That’s right, debutante, quit and run away.

Isn’t that what everyone expects you to do? So what if Jeremy dies on your watch? You couldn’t be expected to try and save him, could you? You’re just a poor little rich girl!

Okay, so I’ll quit in the morning.

I crawl forward on my hands and knees, behind the pool pump housing, between the latticework and the bushes that rim the pool. A rustle of leaves a short distance away startles me and I bite back a scream. I see him, ten feet away, slowly rising to peer up over the edge of the pool deck.

I hold my breath, wondering what I’ll do when he raises the gun and takes aim, wondering how I’ll keep him from shooting Jeremy, or me, or both of us….

Dear Reader,

Porsche Rothschild may be a tad high maintenance, but she’s got a heart of gold and perhaps that’s why I needed to tell her story. I guess when I start a book I’m just like you, wondering who these new characters are and where their adventures will lead them. I was surprised to find the many hidden mysteries and secrets Porsche’s pretty little rich-girl exterior hid. Deep down inside, Porsche needed to find love; she needed to feel that she was making a contribution to the world; and she needed someone and something to believe in. I loved everyone I met as Porsche and I traveled to L.A. Jeremy reminded me of Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean, and Sam, well…What can I say about a man as darkly attractive as that hunk of burning cowboy love? I only hope you have as much fun with my new friends as I had writing about them! Oh, and let’s not forget Marlena, the little show-off who just might upstage her mistress now and then!

Please log on to my Web site, www.nancybartholomew.com, and let me know what you think. I love hearing from my readers!

Sincerely,

Nancy Bartholomew

Lethally Blonde
Nancy Bartholomew

Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Nancy Bartholomew for her contribution to THE IT GIRLS series.

ISBN: 9781408946145

Lethally Blonde

© Nancy Bartholomew 2005

First Published in Great Britain in 2005

Harlequin (UK) Limited

Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, including without limitation xerography, photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the prior consent of the publisher, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this work have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.á.r.l.

® and TM are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

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NANCY BARTHOLOMEW

didn’t seem like the Bombshell type at first. Sure, she grew up in Philadelphia, but she was a gentle minister’s daughter. Sometimes, though, true wildness simmers just below the surface. Nancy started singing country music in biker bars before she graduated from high school. And, yes, Dad was there, sitting in the front row, watching over his little girl!

Nancy graduated from college with a degree in psychology and promptly moved into the inner city, where she found work dragging addicted inner-city teenagers into drug and alcohol rehabilitation. She then moved south to Atlanta and worked as the director of a substance-abuse treatment program for court-ordered offenders. Her patients were bikers and strippers and they taught her well…lock picking, exotic dancing, gunplay for beginners and hot-wiring cars.

When the criminal life became less of a challenge, Nancy turned to the final frontier…parenthood. This drove her to writing. While her boys were toddlers, Nancy spent their nap times creating alternate realities. Nancy lives in North Carolina, rides with the police on a regular basis, raises two hooligan teenage boys and tries to keep up with her writing, her psychotherapy practice and her garden. She thanks you from the bottom of her heart for reading this book!

For the “It” Boys! Where would I be without you?

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

COMING NEXT MONTH

Chapter 1

Emma Bosworth is a manipulative, lying bitch and therefore, my absolute best friend in all the universe, even if she has turned her evil powers against me and Marlena. I can fend for myself, but Marlena’s too little to put up much of a fight. I wouldn’t be in this complete and total crisis if Emma hadn’t convinced me to let Marlena have her nails done all by herself, while Emma and I have just the teensiest Cosmopolitan at Bemelmans.

“Now, honey,” Emma says, “Marlena will be fine. It’s best if her momma doesn’t watch and besides, you know how long silk wraps take!” Emma shakes her head slowly, making her long auburn hair shimmer in the shop’s light, and smoothes her immaculate Chanel suit impatiently. Emma is not big on public displays of emotion.

I look at my poor, dear sweetie and shudder. Her first silk wraps.

“Are you sure Lisa’s good?” I ask.

Emma’s already huge green eyes widen and she gives me this look like, “Oh my God, sometimes you are just so blonde!”

“Bug,” she says. “La Chien is the only salon Vera Wang uses for her babies!”

Emma has called me Bug from the first day we met. She said she couldn’t stand the name Porsche, even if it is really pronounced like Portia. “It’s so nouveau riche,” she’d said. “At least be original. Be a red VW convertible with a black leather interior. It’s so you—all dark on the inside and flashy on the outside. That’s what I’m going to call you, Lady Bug.” Only it got shortened to Bug and soon all the girls we hung out with were calling me Bug.

Emma brings me back to reality by taking my arm and pulling me out the salon door. I look back at Marlena and see she is already licking Lisa’s fingers; my little ferret, alone for the first time in the big wide world without her mommy!

I am so beside myself that I let Emma drag me away. I drink the first two Cosmos without even realizing what I’m doing and that’s saying something because Bemelmans’ Cosmos are just so completely memorable. The third round arrives and I realize an absolutely sweet man at the bar is smiling at me.

“Oh, dear God,” Emma breathes. “I can’t believe it. Why now? Damn!” Then, as if she hadn’t said any of that, she says, “Bug, don’t you know who that is?”

I’m telling you, all I can see is his black Jack Spade man-bag. I can spot one of those even without my glasses, so if the details of his overall appearance are a little fuzzy, well excuse me. He looks tall, dark and rich. What more do I need to know?

“I have no idea who he is,” I tell Emma. “But he fits the profile for ‘You Can Smile At Me Anytime.’”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s Aldo Huffman,” she says, sounding not a little bit impatient.

I squint in his direction and wish I’d put in my contacts, but really, Emma was in such a hurry that I just ran to the limo without putting them in.

“Aldo Huffman? He like, grew up into that? He looks so…European. Oh. My. God! He was, like, such a little swine when we debuted! You know he was the kid voted most likely to grow up and face a federal grand jury for embezzling from his own company!” I narrow my eyes into slits and try to make out the details, but it really doesn’t matter because he is on his way over to our table.

Five minutes after Aldo joins us, I send a car to pick up my ferret and take her home. Mother love is one thing, but lust is essential to a woman’s survival, you know? We have a lovely dinner at La Petit Ennui and decide to hit the Canal Room where Aldo says he’s meeting a friend. He smiles at Emma and winks, so I figure it’s a fix-up.

When Aldo’s friend joins us, I have to pinch myself because the man is exquisite. Dark black hair, ultra-Latino, dressed in Armani, with bedroom eyes that make me forget handsome Aldo entirely. Tomorrow the New York Reporter will have our faces plastered all over it with “Who’s Porsche’s New Boy Toy?” captions running below them. Am I lucky or what?

Emma and I hit the ladies’ room to freshen up, and I tell her that I think I’m falling in love.

“Don’t,” she says and the trouble starts.

Something in her voice sends a chill straight through my alcohol-numbed body, sobering me instantly. I mean, don’t get me wrong; Emma and I are not fools. We both know I’m not the least bit serious about falling in love. Falling in love, when you’re saddled with more money than God, only happens after a thorough investigation of assets, skeletons and criminal backgrounds. So, for Emma to take The Tone with me, well, there has to be something seriously wrong.

“Oh, I see, you want him.”

“Don’t be silly, Bug! It’s not that. Besides, you’re more his type. He likes leggy blondes with big blue eyes, not short, little redheads.”

I’m confused. “What then, is he married?”

Emma smiles. “I doubt it.” Her face gets that look again though, and she turns away to inspect her lipstick in the mirror. “I know him, not well, but our paths cross now and then and well, I just don’t think he’s trustworthy, that’s all.”

I shrug and join her at the mirror. “Oh, well, if that’s all…”

Emma won’t let it go. “No, Bug, I don’t think that’s all. God, you and your weakness for the bad boys! I’m serious, Buggie, I don’t like him.”

I tuck my lipstick back into my beaded Gucci evening bag and turn to stare gravely at my friend.

“Do you want to leave?”

Emma is really getting wiggy on me now. “No, no, not at all! Let’s stay. Let’s dance. But let’s not play favorites, all right? We’ll just keep it a group thing, shall we?”

Well, she is my best friend but she is also a very skillful manipulator—this I remember from boarding school. She’s not the only one with tricks up her sleeve. I decide right then and there that Emma’s not giving me the entire story, so it’s up to me to figure it all out on my own.

We walk back out into the club and find Aldo and his friend already have the best table in the house, right by the dance floor. An ice bucket has materialized by our table. A bottle of Cristal champagne is being opened by a waitress and four champagne flutes sit in the center of the tiny wooden circle.

At least I know the drinks aren’t drugged. I slip into the vacant seat next to Aldo’s friend and smile as a photographer snaps my picture from the edge of the dance floor. The bouncers rush up to remove him but I wave them away. I’m enjoying this evening too much to waste negative energy on the press.

“Ray, this is Porsche,” Aldo says over the noise of the music.

Ray takes my hand, looks deep into my eyes and I feel every nerve ending in my body wanting him. Emma kicks me and I yelp, drop his hand like a hot rock and glower at her. When Aldo introduces Ray to Emma, she smiles knowingly, rises and pulls him up out of his seat and out onto the dance floor.

The scheming bitch! This was her plan all along. She throws me off balance and then runs off with the prize. I remember the way her face changed as she warned me about him. Emma has never been able to lie to me. She doesn’t like Ray and yet, there she is, dancing with him.

Aldo slides over, taking Emma’s seat, and begins talking about his recent trip to Greece. I listen to him, but the attraction I felt for him is gone. I am distracted, watching Emma and Ray, wondering what in the hell is going on?

When they come back to the table, Aldo stays in Emma’s seat and so she takes his and begins laughing and flirting with Ray. I try to kick her and miss. She is too far away. I glare at her when the men are not looking. She ignores me. Many people come up and talk to us, more for Aldo than anyone, but still, I know people here, too, so for a while I bide my time and pretend to be fascinated by the acquaintances who drop by to chat.

At last, I see an opportunity. I pretend to reach for a napkin in the center of the table, let my arm “accidentally” knock against Ray’s almost-full champagne glass and then gasp as it tips over, falling to spill icy liquid into his lap. He jumps up, I lean forward as if to help, and with one smooth movement, slip his billfold out of his suit coat pocket and slide it down my thigh and into the inside pocket of my faux chinchilla shrug.

I am so-o-o apologetic! The waitresses come running. Emma shoots me the evil eye and Aldo misses most of the moment because he is temporarily distracted by the arrival of a new bevy of women at the door.

Ray is the only member of our party who is not flustered. He is polite, and affects a very unconcerned manner, but for one brief slice of a second his eyes meet mine and look straight through to my soul. It is a bone-chilling search of my intent—at least, this is how it feels—and for a moment I am worried that he somehow knows what I’m up to, but then, how could he? I force myself to sit still for a minute before I excuse myself and wander off toward the ladies’ room again. I am surprised when Emma doesn’t join me.

I dart into a stall, bolt the door and sit down on the toilet. I reach for Ray’s wallet, feel the smooth soft, leather and smile as I pull it from my pocket.

“Thank you, Papa,” I whisper.

I have one or two very vague memories of my real father. In one, he is a large man, but then, I was but a small child, and he is laughing as he pulls a quarter from my ear and a flower from my sleeve. My mother and Victor are watching and they are not happy, but Papa is very, very happy. Now I think, perhaps he was drunk, but then, he just seemed happy.

