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“Okay,” he said. “You’re right.” He laughed again, but this time she was busy rummaging through the boxes of herbal tea in the cupboard.

God save her from that smile. Last night his smile had made her stammer and babble like an idiot.

“So what’s your all-time favorite movie?” he added.

Lemon Zinger. Alleluia, there was a God. There was one more bag left—not enough to brew an entire pot, but one couldn’t be picky when it came to miracles. She tossed it into her mug.

“I’m a
Casablanca,
” she told him, as she turned off the heat under the kettle, filled her mug with water, and popped it into the microwave instead. “I love Bogey’s Rick. What a great character. Forget about the symbolism, which rocks, and the fact that the movie is amazingly lit. Next time you watch it, check out the lighting and the camera shots. It’s brilliant on a whole bunch of levels, but really, the reason I love it is Rick.”

“I haven’t seen it in a while,” he admitted.

What was that on the floor? A duffel bag?
Richter
was stenciled on the green canvas side. “I watch it once a year,” Jane told him. He must’ve been carrying it when he first came inside with her, but she hadn’t noticed it then. She pointed at it, both hoping and dreading that it meant what she thought it did. “Moving in, Chief?”

“Mom went up to San Fran to visit some friends,” he told her as the microwave dinged.

Jane took her mug over to the table, pushing the tea bag back down into the steaming water with her finger. Ouch, that was hot, but she was too lazy to go back for a spoon.

“They have tickets to see
Stomp,
” Cos continued. “The trip was planned months ago. She was going to cancel, but we talked her into going.”

“Good for her.” Jane sat down across from him, tucking her aching feet up underneath her, not sure what his mother’s trip had to do with his overnight bag.

“She’s having her condo repainted while she’s gone. I volunteered to do it, but she showed me this picture from a magazine and . . .” He shook his head ruefully. “It’s not a single roller job. It involves sponges and speckling. The painters had this block of days free, so . . . I’m not a fan of paint fumes, and since you’d said no more sleeping in my truck . . .”

“I did,” she said.

“I can just as easily get a motel room if—”

“No, this was why I’d offered.” But holy mama’s boy, Batman. Was it really possible . . . ? That the big, tough, mean Navy SEAL . . . ? “So you, uh, live with your mother?” She tried but couldn’t keep from sounding incredulous.

Cosmo let her think about the absurdity of what she’d just asked for several long moments while he just smiled at her.

“I have an apartment in San Diego,” he finally said. “It’s more convenient to stay at Mom’s place while I’m working up here in L.A. I also gain visit points when I stay overnight. It counts big, even though we’re both asleep. I love her, but . . .” He watched as she shifted in her seat, pulling her foot onto her knee so she could rub it. “There’s a definite limit to how many Broadway show soundtracks I can listen to in a row.”

She needed to get one of those foot bath things that her grandmother used to have. “And presumably at night the music is turned off.”

“Either that or I’m unconscious,” Cosmo said. “Although sometimes, just for grins, you should try dreaming to a programmed endless repeat of ‘Dancing Queen.’ ”

“Eek.”

And then there they sat, both just smiling at each other. Danger, danger, danger. Still, Jane couldn’t look away. How could she have ever thought his eyes were cold?

And how come she didn’t get these supercharged energy jolts when she talked with Decker, who was relentlessly single and very attractive in his own compact way? Or PJ, who had high flash and, despite his steady girlfriend, made no secret of the fact that he approved of Mercedes’ miniskirts? He’d hinted more than once that his Beth was not a fan of long-distance love affairs and was intending to end their relationship upon her departure for Iraq.

And then there was her old friend, mentor, and ex-lover Victor Strauss, who had let her know that he would not be at all adverse to bringing the little fool-the-paparazzi game they were playing back into the bedroom. The only jolt she got from him was an awareness of how huge a mistake
that
would be.

This time Cosmo broke eye contact first.

But this time it wasn’t because of the clothes she was wearing—flannel pj pants and an old T-shirt. Her makeup and costume were eighty-sixed.

As if he could read her mind, he asked, “Why do you wear them? Those high heels?” He gestured to the way she was rubbing her foot. “You’re doing it wrong. It’s really hard to massage your own feet—look at the way you’re twisting your knee. It’s going to hurt worse when you’re done.” He motioned for her to move her chair closer. “Let me show you.”

