Hot Target (28 page)

The answer to that was easy: He couldn’t possibly be.

Which made the next question obvious. When was he going to spring it on her—his fatal flaw?

Jane had made a list of possibilities in her head. Everything from the ridiculous: His mother wasn’t really in San Francisco but instead was chained in his attic—to the realistic: He was totally incompatible with her Hollywood lifestyle—to the downright paranoid: He’d never really stopped hating her and last night was some kind of pathetic payback for her behavior at that first press conference.

Although as far as punishments went . . . Suffice it to say, she couldn’t wait to be punished like that again.

Except, to be honest, when she’d woken up this morning all alone in her bed, she’d had a bit of a panic attack. Where had Cosmo gone?
Why
had Cosmo gone?

She’d thought they’d connected on a stay-all-night level. On a make-room-for-me-in-your-closet-’cause-I’ll-be-here-for-a-while level.

The lack of a note had freaked her out. And the fact that she’d freaked out about it made her even
more
freaked out.

Because it was obvious that she cared too much.

Which meant that when she finally found out that missing yet vital piece of information—that terrible, unfixable flaw of Cosmo’s that she hadn’t yet discovered; that thing that would blow up their fledgling relationship—she wouldn’t simply be able to laugh and just have fun. She wouldn’t be able to shrug and enjoy the nonstop sex phase, even though she well knew there’d be no serious relationship phase.

Although, no doubt about it, with this man, the nonstop sex phase could go for months. Years. Decades, if she had anything to say about it.

She sighed, remembering the way he’d smiled into her eyes as he’d—

“Jane?”

Whoops. Decker had asked her something. “I’m sorry . . . ?” Her voice came out sounding a little breathless.

“Are you having some kind of problem with Cosmo Richter?” he asked. But before she could stammer out any kind of response, he added, “Because I got a call from Tom Paoletti, asking me if there was something going on—something that would trigger his resignation.”

What? “Whose resignation?”

“Richter’s.”

Jane sat back in her chair. Cosmo had quit? Like, quit? Like, “Hi, Tom, how are you, I quit”?

Here was a fatal flaw she hadn’t considered—that he’d meant none of what he’d said. Ever. But especially last night.
I’m so fucking crazy about you. . . .

Deck was watching her closely. “You haven’t, um, clashed with him again?” he asked.

Clashed?
Clashed?
She couldn’t speak. She could barely think.

This put a real cow-patty frosting on a total cesspool of a day.

“I know there was some tension at first between the two of you,” Decker continued, still watching her. “Differences of opinion and personality—that sort of thing. I was under the impression that you’d worked things out, and had even become, well, friends.”

“Yes,” she managed to say. “Friends.” Her head was spinning. It was quite possible she was going to be sick. She forced a smile instead. “No, there’s been no . . . clashing. . . . Are you sure he
quit
?”

“Apparently this is as much of a surprise to you,” Decker said. “That’s good. I was a little afraid something had happened last night that I’d missed by being out of the picture. I haven’t spoken to Richter yet—I’m not sure where he is.”

“He told me he . . .” She had to clear her throat. “He was going to Laguna Beach.”

“Maybe this has something to do with his mother,” Decker said.

Without calling Jane first to tell her about it? She had to get this straight. “He just quit. Without giving Tom a reason why?”

“No,” Decker said. “He left a message with Tom, requesting they meet this evening. But he gave him a heads-up—he wanted to give him as much time as possible to start looking for a replacement.”

A replacement. God.

Jane arranged her face into another smile, hoping that would hide her gritted teeth. “Sorry I can’t be of more help. I don’t know anything about it.” She picked up her phone, and he recognized that as the dismissal it was and stood.

“I’ll let you get back to it.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Do me a favor and close the door behind you?”

He did, and she stopped smiling. She also speed-dialed Cosmo’s cell phone number.

Okay. Relax. Be calm. Give the man a chance to say, “Hey, I was just about to call you. My mom fell off a trolley and broke both her legs, too, so I have to go up to San Francisco, but I’ll be back, because I am so fucking crazy about you. . . .”

She was beeped over immediately to his voice mail.

“Richter. Leave a message.”
Beep.

“Hey, Cos, it’s me. Jane,” she added, hating herself for doing that, as if he wouldn’t recognize her voice after he’d spent the night listening to her moan his name. Except God, what if he didn’t? What if . . . ? Don’t go there, don’t go there! She made herself sound bright. Cheery. “Call me when you get this, will you?”

