he be now if she hadn’t been so weird and imaginative as a girl? What if he’d never found the key she pushed in? What if the timing had been different?

Despite how soothing it was to lie beside him, her
what-ifs
kept her up a while.

THE day of Luke’s party dawned clear and warm. A.J. led her team through light PT to get the blood flowing to their brains then assembled them in the big ops room. She wasn’t always conscious of being the only woman in a group of men, but this morning the atmosphere of sweat and testosterone didn’t allow her to forget.

She was glad her father’s methods instilled good discipline, and gladder still that these hard men respected her. She wouldn’t have wanted to have to bully them into following her.

“So that’s the situation,” she said, appreciating their calm attention. “Our security should exclude casual crashers but not the determined sort. Our perp is a pre-planner and resourceful. I think we can count on him or her not being able to resist finding a way into this event.”

“And if we spot a crasher?” Burgess asked.

“We tag and keep watch on them as manpower allows. Tech is set up to track any devices we plant on folks. Mind you, we don’t know our target will be a crasher. They could be invited guests or staff. Every eye we can spare will watch the crowd during Luke’s announcement, which we anticipate will trigger a reaction. The kind of rage we’re looking for isn’t ordinary. The perp won’t be able to conceal it. It will betray itself in their face and body involuntarily. Some of you already know what to look for. For those who don’t, Martin’s giving a refresher course in micro-expressions and dangerous demeanor. Our goal is to identify a few likely targets and see if they try to act. Ideally, we nip their plan in the bud and turn them over to the authorities.”

“Szymanski mentioned the LAPD is loaning us a chopper and pilot?”

Given Detective Turner’s low opinion of A.J., Szymanski had liaised on this request. Though the detective had agreed, Turner warned that Luke—and not local taxpayers—would be expected to foot the bill for the bird.

“That’s correct,” A.J. said. “Because our target is known to either use a rifle or employ a shooter, controlling our air space is desirable. We’ve also been assigned a squad car with two officers to sit outside the gate during the event. Ultimately, however, this operation is on us.”

“Unless it comes to taking credit,” one of the younger team members said sourly.

“We don’t need credit,” A.J. said. “We know our worth amongst ourselves.”

The young man grimaced but accepted this.

“Okay then,” A.J. continued, not making a big deal of it. “During the actual party, Martin will have operational control. I’ll be guarding Mr. Channing and doing what I can to sell our drama. Despite the extra men we’ve been given, this will be a big crowd and we need to stay alert. Double-check your equipment. If anything needs fixing or replacing, don’t wait till the last minute. Everybody’s head in the game?”

This was the question her father always asked his teams, his version of
Be careful out there, guys
.

“Yes, ma’am!” the group chorused.

She laughed, suspecting Martin or Szymanski had put them up to it. “All right. I’ll let Martin take the floor now.”

*

Luke had wondered if sharing his story would change the way A.J. looked at him. From what he could tell, it hadn’t. She’d woken before the alarm went off. She’d slipped silently out of bed, dressed, and—when she saw he’d opened his eyes—whispered something about leading her team on a quick run around the grounds. Then, as if belatedly remembering it was expected, she’d dropped a kiss to his cheek and dashed.

Not quite business as usual but not so different either.

He reassured himself at least she hadn’t snuck out at 2 a.m. And she’d kissed him goodbye voluntarily. That wasn’t totally removed from what other girlfriends did.

When he recalled her holding him through the night, he smiled. For someone who wasn’t a snuggler, that was significant.

Though Luke was an early riser, the idea of taking PT with her detail didn’t appeal to him. They were too likely to be all business. He preferred meeting his trainer in a gym, with shiny machines and friendly people to talk to. This train of thought reminded him he had shiny machines here, gathering dust in his workout room.

With his phone for company, he wandered there post-breakfast for a few miles on the treadmill.