“Leave us alone,” I hear my mother say, and she is crying. One day, my father leaves and never returns. When I am older, I buy a magic kit with my own money. I get very, very good at it, but Papa never returns. But when I have magic, he is never very far away.

I open the thin, flat billfold and begin to examine it. There are the usual credit cards. Ray’s full name is Octavio Reymundo Estanza and while he lives in Manhattan, I do not recognize the address. His business card is printed on heavy, ivory stock and reads simply “Octagon Enterprises, Inc.,” with addresses and phone numbers in New York, Los Angeles and Madrid. I probe further, pulling out a picture of a beautiful dark-haired woman when the door to the ladies’ room bursts open. A female voice is speaking in harsh, rapid-fire Spanish.

“Watch the door. If someone wants in, tell them it’s broken and they must use the other restrooms.”

A second voice, also female, agrees as the door closes behind her. What I hear next turns my stomach and I pull my feet up onto the seat so I won’t be seen. It is Emma.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “What is going on?”

The other woman switches from Spanish to flawless English. “Whore! You know why we are here.”

I peek through the crack in the door and see a flash of silver. I think maybe it is a gun. I look at the floor and see three sets of high heels. Shit!

“Listen, if that’s your husband,” Emma begins again. She is cut off by the sound of a slap that echoes through the tiled bathroom.

“Shut up, bitch!” the other woman cries. “There is no more time for lies. Tell me who you work for or I’ll kill you.”

Emma says nothing. She cries out as the woman hits her again, only this time I don’t think she has used her hand. What am I going to do? I don’t have a weapon. If I try and call for help, they’ll shoot us both.

“Who are you working for?” the woman demands. “Who is she? Tell me now and you die quickly—delay and your death will be very painful.”

Shit! Victor and Mother were always insisting I hire bodyguards and I was always giving them the slip. Why didn’t I listen to them? I draw in a deep, silent breath and think, well, at least it will be an honorable death. I place my feet down onto the floor, flush the commode and slowly open the door.

I can’t tell who is more shocked, the two women holding Emma, Emma herself, or me. I step out, just as if nothing whatsoever is happening and smile brightly at them all.

“Hello!” I say. I let my eyes come to rest on the gun and then look at the woman holding the gun. She is the same woman as the one whose picture is in Ray’s wallet. Great, the irate spouse.

“Oh, dear me!” I say. “I know you! I just saw your picture! Here, look!”

I shove the small wallet-size picture at her. For a moment she is distracted, and this is all the time it takes. Emma darts around me and does the most amazing kick-thing with her right leg. The gun goes flying in one direction and Emma’s attacker is suddenly on the floor staring up at a very irate Emma.

Emma doesn’t see the other woman coming for her, but I do. I don’t really have any time to think. I just reach out, grab her long, black hair in one hand and yank her backward, hard, into the frame of the metal bathroom stall. Emma springs forward, retrieves the gun from its resting place under a sink and stands up, covering both women with the weapon.

Emma Bosworth has never held a gun in her life, at least as far as I know. Her family is Quaker. They don’t believe in it. Yet here’s my Emma holding the little silver gun and looking positively violent!

She reaches her free hand into her pocket, pulls out a tiny cell phone, hands it to me and says, “Hit one on the speed dial.”

So of course I do. A woman answers and says, “Emma?” in a voice I don’t recognize.

I look at Emma who says, “Tell her that I need a pickup in the ladies’ room.”

Now I know the world has turned upside down because Emma Bosworth would never be doing these sorts of things. But I do as I’m told and the woman on the other end says, “Right.” But she never asks where we are or what’s going on. She just hangs up.

“What about the one guarding the door?” I ask Emma.

Emma looks a little uncertain and appears to be mulling over her options. While I, on the other hand, am completely undone and wish like hell for another Bemelmans Cosmo to settle my nerves. Of course the bathroom door just has to open then, and as I’m standing right by it, I am the one who must deal with the problem.

I grab her arm and pull her forward into the room before she can say or do anything. Emma lifts the gun just slightly so the newcomer can see that someone will surely die if she doesn’t behave and says, “Search her.”

“Emma,” I say, starting to do just as I’m told. “Are you a cop?”

Before she can answer me the door to the ladies’ room opens again and the room fills with three very burly men in black camou outfits. The music outside stops and a voice says, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please remain exactly where you are. The Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms people are only here to perform a routine check for underage patrons. I’m sure no one has a thing to worry about.”

Mass panic ensues as nine out of ten patrons begin emptying their pockets of illegal substances and I realize that this is far more than the ATF riding to the rescue. Emma is handing over her prisoners and quietly issuing orders. When she turns to me again, she smiles and takes my arm.

“There’s a car waiting for us in the alley,” she says.

She reaches for my elbow, but I step back out of her reach. “Emma, who are you and what exactly is going on?”

Emma’s lips compress into a flat obstinate line, no longer smiling. “I’ll tell you in the car.”

“No,” I say and shake my head. “Tell me now.”

Emma shakes her head. “I can’t explain it here, Bug. Come on.”

I take another step backward. “I don’t think I know you, Emma. Guns? Men in black? ATF? What is all this?”

Emma’s features soften. “Bug, honey, I’m still me. I’m just helping with something very important and I’m not allowed to say, at least not here. Trust me, Bug. I’m not a bad guy. I’ll take you to meet my boss. You’ll see. You’ll love her.”

It is the pleading look in her eyes that makes me relent and follow her out the back exit of the Canal Room and into the waiting limo, but I promise myself that I’ll never again agree to let my poor baby, Marlena, have a silk wrap without mommy.

“You’ll love Renee,” Emma says as the car pulls out of the alley and accelerates. “But do me a favor, Bug, don’t ask any questions. When Renee’s ready, she’ll tell you about us, but until she is, it’s just better if you let it go.”

Let it go? Forget women holding guns on Emma and people in black camou outfits swarming the Canal Room like ninjas? Let it go? But Emma has that look in her eyes again, and so I figure I’ll let it go, for now.

“Oh,” I say, digging into the pocket of my shrug again, “here.” I hand Emma Ray’s wallet. “I don’t know if this’ll help or not, but I can’t keep it.”

Emma’s eyes widen. “How did you…”

I grin. “You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine,” I say, and lean back into the soft cushions of the limousine.

Emma chuckles. “All right, Bug, have it your way!”

We are silent for the rest of the ride, silent as the limo pulls into an underground garage and silent as Emma leads me into an elevator to meet her friend, Renee.

“You’re just going to love Renee,” Emma gushes again. “We all do.”

When I first meet Renee I think she must’ve watched one too many action-adventure movies. I mean, I know she commands troops of people in black who swoop down to rescue her friends from terrible trouble just in the knick of time, but does she really have to be so incredibly rigid? Don’t get me wrong. When I get old like her I want to be powerful enough to have two of my friends saved with just one tiny phone call, but I will not lose sight of my femininity.

Renee doesn’t look like a man or anything but she’s just so formal. I meet her at 3:00 a.m. and she’s wearing a Chanel suit and three-inch Ferragamo pumps. Not one auburn hair is out of place. Her makeup is understated and flawless. To make matters worse, she greets me like I’m in a receiving line at the British embassy or something. She’s cold, stern and impossibly remote. You’d think she was the Queen of England greeting a commoner.

I look around the room and I realize she’s got money, but still, she’s not in my financial tier. I try to take some comfort in this. At least I know I’ll always be richer than she is, but then, I’ll always be richer than almost anyone on the planet. After a point, money is just money. But command, now that’s an aphrodisiac. Renee acts as if she is accustomed to the mantle of power; that is what’s making me so uncomfortable.

Renee lives in a brownstone and while it is nice, it’s no penthouse. And, studying her closely, I’m almost certain there’s been work done. I mean, what woman in her forties hasn’t had something altered? I just can’t put my finger on who did her. It looks so natural. Her hair is strikingly auburn. Her complexion fair and unblemished. She’s thin, but not anorexic. It’s so unfair!

I sit in a wingback chair in Renee’s parlor, listening as Renee and Emma talk and wonder why Emma adores Renee. She is about as easy to be around as a porcupine. Still, I haven’t been here two hours and Renee has somehow managed to get me to tell her things almost no one knows. I don’t mean just the stuff you read in magazines or tabloids, I mean everything. She does it so skillfully that I barely realize she’s interrogating me while managing not to give away one piece of her own personal information. I’ve been studying clinical psychology for four years and I still can’t do that!

When Renee goes in for the big finish with me she is so good I don’t even see it coming.

“So,” she says in her clipped, polished voice, “your wealthy stepfather married your mother when you were a toddler. You have never wanted for anything, never worked, never needed and certainly never bothered to exert yourself in any fashion. I suppose you must be wondering who on this planet would miss you if you suddenly disappeared. I mean, if things had somehow gone tragically awry this evening.”

We are drinking this amazing white Bordeaux and I admit I’m feeling it. So at first I think she is still speaking to Emma, only she has turned her head in my direction and is still talking.

“No one would miss the ‘It’ girl,” she says. “They would be replaced by the next hot rich thing.”

A cold chill sobers me as her words echo in my head. I mean, who would miss me? Paparazzi? My ferret? Emma? Who would remember me for anything but my money? What would my obituary say in True Style magazine? Big, fat tears well up in my eyes and I look around for help from Emma, only she has mysteriously vanished. When did she leave the room?

“Emma will miss me,” I say, but I sound uncertain, even to myself.

Renee smiles. “Of course she will…for a while. Emma is such a dear girl. I’m sure she’d compose a piece about you—she’s such a fabulous pianist. Her life will roll along and eventually, she’ll hardly remember to think of you. She won’t mean anything by it, but that’s just how she is.”

Renee sips her wine and stares at the flames dancing in the fireplace while I just sit there like a lump. I am twenty-four, beautiful, smart, incredibly wealthy and, for all intents and purposes, useless. What am I going to do, endow a building? I swallow, hard, and feel tears threaten to turn into sobs of regret.

“I’m young,” I struggle to say at last. “I have lots of time to create a legacy.”

Renee turns away from the fire and raises one imperious eyebrow. “Do you? One never knows. Your jet could crash tomorrow. You could wake up with a brain tumor. Does one ever really know how much time one has?”

I chug the last half glass of wine and realize that I am completely sober.

“I’m taking courses in clinical psychology at the New School,” I say, and give away the one secret I have left. Against my parents’ wishes and without their knowledge, I am going to graduate school. Why do I suddenly feel as if I have to justify my worth to this woman? “I am a semester away from getting my master’s, and,” I add, “I’ve almost completed analysis.”

“So, you want to be a psychologist, do you?”

“Yes, an analyst.”

“And have a private practice or work in a clinic?”

I don’t see Renee closing in for the kill until it’s too late.

“Oh, private practice, that way I can set my own hours.”

Renee nods and smiles her Cheshire cat smile. “So, you’ll give up your travels, I suppose. After all, most analysands do require thrice weekly therapy.”

I swallow hard. Well, I most certainly am not going to do any such thing, but how can I tell her that? And no way was I going to work in a clinic! But if I say any of this, Renee will see me as I’m beginning to see myself, only Renee and I are both wrong about me. I am a good person, aren’t I, even if I don’t have much to show for it?

