Aphrodite's Passion (12 page)

Heironymous laughed. “One of the best? I’m surprised you give him so much credit.”

Clyde stood up straighter. “I could easily best him, of course. And given the opportunity, I’ll be happy to do it—”

“Yes, yes. I’m aware of the fact that Hale is the very Protector who discovered your duplicity.” Hieronymous drummed his fingers on his desk. “Pity, too. You were so much more useful to me when you were still in the Council. But now, an Outcast.” He met Clyde’s eyes. “Tsk, tsk.”

“For the opportunity to best Hale, I’d gladly use my Protector skills—even if it means risking punishment.”

“Really?” Hieronymous filed away that little tidbit. Outcasts retained their power, but were forbidden to use their skills. If the Council discovered and prosecuted a violation, the punishment was severe—and permanent.

Clyde’s face tightened. “My point is that I don’t think your son is a match for Hale. After all, Mordi’s only a—”

Hieronymous’s head jerked up, and Clyde took a step backward, his mouth snapping shut.

“Only a
what
?”

“I just wonder if there isn’t a better agent to send,” Clyde continued, talking to the floor. “I mean, Mordichai is a halfling, after all.”

“He may be a halfling, but he is also my son. And unlike Zoë, he has been trained—by me—since birth. He has the power to conjure fire, and the power to shapeshift. He is perfect for this job.” More important, perhaps, Hieronymous had no other choice. Certainly he had other agents, but what would stop them from claiming the belt for their own?

In a flash, he answered his own question. Henchmen. The slimy, stupid creatures would be perfect. A mortal couldn’t steal the belt, so he couldn’t use his smarter human minions, but Henchmen ... Unlike Protectors, they had no powers to lose. And they had the added benefit of being entirely loyal to whoever freed them from the catacombs.

Yes, perhaps Henchmen were the answer.

With a smile, he turned back to Clyde. “What you say has merit. Rather than place all this responsibility on my son, we’ll send in my little pets.”

Clyde practically preened; clearly the oaf thought that he was responsible for giving Hieronymous the idea. “And Mordichai?” he asked.

“My son will remain on the assignment. Henchmen may be persistent, but they do not always succeed.” Sadly, the creatures were rather dim-witted. He drummed his fingers on his desktop. “Consider the Henchmen a backup plan.”

“Yes, Sire.” Clyde didn’t look pleased, and Hieronymous knew he was concerned about Mordichai’s trustworthiness. Not to mention his ability to get the job done. As much as his Chief of Guards annoyed him at times, Hieronymous had to admit the man was as loyal as they came.

In this case, however, Clyde was wrong. Mordichai could be trusted. He might have disappointed Hieronymous in the past—as a halfling, the boy’s skills were sadly lacking— but Mordichai would never turn on his father. For one thing, the boy simply didn’t have that kind of courage. For another, Mordi had been raised on Hieronymous’s promises that he would be second only to his father in his new world order.

Whether or not Mordi would actually see such a position of power was neither here nor there. For the time being, such a plan served Hieronymous well—and kept his son on a sufficiently short leash.

The next morning Tracy wore her grandmother’s belt, and by the time she rolled through the gate onto the backlot, the day already seemed brighter, the world cheerier, the people friendlier. Okay, maybe not the brighter and cheerier part—except that it was a truly gorgeous, smog-free day—but the people ... Well, something was definitely up with the people.

Tracy’s first stop had been the coffee shop near her house. Usually she waited until she got closer to the back-lot, but she’d been running late and hadn’t had time to make any coffee on her own. Her choices had been simple: stop for coffee even though the local dive had the rudest counter clerks imaginable, or pass out from caffeine withdrawal as she coasted down Laurel Canyon.

Tracy had chosen to face the coffee shop creeps, hoping beyond hope that—for once—it wouldn’t be an entirely miserable experience.

And this morning they weren’t so creepy. At least not to her anyway. Instead, everyone in the shop had practically bent over backwards for her. First, the folks waiting in line had offered to let her cut ahead, which was what she’d desperately wished for the second she saw the line snaking out the door.

As if that wasn’t weird enough, the guy working the counter actually remembered that she always ordered a double non-fat latte. Then he gave it to her gratis—and apologized for the place being so crowded.

Okaaaaay.

That was weird-morning-incident number-one.

