Hollywood Secrets (12 page)

I knew. “So what happened tonight?”

Trace shrugged again. “I’m sitting at home, minding my own business, watching
Survivor
, and these guys come bursting through my living room door.”

“
Past your security?”

Trace shot me a look. “In case you haven’t noticed, my bodyguards aren’t the brightest bulbs. They let
you
in.”

Good point. I made a mental note to give him Cal’s number later but motioned for him to go on. “Alright, so they slip past security, interrupt your reality show, then what?”

“
They start yelling about the drive again. I told them I didn’t have it, but they didn’t believe me this time. Then they just started shooting. I dove for cover and luckily made it out the back door. But just barely,” he said, looking down at his arm.

“
What was on this flash drive?” I could only imagine if there were people who were willing to kill for it.

He shrugged. “No idea. Like I said, I gave it to my agent and forgot about it.”

“
Where is your agent now?”

“
Vegas.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“
First thing I did when those guys cut me loose last night was call my agent. He said he was in Vegas booking a gig for another client, which is why he hadn’t turned the damned thing into the car company yet. But he said he’d have a look at it, and we’d talk when he got back into town.”

“
Which would be?”

“
Tomorrow morning. His flight gets in at ten and we’re meeting at Nico’s at noon.”

I nodded. Nico’s was a popular lunch place among the privileged and determined-to-be-seen crowd. Needless to say, my camera lens was a regular there. “Listen, does the name Buckner Boogenheim mean anything to you?” I asked.

Trace shook his head. “That’s quite a mouthful. But, no, I don’t know him. Should I?”

I shrugged. In reality, it hadn’t been all that hard for me to break into Pacific Storage. Not hard to believe someone else might do the same thing to borrow a delivery van.

Trace leaned his head back on the cushions of my sofa, and I could tell the evening had taken its toll on him. I silently went to the linen closet (which also doubled as my clothes closet and the food pantry) and grabbed a couple spare pillows and blankets. By the time I got them back to the sofa, Trace was already asleep. I covered him lightly with a blanket, then hunkered down next to him, where, amazingly, I fell asleep sitting up as soon as I closed my eyes.

* * *

The first thing I noticed the next morning was the heavenly smell of freshly brewed coffee. If angels had alarm clocks in heaven, they’d be coffee scented.

Unfortunately, the second thing I noticed was that one should never fall asleep sitting up on a sofa. A sharp pain hit my neck as I twisted it to the right. I turned left. Ouch. More pain. I rubbed it as I got up, trying to work out the kinks.

“
Morning,” I heard from my kitchen/dining room.

I looked up to find Trace leaning against my Formica counter with a mug of coffee in hand.

“
Morning.” I did a little wave, suddenly hit with a bout of self-consciousness. Did I have bed-head? Morning breath? One of those whiteheads that magically appears overnight blooming on my forehead? I ducked my head, letting my potential bed-head hair cover my face just in case of the latter.

“
Coffee?” he asked.

“
Please. Black.”

He complied, grabbing a mug from my cupboard (yes, singular) and delivering the cup the three paces across the room.

I noticed that he did
not
have a case of overnight acne, bed-head, or, as he moved closer and handed me the cup, morning breath. If anything, Trace looked even better in the morning than he had last night. Kind of soft and tussled. Like I’d expect him to look after a long night under the sheets.

I ducked my head even lower, sure that last thought had put a bright pink blush into my cheeks.

“
Thanks for letting me stay here last night,” he said, thankfully oblivious to my R-rated thoughts.

“
Yeah. Sure. No problem.”

“
If it’s not too much of an imposition, you think I could use your shower before I go?”

I cocked my head to the side. “And then what?”

“
Then I thought I’d get dressed,” he said, grinning as he looked down at his still bare torso.

The heater in my cheeks turned up a notch. Was it wrong that the thought of him putting clothes on kinda bummed me out?

I shook my head. “No, I mean, where are you going to go? Obviously your house isn’t safe.”

He opened his mouth to speak…then shut it with a click, clearly not having thought that far ahead in his plan.

Luckily for him, I had.

“
I was thinking last night,” I started. “It’s probably a good idea if you lay low until you can get this drive thing from your agent.”

He glanced down at his bandaged arm. “Yeah, probably,” he agreed.

“
And, you probably could use a little help with that.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I could, huh?”

I nodded with conviction. “Yes. I mean, how many reporters do you have following you around town on any given day?”

He shrugged. “Three?”

I raised my eyebrows. Apparently he didn’t look in his rearview mirror very often. “Try half a dozen.”

“
Wow.”

“
You’re not exactly inconspicuous. I could help you get around unnoticed. Otherwise, how long do you think it will take before the paparazzi is following your every move?”

He gave me a look.

Point taken. “Okay, the paparazzi
other
than me.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “And you could help me be more inconspicuous?”

“
I can. I mean, who knows better than I do how the paparazzi thinks?”

He grinned. “Good point.”

“
Thank you. I thought so.”

“
And why exactly are you willing to put yourself out like this?”

I’d like to say it was out of the goodness of my heart. But, instead, I told the truth. “For the story.”

“
Ah.” Trace put his mug down on the kitchen counter. “No thanks.”

“
Oh, come on. This is tabloid gold! The story of the century!”

“
I’m pretty sure when they said ‘no cops,’ it went without saying that they meant no front-page stories either.”

“
Okay, I’ll make you a deal then,” I said, getting up and moving to stand right in front of him. “I won’t print anything until it’s over.”

“
Over?”

“
We find the flash drive, what’s on it, and the identity of these goons who are trying to shake you down.”