He wasn’t kidding. He wanted her to put her feet up on his lap.

So she did. And oh, my God. His hands were huge and warm, and his fingers were strong, and . . . Jane tried to keep her eyes from rolling back in her head.

“You need to get one of those heavy-duty electric massagers,” Cosmo told her. “Press it against the ball of your foot, right here, and let it run for a while.”

“I will,” she said. “I’ll get one.” Once she signed that distribution contract with HeartBeat, she’d have some extra money. She’d spend some of it on herself this time before dumping the rest into
Hero
’s production.

“Or you could stop wearing the crazy shoes.”

Or she could make sure he was here in her kitchen, every night for the rest of her life, when she got home from work.

“I made a choice,” she focused hard and told him, “about how to get noticed in this business. Cos, I was a has-been at twenty-two.” It had actually been her noisy breakup with Victor Strauss that had brought her back into the public eye. She’d taken the description the tabloids had given her—Party Girl Producer—and developed a whole persona to go with it.

“I got HeartBeat interested in backing a World War Two gay love story,” she continued. “Do you really think they would have given me so much as a
meeting
if I hadn’t made myself the person to be seen having lunch with? If I didn’t dress the way I do?”

“How many meetings do you get with men who don’t really want to have a meeting?” he countered. “At least not the kind with a spoken conversation.”

She waved that away. “That happens to everyone in this business.”

“But probably more often to you,” he guessed correctly. “What do you do, Jane, when you show up at someone’s office, and the man you’re meeting with expects you to follow through with the fuck-me attitude and actually put out? Pardon my French, but I’m tired of dancing around what it really is. It’s dangerous, what you do. What if you meet with someone who can’t hear you say no because everything you’ve done up to that point has been a great big yes?”

“I don’t do private meetings,” Jane explained. “I always bring Robin. Always.” She tried to sit up. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that my so-called fuck-me attitude is really just confidence? Yes, I walk around trying to give off a vibe that says ‘You want me.’ As a producer, as a writer, hell, yes—I want to be wanted. But because I combine that confidence with clothing that shows off my body, you interpret my message as a purely sexual one. It’s classic male thinking—if a woman so much as smiles at a man, he thinks, ‘Yeah! She wants to have sex with me.’ News flash: She might only be thinking, ‘Gee, I like the color of that tie.’ ”

“You do more than smile,” Cosmo said.

“No, I don’t,” Jane argued.

“Yeah, you do,” he said. “You use eye contact to—”

“Oh, that’s nice! What? Would you prefer I demurely avert my gaze when speaking to men?” She was pissed, and she pulled her feet away, which wasn’t particularly smart because now she wasn’t getting them rubbed.

“There’s eye contact, and then there’s eye contact,” he said. “You know damn well what you do. You crank the sex to eleven.”

“I crank the confidence,” she countered. “You know, if I were a man you’d think, ‘Ooh, he’s commanding.’ Or ‘Wow, he’s charismatic.’ And you wouldn’t think twice if I wore a wife beater or snug-fitting jeans. But because I’m a woman, you see the confidence combined with the outer package. And by the way, if I wore the exact same clothes but I had a different body, you’d think, ‘Whoa, she’s hip.’ But because I have breasts and a butt, you see me and you think it’s all about sex. That’s pretty sad, isn’t it? What, do you think I should wear a muumuu—cover myself completely? How about a veil while I’m at it? Oh, but even that’s not enough, is it? God forbid there be eye contact. Better put a paper bag over my head!”

He was silent for a moment. But then he said, “Sorry if I offended you. I hear what you’re saying, and, fair or not—and in my experience, life’s not fair—I think you go too far. That’s my opinion. But whether you’re right or I am doesn’t really matter. Bottom line, I’m concerned for your safety.”

Was this guy for real? Thoughtful, sensitive, honest, intelligent, he actually seemed to listen to what she said. So, of course, instead of thanking him for his very genuine-seeming concern, Jane tried to turn it into a joke. “With two guards around me day and night, I think there’s a good chance I’m safe.”

“We won’t be here forever,” he pointed out.