After that, she’d cruised over the canyon to Studio City. Apparently she’d cruised a little too fast, since she’d ended up getting pulled over by one of Los Angeles’s finest. Another speeding ticket wasn’t going to make her insurance company very happy, and so she’d sat in the car clutching her registration and insurance, silently willing the officer to let her off with a warning.

Amazingly enough, he had.

Shaking her head, Tracy had crept away, carefully watching her speed, using her blinker, and generally driving like her grandmother had. Now, as she crawled through the studio gate at a snail’s pace, Tracy was beginning to wonder if she wasn’t leading a charmed life.

But why?

Then she remembered the belt. It had to be psychological. Mind over matter. The belt had made her grandmother confident, and now it was bolstering Tracy’s confidence in the same way.

Didn’t all those pop psychology gurus say you had to believe in yourself before anyone would do anything for you? Well, apparently that little theory was true.

Amazing.

She maneuvered the backlot on autopilot, finally parking in front of the Paws In Production trailer. Chris, the intern, had arrived first, and the portable kennels were already lined up in front, each with an animal itching to get out.

Since Mel wasn’t anywhere in sight—she’d likely already left for her meetings—Tracy opened Peanut’s kennel and urged the dachshund forward. “Come on girl. We’re running late.” Tracy jiggled her fanny pack filled with doggie treats, and Peanut waddled out of the cage. Chris passed Tracy the day’s call sheet as he moved to clean the cage.

By the time they reached the soundstage, shooting was already in progress. Fortunately, today’s script didn’t call for Peanut to do anything more involved than stealing Leon’s chair when he got up to talk to Mrs. Dolittle, so the fact that they were late shouldn’t really matter.

Even so, all eyes turned to her as soon as they walked in. Tracy gulped, stopped, and started to feel a bit like Charlton Heston in
Planet of the Apes
—a single human on display for the apes to examine. Everyone was staring, and Leon was positively gaping.

“Uh ... hi.” Deciding that being strictly professional was the better part of valor, she bent down, unclipped Peanut’s leash, and gave the dog the signal to go to her first mark at the base of Leon’s chair.

As Peanut rushed toward the chair, Leon rushed toward Tracy. “Are you all right? You’re late.”

“I’m fine.” Newfound confidence or not, being the center of attention wasn’t sitting well, and Tracy felt her cheeks burn. Her gaze darted around the room, and she gratefully noted that everyone else had gone back to their business. “I got pulled over this morning, so I was running a little behind.”

“No!” He couldn’t have sounded more angst-ridden if he’d been performing
Hamlet
. “I’ve got friends in the department. We’ll challenge the ticket. I mean, this is outrageous. This is absurd. This is—”

“No big deal.” She grabbed his flailing wrist. “Seriously. It’s okay. I just got a warning.” She frowned, though, wondering why Leon was suddenly being nice to her again.

“That’s a relief,” he said, and took her hand. “Seriously, though, if you need anything, anything at all, you just let me know.”

“First positions!” The voice of the assistant director, Gary, echoed through the soundstage.

Leon ignored him, still holding Tracy’s hand, a puppy-dog expression on his face.

She waited for him to say something. And waited. And waited.

Nothing. He just kept staring. Tracy’d never really understood the expression “goo-goo-eyed,” but in this case, it seemed to fit perfectly.

“Uh, listen, Leon. About yesterday.” Somehow an apology seemed appropriate, despite the fact that he’d been such a jerk. Besides, she didn’t have anything else to say. “I’m really sorry I tripped and ... uh ... spilled the ... uh ... the uh ... the—”

“Crap all over me?” Leon chuckled. “Wasn’t that a riot? Took me an hour in the shower to get rid of the smell. Talk about an unexpected adventure.” Again, that award-winning smile. “But I guess I deserved it. I was so preoccupied when you came over, I think I came off rather rude.”

She gaped. Was he actually apologizing?

He took her hand. “Can you ever forgive me?”

Yup. That was definitely an apology. She blinked, too flabbergasted to form a coherent sentence.

“Leon!” Gary howled. “You want to grace us with your presence?”

“Be right there,” he hollered back, but didn’t make any attempt to move away from Tracy.

She squinted at him, trying to find the catch. “So, you really aren’t mad?”