When I don’t answer, Renee says, “You’re young. You have energy. You know, I run a foundation with women just like yourself.”

Oh, a foundation—now that was easy. Why didn’t Emma tell me Renee ran a foundation? Did she do this in addition to whatever it was she did that involved those commando types? Was she in law enforcement or something?

Maybe Renee will tell all if I express an interest in her charity. All you need to have to join a foundation is money. I can so do that.

“I would adore joining your foundation,” I gush. But inside, I am secretly disappointed. I suddenly want to join whatever it is that gives you strong, virile men in black SWAT costumes for backup. I want to shoot a gun and flip people over my hip, like Emma did with the Italian woman. It might be fun. I need a thrill in my life. When is Renee going to realize that I am trustworthy and let me in on the real deal?

Renee leans back in her wingchair and seems to study me for a moment before she smiles. “I was hoping you’d say that,” she says. “The Gotham Roses are a very prestigious group of women. I would guess Emma hasn’t spoken much about her work with them, has she?”

I shake my head, genuinely puzzled. She hasn’t, and I thought we shared everything!

Renee moves forward in her seat and regards me with a very serious expression. “Porsche, Emma vouched for you. She says you can keep a secret and are not as bubbleheaded as your press exploits might lead one to believe.”

I start to protest, but something in her eyes stops me.

“Porsche, I would like to tell you about the Gotham Roses, but before I do, I must know that you understand that what I am about to tell you is highly confidential. Lives hang in the balance based on my ability to pick and choose whom I confide in. Would I be making a mistake to tell you about the Roses?”

I have no idea what the woman is talking about but I do know one thing—Porsche Rothschild can carry a secret to the grave. I know things about my friends and their families that would ruin them if I told. Nothing, no amount of liquor or persuasion, has ever gotten one detail past my sealed lips!

“I assure you, I can keep a confidence,” I say.

Renee’s expression doesn’t relax.

“Porsche, if you decide to proceed with this conversation, I will need to tell you something.”

I nod, as if she’s making sense to me and long for another sip of wine. Somehow I know that this would be the wrong thing to do.

“Porsche, believe me, if I were to learn that one word of what we discuss tonight becomes public knowledge, I could bring forces to bear that would ruin your family and end all possibility of you ever becoming a psychologist. Do you understand me?”

I can hardly believe what I am hearing. Ruin my family? Who the hell is this woman? I know better, but still a frisson of fear ignites deep inside my chest. Do I really want to hear what she has to say?

I swallow, hard. “You have my word,” I promise.

Renee nods, reaches into a small wooden box that sits on the end table beside her and withdraws a small, handheld tape recorder.

“I’ll need to make a record of this,” she says, and clicks on the tiny machine. “Discussion with Porsche Dewitt Rothschild.”

“You know my middle name?”

Renee stops and smiles. “It’s not exactly a state secret, Porsche. But, yes, before speaking with you, I had a thorough background investigation completed. As I said, Emma placed your name before me for consideration some months ago. We just didn’t have need of your talents until recently.”

Talents, what talents?

“The foundation, the Gotham Roses, operates on two levels,” Renee begins. “On the lower level, we are a group of talented and wealthy women who do good works in the New York area, promoting worthwhile causes for women. But on another highly exclusive and top secret level, we work to help certain government agencies fight crimes perpetrated against, and sometimes by, the very wealthy.”

Renee watches me, to see if I am following her, and so I nod even if I don’t fully get it yet.

“Because of our family backgrounds and names, we are sometimes able to gain access to a level of society that regular law enforcement rarely permeates. Because your name is so instantly recognized, Porsche, and because of your reputation as a party girl…” Renee holds up her hand as I begin to protest. “Deserved or not,” she adds, “we have a need for your help.”

I am thrilled. I am so excited suddenly to be a member of the team that I almost jump out of my seat and kiss the woman, and yet, a little voice inside my head says, Be careful what you ask for!

“A situation may be arising,” Renee continues, “in which we could use someone with your skills in the psychological arena. I mean, I know you’re by no means a trained psychologist, but you do have a certain understanding of these sorts of issues. And the situation I have in mind requires a certain delicacy and, shall we say, name recognition. We need a very high-profile socialite for this case, an ‘It’ girl, someone everyone knows and watches and yet, doesn’t take seriously.”

Doesn’t take seriously? Now wait a minute!

Renee ignores the frown on my face and keeps right on going. “We have a little bit of training that you’ll need to undertake, as a precaution. You probably won’t need it, but it’s always nice to have a few tricks up your sleeve just in case. It will certainly be nowhere near as risky as the situation Emma was involved with, but still, it’s nice to be able to take care of yourself in a pinch.”

Of course, I had no idea then what Renee was talking about. And here it is, almost two weeks later and I still feel like Renee hasn’t told me everything. However, I’m realizing Emma Bosworth and Renee Dalton-Sinclair had this all mapped out long before I flew in from Paris with Marlena and decided it might be lovely to have my ferret’s nails manicured. Renee’s investigators have done their homework, too. How else could she know so much about me? That I have an almost photographic memory? Or that I grew up thinking Victor Rothschild was my real father, right up until I found my mother’s old marriage certificate saying she’d been married to some man named Lambert Hughes when I was born? How else would she seem to know every secret I’ve ever told that devious Emma if they hadn’t been plotting to get me into Renee’s elite little club?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask Emma the next afternoon. I am hoping she will think I know more than I actually do and tell me the rest of the story, the real guns-and-ammo part of the story.

She has the nerve to play dumb. “What?”

“The Gotham Roses? How could you be involved in something so secret, so dangerous, so…”

“We try and help others,” Emma began, but I cut her off.

“Bullshit! Renee says you work with the FBI, the CIA and God knows who else. And this training, my God—self-defense, secret communication devices, and yet you two just keep saying it’s really not dangerous? Renee says it’s more of a psychological assessment than a real mission. What are you guys, superspies?”

Emma looks at me like I just don’t get it, sighs and shakes her head. “Bug, this is not a game and it’s not all glamour. We are not Charlie’s Angels. Renee works for a woman she calls the Governess on cases that involve the top layer of society that others just don’t have access to because they don’t have the right contacts. We do the training because Renee feels it’s better to be prepared for anything, even if the danger doesn’t materialize.”

“Oh, Emma, please!” I say. “Next thing you’ll be saying ‘It’s dirty work but somebody’s gotta do it!’”

Emma nods. “Well, it is. It’s unfortunate that there’s so much crime among the rich and privileged, but that’s the way the world is now. The Governess is not without her enemies, either. There is someone she and Renee call ‘The Duke,’ who is just as determined to bring down the Governess and the Roses as we are to stop his nefarious influence in the top echelon of society. The Gotham Roses are not dilettantes trying on crime-fighting for a hobby.”

I don’t believe a word of it, but two weeks later, after personal trainers and coaches have done their best to work me over and prepare me for anything, I’m actually relieved to be leaving town. So what if my assignment isn’t exactly dangerous? No matter how it turns out, it’ll still be better than riding the endless party circuit and listening to dull stories told by dull people. I’ll actually have a life, even if I can’t tell anyone about it!

The night before I am due to leave Renee calls me into her study and tells me all about my assignment.

“Jeremy Reins, the actor, says someone’s trying to kill him,” Renee says. “But the evidence indicates it’s just another one of his publicity stunts.”

She tells me this right after I come in from a grueling sparring match with her self-defense expert, Jimmy “The Heartbreaker” Valentine. I’ve broken four nails, had half my extensions pulled out and have the beginnings of a nasty bruise forming under my right eye. And here is Renee, telling me she doesn’t think it’s even a true assignment?

“So, why not blow the idiot off?” I ask. “It’s not like he’s really anybody. Besides, he’s been getting himself into a lot of trouble lately. The talk is that he has an attraction for kinky sex with very young men.” I shrug. “He’s just an actor.”

“Just an actor?” she says raising that eyebrow of hers.

“Okay, okay, so he’s golden at the box office, but who cares? I mean, if he’s faking it, why not just let him hire extra bodyguards?”

Renee shrugs. “The Governess feels he’s a national treasure and Jeremy’s agent, Mark Lowenstein, is married to a woman who has done us many favors in the past. Andrea Lowenstein is saying she feels a stalker or even a terrorist could be behind these attacks. Reins has done several commando, patriotic, action-adventure films in the past and could be the object of a terrorist vendetta. The Governess feels Andrea Lowenstein’s concern is credible. Anyway, it’s just not good to ignore such a visible and beloved member of the public. If something really did happen, it would make the rest of the country uneasy. We don’t need to take that chance.”

She smiles at me, like I’m going to fall for it, and says, “We have you. With your training in clinical psychology, you’ll be perfectly capable of discerning the threat level and letting us know if we need to send a team of more seasoned agents out to eliminate the issue.”

Seasoned agents, right! I’m sure the entire thing is just a publicity stunt. But I have to admit the idea is somewhat enticing, especially with the rumors I’ve heard on the circuit that Jeremy is gay. I like knowing the real scoop and this will certainly be the way to find out. Renee doesn’t wait for me to accept. She assumes I will do her bidding and continues talking.

“You’ll be Jeremy’s date for the Oscars and he’ll be yours for CeCe Goldberg’s post-Oscar charity party. That’s your cover, a budding romance and your charity work,” she says. “All the Roses have special charities they support. Yours is the Miller Children’s Home. CeCe Goldberg, as I’m sure you know, is not only a world renowned investigative reporter, she is also director Spiro Goldberg’s wife and quite active with children’s charities. You’ll be the celebrity co-host of the post-Oscar event for a new children’s home attached to Miller Children’s Hospital. Andrea Lowenstein will be the only one who knows your true reason for staying at Paradise Ranch. Jeremy will be only too happy to have you as his guest because he doesn’t want the rumors about his sexuality spreading and destroying his box office appeal. You have both the name and the, er, reputation to dispel any and all doubts the public may have. I’m sure he’ll be only too happy to stick to you like glue and show you all around Paradise Ranch, as well as the rest of L.A.”

I ignore the comment about my reputation and instead roll my eyes at the mention of Jeremy’s estate—Paradise Ranch, how nouveau riche.

“Has he hired extra security?” I ask.

Renee smiles. “You’re catching on, I see. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t. He says he doesn’t want his attacker to think he’s scared.”

Great. A wild-goose chase. But then, who else would get a shot at analyzing Hollywood’s bad boy? Oh, Renee Dalton-Sinclair is good, all right. She doles out just enough information to pique my curiosity and ensure that I am willing to undergo all kinds of crash courses in self-defense and investigation, then turns me loose and says it’s probably nothing at all.

“You know,” she says, “with your almost photographic memory and your graduate level course work in clinical psychology, you could be most useful to the Gotham Roses, should things go well with this assignment.”

Good old Renee, dangling that golden carrot in front of me. I can only become a permanent fixture in her elite undercover organization if I prove to be successful in my mission in Los Angeles. If I wind up blowing it, I’ll be useless to the Roses. Of course, I am not about to blow it; sneaking around spying into the secret lives of my fellow rich and famous sure beats attending boring theory courses in psychology at the New School. This is where the real fun is.

“What about the press?” I ask. “I mean, will they accept that Jeremy and I are an item? We’ve never been seen together in public before now.”

