Mercedes’ assistant Patty had put a copy of the
American Hero
script onto the table in front of them, along with the warning that they could not take it out of this building.
Like . . . what? They were going to sell it on eBay? Or give a copy of the most provocative scenes to a tabloid like the
National Voice
?
Cosmo flipped through it. It was the story of Jack Shelton and Harold “Hal” Lord, two young American soldiers who met in Paris in early 1945, toward the end of World War II.
Hal was already a highly decorated war hero, and because he spoke fluent German, he volunteered to be part of an Allied team determined to find out whether Hitler’s scientists had succeeded in creating an atomic bomb. The movie alleged that Hal Lord was gay, but in total denial. He was not just in the closet, but he was sitting so far in the back with his eyes shut, he couldn’t even see the door.
Until Jack Shelton made the scene.
Jack was as openly, cheerfully gay as a young man could be back in 1945. He was a member of the Twenty-third Special Combat Group, and he was assisting a Hollywood costume designer who’d been brought in from London to create authentic-looking Nazi uniforms for Hal’s Allied team to wear on their trek behind enemy lines.
It was apparently love at first sight, which terrified Hal. Bringing his gay lover home with him after the war was not an option for a man whose father wasn’t exactly known as Judge Tolerance and who also just happened to be the leader of his local KKK.
In Hal’s opinion, he had no other choice but to get himself killed in the war.
The screenplay also included the story of the more traditional romance between real-life Oscar-winning costumer designer Virginia Simone and Hal’s team leader, Major Milton Monroe. From the looks of the gruffly spare dialogue and the physical description of the major with his Bronx accent, Mercedes had written the part of the major for Humphrey Bogart.
Or maybe Spencer Tracy. It was obvious she was a fan of Hollywood’s golden era, which was a point in her favor.
“Hal’s own granddaughter has given our movie her blessing,” Mercedes pointed out. “If you’re looking for the sex, the first gay love scene isn’t until page seventy-two.”
Cos looked up, directly into her eyes, which were a remarkably pretty color. She was talking to him. She thought he was flipping though, looking for . . .
“The hetero couple doesn’t get it on until close to the end of the movie, either—page seventy-nine,” she continued. “I think you’ll find it’s all tastefully done. We fade to black in both of the subplots. We’ve been very up-front about that, so I’m not sure why all those Internet crazies have their panties in a twist.”
“I wasn’t—” he started to say, but her attention was already back on Cassidy. Fine. Let her think whatever she wanted to think.
“The Freedom Network’s not too happy with Hal’s granddaughter right now, either,” Jules reported. “She’s gone overseas—she’s going to keep a low profile for a while. I would recommend—”
“No.” Mercedes cut him off, steel in her voice. “Not an option. I’m not going to hide. I have a movie to make, a schedule to meet.”
“Jane—” her brother started to say, but she hushed him.
She did, however, soften her tone. She even managed a smile. “Can we back up a bit? You said earlier that these Freedom people—all mega-thousands of them—have these weekend get-togethers up in . . . in . . . Monkey-Fuck, Idaho, where they sit around a campfire . . . Doing what? Reciting eighty-seven-verse epic poems lauding the glory that was Chester ‘Baby Lyncher’ Lord?”
“Well, we’re not exactly sure what they do during their retreats,” Jules told her. He was trying to keep this serious, but Cosmo could tell that “Monkey-Fuck” had him biting the insides of his cheeks. “They’re pretty adamant about not letting outsiders into their inner circle. Still, whatever they do up there, we think it probably has more to do with firearms than poetry.”
“But whatever they’re doing, they’re doing it in Idaho, right?” she asked. “So I should be okay as long as I stay in California.” She looked over at her assistant. “Patty, call Steve Spielberg with my regrets. I won’t be able to attend his potato-picking party in Boise next week, gosh darn it.”
Jules was hanging in. “Ms. Chadwick. With all due respect, yesterday this was a joke. But today the Freedom Network’s involved. There have been several e-mails that have raised a red flag. I don’t have the details yet, but my boss, Max Bhagat, is concerned. And believe me, when he becomes concerned, you should take it seriously.”