In addition to the rest of the craziness going on, he had an actual movie opening to devote a corner of his brain to. The VP he usually dealt with at Galaxy informed him results were trickling in from East Coast Thursday matinees. They were in line with expectations but not mind-blowing. Box office on Friday evening, once people got off work, would be more predictive. The
Final
series was popular with men and women.
Final Death
should be a good date movie. Or so they hoped. After some discussion, he and the VP decided to up the ad spend for the weekend push on social media.
Final Death
wasn’t trending yet. They needed to make sure that happened soon.

Call over, Luke removed his headset. He’d just taken a swig of water when Christie James burst in.

She blinked at the sight of him in only his workout shorts but quickly recovered.

“I’ve had it with your lack of consideration!” she declared. “You don’t own the world, Channing!”

Luke hoped his face didn’t show how not in the mood for this he was. Being a producer required diplomacy. Resigned to giving her his attention, he slowed the treadmill to a crawl.

“Of course I don’t,” he agreed. “Why do you think I’m acting like I do?”

Christie put her hands on her hips. “José B won’t meet me at my place, and Annabeth says you’ve booked her too. For the
entire day
.”

José and Annabeth were, respectively, Hollywood’s current number one wardrobe consultant and hair-and-makeup artiste. No aspiring A-lister would want to use anyone else—certainly not an insecure aspirer like Christie.

“I thought that would be convenient,” he explained. “I didn’t give you or Naomi much advance notice for this party.”

Christie’s pout eased back a degree. “You asked them here for us?”

“Well, I don’t need them. My tux is hanging in the closet. I’m sorry if I presumed. It didn’t occur to me you’d want to get ready somewhere else.”

This was an outright lie. It absolutely had occurred to him she might want to flee the scene of her recent breakup, especially once she realized Naomi was unlikely to forgive her. A.J. had asked Luke to discourage the actress’s departure. For as long as possible, they wanted to maintain the fiction that the hinted-at engagement could be between him and her. If Christie stormed out, the paparazzi were sure to record it and speculate.

No one wanted their volatile perp catching wind of this threat to his or her ambitions. A.J.’s plan depended on identifying and stopping the person before they could take action. If their outrage was sparked too soon or occurred where they couldn’t watch it, that strategy would fall apart.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to prepare here?” Luke cajoled. “This is
Final Death’s
opening night party. No matter what our differences, I’m sure you want to present yourself at your best for the sake of the franchise.”

He must have laid it on too thick. Christie slitted her eyes suspiciously.

“Tell you what,” he said, scrambling to head off her resistance, “whatever outfit you choose is on me.”

These, it turned out, were magic words. His costar smiled like an angel in anticipation of her revenge on his bank account.

*

True to Luke’s golden luck, the beautiful weather held for his party. The sky above his house stayed clear while a breeze as warm as velvet gently ruffled people’s hair.

A.J.’s hair was too disciplined to ruffle. She’d been afraid Luke would want her gussied up like a starlet. Instead, the little black dress she wore—which Luke had found for her somewhere—was a virtual twin for the one the Listie shipper’s knife had ruined. Short but stretchy enough to run in, he’d left it on her bed, along with a beautiful thigh holster for her Beretta. She’d have kissed him if he’d been there when she opened up that box. You could barely see the holster’s straps under her close-fitting dress. Better yet, drawing the gun was easy. Not ladylike, perhaps, but quick.

When A.J. needed to look like a fiancée, she wouldn’t have to do so unarmed.

For the moment, she was playing bodyguard. She and Luke stood together on a long balcony overlooking the back grounds. Down on the terrace, a crowd of celebrities and studio types thickened by the second. A.J.’s earpiece was in, its white corkscrew wire deliberately conspicuous. Others on the team wore better concealed equipment.

They were disguised as guests.

To A.J.’s eyes, the party was already hopping. A ballroom floor had been constructed over the empty pool. Beneath the adjoining acoustic shell, a small live band played music. The twinkly lights that set off the party space were a far cry from K-mart fare. Shaped on elaborate frames, they resembled props from the
Final
films: a twin-engine Cessna Luke had flown to escape bad guys; a rope bridge on which he’d crossed a deep ravine. The restaurant table behind a window stumped her temporarily. Then she remembered.

