Hot Target (24 page)

“Have you had a chance to look at Decker?” Jane asked the nurse.

“Jane, I’ll keep you updated,” Tess answered for her. “He’s gone over to, well, I don’t know exactly—X-ray maybe. The doctors here will be checking him out thoroughly. Nash is with him and, I promise, as soon as we know anything, you’ll know, too.”

“Keep pressure on that,” the nurse told Jane. “You’re going to need a few stitches, hon.”

“I was afraid of that,” Jane told her. “I’m a real baby. Can I have general anesthesia?”

The nurse laughed as she bustled out of the room.

“She thinks I’m kidding,” Jane said.

Robin was pale. “So
now
are you going to take these death threats seriously?”

“This was an accident,” she told him.

Tess spoke up. “I think it’s still a little too early to say whether this was accidental or intentional.”

Perfect. Way to give her little brother another reason to get lubed tonight. Drink, drink, and drink some more, for tomorrow we may die.

“I thought my psycho killer was a brilliant and cunning psycho killer,” Jane countered. “Isn’t the idea of rigging a studio light to maybe fall—
maybe
—in the hopes that the intended murder victim—me—will be sitting directly beneath it at that exact moment, a little, well, double dumb-ass stupid, not to mention about as cunning as a stone?”

“The goal might’ve been to cause trouble on the set,” Robin said. “Or shut down production—which, oh by the way, Miss Smarty Pants, it did.”

“It’s possible it was designed to put us off guard,” Tess suggested. “Make us think that the danger was inside the studio. We all come running outside, he’s set up on the roof of some nearby building, and when he’s got a clear shot . . . bang. That’s why we came over here to Cedars-Sinai. There are hospitals closer to the studio, but we didn’t want to take the chance he was set up somewhere, waiting for you.”

“That’s so creepy,” Robin said.

“And astonishingly paranoid,” Jane added.

“We call it careful,” Tess told them. “One of the things we’re going to need from you is a list of everyone who was in the studio earlier today. We had a lot of extras in this morning—people new to the set.”

“Patty’s already getting that list for Jules Cassidy,” Jane said.

“Jules is here?” Robin tried to interrupt, but she spoke right over him.

“But the thing is, Tess, the crew is union. There are rules about who goes up on those catwalks.” Jane looked at Robin. “No, Jules is back at the studio, looking for ‘clues.’ Which he won’t find because there aren’t any.” She turned back to Tess. “My gaffer is good. He wouldn’t have let some random extra wander around up there. I think the fact that the safety chain was intact is proof that it was an accident. That chain did what it was supposed to do—it kept the light from falling. If someone went up there to do mischief, they would’ve eighty-sixed the chain.”

“Unless they had a limited amount of time up in the catwalk.” Tess was fairly serene about her job-induced paranoia. “Jane, I know you don’t want to hear this, but we really want you to lie low for a few days—”

“You mean, hide at home, cowering under my bed?”

“I mean stay someplace where we’re sure you’re safe for a—”

“I’m safe when I’m home, and I’m safe at the studio,” Jane said, her blood pressure and her voice both starting to rise. “That’s what we all agreed. I’m not safe on location—I’ve already given that up, which is both terrifying and infuriating, since I’ve got a director who needs 24/7 supervision by the Creativity Police, otherwise he’s not going to make my movie, he’s going to make his, which is going to
suck
because his involves ignoring my actors completely and—”

“Jane,” Robin said. “Lenny’s not that bad. Breathe, okay? I keep picturing blood starting to geyser out of your arm, like something from a Monty Python movie.”

“Robbie, we’re re-creating the Normandy invasion in just a few days. Okay, yeah, on a much smaller scale than Steven Spielberg might’ve done, but I’m going to have to miss that and that makes me very unhappy!”

“An alternative solution might be to shut down production for a few weeks,” Tess suggested in an oh-so-innocent tone that matched her girl-next-door face. She looked as if she should be hosting a Tupperware party, not taking over team leader duties for Decker, who was off in another part of this hospital, getting his head examined.

Jane gave her a variation of Cosmo’s “oh, really?” look. “You
know
that’s the last thing I’d consider doing. We shut down—they win.”

“They kill you,” Tess countered, “they win.”

She had a point. “If they kill me,” Jane said to Robin, “use the insurance money to make sure this movie gets made.”

“Jesus, Janey . . .”

The happy nurse reappeared. “The doctor’s on his way down. I may not be able to give you anything for the pain, hon, but I have someone out here who’s eager to come in and see you.” She winked. “I know he’d make me feel better if he held my hand. . . .”