Renee smiles. “Oh, but you have. Andrea and I have taken care of that on both coasts. Just read In The Know. Rubi Cho’s mentioned the two of you at least three times in her gossip column for the New York Reporter this week. And Andrea’s had Jeremy’s publicist vehemently denying any blossoming romance between the two of you. That should be enough right there to spark a paparazzi feeding frenzy.”

When I wake up in the morning, I pack and prepare for the long trip to L.A. and my new action-packed life. As I walk out to Renee’s waiting limo, her fifteen-year-old daughter, Haley, comes running up behind me.

“Hey!” she calls. Then, when I keep walking, she says it again. “Hey!”

I stop and turn to look back over my shoulder, surprised because the little twit’s made a point of ignoring me for the entire time I’ve been a guest in her home. She’s standing there in her school uniform, looking like a runaway Playmate with her long, straight blond hair, her huge, gray eyes and that innocent, pouty mouth older women pay big bucks for at the plastic surgeon’s office.

I think she’s talking to the driver until she zeroes in on me and says, “Mind if I ride along to the airport?”

I figure it’s Marlena who’s garnered her interest so I say, “She bites.”

“What?”

That’s when I realize Haley hasn’t even noticed Marlena wrapped around my neck like a fur scarf.

“You need a ride to school?”

Haley shakes her head and starts walking toward the car like she owns it, which I suppose, technically, she does. She breezes past me, clambers into the back seat of the limo and before I can even sit down says, “Are you really Jeremy Reins’s girlfriend? So, what’s he like in bed?”

“What?”

I look at Renee’s princess daughter and know my mouth is hanging open. I reach forward, hit the button to slide the privacy glass up between us and the driver and then turn to give the little twit a piece of my mind.

“Listen, where I come from we don’t kiss and tell—and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell a kid like you about something like that! What is wrong with you?”

Haley leans back against the seat and looks at me and I realize she’s completely unfazed by my attempt to chastise her.

“You’re a prude, aren’t you?” she says, like it’s a matter-of-fact thing and not a slur on my good name.

“No,” I say, wishing Marlena would wake up and bite the little shit. “I am just wise enough to know when to keep my mouth shut.”

“Oh, come on!” Haley says, pouting.

“Does your mother know where you are?” I say, and immediately want to shoot myself for sounding like my own mother.

“Can I bum a cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke,” I say, and realize, too late, that Haley is right in the middle of Mahler’s separation-individuation process and doesn’t really mean what she’s saying. So I remember my training and attempt to be therapeutic; after all, this is the first day of my new life.

“Haley, in order to break away from your mother and become your own person, it is perfectly normal for you to rebel and do things that your mother would disapprove of,” I say. “But smoking will kill you.”

“Oh, blow me!” Haley says. Then she sits up and starts rummaging through the drawers of the wet bar until at last she retrieves a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Don’t even think about lighting one of those things!” I command. “Marlena is allergic to smoke.”

Haley gives Marlena a look, like she’s trying to size her up, and finally tosses the pack of unfiltered cigarettes back into the drawer.

“What is he like?” she asks, reverting to Jeremy.

“Spoiled,” I answer.

“Does he love you?”

I give up and decide to enjoy my new role as Jeremy Reins’s fictitious girlfriend. I smile slyly and raise my eyebrows, and then lean in close, like I’m actually going to share a secret with this hellion.

“He’s mad for me,” I say, and giggle. “He fills my tub every night with champagne heated to a perfect ninety-eight degrees, and then he floats rose petals on the water, and not the red ones, either. He knows I abhor red roses, so he has pale yellow and orange ones flown in from his farm in Florida.”

Haley’s eyes are practically popping out of her head and I continue, completely into the lie now.

“He once took a slim silver dagger and sliced a thin line down the center of his chest. When it bled he looked at me, with tears in his eyes….”

“Because it hurt?” she says, interrupting.

I shake my head. “No, it was the depth of his emotional attachment to me that made him cry. He said ‘I would cut my heart out for you, for our love.’”

Haley sucks in her breath. “But like, wouldn’t he be dead then?”

I close my eyes and shake my head slowly back and forth. “No, idiot, he meant it as a gesture and as a way of saying that our love would transcend our current earthly incarnations and last for all eternity.”

“Oh, man!” Haley sighs. “I want to be loved like that!”

Don’t we all, I thought, and am relieved to see the airport come into view. How had Haley learned about my mission anyway? Was her mother careless? What if this had been a really dangerous assignment? But when I ask Haley about it, she shrugs and smiles coyly.

“I’m not the only sneaky person in the family,” she says. “I have my ways.”

I make a mental note to take this up with Renee upon my return. Perhaps the bond between mother and daughter could be repaired with stricter generational boundaries; at least, that’s the family systems theory. I personally think a good smack is in order.

“Please, please, please get his autograph for me,” Haley begs as I get out of the limo and start for the private concourse. Then, apparently thinking this uncool, she shakes her head vigorously. “No, don’t do that! Bring me a pair of his underwear instead. Used.”

I don’t think this even warrants a response. I leave her there, staring after me and walk away as fast as I can. I breeze past the security checkpoint and to where a private plane waits for me. For once in my life, I’m glad to be leaving New York. L.A. and Jeremy Reins seem like a vacation compared to the rigorous two weeks I’ve had training to be a Gotham Rose.

I toy with the idea of calling my mother, but just as quickly decide not to. She and Victor have been in England for three weeks now and I try to forget the argument we had before they left. Parents just have a hard time letting their adult children lead their own lives. Mama was just mad because I bought a penthouse in the West Village instead of living with them.

The flight is so long! It seems to be taking forever to reach L.A. and maybe that’s just fine with me because I can’t decide if I’m nervous about the next week or just sick of flying.

“Miss Rothschild, we are making our approach to LAX,” Tim, the pilot says over the intercom finally. The stewardess emerges from the cockpit, somewhat disheveled from her attempt at keeping her balance while we pitched and rolled, takes her seat and buckles herself in for the landing.

I look out the window and then over at Marlena in the seat beside me. She’s curled up, sleeping, looking like a tiny snowdrift of white fur except for the itty-bitty black satin eyeshades I had made for her. She likes them. The moment I put them on, she settles down and goes to sleep. Before the eyeshades, I had to sedate her when we traveled. I figured, what a ferret can’t see, a ferret won’t worry about, and I was right.

The runway comes up to smack the plane tires and we land with a little bump that shakes Marlena awake. I reach over and take off her blindfold.

“We’re here, sleepyhead,” I say. Marlena yawns, showing a mouthful of pearly, sharp teeth, and I lean down to kiss her nose. “We’re going to Paradise.”

I gather up Marlena and my purse, and begin making my way to the front of the plane and stop when I see Tim, the pilot, standing by the doorway. This isn’t unusual—in fact, it’s expected—but something about Tim is different, and before I can even consciously figure out what is wrong with the picture, I find myself feeling irritated.

He stifles a yawn, tries to cover it with by smiling, and says, “Hope you had a good flight, Miss Rothschild.”

I feel a tiny frown wrinkle its way across my forehead and try to smile back, but I’m thinking Since when have I been Miss Rothschild to you and not Porsche? And a visual memory cue plays its way across the movie screen inside my head and I see Tim and I clinging to each other and laughing one sweltering hot night on a beach just south of Rio de Janeiro and realize that even months after that mistake of an encounter, I was still Porsche, so what’s changed? And then I notice that the zipper on Tim’s pants is not quite fully zipped and I see the tiniest smear of pink on Tim’s collar. It is the same shade of pink lipstick the new stewardess, Dorothy, is wearing. I feel my face start to color.

I nod to Tim, but it’s frosty. I continue on past him, down the steps toward Dorothy, and I am so intent on my mission that I almost fail to notice three people walking across the tarmac toward the plane, two men and a brunette.

Then I see something else, a brief flash of silver glinting in the sunlight of a bright L.A. afternoon. When I glance in that direction, I see two men driving a baggage cart toward the plane, which would be fine if my Hawker jet were a commercial carrier, but completely out of place now, especially as the cart has the words “Amazon Airlines” emblazoned on the front grill.

I start to turn my head back toward Dorothy, and stop as something distracts me. I squint, narrowing my eyes and trying to force my 20/60 vision to do more with the far-off object I see held in the man’s free hand. A gun? Certainly not. But the cart picks up speed and seems not to notice the three people in its path mere yards away.

I’m on the bottom step when something—instinct—takes over and I shove Marlena into Dorothy’s surprised arms and take off running.

“Look out!” I yell, not sure if I’m warning the three people in harm’s way, or the unaware driver.

I am running faster than I have in years and I have the advantage because I’m closer to my greeting party than the cart is, but it has a motor and I’m wearing Manolo Blahniks with a three-inch heel.

“Look out!” I scream.

The brunette is the only one who hears me. She looks up, sees me running and does a double-take as she sees the baggage cart heading right for her. I am close enough to see the fright in her eyes, to hear the whine of the engine as the maniacal driver stomps on the accelerator and bears down on his waiting victims.

The brunette swings left, stiff arms the man on her right and I see them both fly backward. I launch myself toward the other man and feel my body soar into the path of the oncoming vehicle.

I hit Jeremy Reins midchest, hear the whoosh of breath leaving his body as we fall. I smell hot exhaust fumes and hear the cart’s engine rush past us, missing us by inches, it seems. The cart squeals to a stop, backs up and then the guy turns the cart around. He is actually heading back in our direction. At first I assume he is coming to check on us, but with a shock I realize this is not the case.

“He’s got a camera!” the brunette cries.

A camera? Not a gun, but a camera?

Two other guys come running out from the concourse building onto the gray tarmac—big, burly men wearing suits and carrying guns. They waste no time. They fire and the driver takes off, circles wide and veers away from us, but his passenger just keeps snapping away, apparently oblivious to the fact that he’s being shot at! Beneath me, Jeremy Reins is recovering his composure.

“Hel-lo, darling!” he drawls. “Come to Daddy!”

I look down at him and see dark eyes, black, curly long hair, and realize this fool is smirking at me. I am lying directly on top of him and I realize something else at the same time; contrary to popular belief, Jeremy Reins is not only not gay, he is quite happy to meet me.

He brings his hands up, cups my bottom and gives me, Porsche Rothschild, a firm double-handed squeeze! I draw back and am about to slap him, when his eyes darken, his grip tightens, and he says through gritted teeth and a completely phony smile, “Watch it, lovey, the press has its eye on us!”

I plaster an equally fake smile on my face, dart a quick glance to the right through my dark Versace sunglasses and see the swell of photographers lining the upper windows of the concourse. My heart is pounding. My hands are shaking, and I am resisting the ridiculous urge to cry—all signs, I’m sure, of my leftover adrenaline rush and the near miss with the baggage cart.

Jeremy pulls me down into a long, slipped-tongue kiss of welcome, which I resist for all I’m worth. “Lovey, now, play along!” he cajoles.

I ignore him and push away just as the two men with guns arrive, accompanied by the brunette and a man I assume must be Jeremy’s agent, Mark Lowenstein.

“Jesus Christ!” Lowenstein gasps, panting for breath and struggling to brush invisible dust off his black suit jacket. “Those assholes could’ve killed us!” He turns to look at the brunette by his side and his expression takes on an almost worshipful quality. “Thank God, Andrea’s got her brown belt. I will never say another word about you taking those classes, Andrea honey. They might’ve killed us!”

