They were all exiting the house like this now, every time any one of them left, even if it was just to run to the store to get cream for their coffee. Put their car into the garage, close the door, wait a few seconds, get an all clear from the street, and Starsky and Hutch it out of there.
The goal was to keep the shooter guessing and off balance. Had Jane left the house? Was she in one of those cars? All of the info that the FBI analysts had given them suggested that their man worked alone. Kind of hard to follow every car that left the driveway and keep an eye on the house, all at the same time.
“Everything’s quiet,” came the reply. “Nothing’s moving. What’s going on?”
“Open it,” Decker told Jane, and the garage door went up. “Go,” he said. They hit the street, tires squealing, as he told Nash, “We need a little air.”
Jane headed west.
“What’s in Malibu?” Decker asked her.
But she didn’t answer. She just drove.
C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN
Jules’ cell phone woke him.
His nap had lasted all of seven minutes.
The FBI office was still in the process of reviewing the list of extras, actors, and crew for
American Hero.
Reviewing and analyzing and checking via computer. Hoping someone’s name would come back with a big red flag saying “homicidal psychopath.”
For most of the day, Jules had stood around with his head up his ass, waiting for the analysts’ results.
Just after lunch, he’d attended a meeting in which the cause of the accident in the studio was determined to be a mystery. Officially, they still did not know if it had been an intentional attempt to disrupt filming—as opposed to yesterday, when their inability to figure it all out had been unofficial.
Later tonight, after dinner, Jules would be meeting with Lawrence Decker—who was already back to work after yesterday’s hospital visit. Topic of discussion: how to find the crazy e-mailer before he killed Jane.
After checking out the usual suspects from the Freedom Network, they had exactly zero leads. Or maybe they had four hundred thousand leads, considering that Cosmo had left a message on Jules’ voice mail, asking for two lists. One was of all people living in the Western U.S. who owned ancient white Pontiacs. The second was of owners of dark Ford pickups with a six in their plate number.
Like those lists wouldn’t take two weeks to print out and four dump trucks to deliver. Sheesh.
All the emotional drama of the past few days had seemed to catch up to Jules all at once this afternoon. He’d left the analyzing in the hands of the analysts and gone back to his hotel to catch a short nap before an early dinner.
His plan was to stop back in the office and see if there was any new information that he could bring to tonight’s meeting. Unlike some FBI agents, he didn’t have a problem saying “We just don’t know.” But it could get old after the seventeenth time inside of five minutes.
He now scrambled for his ringing cell phone. If this was Adam, he was going to throw the phone across the room.
But it wasn’t Adam. It was . . .
“Robin Chadwick,” Jules said as a greeting, as he sank back into bed. “What’s up?”
Robin was part of the reason he was so tired. Although they hadn’t stayed too long at that little Mexican restaurant in West Hollywood, Jules had been out later than he was used to these days. And coming on top of the week that he’d had—a too-generous dose of both Adam and the great state of Idaho . . .
He and Robin had talked for about a half hour about the movie industry, favorite films, acting techniques.
Then they’d spent nearly twice as much time talking about Jules’ work, about Alyssa, about how hard it was to lose an FBI partner, about how glad Jules was that Alyssa’s marriage hadn’t meant an end to their friendship.
Robin was unbelievably easy to talk to. He asked questions, digging deeper as he strove to truly understand everything Jules had to say. He was genuinely interested.
Unlike Adam, who would start checking out the waitstaff when Jules talked about work.
Okay, that was a little too harsh. The truth was that Adam had always been jealous of Alyssa. He only pretended to be bored when Jules talked about her.
“I’m really sorry to bother you,” Robin said now, on the other end of the phone. “But I could really . . . I need . . .” He sounded upset.
Jules sat up. “You’re not bothering me.”
Robin took a deep breath, let it out fast. “I need a giant favor, but it’s too much to ask, so I’m just going to hang up and pretend I never called—”
“Whoa,” Jules said. “Wait. Robin. Talk to me. Don’t just assume. You know, some people’s giant favors are other’s insignificant no-big-deals. Try me.”
There was silence from Robin’s end.
“You still there?” Jules asked.
“I’m standing outside your door,” Robin finally said. “May I come in?”
Well, didn’t that surprise the screaming bejesus out of him? “Uh,” Jules said.
“Yeah, see, never mind—”
“Wait!” Jules leapt out of bed. Scrambled for his pants. Flung open the door.
“Oh, crap.” Robin stared at him, at his rumpled hair, his bare chest. “You were sleeping. I woke you.”
Jules closed his phone. Smoothed down his hair. “That’s okay. I’m okay. A little underdressed . . .” He finished fastening his pants while Robin watched, which was a little weird.