Cosmo. Jane closed her eyes. God, yes. A dose of Cosmo’s solid presence was exactly what she needed. “Please send him in.”

“Of course, I’m a big fan of his movies,” the nurse said, and Jane opened her eyes.

Ah, crap. She wasn’t talking about Cosmo. She was talking about Victor Strauss.

What was he doing here?

Although, on second thought, it wasn’t really that big of a surprise that Patty had turned a near-death experience into a promo op. After all, she’d learned from the master.

It was hours, at least, before Cosmo’s official shift began, before Jane could sit in the kitchen with him and have a cup of tea. And maybe, while in his comfortingly solid presence, safe in the knowledge that, unlike most people, he didn’t want or expect anything from her, she could be Jane for a while. And instead of laughing off the fear she’d felt, she could admit that for several terrifying moments she’d thought Decker was dead.

Her eyes filled with tears—God, she needed just a few minutes away from the relentless BS of her extremely public life—but she blinked them back.

She might as well make these hours count.

Jane pasted Mercedes’ smile on her face and prepared to make her visit to the hospital part of the big show.

“Patty!”

She stopped short at the sight of Wayne Ickes. Coming at her from the end of the hospital corridor, dressed like the Good Humor man. God help her.

For several seconds, she actually considered turning and running. Maybe she could pretend she hadn’t seen him. Maybe . . .

“Are you all right?” he asked. Too late. God, she did not need this right now. “I was up in the children’s ward when I heard what happened.”

That’s right, he’d told her his day job was at Cedars-Sinai. Of course this was where they’d come. And of course he was working this shift. She could
not
win today.

Today? Try this week.

Although, she had to give herself a high five for providing the news cameras—already gathered out in front of the hospital—with a very nice shot of Victor Strauss rushing in to see Jane. It was more proof for the tabloids that the two were romantically connected.

She’d been on the phone with Victor—he’d told her to call him by his first name, and he always took her calls, which was sweet—when the accident happened.

“I’m fine,” she told Wayne.

“I heard Mercedes needs stitches.”

“Just a few,” she said. “She’s getting ready to leave. And Deck’s all right, too. He’s not staying overnight, either.”

“Too bad,” Wayne said. “I could’ve gotten them extra Jell-O with their dinner.”

She stared at him. Was that supposed to be funny?

“Sorry,” he said. “Dumb joke. Look, I’ve got to get back to it—I need to leave early to get to the shoot tonight. I’m in the tank scene with Adam, you know.”

“It’s raining,” she told him. He must not have checked his voice mail yet. “It’s been canceled.”

“Oh,” he said, disappointed. But he brightened right away. “Well, in that case, you want to go to a movie?”

Was he kidding? “I’m
just
a little busy tonight,” Patty told him, already walking away, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “My boss was in an accident. I need to make myself available.”

“I’m sorry. Of course,” he said, following her. He just didn’t quit. “But in the event she goes home and gets Percodaned up . . . Well, you know where to find me.”

She certainly did. And it therefore should follow that she knew where to go in order
not
to find him.

And then she should have just done it. She should have turned to him and said, “Here’s a clue, Wayne. After I spend the evening making sure Mercedes is comfortable, I’m going up to her brother’s bedroom to wait for him to come home. Naked. In his bed. Because I’m sleeping with him—we’re involved. So now
you
know where to find
me.
”

But she didn’t have time for the potential fallout. Knowing Wayne, he’d petition for a chance to audition to be her leading man—to prove himself just as capable in bed.

Which wouldn’t require all too much effort, considering.

Instead she made a beeline toward Cosmo and Murphy, who were deep in discussion. Normally she avoided Cosmo—his eyes were just too weird—but she desperately needed to de-Wayne.

“My seabag’s still there,” the SEAL was saying to Murphy. “I’ll come by to pick it up, but not until later. You know, I really appreciate this.”

“No problem,” Murphy said.

They both turned to look at her.

“Excuse me,” Patty said. “I’m sorry. Message from Jane—she’s almost ready to go.” It was more than likely that they’d already heard this from Tess, but Wayne was lingering, still watching her, and she needed to say
some
thing.

Murphy smiled at her. “Thanks, Pat. We’re on it.”

Cosmo actually spoke. “How many stitches did she need?”

“Six.” Over his shoulder, she could see Wayne finally disappearing down the corridor. Thank goodness.

Cosmo nodded. “That’s not too bad. She had a scrape on her leg—did they get that cleaned up, too?”

Patty hadn’t even noticed the scrape. “I don’t know.” She began backing up.

“Tell Jane I’m taking Cos’s shift for him tonight,” Murphy said. “She likes to know who’s where and when.”

