“Hey,” Luke said, greeting her like nothing had happened. His smile was easy, but his body blocked her view of his departing companion.
“Who was that?” she asked.
He brushed the side of her face with his fingertips. “Just one of the gardeners.” He laughed softly. “You gave me fifteen whole minutes on my own. I guess I should be flattered you’re concerned.”
“I’m concerned because protecting you is my job.”
His mouth pulled sideways. “Sorry. I understand that. I’m just off balance from all this. That girl was nineteen. Intellectually, I know I’m not responsible for her murder. Emotionally . . .” He shook his head.
“You couldn’t have predicted this would happen. And you’re not the only one who didn’t. This wasn’t like the first attack. This was impulsive.”
“You really think the same person is behind both?”
“My gut thinks it’s too much of a coincidence not to be related, though that isn’t the same as evidence. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if our perp did this personally. Maybe the shooter at the premiere was hired, but this killing happened right on the heels of that video taking over the internet. Less planning. Less distance. I think he or she was behind the wheel of that blue sedan.”
“We have to stop them.” Luke’s earnest manner drew her eyes to him. “I don’t want anyone else’s death on my hands.”
A.J. squeezed his upper arms. “We’ll solve it. A lot of good people are working on this. My dad’s people. Me. And the police aren’t the idiots Detective Turner made them seem this morning.”
“
Should
I have opened my books to him? If he eliminates me as a suspect . . .”
“He’ll waste time doing it. Better he starts looking elsewhere now.”
“You think he will?”
“I think him coming here to accuse you had more to do with discovering I was a whistleblower cop than truly suspecting you.”
“That’s not fair!” Luke exclaimed. “You were totally in the right—and brave—to report your boss.”
A.J. laughed, her hands rising to frame his face. “God, you’re sweet. Cops have that thin blue line code for a reason. It’s not always a bad thing.”
“They don’t know what they lost by firing you.”
Her eyes stung without warning, touched by his belief in her. “Their loss, your gain.”
Luke wagged his head at her teasing tone. “You’re trying to be funny, but to me, that’s the God’s honest truth.”
*
“Don’t say ‘no’ until you hear me out,” Christie pleaded. “You can bend on this one thing. I’ve followed all her rules.”
In case which
her
she meant were in doubt, Christie waved her arm peevishly toward A.J. Luke had convinced the bodyguard to return with him to the dining room, to finish their missed breakfast. He’d been delighted to find it empty. His costar wandering in on the pretense of craving coffee wasn’t a pleasant development.
“That’s not an auspicious lead-in to asking for a favor,” he observed.
Christie set her cup and saucer on the sideboard, evidently feeling the need to face him with her hands free. She’d dressed up, he realized—in a pretty flowered dress that showed off her petite curviness. Her face was touched with makeup, her golden curls artfully tousled.
Did she think looking extra feminine would help her persuade him?
“We need to chill after all this stress,” she argued. “And you
know
Sven and Wilhelmina. Everyone uses them.”
Wilhelmina was Luke’s usual masseuse. She had a genuine gift. Sven, he wasn’t so sure about. The male half of Wilhelmina’s practice had more muscles than subtlety. “I don’t think her partner’s really Swiss. His accent is ridiculous, like a bad Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation. Plus, he dyes his hair that color.”
“Of course he does,” Christie scoffed. “He used to be Freddie Groehlich from New Jersey. Wilhelmina keeps him on for the women to drool over.”
“Well, we don’t need him,” Luke reasoned. “Just ask her to come.”
“I want to arrange a
couple’s
massage,” Christie explained patiently.
His mind went where it wanted, regardless of logic. He’d like a couple’s massage with A.J.—her naked and oiled up on a table next to his. It’d be worth letting stupid Sven put his hands on her to watch her lose her starch like she had last night.
This, of course, couldn’t be what Christie was proposing.
“Uh,” he said. “Do you mean a session for you and Naomi?”
Christie lowered her brows at him. “Wilhelmina is a gossip. I mean for you and me.”
Luke set down his fork and sighed. “That Listie shipper nonsense is what started this trouble. I’d rather not add more fuel to it. Besides, don’t you ever plan to come out as who you are? You know Two Dudes won’t kick you off the
Final
movies for being a lesbian.”
“That’s fine for you,” she huffed. “You’re Mr. Popular. Some of us have to fight for every follower.”