This was just a rumor until she heard it from Cosmo.

She sat at her desk, staring at her phone, willing it to ring, willing him to call her back. Right. Now.

. . . or from Tom Paoletti. Talking to Tom could, quite possibly, clear things up, too.

And, of course, she had a different reason to talk to Tom, since HeartBeat’s threats to pull out of their distribution deal meant that Troubleshooters Incorporated could well be out of a job. There was no way Jane could afford to keep paying them.

She rummaged in the desk drawer where she tossed business cards. Tom’s was in there, near the top. His office number was on the front—but that got her an answering machine. His cell number bumped her over to voice mail, too.

On the back of the card there was another number, written in her own handwriting. It must be his number at home. No, wait, that wasn’t home. He’d told her he was spending a few weeks on a vacation of sorts, renting a house on the beach in Malibu, right on Pacific Coast Highway. When he’d given her that number, he’d said, “Don’t hesitate to call.”

So she stopped hesitating.

A woman picked up. “Hello?”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Jane said. “I’m trying to reach Tom. This is Mercedes Chadwick.”

“Oh, hi, Mercedes. I’m Kelly, Tom’s wife. It’s not a problem at all.” Jane could hear laughter in the background, as if there were some kind of party going on. “He’s here, but he’s out on the beach, talking with one of his men. Is this urgent? Do you need me to—”

“No, no,” Jane said. “I just . . . Is it . . . By any chance is he with Cosmo Richter?”

“That’s right, yeah, you know Cos,” Kelly said. “I can try to signal them from the deck if you—”

“No,” Jane said. “Thank you, but . . . Do you expect them to be very long?”

“They better not be,” Kelly said. “No, no, Murph, put it over here.
Here,
on the counter. It’s greasy on the bottom. Sorry about that. The pizzas just arrived and—hang on . . .” She covered the mouthpiece of the telephone, but Jane could still hear her. “It’s on the refrigerator door. Get a glass for Sophia, too, will you?” She came back. “I’m sorry—”

“Sophia’s there?” Jane asked, the words escaping before she could clamp her teeth shut over them.

“Oh, do you know her, too?” Kelly said.

“Blond and perfect, right?” Jane asked through clenched teeth. Son of a bitch—the
son
of a
bitch
!

Kelly laughed. “I guess you know her.”

How could this be? Cosmo couldn’t—he wouldn’t—do this. And yet here he was. Right after spending the night in Jane’s bed, he sure as hell looked as if he were now sniffing his way down Sophia’s perfect little blond garden path.

God
damn,
but she always picked the total losers. “Motherfah—” she said, catching herself just in time.

“Excuse me?” Kelly asked.

Jane cleared her throat. “Tell Cosmo—” No. No. Don’t assume. Never assume. Until she spoke directly to Cosmo, until he said, “Yes, Jane, you idiot, I’ve totally played you. All those heartfelt conversations in your kitchen, the sweetness of my kisses, the whole tears in the eyes bit—a total act to get you into bed. I am scum. I am rotting scum. I am the worst of all the losers you’ve foolishly chosen, because you actually, stupidly thought I was different. Which makes you the biggest loser of all. But really, that’s not news to you, is it?”

“Shall I have Tom call you?” Kelly asked, with that “oh, my goodness, are you nuts or is it Tourette’s?” tone in her voice.

“Do you have an attached garage?” Jane asked because, damn it, she was through putting her life on hold for some lunatic with a computer who would probably never venture out of his mother’s basement. She’d had enough of rearranging her existence for some clever hacker who’d somehow gotten hold of those e-mails that had been sent to that dead lawyer in Idaho.

“I’m . . . sorry?” Kelly asked.

“You’re staying in Malibu, right? I was thinking of spending some time up there,” Jane lied, “and I’m looking for a house to rent, but it’s got to have an attached garage.” Which meant she could go from her garage here in Hollywood to Tom and Kelly’s in Malibu without ever stepping outside. Which meant she would be safe from her imaginary killer’s imaginary bullets.

“Um, yeah,” Kelly said, sounding more and more perplexed. “This place is really nice. It’s right on the beach. There’s a two-car garage, actually.”

