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“Studio cafeteria’s the other way,” Adam said helpfully.

The SEAL paused. “Yeah, I know. I’m . . . Costume department’s in the first level of the basement, right?”

“Yeah. I’ll show you where it is,” Adam volunteered.

“I think I can probably find it,” Cosmo told him.

“You strike me as the type who can find whatever you’re looking for,” Robin heard Adam say as he followed Cosmo down the stairs.

Way to get the shit stomped out of you—hit on a Navy SEAL. Although, truth be told, Cosmo seemed tolerant enough. He’d been very cool with Jack—the real Jack, that is.

So maybe Adam wasn’t about to be killed. He was, however, gone. Which was good. Let him stay as far away from Jules as possible.

Adam’s disappearance also provided Robin with the opportunity to make absolutely sure Jules understood that all that prolonged eye contact had been part of his act.

“She isn’t going to like that,” he heard Jules say on the phone in the other room. The soundproofing out here was for shit. Then, “So you’re actually suggesting we shut down production? Doesn’t it bother you, even a little bit, that the Freedom Network’ll see it as a win?” Another pause. “No, I’m not accusing you of—” Jules sighed. “No, ma’am.” A longer pause. “No, ma’am. I’ll make sure she’s aware of your recommendation, yes. But I also intend to call Max and—”

“Hi! Oh, my goodness, I’m sorry—are you waiting here for me?”

Patty.

Just perfect.

She came through the studio door and was bearing down upon Robin with her clipboard and kneesocks and freckles and clogs—a bizarre combination he’d found so alluring just a few days ago. Amazing what a little time and distance could do.

“Hey,” he said. “Wow,” he said. “Uh, yeah . . .”

Patty swooped down upon him and kissed him. It would have been a full tongues affair if it had been up to her. He was the one who kept it both dry and short.

He kept her from noticing that he hadn’t truly kissed her by saying, “It occurred to me that we better make plans to have dinner together—to, you know, put the date into our Day-Timers.”

She lit up and he felt like a total asshole. Still, he plunged on. “We’re both so busy, it’s probably going to be a few weeks before we find a night that we both have free. Do me a favor, will you, babe, and send me a copy of your schedule?”

“We’re probably going to get rained out tonight,” she said, “which means—”

“Oh, hey, sorry, tonight’s not good for me,” Robin said quickly. “I’ve already made plans to do some, uh, more research. You know, prep for playing Hal. Being Gay 101.”

“We could meet when you’re done,” she suggested.

“Um . . .” Robin searched for a reason why that wouldn’t work. He suspected that
Because I’ll be totally shitfaced and unable to drive
wouldn’t cut it.

Jules rescued him, using that very moment to throw open the office door. “Where’s Jane?” he asked. He had on what Robin thought of as his Detective Joe Friday face. Mega serious.

“She’s down in Costume with Jack Shelton,” Patty said, wide-eyed. “What’s going on?”

“There’s been another e-mail. Find Decker,” Jules ordered Patty. “Have him meet me down there.”

She dashed off—for which he owed Jules, big-time. On her way out the door, she nearly ran over an actor dressed in uniform. “Not now, Wayne,” Robin heard her say.

The extra, a kind of goofy-looking Tom Hanks type waved to them. “Hey, Jules, how’s it—”

“Hey, sorry, Wayne, we’re kind of busy.” Jules waved back, then grabbed Robin’s arm, pulling him into Patty’s office and kicking shut the door. “This place is crawling with extras today.”

“Yeah, we’re filming part of the big love scene this afternoon. Not mine—the hetero one. Virginia and Milt.” Thank God. He was not at all ready to film any of the intimate scenes between his character and Adam’s. That was going to be unbelievably hard to do.

Jules was blinking at him. “A love scene with seventy-five extras?”

“They were a little unconventional, Gin and Milt,” Robin said. He laughed. “Look at your face—you believe me. I’m kidding. The scene starts in a crowded bar. Janey wants this solitude in the midst of chaos thing. You know . . .” He sang. “ ‘I only have eyes for you, dear. . . .’ ”

“I need you to get them all out of here,” Jules said. “The extras. And the crew. Now.”

Robin laughed again, but then stopped. Jules was not kidding. In fact, Robin had never seen him more dead serious.