“At you?” His eyes, warm and soft, seemed to surround her, and she squirmed under his gaze, not entirely sure she was comfortable. “Sugarplum, how could I be mad at you?”

“Well, I just thought...” She trailed off, trying to figure out what he was up to.

“
Now
, Leon.” This time, the voice came from the director himself.

Leon squeezed Tracy’s hand. “
Au revoir, ma cheri
.”

She blinked as he headed onto the set.
What a bizarre morning
. There wasn’t any time to take stock, though. She needed to focus on Peanut and making sure the dog made it to each of her marks, didn’t miss a cue, and looked sufficiently cute and cuddly, with just a touch of doggie astuteness.

As the scene opened, Mrs. Dolittle and her nephew Brent, played by Leon, were bantering about the latest murder in their sleepy little hometown. Plopped near Leon’s feet, Peanut looked half-dead. Tracy signaled to her, and the dog perked up. Another signal, and she scratched at the base of Leon’s chair.

As scripted, Leon reached down and rubbed her ears, his conversation with his pretend aunt never faltering. Peanut sat back on her haunches and stared at him, her eyes big and pitiful. Then, the big finale. Tracy knew what would happen from rehearsals. Leon would get up to make a point, Peanut—at Tracy’s signal—would sneak onto the chair, and then Leon would come back and just barely miss sitting on the dog. In editing, the laugh track would be bumped up a few decibels.

It wasn’t Shakespeare, but it paid the bills.

Except something wasn’t right. Glancing up from where she crouched, Tracy saw Leon staring at her, his eyes wide and adoring.

“Cut!”

She’d tuned everything out except for her cues for Peanut, and now she looked around to figure out what was going on. “What happened?” she whispered to a nearby grip she’d always thought had the cutest smile.

“Leon flubbed his lines.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “Then why’s Burke glaring at me?” The director, well known for his temper, was directing equal doses of his world famous glare at Tracy and at Leon.

The grip sidled closer. “Because instead of saying he and Lori were going to see what they could find out at the morgue, Leon said that he and
Tracy
were going.”

She swallowed. Lori was Leon’s girlfriend in the show. So it made sense Burke would be ticked if he thought Tracy was distracting his star. She hoped like heck he wasn’t mad at her. She needed this gig, and even if Mel wouldn’t fire her, Burke could kick her off the backlot.

She glared at Leon, angry that he’d put her in this position. Was this revenge for yesterday?

“You two an item?” the cute grip asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“What?” she asked, trying to pick up the thread of conversation. “Who?”

He nodded in the direction she was looking—toward Leon, who was wiggling his fingers in a tiny little wave even as the A.D. tried to get everyone back to places.

An item? Her and Leon? She almost laughed out loud, then remembered the way he’d just apologized, not to mention the strange passion she’d seen in those eyes. They weren’t an item, but something was definitely up.

“Um, no. Not at all.”

“Good.” The grip’s smile broadened. “I was hoping maybe we could go out to dinner sometime after the shoot. I think we’ve probably got a lot in common.”

She glanced at his Dance ‘Til You Puke T-shirt. “You think?”

“Well, uh, sure. I mean, you like animals. I’ve got a cat. Or my roommate does.”

Tracy’s brow furrowed. “Right.”

She had no idea what else to say, but fortunately, the assistant director called for quiet and she was saved from responding. The grip headed back to his station, and Tracy shook her head. Weird.

The actors started the scene again, and once again Leon managed to flub his lines. And again. And again. Finally Burke decided to wrap for the day, even though it wasn’t even lunchtime. He stormed off the set, sending Leon a look that could melt glass. The look he shot Tracy was cooler—but decidedly confused.

Not quite ready to deal with any of it, Tracy called to Peanut, leashed the dog, then headed for the door, hoping to avoid another encounter with the cute grip with the bad taste in T-shirts. Leon caught up with her before she’d gone ten feet.

“You’re leaving? So soon?” He stepped closer, into that little realm of air she considered her personal space.

Without thinking, she took a step backward. He moved too, closing the distance. She cleared her throat. “Well, yes. I need to get Peanut back.”

“Can’t you stay and chat?”

Her brow furrowed as she gestured toward the door. “I really should go,” she said, not at all sure what Leon was up to.

“How about tonight? Coffee? Dessert? I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”