Her blue eyes glittered with angry tears, her soft cheeks flushed with emotion. Luke felt for her position. He truly did. He knew it wasn’t his job to out her. He just didn’t think he should have to participate in shoring up her lie.
“Christie, the world is more open-minded than it used to be. Maybe living as your true self wouldn’t be as bad as you think.”
“And maybe it would be worse! The
Final
franchise can’t last forever. I’d like to have a real career when it ends. As a leading lady. Not some cling-to-the-fringes, art house dyke.”
She spat the word like she hated it . . . or herself.
“Christie, there’s nothing wrong with—”
“Oh shut up, Luke. This is the real world, not an after school special. Moviegoers are prejudiced! Especially about the folks they pay to bring their fantasies to life. Seriously, is KStew anything but tabloid fodder now?”
Luke might argue she was, but Christie was in no state to hear. She flicked her honey blonde curls back impatiently. “I have other reasons for suggesting this anyway.”
“And they would be?”
“First, the gossip that we’re together won’t hurt the film. Your career might survive
Final Death
tanking, but I doubt mine would. Second . . .” She inhaled slowly and blew out. “If whoever is behind these attacks thinks their plan is working, they might go quiet for a bit. Ms. Hoyt and her team could get the breathing room they need to pin down who they are.”
“Hm,” A.J. said. She’d been eating unobtrusively while Christie and Luke debated, barely seeming to listen. Though this final point was probably the least sincere Christie made, Luke saw it struck a chord with his companion.
“You see,” Christie said, seizing on her reaction. “Your bodyguard thinks it’s a good idea.”
“I don’t know about ‘good,’” A.J. qualified, “but it might be useful to have a lull.”
“No,” Luke said. “I don’t want to play her beard.”
“What if it spares the next Teresa Ricci being harmed? You don’t want to fear for every female you smile at.”
Luke stared at A.J. in shock. She must want him to say
yes
, or she wouldn’t have used that argument.
“One massage and a couple candles,” Christie wheedled. “What can it hurt?”
“I don’t know what it can hurt,” he muttered. “I’m trying not to find out.”
“Great!” Christie said, correctly reading his surrender. “I’ll have Eliza schedule an appointment.” Victorious now, she bounced toward the door when another idea hit her. “We’ll use that temple thing for the set up!”
*
Set up
was exactly right.
Luke’s “temple thing” was a neoclassical portico on Mayfair’s ground level. When the weather was hot, you could gaze between the columns at the Pacific and enjoy a cooling breeze. Usually you could, anyway. Thanks to Christie recruiting his staff to help, the formerly serene space blazed with votive candles, plus a couple bathtubs’ worth of pink and red rose petals. Twinkly lights spiraled up the columns while new age music droned. The scene was cheesy, over-the-top romantic, as if this were a bachelor show.
Naturally, Christie had timed the appointment to coincide with sunset.
The moment A.J. saw the display she choked on her amusement.
“Laugh now,” Luke muttered. “You’ll stop when I ask you to shoot someone.”
The someone he asked her to shoot might be him. He couldn’t believe he was going along with this. Christie already lay face down on one of the two tables, a pristine white towel draping her perky rear. Wilhelmina was oiling her delicate back and shoulders, which Luke admitted were pretty. A tall, fit, forty-something brunette, the celebrity masseuse actually did hail from Switzerland. Her vibe was as unadorned as Christie’s was feminine: hair scraped back, pale green scrubs like a nurse would wear.
Luke had always enjoyed Wilhelmina’s massages. She wasn’t chatty, didn’t flirt, and her well toned arms were damn near tireless. A person could relax completely under her expert hands. Tonight it seemed he’d have to forego the pleasure. The considerably less skilled Sven waited by the table meant for him. A second white towel, longer than Christie’s, hung over his thick forearm. When he saw Luke, Sven shook it out and grinned.
“Lose the robe,” he said in his bargain-basement
Ahnold
voice. “I’ll cover you and you can hop up.”
Luke reminded himself he’d agreed to this, but his feet refused to walk closer.
“Take their phones first,” he said to A.J.
“So shy!” Wilhelmina teased in her light—and authentic—Swiss accent. Clearly, she was in a good mood. Maybe she liked the spectacle Christie had arranged. “Don’t you know Wilhelmina’s Healing Hands never films our sessions? It interferes with our policy of worry-free relaxation.” Her smile deepened naughtily. “We understand not everyone looks as good as you in a towel.”