“Fabulous,” Jane said. “It’s on Pacific Coast Highway right? Number . . .” God, the street numbers up there had to be huge. “Seventy-two thousand and . . . ?” she guessed, picking a number out of thin air.

“It’s in the twenty-threes,” Kelly said, which was good enough, considering Cosmo’s truck would be parked in the driveway. “If you want, I can get you the name of the rental agent who handles—”

“That’d be wonderful,” Jane said. “Thanks so much!”

She cut the connection before she did something stupid, like start to cry into the ear of a total stranger.

She was going to Malibu, where she’d give Cosmo the chance to tell her to her face why he was quitting, and why he was attending a pizza party with Sophia-the-perfect on the evening after he’d shared Jane’s bed.

It was serendipitous, because if his answer
was
“Because I’m scum,” Jane could use the opportunity to warn Sophia.

Because no one, not even women who were perfect, deserved to be hurt like that.

Jane grabbed her purse, a scarf, and dark sunglasses and thundered down the stairs.

“I’m going out.”

Decker looked up to see Jane standing in the kitchen doorway. He laughed—for about half a second. But then he stopped because she wasn’t kidding. “Jane. Wait. You know that’s not a good idea.”

“Tell me,” she said, holding his gaze with an intensity that was alarming, “that you know—without a doubt—that this threat is real. Tell me you’re convinced, absolutely, that I’m in serious danger.”

“Well,” he started, stalling, because it was obvious she was upset.

“Yes, Jane, the threat is real,”
she persisted. “If you truly believe it. . . .”

But he didn’t. He wasn’t convinced. “It’s not that cut-and-dried. Until we have more information, we need to treat this as if it’s—”

But Jane had already turned away. “Feel free to come along and throw yourself between me and any stray bullets,” she said as she headed for the garage, putting the scarf over her head—like that was some kind of useful disguise.

“Wait,” he said again. “Stop. Where are you going? Are you going to the studio?”

Jane didn’t stop. “I’m going to Malibu.”

What? Why? “Okay,” Decker said. “Hold on. Let’s slow down here. You know I can’t tell you what to do, but I can certainly recommend that—”

She got into her car.

He got in beside her. “Jane. I don’t know what’s in Malibu—”

“My life,” she said, her eyes flashing and her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel. “My life is in Malibu. And in Hollywood and Beverly Hills, and all those ‘dangerous’ locations where my movie is being made without me! It’s not locked up here, in this stupid house! How long am I supposed to hide from some loony tunes psycho e-mailer who probably isn’t even a real threat?”

Decker nodded. “I can understand your frustration, but taking these temporary precautions—”

“Temporary?” she said.
“Temporary?”

“Yes, temporary. Look, I know what you’re feeling. Everyone goes through it. There’s even a name for it—prison fever. It’s when the anger catches up with the fear, and protective custody feels more like a jail sentence—”

“How long is my sentence going to last, Deck? Four months? Six to twelve? Two to four
years
?”

“I don’t know,” Decker told her. “You know I don’t know. What I do know is you need to take a deep breath and let me make some phone calls, set up backup, arrange this for you—for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” She laughed. “Want to hear something really funny?” she asked. “HeartBeat is going to kill our deal and pull their money because I won’t cut those pesky gay people from my movie. ‘The World War Two drama is just as compelling without Jack Shelton,’ ” she said, pitching her voice to sound deep and stupid. “ ‘The director agrees with our assessment—that the movie doesn’t lose a thing by removing the controversial material.’ Fuck! That! I’m not changing anything. So tomorrow you won’t be here anyway—I’ll be on my own.”

Decker shook his head. “Jane, we’ll work something out—we’re not just going to quit.”

For some reason that made her laugh, but again it wasn’t a “ha-ha, you’re funny” laugh. It was more of the “oh, my God, I can’t believe you said that” variety.

“I can’t afford you.” She reached up to hit the button for the automatic garage door opener that had just been installed. “You better get the bill for this equipment submitted to HeartBeat tonight.”

Deck grabbed her wrist. “I should drive. You should be in the back with your head down.”

“Yeah, right,” she said. “Then we’ll go where you want to go, which won’t be Malibu. Nice try, Smokey. I’m driving.”

“Start the car first,” Decker told her. “Then open the door. Move fast. Floor it as soon as possible—I’ll tell you when the car’ll clear the garage door.” He now spoke into his radio. “Nash! Stay out of the driveway. Is there traffic on the street?”