Mercedes looked again at the computer documents Jules had given her—pages upon pages printed directly from the Freedom Network’s website. They included a sheet that had a picture of her face in the center of a target’s bull’s-eye.
She laughed, but to Cosmo’s ears it sounded a little forced. “This is priceless, you know. I couldn’t buy this kind of publicity.”
Her brother spoke, his voice sharp. “I think we’ve all agreed this has gone too far, Jane.”
Mercedes—or Jane, as her brother called her—looked from Jules to Decker to Tom and finally to Cosmo, as if she’d somehow decided that she trusted him above everyone else in the room. “Am I really in danger?” she asked.
He put down the script. Not from him. Nothing moved him less than a woman like J. Mercedes Chadwick. Yes, she was beautiful, with a perfect oval of a face that hinted at Middle Eastern ancestry. And her body . . . Cos let himself look at her, because the way she dressed, she obviously wanted him and everyone else in the universe to do just that. And why not—she had one hell of a body.
And okay, yeah, he was a freaking liar. She moved him. He’d have to be dead for at least a year for cleavage like the kind she packed not to make him sit up and take notice. But she moved him kind of the way catching a glimpse of one of Silverman’s favorite porno flicks moved him. He was embarrassed and vaguely disgusted with his reaction. Because there was nothing real about it.
Sex with women like J. Mercedes Chadwick was just a step up from getting it on with an imaginary girlfriend.
And okay, yeah, it was a big freaking step. But it was just as impersonal—maybe even more so because it involved pretending that it wasn’t. And that always left him feeling no less alone.
Cosmo was glad that this woman was a client—which would make her off-limits. Even if she threw herself at him, he’d have a solid reason to resist the temptation, thus avoiding all morning-after regrets.
But right now she and the rest of the people in the room were looking at him, waiting for him to speak.
He cleared his throat. “Lotta crazy people out there,” he told her. She seemed to want more, so he kept going. “Seems like a no-brainer to me—letting us come in and provide security, with HeartBeat paying for it.”
She looked down at that picture again, frowning slightly. And Cosmo suspected that it scared her more than she was willing to admit.
But she kept up her act. “They spelled my name wrong,” she said.
“Yeah, but they got our address right,” the brother pointed out.
There was silence then, as that bit of info sank in.
J. Mercedes finally sighed, swearing under her breath. Then she looked up, again directly at Cosmo. “How do we do this?” she asked him. “How, exactly, is this going to work?”
Badly.
That was how this bodyguard thing was going to work.
Until they installed a security system, someone was going to remain within earshot of Jane at all times.
Welcome, boys and girls, to her personal hell. Until this was over, or until she convinced HeartBeat that the threat wasn’t real, she was going to have to stay in J. Mercedes Chadwick mode around the clock, just as she’d anticipated.
Right now she even had to stay in character here, in her upstairs private office, where she would have slipped into a pair of sweats as she attempted to write that blasted D-Day dream sequence she’d told the studio she’d consider adding to the movie. She hadn’t even kicked off her shoes because her desk was the stupid kind with a modern, open design, and someone standing in her doorway would be able to see her bare feet.
Such weaknesses were for mere mortals. J. Mercedes Chadwick never slipped her feet out of her expensive and trendy shoes.
In about five minutes, someone was going to appear to tell her that most of her new security team from Troubleshooters Incorporated had gathered in her conference room and could she please come downstairs to meet them.
God, this was
so
going to suck.
Jane had to take Robin’s advice and turn this fiasco into free publicity for
American Hero.
And since a picture was worth a thousand words, she had to make sure there were plenty of photo ops.
And there would be. When she arrived at the studio every morning, she’d have a hunky bodyguard on either side of her, hustling her from her car.
Jane could practically hear the sound of the camera shutters, feel the heat from the flashbulbs.
It was slightly less annoying to know that her movie would benefit from the inconvenience, but it didn’t mean she’d be any less exhausted when it was over and done.
She’d had one moment of panic when Decker, the quietly nondescript team leader, had suggested they make use of her garage—have her get into her car with the garage door closed and open it only when they were ready to leave.
There’d be no chance for pictures if they did that, at least not on this end.