Andrea smiles at her husband indulgently. She is a tall, statuesque brunette in her midforties with long, brunette hair pulled back into a smooth ponytail. Her face is flawlessly made up, just enough to look polished and not enough to look as though she uses anything but the merest trace of mascara. She is wearing a tailored, Anne Klein suit, a cream silk T-shirt beneath it and a massive rock that has to go fifteen carats on the third finger of her left hand. Money without advertisement.

“Mark,” she purrs, “you wouldn’t say anything to me about my classes even if this hadn’t happened. And you were not almost killed—it was just stupid paparazzi trying to get a close-up.”

I look at Mark and realize the man is clearly besotted with his wife, even though he is trying to appear in control and unaffected.

“The true credit for your safety should lie with this woman,” she says, turning to meet my gaze. “She’s the one who warned us. Porsche Rothschild, I believe?” she asks, extending her hand toward me.

I feel like an absolute idiot. I have made a fool of myself over a couple of paparazzi in a baggage cart. There was absolutely no danger and now Andrea, a complete stranger, is trying to help me save face.

Her grip is firm, her blue-gray eyes clear, and her smile honest. My kind of woman. I find myself grinning back at her and making a mental note to keep her around, in case a real threat to our safety materializes and I need help.

In the meantime, Jeremy has dusted himself off and is now standing behind me. When I turn around, I see he still has the same stupid smirk stuck on his face but when I concentrate on his eyes, I think I see fear there. A little frisson of apprehension runs down my spine and hits my stomach. Had he mistaken the paparazzi for a threat, too?

“What the fuck were you two doing while Miss Rothschild here was attempting to save my ass from the overeager press?” he asks the security guards. His voice is dangerously low and ugly, deceptively so when you take into account that he is still smiling and attempting to fool the paparazzi on the upper level of the concourse.

“Sorry, Mr. Reins,” the shorter of the two says. He is bald, his body thick with steroid-improved musculature, his eyes small and deeply set into his puffy, reddened face.

“I’m afraid we were unavoidably detained,” the taller one says, his voice deep and gruff, like an ex-military officer. He smiles, his blue eyes twinkle and I realize he is attempting to be charming, but when I take in the flattop haircut and the military bearing, I don’t buy the act. His eyes are flat and cold. He is angry at being taken off guard and resentful of me because I’m the “girl” who just did his job for him—at least, that’s how I figure he is thinking.

“What is it that you people say, Scott?” Jeremy says. His tone is mocking. “Excuses satisfy only those who make them?” He doesn’t wait for the man to answer. “Perhaps you and Dave stopped to bugger each other in the men’s room. It really makes no difference to me. What matters is that I was nearly killed and I pay you to prevent that!”

Jeremy’s voice had taken on a hysterical quality and I began to wonder if Jeremy’s complete personality was just one long acting class. Rage, then hysteria with the bodyguards, and cheeky nonchalance with me; what does he really feel about what just happened?

Mark’s cell phone rings and he turns away briefly to take the call. Behind us, a door from the concourse building flies open and two uniformed security guards come barreling out onto the concrete, heading at a run toward our little cluster.

“Handle them,” Jeremy says to his security guards. He turns his back on the others, blocking my view of them with his body. The smirk has returned as he cocks his head and reaches out with one finger to chuck my chin. “Shall we go to the car?”

“Give me a moment,” I say. “I need to collect Marlena.”

Jeremy raises an eyebrow. “Oh? You’ve brought a playmate along? How delightful! The more the merrier, I always say. Will she be sleeping with us?”

I feel a tiny switch flip somewhere inside myself and I temporarily forget all about Renee Dalton-Sinclair, the Gotham Roses and the salivating paparazzi above us.

I reach out, snatch Jeremy’s shirt collar and, before his little pea brain can register what’s happening, pull him toward me, so close I can smell the scent of cigarettes and cologne on his small, wiry body.

I smile as I look into his insolent eyes, but the smile is all show. I am well aware that he can read the full intent of my warning in my eyes.

“Listen to me, you little punk,” I say. “I am here to cover your ass, not grab a piece of it. You will keep your hands to yourself and your mind out of the gutter where I’m concerned. If you don’t, I promise you this, I will cut your balls off while you sleep and stuff them inside your still-beating heart. Are we clear on that point, lovey?”

I smile and wait for his answer.

“Why, Lovey,” he murmurs. “I didn’t know you cared!”

Chapter 2

I don’t slap Jeremy. I want to, but I realize this is just what he wants me to do, so I stop myself. Marlena is mad as hell, though, and she starts chittering and hissing at Jeremy, who seems highly amused by her. I watch all this and begin to formulate an opinion about my spoiled charge; he gets off on other people’s reactions. I suppose this makes him more of a true director than an actor, but it also fits with Renee’s supposition that Jeremy is staging the threats on his life in order to create publicity. I mean, Jeremy Reins is about as well known as any star in Hollywood. He doesn’t need more publicity, but now I see he craves it.

Andrea takes my arm as we’re walking toward the car, with Jeremy and Mark several yards ahead.

“Porsche, I’m so glad Renee sent you,” she says in a low voice. “I was afraid she might not follow through on this.”

I am trying to calm Marlena down and so I am not being my most tactful self when I say, “He’s full of shit and this is just a big game to him.”

To my total surprise, Andrea nods in agreement. “Actually,” she says, nodding to the two men ahead of us, “they’re both assholes at times, but you need to look past that.”

I’m not sure what to say. I mean, I think she’s just called her own husband an asshole, which even my mother, faced with her husband’s philandering, fails to do when the occasion really calls for it. So I switch to active listening mode and nod sympathetically. “So, you look past their behavior?” I murmur, using her own words to lead her on to her next thought because this is what good therapists do, they open the gate, but never shove the patient through.

“Yes,” Andrea says. “Mark is really an overgrown little boy who desperately wants approval, but he needs to feel that he is in charge. He blusters and tells me what I should and shouldn’t do, and then I just do as I please. You know what I mean?”

I nod and smile softly, but I’m thinking, why would you do that? We enter a building and as we follow the two men down a long corridor, Marlene falls asleep again—she is not therapist material.

“Jeremy is a lot like Mark, really,” Andrea continues. “He comes off like a spoiled brat, but he’s really quite insecure. Mark would give you the shirt off his back, but he needs to be praised. Jeremy’s the same way—he’s really very good-hearted.”

I forget therapist mode and fall into my new bodyguard persona. “Then why the threats on his life? Why set up a scenario like that? Why doesn’t he just buy a poor family a house or something?”

Andrea laughs and sound makes Mark look back over his shoulder at her. Andrea’s laugh sounds like wind chimes—high, musical and pleasant.

“Jeremy needs the drama and Mark loves to provide it.” Andrea’s eyes darken and a small frown furrows her forehead. “I think at first it was just to call attention to Jeremy’s new project. It’s a very dark picture about a religious figure who rises to become the leader of a powerful new nation. I think they wanted to blur the lines between the project and Jeremy the person, but something has gone wrong and Mark won’t tell me what it is.”

I switched back to therapist. “Mark won’t tell you what it is?”

Andrea almost whispers her answer, “no.” She takes a deep breath and pushes through double doors that lead to a waiting stretch limo. Jeremy and Mark are just climbing inside the car, and in order to finish her thought, she grips my arm tighter and pulls me aside.

“They don’t think I know about all this,” she says. “And really, I don’t. What I mean is, Mark would be terribly angry if he thought I was interfering with his business. We made an agreement when we got married years ago that I stayed out of his business affairs. He’s quite particular about that. I think his first wife nearly ruined him and he needs to feel as if his business is completely under his control now. So I learn what I can by listening when he’s talking and piecing things together.”

She glances at me, as if trying to gauge my reaction. “I don’t mean I intentionally eavesdrop. I just mean that when he says something, or if he’s on the phone, I pay attention. I try to look out for him. The entertainment business is ruthless, Porsche. The more I know about Mark’s business, the easier it is for me to avoid little pitfalls and unpleasantness in our social life. Do you understand?”

I am nodding like a bobblehead, but I am totally not sure at all about what she means. I assume she’s trying to tell me that the world is full of ruthless, dishonest people, but like, duh, who doesn’t know that?

“When these occurrences began with Jeremy, I noticed that Mark didn’t seem nearly as concerned as others were. Then I realized that Jeremy wasn’t just playing at not being frightened, he was genuinely enjoying the attention. I realized then that they’d concocted this entire scheme for whatever misguided reason they’d felt it necessary. But two weeks ago, everything changed. There hadn’t been any threats for almost three weeks and suddenly they started back up again. This time Mark was almost hysterical and Jeremy was scared to the point of seeming enraged at Mark. That’s when I knew…”

The limo’s rear window slowly slides down and Jeremy pokes his head out, waggling his finger in our direction.

“Loveys,” he calls. “Are you two going to join us, or must you gossip there on the street like common pigeons?”

His voice has taken on an exaggerated English accent, and as much as he is trying to keep the tone a gentle tease, no one is fooled by the act. Jeremy is tense and angry and working mightily to disguise it.

As we enter the car, Marlena wakes up at the sound of Jeremy’s voice and leers at him from the safety of Mommy’s arms. He stretches out a finger in Marlena’s direction and I say, “Watch it, she’ll bite you!” But to my amazement, she doesn’t, and Jeremy coos something unintelligible to her and turns his forefinger up right under her nose, offering her the meatiest part to bite down on. I suppose it is his way of apologizing for his earlier behavior and I am shocked when my normally suspicious ferret sniffs, but does not chew, the fleshy digit.

“That’s a love,” Jeremy murmurs and I am reminded that he is rated one of the ten sexiest men on the planet. Of course, I do not find him remotely attractive. To me, Jeremy Reins is a street urchin, thin, unkempt and ill-mannered. The word on him in my circles is that he is quite the slut and not at all discriminating about who he beds, male or female. Recently, all I’ve heard about Jeremy is that his tastes are now purely reserved for the male gender. Of course, that little rumor was put to rest quite quickly out there on the runway, but I realize I am allowing my mind to drift quite far off the task at hand.

“So, Porsche,” Mark says genially, “do you spend much time in L.A.?”

I take the flute of champagne that he hands me and sip it appreciatively before answering.

“No, I’m afraid I find L.A. to be rather tiring,” I say, but then I smile at him and hold my glass out in front of me. “However, I’ve never been treated so graciously.”

I hear Jeremy chuckle softly and ignore him as Mark smiles delightedly. “Ah, a connoisseur—I see we will have much to discuss.”

But I’m not thinking about champagne. I am thinking instead that I need to shake this man and his manipulative little client until they give up the truth about their little publicity gimmick and tell me how it seems to have gone out of control and taken on a dangerous life of its own.

I am about to ask this when Andrea interrupts her husband.

“Weren’t we lucky then, to have Porsche join us for the Oscars?”

She licks her upper lip nervously and I look at her flute and find it nearly empty. What’s with her? I wonder.

“I am so glad I called my old college buddy and learned of Porsche’s desire to attend the festivities. Of course, Jeremy, I know you’ll be glad to return the favor when you escort Porsche to CeCe Goldberg’s big do next week.”