His lips quivered into a grin. “’Goons’? ‘Shake down’? Someone’s been watching too much Law & Order.”

I waved him off. “What, you’d rather let them track you down and shoot at you again? You think they’re really gonna miss a second time?”

He winced, glancing down at the mega band-aid gracing his upper arm. I could tell I was wearing him down. I took a step closer.

“
Face it, you need me.”

He raised an eyebrow my way. But he didn’t deny it. I took that as a good sign.

“
What do you say? Do we have a deal?” I stuck my right hand out in front of me.

Trace looked at it. Then up at me. Back at the hand.

Finally, he grabbed it and shook. “Fine. Deal.” He shook.

I grinned.

He sighed. “Oh, boy. Why do I feel like I just made a deal with the devil?”

Chapter Nine

I grabbed a quick shower, throwing on my usual uniform of jeans and T-shirt, then towel dried my hair and did a quick swipe of lip gloss, my only concession to the makeup industry. I emerged from the bathroom to find Trace on his cell.

“
Last night? Yeah, I, um, got kinda busy. Sorry I didn’t call, babe.”

Babe. It had to be Jaime Lee. I fiddled with my shoelaces on my Nikes as I pretended not to listen.

“
Cake? Um, sure, any flavor’s good.” Pause. “Well, it’s not like cake can be bad, right?” Pause. “Well, he’s the professional, maybe we should listen to his-“ Pause. “Oh. You already fired him.” Pause. “Sure. Whatever you want. Listen, babe, I’m going to be kinda… busy again today.” Pause. “Oh, you know. Just stuff. Anyway, I’ll call you later, ‘k?”

She must have hung up because he pulled the phone away from his ear a second later, hitting the “end” button.

“
I’m gonna grab a shower. Cool?” he asked.

I nodded, keeping my non-eavesdropping eyes glued to my shoes.

“
Sure. Mi shower es su shower,” I said.

Then spent the next ten minutes trying not to dwell on the fact that he was naked just feet away from me as I listened to water run down the drain. Note the use of the word, “tried.” It doesn’t entirely imply that I succeeded. In my defense, considering that I knew exactly how easy on the eyes his naked body was, I did as well as any redblooded American woman could. I flipped on the TV, letting the hens from
The View
drown out the sound of the shower, and hopefully my lustful thoughts along with it, while I rummaged in my closet for something Trace could wear.

If we were going to move around Hollywood unaccosted by Trace’s adoring fans, the first thing we needed was a disguise. I dug through my piles of clothes for anything that might fit him. It was slim pickings. While I was only a few inches shorter than he was, clothes built for my slim frame had no chance against his personal trainer made bod. However, since his shirt was currently caked with blood, not to mention had a bullet hole through it, almost anything would be an improvement. I finally found a T-shirt I’d bought for my brother on the boardwalk last month that read,
I heart Santa Monica
. I coupled it with my Angels baseball cap and a pair of cheap gas-station-quality sunglasses. As soon as he emerged from the bathroom, I thrust the ensemble at him.

He looked down at it. “What’s this?”

“
Your disguise.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Tourist garb?”

I shrugged. “It was the best I could do on short notice.”

He grinned. But wisely threw the items on anyway.

Fifteen minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of the
Informer
’s offices. Despite the detour my life had taken into gunfire and wounded movie stars last night, I still had a job to do. If I was lucky, I could sneak in and download the day’s list of photos, leaving Felix none the wiser. While I’m sure he was going to sing my praises in the highest key once I turned in the finished story, I had a feeling it was going to be harder than stale biscotti to keep my promise to Trace if Felix started grilling me.

And on the upside, tabloid office was probably the last place anyone would be looking for Trace. Two birds, one stone, perfect plan.

I parked in my usual spot by the entrance and scanned the lot. Felix’s dented Dodge Neon was parked two cars over. Damn.

I could see Trace squirming in his seat.

“
Trust me, you’re safe here,” I promised.

He nodded. Though he didn’t look all that reassured. Not that I blamed him. A celebrity walking into the offices of a tabloid was like a mouse walking into a cat’s mouth. While holding a bottle of cream.

Trace pulled the cap of his hat down low over his forehead as we rode the elevator to the second floor in silence. I could feel him sticking close to my back as we exited into the newsroom, busy with the hum of clacking keyboards and phone lines buzzing with the latest gossip.

We made our way to my desk – me ducking behind the partitions to keep out of Felix’s eyeline and Trace ducking down to keep out of everyone’s eyeline. Luckily for me, Felix was on a phone call, chatting into his Bluetooth with his back to my cubicle. Luckily for Trace, everyone else’s eyes were glued to their computer screens, scanning the internet for anything verifiable or printable. (And often just the latter.)

I quickly logged into the system, and, sure enough, there was an email from Felix containing my photo backlog for the day. I forwarded the whole lot to my personal account, hoping I’d get the chance to deal with them later. I was just logging back out when I heard a high-pitched voice scream behind me.

“
Oh. Meh. Gawd!” came Allie’s perky alto. “Trace Brody?”

Trace shot me a look. It was the same one I imagined a wild bear would have when the ranger started posting “hunting season” signs.

Before I could attempt any kind of rescue mission, Allie swooped in, the scent of her peachy lotion enveloping us as she flapped her hands in front of her like an overexcited five-year-old.

“
Ohmigod, Ohmigod. I totally love your work,” Allie gushed, sidling up to us. Or, more accurately, sideling
past
me, all but running me over, and
up
to Trace. “Allie Quick,” she said, sticking one hand out his way.