Christie’s character in the movies was a waitress.

“That’s where you two met in
Final Takedown
,” she said aloud. “When Christie helped you get away from gangsters by dumping stew on them.”

Luke glanced at her and smiled. “I guess you have seen my movies.”

“Of course I have. They’re entertaining. And the fight scenes are creative.”

“I do those myself, you know. No stand-ins.”

“
Really
. Your choreographer must be great.”

He grinned, aware she was razzing him by pretending to deny him credit. “Our fight coordinators are a married couple. Together ten blissful years.”

“Hm,” she responded, not sure she wanted to spar with him about that.

She returned her gaze to the crowd below, grateful for an excuse to evade the topic and her sweeping line of sight. Maybe half the men were in tuxes. Some were waiters but most were guests. The uniform for the remaining males seemed to be a nice business suit. The getup for female guests was colorful and skimpy. Hem lengths varied, but gleaming backs and shoulders abounded. Cleavage too.

A.J. guessed that never went out of style.

She spotted Kevin Reyes with Luke’s agent, Jerry Talon. When Reyes noticed her staring, he saluted her with his little bottle of Perrier. He wasn’t smiling, but the worst she’d call his mood was neutral. She nodded back; he’d earned that much from her.

“All calm in Zone 2,” one of her team reported through their network. They’d divided the party into sections, with Martin patrolling between them.

“Nothing so far around Olympus,” A.J. murmured.
Olympus
was their code for Luke and not a location.

Where are you?
she thought, scanning the crowd again.
Which one of you is a murderous maniac?

Could it be the studio flunky whose boss kept berating her? The shifty looking server who was . . . simply searching the pavers for a missing hairpin from his man bun? Christie James was at the center of an animated group, champagne flute in hand, flirtatiously seductive in a Marilyn-esque white dress. She sparkled brightly when anyone talked to her, especially the men. When they weren’t paying attention, she shot dark glances toward Naomi.

Christie’s ex- was on the dance floor with the vaguely recognizable alumnus of a recent
Bachelor
show. He must not have found true love, because he and Naomi were going at it like cobras. The model’s sexy, body-rubbing moves were giving the handsome reality star a sizable erection, a development some of their audience seemed to find amusing.

Seeing where A.J.’s gaze had gone, Luke chuckled. “Naomi’s in fine form tonight.”

“I guess she’s not worried about setting Christie off.” Or she secretly wanted to. A.J. didn’t pretend to understand most people’s reaction to breakups.

“Do you still suspect Christie?” Luke asked, surprising her.

“I do until I don’t,” she said, “but not so much any more.”

Luke touched her bare elbow, the small caress zinging powerfully through her nerves. Her fingertips started tingling, followed in short order by her pussy. The reaction made her sorry they hadn’t made love last night. Her body was decidedly interested now. She resisted her urge to tell Luke not to distract her. He’d just gloat at discovering he could.

“You ready to go down?” he asked. “I ought to mingle.”

“Sure. I know you’ve got regular business to see to.”

“Stop me any time,” he said as they descended the broad stairway. “Your business trumps mine tonight.”

Rachel Fischer’s buffet was set up under a canopy. Hardly anyone was eating the amazing food, but that was LA for you. Luke piled a small plate with finger food.

“Quick,” he said. “No one’s watching.”

She didn’t understand what he meant until he fed her a canapé. She wasn’t sure what was in the pastry shell. Walnuts maybe, and Roquefort cheese. Whatever it was, it was delicious.

He laughed at her expression and handed her a napkin. She realized he was happy, in spite of everything. He really had won the battle with his past—more than she had perhaps.

“Hey, Channing,” said a familiar voice behind them. “Thanks for inviting me.”

It was Sven, the allegedly ham-handed masseur. He looked good in his tuxedo, which must have been custom tailored to fit his big muscles. His unnaturally yellow hair was slicked back in a ponytail.

“No problem,” Luke answered politely. “I’m glad you could come. I wanted to make up for my, um, ill-considered wisecracks during my last massage.”