“Sure,” Patty said, but she wasn’t even quite sure what she was agreeing to because, oh, my God, Robin was here. “Robin!”

He was talking to someone on his cell phone, and he stopped short when he saw her. He glanced back in the direction he’d come from, then . . .

Patty’s stomach twisted, because as she watched, Robin squared his shoulders and resolutely waited for her to approach him.

Which was exactly what she’d done when she’d seen Wayne.

Robin was running and hiding from her, the same way she was running and hiding from . . .

Oh, dear God.

She was Robin’s Wayne.

A pain in the ass. A relentless pursuer. A clueless fool, except in her case, she was even more foolish.

She’d actually thought “I love you” meant “I love you,” not “I want to screw you once, then never see you again.”

Patty didn’t wait for Robin to get off the phone. She didn’t wait for a moment alone. She didn’t wait for jack.

“FYI,” she told him before she marched away, loudly enough for the nurses at the desk to overhear, “I’ve had
much
better sex all by myself.”

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

He shouldn’t have come.

Jules stood under his umbrella, on the sidewalk outside the club, wondering what the hell he was doing here.

He supposed he was here for the same reason that he packed clubbing clothes in with his staid suits, shirts, and ties every time he traveled. He was here because he believed that sooner or later, he’d meet someone who would finally make him forget Adam. Except it was raining and tonight’s shoot was canceled, which meant Adam would be here soon—if he wasn’t already inside.

So was Jules here because of that, or despite it?

Should he go inside or walk on by?

The bass drum beat a steady pulse, both audible and palpable from where he stood, even though the door to the club was tightly shut.

A cab pulled up, and Robin Chadwick emerged, his golden hair gleaming. He hurried right past Jules and into the club. As the door opened, music escaped: Tony Orlando and Dawn, “Knock Three Times,” remixed to a steady dance beat. It was oldies night—just his freaking luck.

Hello, God, was that a message from You? Was it a sign—both Robin breezing past and the Tony Orlando thing, Mother help him—telling him to go back to the hotel and watch the latest Hugh Jackman movie on Pay-Per-View? He wouldn’t have to worry about bothering Max—his boss had gone back to D.C. on the red-eye.

Jules now moved out of earshot of the crowd of men who were smoking, huddled under an awning to stay out of the rain. He took out his cell phone and speed-dialed number one. Alyssa Locke’s cell phone. As he expected, he was beeped over, almost immediately, to his best friend’s voice mail. She and her husband, Sam, were still off saving the world.

“Hey, sweetie, it’s me,” he said into his phone. “I’m in West Hollywood, standing in the rain—which is freakish, because how often does it rain here?”

The door opened again, and “Love Will Keep Us Together” leaked out, as if God were saying “Run! Run! Run for your life!”

“If that’s not pathetic enough,” Jules continued with his voice mail message, “I’m outside of Large Richard’s—yes, Grande Ricco’s, Giagantimo Ricardo’s, Biggus Dickus, aka the scene of the crime—about to go on a date with a man who’s so deep in the closet he didn’t recognize me in my club clothes, and yes, that’s right, children—hello, Sam, I know you’re listening, too—I actually used the terrible, horrible D-word. I actually said yes to a date during a moment of severe blue-eyed-hottie-induced fever, only now that I’m here I want to go home because you know how you never really liked Adam and you thought he was bad for me? Well, hip-hip-hooray, this guy’s even worse, and I know it, and yet I’m here, and that’s so fucked up.”

As Jules took a breath, the door opened again—
Hear with your heart and you won’t hear a sound. . . . Just stop, ‘cause I really love you, stop . . .

“What’s even more fucked up is that I’ve seen Adam again. He’s making all these
let’s get back together
noises, and, God help me, I’m actually considering it. Which means I probably shouldn’t be calling you, I should be calling some certified therapist, although I know what he’d say, he’d say,
Hmmmm,
which’ll do me a fuckload of a lot of good, because what I really need is to be told to go back to my malodorous hotel room before I do something stupid. More stupid.

“Lately my stupidity index has been pinned at one hundred percent. I keep waiting for myself to put in for a transfer to the L.A. office because, what the hell, you know? Living with someone I know will hurt me versus living with no one at all? At times of sheer stupidity like this, it seems like a tough call.

“Anyway, this is probably costing you, like, four million quatloos, just to play this message back, and, God, I wish you were here. Be aggressive out there, keep each other safe, and thank you for letting me bitch and moan. I’m really okay. I’m not going anywhere. I just needed to whine. I’ll talk to you before I do anything rash. More rash. Shit. Call me if you get a chance, will you?”