“Anyone who hasn’t had a proper background check,” Jules continued, “and—”

“You’re talking about shutting down production,” Robin interrupted. “I don’t have the authority to—”

“Who does?” Jules asked, then answered in unison with Robin, “Jane.
Shit.
” He opened the door. “We better find her.”

“She’s not going to shut this movie down.” Robin followed him out into the hall. “No way. Just because we got another crazy e-mail from Mr. Insane-o?”

“He’s in town,” Jules said. “We have reason to believe that as of seven twenty-five this morning, Mr. Insane-o is here in Hollywood.”

“The navy blue, I think,” Jack said, “although we won’t know for sure until he tries them on.”

The elderly man clapped his hands at Cosmo from his perch in the director’s chair that Jane had dragged down to this main costume room. She knew that his hip was bothering him, although he’d never mention it.

“Out of those awful cargo pants, Mr. Richter,” he continued. “I swore when I left the service I would never gaze upon that particular shade of olive drab again, and here I am making a movie filled with it. But to have you walk in, wearing it by choice . . . ?”

As Jane watched, Cosmo looked from Jack to Adam and finally over at her as he took the wooden clothes hanger and dry cleaner’s plastic-covered suit from her hand. “Is there someplace I can—”

Jack cut him off. “Trust me, there’s no one in this room who hasn’t seen even the most ungodly worn-out tightie whities. Don’t be shy.”

“Yeah, um . . .” Cosmo said, and Jane realized the problem as he met her gaze again.

She’d thought it had been a too-close-to-laundry-day incident—that night he’d come into her room and started to pretend to unfasten his pants. But apparently, she had been wrong. Apparently, Cosmo Richter was neither a boxer nor a briefs man.

She started to laugh.

How . . . interesting.

Jane swung two rolling racks that were jam-packed with WWII-era Marine uniforms, cutting off a small corner of the big basement.

“Instant dressing room,” she said briskly, because, oh my God, the big bad SEAL was actually embarrassed. He was blushing.

It was adorable.

Or maybe a more accurate way to put it was that she adored him even more because of it.

Patty had told her about the way he’d faced down the tabloid reporters when they’d asked a question that particularly disrespected her.
Is Mercedes Chadwick as good as they say?

Although dear sweet Cosmo, by trying to defend her virtue, had done exactly the wrong thing. By stopping and talking to the reporters—even though it was only to reprimand them—he’d revealed that he was vulnerable to their pressure. He’d let them know that they could get under his skin. Which they would try to do again. And again and again.

Which was unacceptable. It was intolerable.

Especially since they were close—so close—to having it all disappear. Especially since Jane had worked so hard to make it all go away.

Especially—damn it!—since she’d taken all of her young, tender, fledgling feelings for this incredible man and stomped them relentlessly back.

She wasn’t involved with him. She wasn’t going to be involved with him.

And tomorrow the
National Voice
would hit the racks in the grocery store checkout lanes—she wouldn’t legitimize the tabloid by saying it would hit the newsstands—with the pictures taken at Victor Strauss’ party.

When those pictures came out, Cosmo would be, like, so fifteen minutes ago.

Except now that he’d given this interview, maybe he wouldn’t be.

Jane would have to call Victor again. Ask him to visit her here on set. Have a lot of people see her bring him into her office and close the door. Send out for lunch.

And as for Cosmo . . . She was wrapping him up, putting a bow on him, and sending him special delivery to Sophia, the bitch, who goddamn better appreciate what she was getting.

“I would have dressed for the occasion if I’d known I was going to be putting on a fashion show,” Cos said quietly, so the others couldn’t hear him, as he went inside the area she’d partitioned off.

“Actually, you’re not putting on a show,” she countered, pushing the clothing racks against each other, sealing off the corner and giving him privacy from at least the chest down. “You would be if you weren’t getting changed in here.” Oops. There was a definite gap where the two metal poles met. Or rather, didn’t meet. “I’ll just stand in front of this,” she said.

“Thanks.” But he didn’t wait for her to turn around. Sure, he had his back to her, but he just dropped his pants and . . .

Well, golly.

Nice . . . legs.

She turned and found Jack watching her watch Cosmo, his elegant eyebrows raised. Amusement made his eyes dance.

Jane shook her head at him. He had an interview later today with the entertainment reporter from some small cable news station. She didn’t doubt for one moment that he would be asked about Mercedes Chadwick’s relationship with one of her bodyguards. Which really pissed her off. The reporter would be sitting there with a man who’d fought in WWII, a hero who’d helped save the world from Nazi oppression, and instead of talking about that, they’d discuss behind-the-scenes dirt on the Party Girl Producer.