The three of us are looking at Andrea like she’s suddenly sprouted an additional head. She’s babbling, talking like this is some elaborate play date she’s arranged and not a case of Jeremy’s life being on the line and me coming to the rescue, real or imagined…and of course, then I get it. That is exactly what’s going on. Jeremy and Mark have no idea why I’m really here, a fact Andrea seems to have omitted in her plea for help to Renee. She is pulling the strings like a puppet master and the three of us were all dancing.

“What?” Jeremy sputters. “Charity party? I hate that old windbag!”

“Oh, now, Jeremy, didn’t Mark tell you?” Andrea says, her voice taking on a soothing mother quality.

Mark is looking equally flummoxed. “Charity party? What charity party?”

Andrea manages to look sweetly frustrated with her husband, but I note the beads of sweat that pop out along the ridge of her upper lip.

“Now, honey, remember? You said Jeremy needed to plump up his image and also show his fans that he was not frightened by the threats on his life. You thought the Oscars and the party would be perfect opportunities, and what a coup to be going with Porsche. The press will be all over you two! I mean, Hollywood’s bad boy and New York’s ‘It’ girl, what an amazing duo you’ll be!”

Jeremy has started scowling and I believe I am seeing his first honest emotion. He is pissed.

“I can get my own date, you know,” he snarls.

“Of course you can, honey,” she coos. “But Porsche is the current ‘It’ heiress. Everyone knows her. She is co-hosting the Children’s Fantasy Party with CeCe and, well, you know the nasty little rumor mill has been working overtime about you and, well, your love life…. Having such a sexy, well-known, heterosexual woman on your arm…”

Andrea skitters to a stop here, her voice dying away as she tips the champagne flute to her mouth and drains the one lone drop at the bottom of her glass.

“I was only trying to help,” she says finally, lowering her glass and slowly raising her head to face Jeremy. Her voice is now that of a little girl, pleading for sympathy and understanding. As I watch, making matters even worse, Andrea’s eyes actually well up with fat tears that threaten to spill over onto her cheeks.

Jeremy and Mark are just lost and I make a mental note to nominate Andrea for my own “Best Actress in a Manipulation” category.

“Well, I guess if you put it that way,” Jeremy says, recovering quickly and turning to give me his standard insolent smirk, “I’d love to escort the little waif. Now tell me again, who you are? An heiress?”

I drain my glass and hold it out to Mark for a refill. It takes everything I have not to slap the patronizing attitude right out of Jeremy’s skinny little body. He knows full well who I am; everybody knows who I am! I force a smile and meet his eyes.

“Now, tell me again, Jason,” I say. “You make commercials?”

Jeremy’s eyes glitter dangerously for a split second before he laughs, tilting his champagne flute in my direction. “Touché!” he says softly.

Two hours later, we arrive at Paradise Ranch and I get my first glimpse of what is to be my home for the next week or so. It takes my breath. I am expecting gray and brown desert or something, but instead the green is so lush and verdant that I am tempted to remove my pumps just to feel the cool grass between my toes. Instead I climb out of the limo and stand beside it, breathing in the fresh, salty air of the nearby Pacific Ocean and listening to its dull pounding against the rocky shore somewhere in the nearby distance.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Jeremy asks, appearing by my side. The ever-present smile is still in place, but in his eyes I see the need for my approval.

“I thought you said this was a working ranch?” I say, remembering that he expects me to be a bitch and not wanting to disappoint him. “Doesn’t look like one to me. Where are the horses? Where’s the farm equipment? I don’t even see a cowboy.”

But as I say this, the massive oak front door opens and two people emerge from the mansion, a reed-thin woman with long, curly red hair and, as if summoned by a genie, a genuine cowboy, with boots, hat, mustache—the whole package.

I can’t take my eyes off of him and it must be obvious because Jeremy chuckles and says, “Good enough for you?”

Oh, yes. This one is quite good enough, all right. He walks toward us, or should I say, saunters, with this half swagger. His hat is pushed low on his face, shadowing his features, but even so, I can see the thick mustache that almost drips off his chin, and I catch a glimpse of dark, dangerous eyes and a weathered face—not old, but lined enough to give away his occupation. This man lives in the saddle, I think, and immediately picture him riding, first horses, and then, well…never mind!

I force myself to look away because I’m thinking that any fool could read my thoughts about this stranger, and I watch the woman at his side. Zoe Feller is instantly recognizable, even if I hadn’t attended the same parties with her, or seen her in almost every Oscar-nominated movie she’s ever made. Zoe looks fragile, but don’t let that fool you. She is driven by her work, immersing herself in her roles so completely that, for the length of the project, she is her character.

I watch her walk beside the cowboy and immediately decide they are most definitely not a couple. In fact, I almost wonder if she is even aware of his presence. She seems, instead, to be totally focused on Jeremy. Her blue eyes burn feverishly as she walks purposefully toward him, slowing to an almost regal pace as she draws closer, then stopping and, if I’m not mistaken, bowing her head and half-genuflecting.

“You’re back,” she breathes. “I thought you’d never come.”

Jeremy’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes do. I am learning to read the man now, I think, and it is always the eyes that give him away. He has locked onto Zoe with an intense, cold stare, as if he’s daring her to question him. I shiver involuntarily as I watch her flinch and take one tiny step backward.

“Why are you here?” Jeremy asks, but it is not his voice any longer. I hear the words, but still can’t believe the change in him. The tone is deep, sonorous and commanding. It is the voice of a much larger, stronger man, but still, it is coming from the actor beside me.

“There are details,” Zoe says softly. “I thought we should go over them before we shoot tomorrow’s…”

“And I told you that I would summon you when I wanted you. Why are you here?”

Zoe raises her head, and I realize we are watching a scene in progress. Her eyes lock with his, briefly—long enough for me to see anger and pain, defiance that is quickly replaced by submission.

“I. Need. You,” she says, each word uttered in a halting gasp, almost forced from her against her will.

Jeremy smiles, and it is the cruelest of his expressions because he is lording it over the poor woman. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Indeed you do.”

The cowboy makes his move, stepping between them and breaking the mood with his body.

“Can you two knock this shit off a minute? We’ve got problems.”

Zoe tosses her head impatiently, starts to protest, and is silenced by a look from Jeremy.

“Sure, buddy. What’s up?” Jeremy says.

How in the hell has he just done this? I wonder. Jeremy’s voice has switched from Lord of the Manor to western ranch hand. His tone is two octaves higher and slightly squeaky. I look at his eyes and see nothing but a happy glint. Whoever this cowboy is, Jeremy genuinely likes him.

The cowboy looks in my direction, lets his gaze move to encompass Mark and Andrea, and I hear him say, “We need to talk. Privately.”

“Lovely manners,” I murmur softly, just loud enough for Jeremy to overhear but not loud enough to reach the oaf in the cowboy hat.

Jeremy laughs, looks at the cowboy, and says, “I think Miss Rothschild finds you a bit coarse, Sam.”

I feel my face start to flush and the cowboy says, “That would be her problem, not mine.” He looks at me again, only this time giving me a real thorough up and down. He appears not to like what he’s seeing.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he says, touching the brim of his hat in a mock salute. “I don’t always have time to coddle Jeremy’s lady friends. You see, we have real work to do around here and right now, I have business I need to discuss with your boyfriend. So if you’ll excuse us, I’ll be sure and get one of the maids to show you where you can powder your pretty little nose while you’re waiting on lover boy here.”

Marlena wakes up, no longer able to sleep with the cosmic energy becoming so disturbed around her, cracks one sleepy eye in the cowboy’s direction and hisses.

“Just exactly who died and made you God?” I say, and start to move past Jeremy to plant myself right in front of the overblown bully. “I am not a plaything. I am not a bimbo. I am a guest of Mr. Reins and I do not appreciate rude behavior.”

I spin around to look at Jeremy. “If he were my hand, I’d fire him.”

“If I were your ‘hand’ as you call it, I’d quit!” the cowboy says.

“Well?” I say to Jeremy. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that?”

Jeremy seems to be enjoying himself at my expense. He grins and then says, “Aw, now, Porsche, don’t mind Sam. He might not come on smooth like you’re used to, but his heart is in the right place. He’s my manager, and when he says he has a problem, well, believe me, I’d better go hear what it is.” He looks back at the cowboy, his grin slowly growing wider. “Sam, this is Porsche Rothschild. I’m helping the poor dear out a bit. She’s hosting a charity party and doesn’t have a date, so she’s here for the week, slumming.”

Before I can protest, Jeremy looks at Andrea and inclines his head in my direction. “Lovey, why don’t you help Porsche get settled in while I borrow your hubby and try and sort out this mess, all right?”

“But what about me?” Zoe wails. “I need you, too!”

Jeremy looks at Zoe and becomes the king again. “Wait in the library,” he says coldly. “I’ll come find you when I’m finished.”

The men walk away without a backward glance. Zoe appears to have lost herself in her role again because she is following three yards behind Jeremy, head down, pacing slowly back into the mansion.

“What in the hell is going on here?” I manage to ask Andrea.

She shrugs. “Welcome to Hollywood,” she says. “Where nothing is real, true or genuine. Everyone is trying to be someone or something else and no one is ever satisfied with things as they are.”

“So, do Zoe and Jeremy have a thing or what? I mean, why does she act that way with him?”

Andrea smiles. “It’s the project. She’s totally immersed herself in it, not just her role, but in the entire project. It’s Zoe’s concept, after all, and she and Jeremy are co-EP’s—executive procedures—on it.”

“Oh,” I say, nodding but not really understanding at all.

“Apparently Zoe’s been spending a lot of time finding her muse and exploring her spirituality. She’s like that, you know. Anyway, somehow in the process of all this, she read about some of the more ancient pagan rituals and religions. That’s where the idea came from for the script. She plays the love interest to Jeremy’s high priest or something. I think it’s a domination theme, you know, she’s the subservient follower to his Rasputin.”

I am about to say something really awful, like, who in their right mind would adore Jeremy Reins, but stop when I remember the way Jeremy transformed himself into a complete Adonis in the Peloponnesian War epic that got him nominated for an Oscar last year. Before either of us can continue, the security gate at the end of the driveway swings open and a white cargo van begins winding its way toward us with the two bodyguards, Scott and Dave, sitting in the front seats.

“Good,” Andrea says, sighing. “I feel better knowing they’re here.” She looks at me and makes a hasty attempt to retract her statement. “I mean, not that you didn’t do a great job of…”

“Listen, you’re the one with the brown belt. All I did was yell and shove Jeremy out of the way of a couple of killer paparazzi. I couldn’t take on a real threat! I don’t think there’s a thing wrong with feeling relieved to have a little help, even if we are awesome paragons of female strength and ability.”

I grin as I say this last part, because I most certainly do not think I am in any way prepared for real danger in the near future. I know Jimmy “The Heartbreaker” Valentine tried his best with me back at Gotham Roses Central, but practice only goes so far when real life intervenes. What in the world was I thinking, jumping into something like this?

It doesn’t matter that the morning’s “threat” hadn’t been a real attack, the people involved had all been frightened and I sense there is something more sinister going on than I’ve been told.

Chapter 3

“You will absolutely not believe this,” I tell Emma. I am lying on my back, staring up at a huge canopy that covers the antique bed in the guest cottage, pinching myself as I study my surroundings and try to describe them to my friend.