But then he’d opened the door that led into the three-bay monstrosity. The previous owners had collected such fascinating and useful items such as old newspapers and magazines and carefully cleaned-out sardine tins. They were stockpiled in the garage, along with fifty years of empty milk and orange juice containers and empty port wine bottles. The gallon size.
Apparently one could consume quite a bit of port wine in fifty years. So much so that there was no longer room in the garage for one car, let alone three.
Decker and Cosmo Richter, the Navy SEAL, had let her prattle on about how she’d bought this place “as is,” and how she didn’t have time to call for a Dumpster, which was, obviously, step one in the remodeling process.
Neither of them said anything, although she was certain they both knew it was lack of funds, not time, that kept her from cleaning up the mess. Of course she hadn’t expected the SEAL to comment. He spoke in telegram—as if every word he used cost five bucks, and he only had a twenty in his wallet.
He sure was jacked, though. Hugely, gigantically, fabulously ripped.
Hard bodies were a dime a dozen in Hollywood, but somehow his was different. Maybe it was knowing that he was a SEAL and that his muscles weren’t grown in the air-conditioned comfort of a gym. Or maybe it was the way he moved, as if completely unaware that he was so drool-worthy.
Most of the men Jane dealt with were hyper-self-aware. They couldn’t walk past a building without checking out their own glorious reflection in the windows. They broadcast a continuous “look at me” message. It was, quite frankly, the Hollywood way.
But Cosmo Richter and his startlingly pale-colored eyes came from the planet Oblivious.
She hadn’t decided yet if that was weird or refreshing.
“They’re ready for you.” Jane looked up to see that it was neither Cosmo nor Decker who knocked on her door. It was Patty. She could have taken off her shoes after all.
“Thanks.” Jane saved her document, closed her laptop, and headed for the stairs.
Cosmo was waiting at the bottom, and he stepped back, politely letting her lead the way to the conference room.
Tom Paoletti had gone, leaving Decker in charge. FBI agent Jules Cassidy had left, too. In their place at the conference table with Deck were three men and a woman. Apparently there were two other team members, too, whom she’d meet over the next few days.
Jane stopped short in the doorway, the financial reality of this craziness sinking in.
Apparently protecting her was going to be a full-time job for more than a half a dozen people. That had to be costing the studio a crapload. God, she’d far rather have HeartBeat dumping this kind of money into the distribution of her movie. She’d take her chances with the lunatic fringe.
They all got to their feet as they saw her, so she pasted on her best smile, went in, and shook a bunch of hands.
Vinh Murphy, a former Marine, was even bigger than Cosmo. He was at least part African- and Asian-American, with a smile that lit his entire face. Jane would bet big bucks that he was plenty photogenic, but he wore a wedding ring and commented that he’d just gotten back from his honeymoon.
If she knew the tabloids, any picture they ran of her would include plenty of wink-wink, nudge-nudge innuendo. It was amazing, really, how much time was spent speculating about who she was currently shagging.
Particularly since the honest answer was “no one.”
The really depressing thing was that the story about her death threats would stay in the news for only a very short time. But a story combining the potential danger with her love life could run for weeks.
Months, if she milked it.
No, it wouldn’t take much to launch a convincing story about J. Mercedes’ hot and sweaty lustfest of an affair with her personal bodyguard. All she’d have to do was lean close, lay an impersonal hand on one muscular arm, and whisper into an ear as the photos were being taken.
And the papers would imply that she and the owner of that ear—possibly PJ Prescott, whose hand she’d just shaken—were doing the nasty five times a night and twice in the limo on the way to work.
PJ was a helicopter pilot and paramedic who’d served in the Air Force as part of the elite pararescue jumpers, or PJs, hence his nickname. Tall, lean, and good-looking, he suffered from what Jane thought of as “God’s gift to women-itis.” He was an openmouthed, gum-snapping grinner who apparently had learned that it was okay to ogle women as long as he remained boyishly charming and sincerely appreciative of what he was looking at.
He would, no doubt, believe what he read in the tabloids. Jane made a mental note never to be photographed standing next to him. She didn’t need that kind of trouble.