“Nice abs. I can’t believe you keep a six-pack like that hidden under a suit.”
Jules rolled his eyes. “No, I don’t want to be an actor. Don’t start. Let me grab a shirt and my shoes and we can go down to the bar—”
“I’ve already had a couple drinks,” Robin said.
No kidding.
His blond hair was charmingly rumpled, and his tie was about as loose as it could get without being undone. He should have been relaxed, and he leaned against the door frame in a nonchalant manner, but Jules could see that he was wound pretty damn tightly.
“Irish courage,” Robin continued. “My mother was Irish. Maureen O’Reilly—can you believe it? Jane’s mother was Greek. Dad’s third wife came from Mississippi. Four was from Australia. Number five is Russian. She’s actually won the longevity award, but her days are numbered—Dad’s planning a trip to Taiwan.”
Well, okay, then. “Let me grab a shirt,” Jules said again. He motioned for Robin to hold the door, but he must have misunderstood, because he took it for an invitation to come in. As Jules took his shirt from the back of the desk chair, the door closed with a
ca-chunk.
“Wow,” Robin said, and Jules knew he’d seen the scar on the back of his shoulder.
Which meant he was still looking, still checking him out.
“What happened to you?” Robin asked.
“Hazardous duty is part of my job description,” Jules told him. “I’m thinking about getting a tattoo to cover it. Something cute, like Bert and Ernie or Big Bird.”
Robin laughed.
And wasn’t this just perfect. He was alone in his hotel room with Robin Chadwick, who was way too charming and attractive even though he was half-drunk at 4:58 in the afternoon.
“Just out of curiosity,” Jules asked as he buttoned his shirt. “How did you get my room number?”
Robin fished into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He held it out, and Jules took it. It was a receipt. From this hotel. For breakfast. Jules had charged the meal to his room—he’d written his number on it.
“This was in with the money you gave me last night,” Robin told him. “Stuck between two bills.”
Oh, shit.
Jules had insisted on going dutch. Robin had put the bill on his credit card and pocketed the cash Jules had given him for his share, without looking at it. At least not at the restaurant. Apparently he’d found this receipt later.
Found it and surely wondered . . .
“I wasn’t sure it was intentional,” Robin added, “or . . .”
“It wasn’t.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Robin obviously lied. “It was actually stuck to a five-dollar bill. I think with maple syrup.”
Jules nodded. “The waitress was rushed when she brought the French toast. The plates bounced when they hit the table. Big splatter factor.”
“So now I’ve completely embarrassed us both,” Robin said. “Because you think that I think that you gave that to me so that I’d come here—”
Enough dancing. Jules went for point-blank. “Why
did
you come here?”
“We’re shooting a scene tomorrow,” Robin said. “It’s the first scene where Hal and Jack kiss and . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’ve never kissed another man before, and somehow the thought of it being Adam . . . I was hoping maybe you wouldn’t mind. . . .” He was embarrassed. “Forget it. I’m sorry. It’s stupid.”
He was hoping Jules could be his first. It was so unbelievably sweet.
“I mean, who the fuck cares, you know?” Robin continued. “I’m acting, so I’ll just kiss him. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t—”
Jules stepped closer and kissed him.
It was nothing profound, just a light brushing of lips against lips, but it was enough to shut Robin up.
He stared at Jules, all gorgeous cheekbones, blond hair, and haunted eyes.
“Not quite as terrifying as you thought, huh?” Jules said.
But Robin shook his head. “That’s not, uh . . . The scene is, um . . .”
Jules nodded. “More intense?”
“Yeah.”
“Tongues.”
“Oh, yeah,” Robin said.
Jules nodded. “Who, um . . . ?”
“I kiss—
Hal
kisses Jack,” Robin said. “It’s, uh . . . You know, so it’s clear that he’s the pursuer.”
“Not some innocent victim of Jack’s insidious gay agenda,” Jules said.
Robin actually managed to laugh. “Yeah.”
“So, um, you must’ve given some thought to the, uh, blocking. That’s what you actors call it, right? Blocking?”
“Yeah,” Robin said, scratching behind his ear. “Screen kisses are different than, you know, real-life kisses—you want to be able to show the emotion, so you kind of tip your head back and keep your face open. . . .” He tilted his head to demonstrate. “Either that, or the cinematographer puts the camera lens right in the middle of it, and . . . Either way, it’s bizarre.”
“So how are you going to do it?” Jules persisted. “What kind of kiss is it? Is it, like, lunging? Zero to sixty in a flash, or . . . ?”