“First of all, the ‘ranch’ as they call it, is hardly a ranch at all, at least not from what I can see. Remember that time we decided we wanted to get healthy and we went to Canyon Ranch in Tucson? It’s like that, only I bet the food’s better and the scenery is a definite improvement.”

Emma sees right through this. “Who is he?” she demands.

I roll over onto my stomach, look out the floor-length window and watch as Andrea emerges from the house, a frozen margarita in hand, to stroll beside the sparkling blue pool.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bug, there is no way you would be waxing rhapsodic about the Canyon Ranch without there being some sort of specimen of male beauty involved. Remember the cowboy who took us out on that God-awful trail ride? You went on and on about how lovely your ride was for days, and that after your horse tried to run you off a canyon wall and we both came back with saddle sores, stinking to high heaven!”

I close my eyes against the memory. “Em, really, this place is just sweet, that’s all. Private and too cute.”

“So there’s not even one good-looking man, aside from Jeremy Reins that is, on the entire property who meets the criteria?”

“Criteria?” I echo, knowing full well what she means.

“You wouldn’t sleep with any man you’ve seen so far? I mean, excluding Jeremy because he’s gay.”

“Well, Em, that’s what I was going to tell you—Jeremy is not gay, I mean, not totally.” I try to distract her with the paparazzi-in-the-baggage-cart story, and for awhile, Emma is at least interested.

“The man had a camera and you tackled Jeremy?”

“Well, yeah. What else was I going to do? I thought it was a gun.”

“So, you don’t think anyone is really after him then?” Emma sounds just a bit relieved.

“Well, I don’t know for sure. Jeremy seemed shaken by the episode, as if he expected trouble.”

“Hmmm. Bug, are you sure you’ll be all right? Have you told Renee about this?”

I roll off the bed and walk over to stare out the window, watching as Jeremy, Sam and Mark walk out onto the pool deck and join Andrea at the cabana bar. I watch Sam’s easy, long-legged stride and think he’d be quite something if he’d only been given a personality to match that body of his.

“Bug! Hel-lo! Have you told Renee?”

“Told her what?”

“All right, that’s it! What is going on and what is his name?”

I turn my back on the window and focus on Emma. “No, I haven’t spoken with Renee. I didn’t think I had enough to report about yet, but I’ll call her tonight.”

“And his name?”

“Sam,” I say, miserably. “God, Emma, how do you know me so well? This man is gorgeous, a real cowboy, but he is an absolute jerk. He’s rude and overbearing—”

“And has a body to die for, I’ll bet,” she interrupts.

“Totally.”

“Walk away, Bug. You’re there to do a job, not get laid.”

“I would never!”

Emma laughs. “Yes, you would and we both know it! But really, honey, this is risky business.”

I feel myself getting defensive and tell her, “Emma, I was only teasing about the cowboy. I know this is dangerous and I’m giving it my full attention. Besides, Jeremy’s agent’s wife, Andrea, says the guy is actually Jeremy’s manager. He’s from Jeremy’s old hometown—so checking him out was just part of looking at the whole picture. I mean, the guy could be the one behind all this, although I doubt it. Andrea says he was Jeremy’s drama teacher in high school.”

“Get out!” she says. “So he’s an old guy?”

I laugh. “Older, not old. Experienced is more like it.”

A loud knock at the cabin door startles me and I have to hang up quickly with Emma. Dave and Scott are standing there when I open the door, holding Marlena’s reassembled cage between them.

“Where do you want this?” Dave asks. The look on his face says, “This is so-o-o not our job!”

“In the corner,” I answer, pointing to the living room.

As they work to position it, I decide that I should begin doing some serious investigation, starting with these two. I walk over to them and smile, completely phony and I’m sure they know this, but what else can I do?

“That is so-o-o sweet of you to do this for me,” I gush. “I know it’s not your job.”

Scott ignores me, but Dave looks up briefly and gives me a small smile.

“Jeremy just raves about you two,” I say.

Scott raises one eyebrow, and I think I hear him mutter, “Yeah, I bet.”

“He says you two are the reason that stalker person hasn’t been able to get near him. He told me I shouldn’t worry about our safety as long as you’re here.”

Dave’s thick chest seems to puff out even further and I see a flush of red begin to creep up the back of his neck.

“I don’t know about that,” he says.

“Well, you two were the ones who chased that man off at the airport, weren’t you?” I ask. “You saved the day! And to think, I was almost too afraid to come out here. People told me it was dangerous.”

“Who told you that?” Scott demands, straightening and looking me in the eye for the first time. He sounds like a drill instructor and for a moment I feel intimidated.

“I…I don’t remember who exactly….” I widen my eyes and try to look clueless. “Is it safe? I mean, has he gotten onto the estate?”

“Someone started a fire in Jeremy’s downstairs office last week,” Dave volunteers, but stops as Scott gives him a warning look.

“A fire? Oh, my God! And the person who set it got away?”

“It was nothing, really. Someone forgot to put out their cigarette and the smoldering butt caught some trash on fire. It was not,” Scott says, glaring at Dave, “a stalker.”

I cock my head sideways and meet Scott’s eyes. “You’ve had a lot of experience guarding celebrities, haven’t you?” I ask. “I mean, I’ve known a lot of security people and I can tell the ones who’ve been around and know the business, the good ones.”

Scott’s eyes narrow warily, but he answers. “About ten years, since I left the military. I guess I know my way around.”

I nod, like he’s confirming what I thought. “What branch of the military?”

“Army. Special Forces.”

“I thought so!” I cry. “I can always tell.”

The tiniest beginnings of a smile touch the corners of Scott’s lips and I know I’ve won him.

“So, I guess you’ve got your ideas about this business with Jeremy,” I say, hoping he’ll go along with me.

“Scott thinks…” Dave begins, then stops as Scott silences him with another look.

“These things happen all the time to movie people,” he begins. “It’s no big deal.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You know, I heard Jeremy was doing it himself, as a publicity stunt, then someone else started up for real.”

Dave gives it away. “Damn,” he breathes. “How did you…”

“We’d better get going,” Scott says. “We’ve got to get back. Don’t worry, ma’am. I can assure you that you’ll be perfectly safe. Enjoy your stay.”

With that, the two men hustle out the door and leave me to stare after them. Marlena stirs and lifts her head, sees the cage and begins clicking in my ear, missing her hammock and ready to leave her perch on my shoulders.

“All right, baby,” I murmur. “Go play. Mommy has to go talk to the nice people about guns and fire.”

Marlena scampers out of my arms and into her cage, sniffing and exploring happily as I leave her to walk out by the pool. I wish my life were as simple as Marlena’s. She wasn’t worried in the least about rescuing Jeremy Reins from a deranged stalker, or whoever it was that was causing the trouble. Marlena never had to worry about whether or not she was capable of saving someone’s life. She certainly never had to worry about choosing bad men or leaving a mark on the universe. No, she wasn’t the one paying a therapist to tell her that she pursues unavailable men because her biological father abandoned her and her step-father is too busy to become a real father to her.

As I reach the edge of the poolside deck, I see Andrea break off from her conversation with Mark and turn to smile at me warmly, raising a hand to beckon me over.

“You’re just in time,” she says as I draw closer. “Maybe you can settle this argument I’ve been having with him.”

“Argument?” I echo.

Before she can speak, Sam the cowboy interrupts. He’s behind the bar, still wearing his hat and the scowl that I assume is permanently frozen on his face, but when I look up and our eyes unavoidably lock, I feel an electric current race through my body and settle somewhere deep inside me where it hums like a homing signal.

“What can I get you?” he asks.

“What?” For a moment I am thrown off and can’t seem to remember the English language. What is the matter with me? Why isn’t it enough to know he’s one of them, the psychological poison my therapist calls “emotionally unavailable”? Why can’t I just know and walk away? But there I stand, stammering like a complete idiot and staring at the man like he’s just walked out of an alien spaceship. I’m hopeless.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks, saying each word slowly, like he realizes I’ve lost the ability to understand him.

“A drink?” Oh, my God, snap out of it! “Yes, yes I would. Thank you!”

When he is still staring at me, I blink and wonder what’s wrong now.

Jeremy has somehow come into the picture and waves a hand in front of my eyes and says, “I think the man is asking what you want to drink, lovey. You know, like a margarita or a Diet Coke. You know, liquid beverage.”

That snaps me to. I give him a sharp look and turn to Sam. “I’m sorry, I was just thinking. I believe I’ll have a mar…Diet Coke, please.”

I desperately want alcohol but realize that undercover bodyguards most probably don’t drink on duty, and undercover bodyguards with no discernible skills should absolutely not drink on duty.

Sam’s eyes slowly wander the length of my body and back up to settle on my face. “Diet?” he asks. “Looks like you’d want to put a little meat back on your bones, not deprive yourself. You’re too scrawny.”

God, he was insufferable!

“Well, Little Joe, where I come from we don’t need to carry around a layer of fat for the wintertime. We’ve got electricity and running water.”

I expect him to explode, but instead he laughs. It is a warm chuckle that rumbles up from deep inside his chest and makes him seem suddenly human. I grin back before I can stop myself.

“So, Porsche, help me out here,” Andrea says, and I must look blank because she adds, “With my argument, I mean. Do you think Mark’s right? He says there can never be too much publicity, even bad publicity, while I say too much publicity sours the public. Look at Paris Hilton, I mean, hasn’t she become passé?”

“Well, I don’t know…” I begin, but stop as Sam hands me a glass of soda, then lose my train of thought and say, “I’m sorry, would you repeat the question?” Even though I haven’t forgotten at all, I just can’t seem to think straight whenever I look at the cowboy. It’s just so stupid!

“I say the only thing better than publicity for fame is death,” Mark pronounces. “Look at Elvis—worth far more dead than alive. That’s true of anyone. Death makes you a hot commodity. You know what I’m saying, don’t you, kid?” he says, turning to Jeremy. “You think you’re hot now, just die tragically in your youth and see how your stock soars! We’d be swimming in money!”

“Mark!” Andrea cries, her expression horrified. “You can’t mean that!”

Mark looks at the rest of us, the impact of his words apparently dawning on him as his own expression mirrors his wife’s. “Oh, now, you can’t think I’m suggesting…Oh, come on!”

I’m thinking either Mark is incredibly insensitive or he’s just established his own motive for wanting Jeremy dead. Jeremy, however, seems unaffected, as he slices into wedges.

“Mark’s only doing what I pay him to do,” he says, not looking up from the cutting board. “Make money off my dazzling good looks and ability.” He sets three shot glasses up on the bar, reaches for a bottle of tequila and pours. “Of course,” Jeremy adds, handing a shot to Mark, “I would like to benefit from the profits while I’m still alive to do so, but I see no reason why my heirs can’t enjoy a little happiness and debauchery after I’ve gone.”

Jeremy hands Sam a shot glass, distributes the limes and salt, and I watch as Sam raises his glass and offers a simple toast.

“To your health,” he says, locking eyes with Jeremy. “Your continued good health.”

“Here, here!” Mark adds, flushing as Sam turns to give him a very long and dark stare. Andrea steps closer to her husband, as if showing solidarity, and I watch the scene before me and wonder how much of it is genuine and how much is Hollywood.