Jules snapped his phone shut, turned around, and nearly bumped into Adam, who was standing just behind him, in the rain. He’d been listening, but for how long, God only knew.

Actually, God and Adam both knew.

And Jules had a small clue from the fact that, despite his lack of umbrella, Adam wasn’t very wet yet.

Adam gave him another. “You’re actually considering moving to L.A. to live with Robin Chadwick?” He’d obviously not heard his own name mentioned, and thought . . .

Jules had always found it strange that Adam could be so jealous, considering his inability to be faithful.

He didn’t say anything in response to that ludicrous question. The fact that Adam could imagine Jules spending the night with him and then, just a few nights later, seriously think about moving in with someone else spoke volumes about how well Adam truly knew Jules—as in not at all.

All those years of everything from casual friendship, to tentative courtship, to serious relationship . . . Obviously Adam hadn’t been paying attention.

“He’s late,” he pointed out. Meaning Robin.

“He’s already inside,” Jules said.

“He’s a lush, you know,” Adam said, as if that were some kind of breaking news story.

“He’s struggling with some issues, and drinking too much, so yes,” Jules countered, “I do know.”

“This thing with you? He’s experimenting.”

“Yeah, well, so am I.” Just showing up tonight was one big-ass major experiment. Jules started for the door to the club, since the alternative was flagging down a cab. If he did, Adam would try to jump into it with him.

Try? Who was he kidding? Adam wouldn’t just try, he’d succeed. And then where would they be?

Adam grabbed his arm. “Let’s not go inside,” he said. “Let’s go someplace else. I know this great restaurant around the corner—”

“I told Robin—”

“Fuck him.” Adam winced. “Poor word choice. Look, I just want to talk to you, J. It’s noisy in Big’s. If we go to Diablo’s, we can—”

“Talk about what?” Jules asked.

Adam wasn’t listening. “. . . have some sangria. And I’ve heard the guacamole is—”

“I don’t want guacamole,” Jules said.

“Oh, but
this
stuff is great. Everyone who’s anyone goes there and—”

“What do you want to talk about, Adam?” Jules interrupted. “You have exactly three seconds to give me an overview, or I’m outta here.”

“Jeez, J., relax, will you?”

“One.”

Adam laughed. “You’re counting?”

“Two.”

“Jesus. I guess I thought I’d start by—I don’t know—by listing all the reasons we should get back together.”

Jules laughed, but his heart was in his throat. God, was he really such a wuss that he would be moved so much by such a small acknowledgment of affection? “You . . . actually have a whole list?”

As always, Adam knew when he’d hit emotional pay dirt. He took a step closer, gave Jules that smile that he couldn’t resist. “Number one is because . . . you still love me.”

Yeah, right. Now his heart was in his throat for an entirely different reason. Disappointment. What a typical Adam thing to say.
You still love me
was number one. Not
I still love you.
Son of a bitch.

Adam didn’t realize that he’d already leapt on top of the loser button with both feet. “Number two: You know me better than anyone on this planet, and despite that you still manage to like me.”

“I sense a certain theme,” Jules said, pulling his arm free. “Let’s count the ways Jules loves Adam. Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got better things to do. Robin’s waiting for me.”

“Robin’s at the bar, chatting up the bartender, who is twenty-three years old, gorgeous, and female,” Adam said. “Big tits—just his type. You know, I spoke to some of the crew on set. He goes out clubbing in West Hollywood under pretense of research, drinks until he’s half-blind, and then fucks whoever’s available—providing they’re female. I don’t know what game he was playing this afternoon, but—”

“That’s so sweet of you to want to protect me from people who go out clubbing, drink themselves half-blind, and fuck whoever’s . . . oh, wait,” Jules said. “I suddenly realize why that sounds so familiar.”

Adam actually managed to look embarrassed. As he should have been. “I’ve changed.”

“So you’ve said,” Jules told him. “Far too often for me to take you seriously. You’ll forgive me if I don’t open a bottle of champagne to celebrate this particular accounting.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Adam asked. The rain on his face made him look as if he were crying, but Jules knew better.

“Talk is cheap. You want me to believe you? You’re going to have to prove it.”

Jules opened the door, but before he stepped inside and was swallowed up by a club mix of “Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves” at five million decibels, he heard Adam say plaintively, “How the fuck do I do that?”

Robin was at the bar, watching the door, groovin’ to Cher, when he saw Adam come in. Typical. The sleazebag was chasing after that hot-looking shorter guy who was dressed all in black, who’d been out front under an umbrella, and—

Holy crap, the hot guy was Jules.