“We’ve got one like that in a later scene,” Robin said. “This one, the one we’re doing tomorrow, is sweet. Very romantic. Tender. At least it is when it starts. By the time we fade to black, it’s pretty, um . . .
Hungry,
I guess is a good word for it. Starving, actually, because here’s this guy who’s been sitting on his sexuality for, like, seven years. At least that’s how I’m, um, planning to play it.”
“Well, okay,” Jules said.
Robin didn’t comprehend. “Okay?”
“I’m ready when you are.”
Robin laughed. Then stopped. Swallowed. “Really? I don’t know. . . .”
“This is why you came here, right? And you’re always saying I should play Jack. So . . . I’m Jack. What’s my line?” Jules asked. He knew he was playing with fire, but he so didn’t give a shit. “What’s the dialogue right before the kiss?”
“I don’t know.”
“How could you not know?”
“Well, because it’s Jack’s line, not Hal’s. Hold on.” Robin dug in his backpack. He’d actually brought a dog-eared copy of the script and flipped to a heavily marked-up page. “The scene takes place in Jack’s room. Hal’s there. He’s brought a coupla bottles with him, and they’re drinking and talking. What if–ing. You know. What would you be doing right now if you were back home? What would you choose if you were given three wishes? And that’s when Jack fesses up. He doesn’t want to go home. He wants to stay there, in Paris, with me—Hal—forever.
“I’m too drunk to run away,” Robin continued, “but not drunk enough to pretend I don’t understand. And I say . . .” He read from the script, “ ‘What’s it like? Not being afraid someone will find out? Not being afraid to admit it, even to yourself?’ And you say . . .”
He pointed to the script, and Jules read the line. “ ‘I guess I was more afraid of dying without ever having lived. I am who I am. There’s a peace that comes with acknowledging that.’ ”
“And I get really quiet and say,” Robin said, “ ‘If I knew—for sure—that I was going to die, I’d spend my last days locked in here with you.’ And I laugh, but it’s not because anything’s particularly funny. In fact, it’s so fucking pathetically sad—what I’m thinking, what I’m figuring on doing. See, it’s right after this scene that I—that
Hal
goes and volunteers for that suicide mission into Germany. But right now he tells Jack, ‘I’d gladly die for that—for a chance to really live, even just for a day or two.’ And that’s when he does it.” He cleared his throat.
Jules nodded. And waited.
Robin cleared his throat again. “Okay.” He looked at the script again for a moment, then put it down. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out in a rush. When he opened his eyes, it was wild. He was still Robin, but there was a calmness to him that Jules recognized as belonging to someone else. To Hal.
“I’d gladly die for that,” Robin said. It was Hal’s line, in Hal’s voice, with its soft southern accent. “For a chance to really live, even just for a day or two . . .”
There was such emotion in his eyes, such love. It took Jules’ breath away.
Or so he thought.
Until Robin leaned down and kissed him.
It was the sweetest, most gentle kiss he’d ever shared, and not only did it
really
take his breath away, but it also stopped time.
Then Robin pulled back, just a little, just enough to meet Jules’ eyes, to look down at Jules’ face, his mouth, before he lowered his head to kiss him again.
All hesitation was gone, then, as Robin licked his way into Jules’ mouth, as Jules melted into his arms. Melted and then, God,
melted
was so not the right word for it. He had his arms around Robin, too, wanting to get close, closer. He was kissing him back, harder now, deeper, Jesus . . . He could taste Robin’s hunger and longing and more, God, he wanted more, he wanted . . .
This. He wanted this. Please, God, he wanted this man, he wanted this to be real, not some game of pretend he was playing with another goddamn fucking actor.
Jules pulled back. He broke the kiss, wrenching himself out of Robin’s arms.
“Sorry,” Robin said. “Sorry! Shit! Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . Fuck, that was way too much. . . . That was my fault.”
“No,” Jules said. “No, it wasn’t. Too much I mean. It was just a little . . . too much. Yeah, I guess it was. Considering . . .”
“I get lost in the part, and—”
“Yeah,” Jules said. “I was kind of picking that up. I think you probably shouldn’t rehearse this scene with Adam, because he won’t stop when he should, um, stop.”
“Right,” Robin said. “Yes, I’ll definitely make sure . . .”
“Other people are around,” Jules suggested.
“Yeah. Yeah. Thanks. Good.” Robin’s hand was shaking as he reached up to push his hair back from his face.
Jules put his own hands in his pockets so he didn’t act on his urge to reach for him. “I don’t know if this is going to make it better or worse, but . . . That was amazing. It was absolutely, unbelievably, fucking amazing.”