It’s jet lag, I tell myself. It’s getting dark and you’re imagining things. But it doesn’t help and when Zoe walks slowly out of the main house, dressed in a long, flowing black gown, accompanied by another woman dressed identically. Both look like wraiths. Their skin is pale, their eyes dark and rimmed in black, their lips painted a vivid, deep red. Andrea gasps when she looks up and spots them silently walking toward us. Jeremy follows her gaze and I hear him swear under his breath.

“Jesus, will you give it a rest, Zoe!”

Zoe’s friend marches right past Jeremy, heading for the bar, and ignoring anything and anyone in her path. She is tiny compared to the lanky Zoe—a blonde with curves and a bad attitude if the scowl on her face is any indication. But when she reaches Sam, the frown is replaced by a wide, toothy grin.

“Hey there, Sam. They got you tending bar now?”

Sam’s expression doesn’t change. He looks at her, slides a shot glass in her direction and pours tequila into her glass.

“Lime?” he asks.

“And salt,” she says, nodding. “I bet you don’t even remember my name.” Now she’s pouting, flirting with the cowboy, and I figure she likes unavailable men, too.

“Bet I do,” Sam says, placing the lime and salt shaker in front of her, but he turns away without saying it and walks toward Andrea, who has now moved to a spot beneath a giant hibiscus tree.

I look at the blonde and smile inwardly as I note her following the cowboy with her eyes and practically salivating. Life is so predictable.

Mark edges closer to the blonde, reaches past her for the tequila and pours himself another shot.

“Zoe rope you into dinner, Diane?” he asks the blonde.

Diane gives a little start, turns her back on Sam and gives Mark a thorough appraisal.

“She says it’s important for the main characters to bond,” she says with an inviting smile.

Mark is looking over Diane’s shoulder, past her to the spot where Andrea stands, joined by Sam and a small, dark-haired woman in a white chef’s uniform. Sam is watching as Andrea appears to be giving the woman instructions, gesturing with her hands and becoming very animated as she and the chef break into laughter that carries across the lawn.

Mark can’t seem to take his eyes off Andrea. I find myself wishing that someone adored me that way and then am startled to see the cowboy studying me.

I turn and walk behind the bar, thinking surely one little drink of wine wouldn’t be too bad. The cowboy makes me nervous. I shift my attention to Jeremy and find him deep in a discussion with Zoe. It appears heated, with Zoe shaking her head vigorously and Jeremy glowering at her. I forget about the drink and sidle closer, appearing to be searching behind the bar for something as I go.

“I won’t do it!” Zoe says. “It demeans the flavor of the piece. It is antithetical to Belinda’s core motivation.”

“Bullshit, lovey,” Jeremy says, his tone both jocular and dangerous at the same time. “You’re only saying that because it’s what you want, not what the scene needs.”

“Either you believe or you don’t!” Zoe says, and this time her voice carries the length of the bar. “You live the truth or you die in darkness!”

Jeremy laughs at her and I cringe, seeing the depth of emotion Zoe so obviously feels and his callous dismissal of her feelings. I wait for her to explode and am not disappointed. A loud stinging crack suddenly echoes off the walls of the surrounding mansion as Zoe strikes Jeremy across the face, tears streaming down her face.

Jeremy slowly raises one hand to his cheek, touching the rapidly reddening imprint of her hand, his eyes glinting dangerously as he works to control himself.

“That was a mistake,” he says slowly. “One you had best never repeat.”

He is smiling now, looking around at everyone and raising a hand to ward off anyone who might protest or approach.

“The game’s afoot,” he says gaily. “Just rehearsing! Don’t let us disturb you!”

I realize that he doesn’t see me there. I am behind the bar, in near total darkness. When he continues, his voice is pitched low so as not to be overheard by the others.

“If you ever lift a hand to me again, Zoe, I will walk off your picture, contract or not. Fuck the money and fuck you. What happened between us on the last project will not be repeated here, do you understand? It’s over, Zoe—you and I are working on a movie, nothing more, nothing less.”

“But Jeremy, I…”

He lifts his hand to grasp her chin and she winces, letting me know his grip is firm to the point of being painful. He waits until her eyes meet his before he speaks again.

“No buts, Zoe. Either you play by my rules or I walk. If I walk, the picture doesn’t get made and you lose millions.”

Zoe drops her gaze and I barely hear her say, “Of course. I just wanted you to know that I…”

“Let it go. Concentrate on this project and let everything else go.”

“How can I when I know you don’t believe?” Zoe asks with one last bit of rebellion.

Jeremy’s sardonic smirk is back. “I am your leader whether I believe or not,” he says in his regal, commanding tone.

They are back in character and, as I watch, Zoe does her weird genuflection thing and murmurs, “Yes, my Lord.”

“Good girl,” he answers and walks away from her, calling out to Sam in his ranch hand voice, “Hey, buddy, how about we do a triple shot?”

Diane passes me on her way to slip her arm around Zoe. “Bastard,” she says softly to Zoe.

“No. I was wrong,” Zoe whispers. “He knows his place, and now, so do I. Everything will be fine, just fine.”

I roll my eyes and make a mental note to write a book on pursuing the unavailable male. I’ll meet the needs of so many unenlightened women, but of course they won’t believe what I have to say. That’s the trouble with therapy; the patient never listens until they’re ready to hear the truth.

Diane rubs Zoe’s shoulders slowly, her strokes gradually deepening into seductive touches that even I can read from where I stand. Zoe seems to welcome Diane’s touch.

“Let’s go somewhere and…” The rest of Diane’s statement is lost as she nuzzles Zoe’s ear.

Zoe shakes her head, running one finger slowly down Diane’s neck, tracing the bodice of her gown. “Not now,” she murmurs. “Later. We both have things to attend to before we can play. Remember why you’re here—we’ll have our time alone later.”

The two women break apart and each returns to a separate end of the bar. I sigh softly and wander out of the shadows to go stand beside the pool. It shimmers as the underwater lights blink on and night falls. I glance at my watch and think it is nearly 10:00 p.m. in New York and the middle of the night in London, where my mother has gone to accompany my stepfather on business. I am remembering the last conversation—make that argument—I had with her. I was once again confronting her about my biological father and she was once again stonewalling me.

“Why won’t you tell me more about him?” I asked.

My mother, ever the southern belle, tried tears first.

“Muffin,” she sniffed. “It was so painful. I don’t want to relive losing your father.”

“So he’s dead then?” I asked.

“Yes,” she sobbed. “It was awful!”

“How did he die? Where is his death certificate?”

I asked these questions and when she wasn’t sobbing, she was silent, or saying “I don’t know. We were divorced by then. I can’t remember. It was all so long ago and I was heartbroken.” But she never answered me.

This last time I tell her my therapist says I will never maintain a healthy heterosexual relationship if I don’t come to some closure about my father’s abandonment.

“Muffin, honey, really, can this not wait until I get back?” She didn’t wait for me to answer, just kept on walking toward the door and the car where Victor sat waiting for her.

“No, Mother! It cannot wait another moment! Tell me right now or I’ll hire private detectives and find out for myself!”

She whirled on me then, angry and upset. “I told you we will talk about it when I return! Why does it matter so much? Victor is your father! He’s raised you. He’s sent you to the finest schools, supported you, cared for you! Your father did none of those things and yet you want to search for him and ignore Victor! What kind of gratitude are you showing him with this behavior? Grow up, Porsche!”

With that, my usually mild-mannered mother turned around and stalked off to the waiting limo, without so much as a goodbye, without even looking back in my direction as the limousine pulled away from the drive.

She didn’t hear me say, “How can I appreciate Victor as a father when he never gave me the one thing I really needed?” Love. I could count on one hand the times he’d given me hugs, or more like dry, quick embraces. Why was I so unlovable to him? What had I done that made him keep me at arm’s length? And how could my mother be grateful to a man we both knew was unfaithful to her?

“You contemplating jumping in, or has the jet lag paralyzed your body now?”

I start, spilling my Diet Coke and nearly toppling into the pool at the unexpected sound of the cowboy’s voice. Strong hands grab my arms, pulling me back from the edge, and I am suddenly face-to-face with Sam and way too close for comfort.

“You scared me!”

“Obviously.”

I am mesmerized by the darkness I see in his eyes and the pull I feel from them. It is like standing on the edge of an active volcano. Sam is the first one to break the silence, abruptly turning me loose as he does so.

“I didn’t think you heard Andrea announce that dinner is being served in the dining room.”

“Dinner?” I could slap myself for saying that. It’s like every word he says is in some kind of foreign language that I seem incapable of understanding. He must think I’m an idiot.

Jeremy’s dining room is a lesson in too much money, too little design taste. I look around and for a moment wonder if Jeremy watched reruns of Bonanza as a child. There are, no joke, not one, but three candle-lit wagon-wheel chandeliers above the massive, heavy oak dining table. He has us all drinking out of silver flagons that are set before, I swear, gold-plated chargers. There are black, wrought-iron accents everywhere and a thick, Persian rug on the floor. The only thing missing are pictures of Jeremy’s ancestors lining the walls. It is a designer nightmare, and yet, when I take in the accent pieces, I know Jeremy hired the work. I mean, there is nothing personal in the entire room. Every knickknack is professionally placed and that is just the kiss of death as far as I’m concerned. I mean, you either live in a home or you visit a shrine. Jeremy was living on a movie set.

“Consuela has prepared one of her village specialties,” he says.

“Shut up!” I say under my breath, wondering if he changed the poor woman’s name to fit the tableau.

Sam and I take our places at the long table and I study Jeremy more closely. He’s sniffing and talking nonstop. His face is flushed with the alcohol he’s been drinking, but the tiny traces of white powder around his nose are a giveaway; Jeremy’s been doing cocaine.

I look around the table, searching for his companions in crime and notice two tiny spots of red on Zoe’s high cheekbones. Andrea is sitting on one side of me and Sam on the other. Andrea sips steadily on her wine and watches her husband across the table. Mark is flirting with Diane, who seems fascinated by his every word. She lays a beautifully manicured hand on his arm and smiles up at him, and I find myself wondering what she wants from him. I’m learning. Hollywood’s a stage and we are but the actors.

I turn to say something to Andrea, anything to distract her from the unfolding scene across the table, but a shrill alarm suddenly emanates from a small panel set into the wall near the French doors leading outside. Everyone stops talking, searching for the noise, but Sam is already in motion, pushing his chair back and crossing the room. He opens the panel, pushes a button and the sound stops. Without another word, he opens one of the doors and vanishes outside.

Jeremy stares stupidly after him and laughs. “Well, loveys,” he says, “I suppose my visitor has returned.” He’s drunk and high. What a combination.

I push my chair back slowly and leave the table to head for the open French door. No one seems to notice. They are all talking at once. Zoe sounds frightened. Diane is still telling Mark stories and Andrea is trying to get Mark’s attention. I slip outside and wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The crackle of a walkie-talkie startles me. I make out Dave standing poolside.

“I got nothing here,” he says and moves away.

I start to follow after him, moving quietly around the edge of the pool. A rustle in the bushes to my left sends my heart up into my throat. A high, feminine scream from the dining room chills my blood and I turn to run back inside. I’m a fool, I think. The danger wasn’t outside, it was inside.

I start to move and time seems to flow in slow motion. Suddenly there is pain, sharp and nauseating in the back of my skull. I fall forward into darkness.

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