He’d spotted Robin, and he was heading for him, weaving his way through the crowd with Adam—of course—in hot pursuit.

Jules was wearing his hair differently. It was styled and funky, and very non–federal agent.

Between the two of them, both remarkably handsome men, they were drawing a lot of attention from Big’s regulars. Except Jules didn’t notice it. He wasn’t looking at anyone but Robin.

Adam, however, liked having all those eyes on him. He slowed down, made eye contact around the room, put a little extra swagger into his strut.

But then, probably because Robin was grinning at how different he looked, Jules smiled and Adam disappeared. Poof. Just instantly gone, like a star in the sky when the sun came up.

“I walked right past you outside,” Robin shouted when Jules got close enough to hear him over the music. He handed him the chocolate martini he’d ordered when he first came in. “I didn’t recognize you. Where’s your tie, FBI?”

Jules winced then leaned close to say into Robin’s ear, “Not too loud with that in here, please.”

As always, he smelled incredibly good.

“Sorry.” Robin motioned for Jules to come closer again and said into his ear, “Is that a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ thing, or . . . ?”

“It’s a testosterone thing,” Jules told him. He took a sip of the drink. “Yikes. That’s got some kick. Thanks, I think. See, there’s always someone who wants to pick a fight with the federal agent.”

“Are you sure they just don’t want you to cuff ’em and slap ’em around a little bit before tucking them into bed?”

Jules laughed. “I never thought of that. God, I hope not.”

Adam was several feet down the bar, trying to get himself a drink. He glanced over frequently, clearly annoyed that they were having this private conversation, standing so close together, mouth to ear and ear to mouth.

So Robin kept it going. “You know, it’s not too late. We’ve only filmed a few of the scenes with young Jack—they’d be easy enough to reshoot. Just say the word, and we’ll give Scowlface over there his walking papers.”

Jules was not amused. He put his already empty glass down on the bar. Hey now, he’d finished that rather fast. Much stress in his life? “If you’re going to start this again . . .”

“I won’t,” Robin said. “Relax.” He pushed both of their glasses toward the bartender, signaling for a refill, then leaned toward Jules again. “You know what my problem is?”

“Yes, I do, sweetie, but you won’t want to hear it.”

Robin waved the comment off. They were talking about Adam here. “I hate his fucking guts.” He looked up, and sure enough, the little bastard was watching them, so . . .

Jules cracked up. “Excuse me, I don’t think I know you well enough for you to lick my ear.”

“Sorry.” Robin grinned back at him. “Adam’s so easy to torment, and I’ve got a little swerve on,” he shouted over the music.

“A little’s putting it mildly,” Jules agreed. Meanwhile Adam was getting more and more pissed off. Now it was because they’d gotten a refill from the bartender, and he hadn’t even managed to place his order. Robin handed Jules his glass, made a show out of toasting, while Adam steamed.

This was fun.

“I had a few with dinner—I had to take the edge off,” Robin said. Well, okay. The edge plus a fairly large portion of the center. “Today was a total suckfest.” He caught himself. “Although, I guess in a gay bar, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

Jules was laughing again, which was nice. “I shouldn’t have another,” he said, taking only a tiny sip of his drink. “These days I’ve been sticking to wine, so my resistance is down and—”

Robin caught his finger in the belt loop of those black pants, pulling Jules even closer, which—score!—annoyed the shit out of Adam.

“If I asked you to dance,” Robin said loudly enough for Adam to hear, especially since the prick had come closer, “would your evil twin have to come onto the dance floor, too?”

Jules glanced at Adam, looked down at Robin’s finger still hooked around his belt loop, then up into Robin’s eyes. “This is probably a good time for me to tell you that Adam knows,” he shouted over the music. “You know, that this is just an act. That you’re not . . . we’re not . . .”

Robin toasted him, clinking their glasses together again. “Yeah, well, hey, there’s a first time for everything, right?”

It was supposed to be a joke—he’d meant it as a joke, with the double bonus of making Adam crazy—but this time Jules didn’t laugh. He didn’t pull away, but he did put his drink down on the bar as he sighed.

He gazed out onto the packed dance floor for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck as if he were tired. And when he looked back at Robin, his eyes were serious. “Just so there’s not any miscommunication here, you need to know—I don’t mess around with guys who get drunk so they have an excuse all ready for the morning after.”

Adam, drink in hand, had stepped closer. “I do,” he said.

It may have been another joke gone bad, or it may have been a real attempt to wound—a reaction to his hand, which was still holding on to that belt loop. Robin wasn’t sure.