“Forget filming,” Luke said. “I don’t want my yelps of pain recorded when ‘Sven’ here gets ham-handed.”
He couldn’t be certain, but he thought Sven muttered
asshat
beneath his breath.
“Is that Swiss for ‘I’ll try to do better?’” Luke asked sweetly.
“Don’t be grumpy, darling,” Christie soothed. “You know we can both use some healing therapy.”
He concluded she was sticking to the pretense that they were a couple.
Oh screw it
, he surrendered, stepping into the portico so Sven could shield his disrobing behind the towel. He enjoyed a small burst of pleasure as A.J.’s attention swerved to him. Someone he cared about was admiring his shirtless state. That was better than nothing.
He smiled to himself and got settled on the padded table. Though A.J. made no sound, he sensed her moving to her chosen post by a nearby column.
Wilhelmina didn’t approve of this.
“I have to ask you to leave,” she said. “A couple’s massage shouldn’t have an audience.”
“Sorry, sister,” A.J. fired back with a dismissiveness Luke couldn’t recall hearing her use before. “Where my client goes, so go I. Anyhow, Mr. Channing will relax better with his security close.”
Wilhelmina began to splutter at this affront to her professional standards.
“Let her stay,” Luke said, turning his head sideways on the face cradle. “She’ll watch over Christie too.”
“Fine,” Wilhelmina grudgingly agreed. “Please don’t interfere with our process.”
Luke hid his amusement in the face opening. He could guess what A.J. thought of folks who referred to a rubdown as a
process
.
Sadly, Sven’s technique was as bad as Luke remembered from the one and only time he’d used him. He couldn’t help but clench when the man dug his thumbs too hard into a stubborn knot.
“Stop tensing,” Sven hissed in an undertone.
“Stop treating my spine like you’re trying to drill for oil!”
“Luke!” Christie scolded. “Could you please attempt to get in the spirit?”
“Pussy,” Sven muttered, determined to get in one last complaint.
“Sven!” Wilhelmina reprimanded, no better pleased by her partner than Luke was with Christie.
The humor of the situation overcame him. He fought it so hard he snorted. Sven made him laugh outright by smacking him on the shoulder.
“Nice,” Luke snickered. “Maybe you can beat the tension out of me.”
“Don’t think I won’t!” Sven snapped back in his real voice.
Ahnold
was miraculously supplanted by Jersey Shore.
“Um, excuse me?” Luke’s PA Eliza asked from the house side of the portico. “Sorry to interrupt. Rachel wants to know if Sven and Wilhelmina will join her later for dinner in the kitchen.”
Wilhelmina lost it. “Who the hell is Rachel?”
“My chef.” Luke wiped tears from his fit of hilarity. “Rachel Fischer. You should say
yes
, by the way. She’s as gifted in her field as you are in yours.”
This soothed the masseuse’s ruffled feathers. “Of course. I forgot she works for you. Please say Sven and I would be happy to. Now, if you’d be so kind, the pair of you shut up and relax.”
As he settled, warmed by his amusement, Luke thought he actually might.
*
As was the case for all uncomfortable situations, this one ended eventually. Sven and his boss departed to have their dinner, and Christie—who’d gotten the good massage—sleepily trailed away from the portico.
Relieved to be alone with A.J., Luke was even happier when she checked behind her shoulder to make sure they weren’t observed.
This, he suspected, meant she planned something he’d enjoy.
He wasn’t wrong. She came toward him, her bodyguard’s soundless powerwalk causing his pulse to race. It skipped when she clasped his face. She was taking the initiative: no coaxing or seduction from him required. Possibly his expression was dazzled. Her soft lips curved as they pressed over his.
Despite the advance notice, her kiss hit him like a tidal wave. Hormones surged as her hands slid down his robe’s lapels and around his back, her sexy strength pulling him to her. She was fully dressed—not to mention armed. Luke’s skin felt extra naked beneath the terrycloth. His cock rose swiftly, until the press of her hips stopped it.
She murmured a sound of pleasure, her squirm of arousal rubbing her over him. Luke couldn’t stay passive. He slanted his mouth and kissed her back. Their tongues strove against each other, perfectly matched and thoroughly heart-pounding. Luke never wanted to let her go.