Which was Jane’s own fault, wasn’t it? This was the image she’d used to get back into the public eye. She really shouldn’t complain when her hard work paid off.

So okay. Jack would get asked about her.

But if Jack mentioned seeing any kind of spark between Mercedes and Cosmo, that would only add to the fire the SEAL had rekindled this morning.

What Jack had to do instead was mention that Cosmo already had a girlfriend.

“What the . . . ?”

Since she’d definitely heard the sound of a zipper, she turned back.

Cosmo was looking at the cuffs of the shirt that she’d given him, trying to make sense of the fact that they flopped down past his wrists.

“You need cuff links,” she said, rolling back one of the racks and coming to his rescue.

The dismay on his face made her laugh. “Can’t I just wear a regular shirt?”

She dug in the jacket pocket for the links—cheap, gold-plated, and engraved with the initials C.F.K. Charlene from Costume swore up and down that Orson Welles had worn them during
Citizen Kane.
“Do you
have
a regular shirt?”

“Yeah,” he said as she folded back the right cuff and hooked the link in place. “It’s cool. It’s black and it has a skull on the back, along with this red and orange flame. . . .”

Jane stared up at him. He was kidding. Wasn’t he? “And you are so completely conning me, aren’t you?”

He broke down and laughed. Damn, he had some smile. “I’ve got a few plain white shirts in my closet, too.”

“Too? You mean along with the hideous skull-and-flames number?”

“Show a little respect,” Cosmo said. “Chicks dig the skull and flames.”

He made no effort to button his shirt. He was just standing there with it hanging open, so she began buttoning it for him. There was only so much half-naked Navy SEAL that a person could bear. “Don’t tell me—it’s your lucky ‘wear it and score’ shirt. I hate to break it to you, Cos, but I think you’re probably getting laid in spite of the shirt—not because of it.”

Again, Cosmo laughed, and as she smiled up into his eyes, something fluttered deep in her stomach. Ah, jeez, she was in trouble. She liked this man a little too much. As he tucked his shirt in, she called, “Adam, will you see if Charlene has a belt?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

She had to keep this all business. She knelt in front of Cos, checking the length of the pants, adjusting the lightweight wool, pretending that she wasn’t hyperaware of the solidness of his legs beneath the thin fabric. “I think the length is perfect, although it would help if you were wearing shoes. Do you have dress shoes?”

“I did, but I lost them last time I went to New York City.” He glanced over at his work boots. They lay where he’d kicked them off, clunky and enormous, like two empty cardboard boxes. “I could just—”

“Don’t finish that sentence. Don’t even
think
it. Jack, are there any dress shoes in mega huge out there?” she called.

“Charlene says no, but you know how she lies,” he called back. “I’ll find some.”

“My feet aren’t that big,” Cosmo said mildly.

She tipped her head back and gazed up at him. “How does one lose one’s shoes?” From this perspective, he looked gigantic. And gorgeously elegant, the crisp white of the shirt a nice contrast to his tanned skin.

He smiled down at her. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not that exciting.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jane said. “What am I thinking?”

“One-night stand gone bad, right? Livid femme fatale throwing my shoes out of a twentieth-story window?”

“How else do you lose your shoes?” she countered. “A weird paddling mishap in Central Park? Yeah, like I’m going to believe
that.
”

“Airline lost my luggage,” Cosmo told her. “I never got it back.”

“Oh,” she said, making a face. “That’s very disappointing.”

“Sorry.”

“If you want, you could bring that skull-and-flames shirt over to my place sometime,” Jane told him. “I could throw it out my window, while shrieking, ‘You cad!’ Although, I’m only on the second floor, so the dramatic impact might not be the same. As well as any potential damage to the shirt. I suppose I could always cut it to shreds with my scissors first.”

“That’s very kind of you,” he said, laughing.

Damn, he looked good, even without a belt and shoes, even with his jacket off.

It was funny—extremely muscular men often looked bulky when they wore a suit, and there were all kinds of costuming tricks and illusions to make them look more triangular rather than like a refrigerator wearing clothes. But Cosmo didn’t need any help. His waist and hips were trim. Almost too trim for these pants.