“It just seems that way,” she quipped, hating herself for not being brave enough to say what she really wanted to say.
So, hey, yeah, you won’t be working here forever, but do you maybe think that there might be a ghost of a chance that when this job is over, provided things don’t work out between you and perfect Sophia, you might be interested in kicking this friendship we’ve got going up to a higher level?

Because, God, what if she said that and he said,
I’m sorry, but you’ve mistaken my polite concern for friendship, and when I’m gone, I am never, ever coming back.

“Have you noticed how we’ve talked about everything
except
the Legend of Chief Cosmo Richter?” Jane asked, because, please, God, maybe hearing the truth about exactly what happened to those eighteen very dead people would make her a little less interested in being this man’s friend.

“Not quite everything,” Cosmo deadpanned. But then she realized he wasn’t kidding when he added, “I wanted to ask you about this night shoot you’ve got coming up. When does it start? Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, after dark.” They were scheduled to start shooting the scenes from the beginning of the movie, where Jack first joined the Twenty-third. Robin had the night free—he wasn’t in those scenes. Jane had been tempted to give Patty the night off, too, but she needed her intern on set. “I know what you’re going to say. Don’t worry, I’m not going to go out there and put my cast and crew in danger.”

“Good.”

“I’m not happy about it, though.”

He nodded. “Yeah, but it’s the right thing to do.”

“I have to go shopping,” she told him. “I thought I could do that tomorrow night. I need a new dress to wear to the premiere of
Fool’s Gold,
and it occurred to me that the safest time to go is late at night, when stores are usually closed. There’s a shop I like—the owner won’t mind opening up for me after hours. Do you, uh, want to come? I thought maybe we could pick out something for you to wear to your dinner with Sophia.”

Cosmo gazed at her, clearly trying to decide whether or not she was making a joke.

“I’m serious,” she said. “You’ve been in the Navy for how long? Since high school, right?”

He nodded.

“I’m guessing the number of nice suits you have hanging in your closet would be . . . close to zero?”

“Suits?” Cosmo laughed. “Zero would be close, yeah. Not having to wear a suit and tie to work was at the top of the pro column when I decided to enlist.”

“Yeah, well, wearing a suit to work and wearing a suit to impress the woman of your dreams and maybe even get laid as part of the deal are two entirely different things.”

He wasn’t wearing sunglasses. They were sitting indoors and it was night. But she recognized the look he gave her. Had he been wearing sunglasses, he would have been looking over the tops of them. He didn’t say anything. He just gazed at her.

“Oh, sorry,” Jane said. “I didn’t realize we were pretending that your life was a Disney movie. Maybe she’ll hold your hand.” She batted her eyes as she smiled sweetly at him. “Better? I know you don’t like the idea of dressing up, but if you want my opinion, a man with your height and build in a well-cut dark suit . . .” She fanned herself.

Elbow on the table, he closed his eyes as he rubbed his forehead. Then he looked up at her from beneath his fingers. “If you want to know the truth, it’s not about like or dislike. I don’t have the money right now for new clothes, no matter how badly I want to get . . .” He cleared his throat. Sat back in his chair. Crossed his arms. “Well, I have money, I’m just saving it for . . . See, Medicaid would only cover care for my mother if she went into a nursing home.” He shifted in his seat. “That wasn’t an option. I was going to do it myself. You know, take care of her. But she was mortified at the idea and . . . She doesn’t know any of this, and you know, I
am
going to bring her onto the set after she gets back from San Fran—thank you for offering that—so I’m, you know, trusting that you won’t tell her that . . . you know . . .”

“That you’re paying for her at-home care out of pocket,” Jane finished for him, her heart in her throat.

Cosmo nodded. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take, so until she gets the casts off and starts therapy, I’m not buying anything.”

Game over.

There was no denying it any longer. Jane was totally crushing on this guy—whose life
was
a Disney movie. He was spending his savings to keep his mother out of a nursing home, and he said things like “Pardon my French,” and couldn’t even manage to utter the phrase “get laid” in front of her.

“You can borrow a suit from Costume,” she told him past the lump in her throat. “Retro’s in—you’ll look amazing.”

“I don’t know—”

“I do,” she said. “Don’t argue. God, for a guy with a rep for being silent and deadly, you argue about everything. And speaking of that rep . . . I believe the question was, ‘That story’s not really true, is it?’ ”