Accomplice (4 page)

The stench in the dressing room was like something
out of a seedy pet store, minus the pine air freshener.

A rabbit dangled by its twisted neck from the
ceiling in the center of the room, its eyes bulging and its tongue swollen and
dripping with blood. Blood wasn't the only mammalian bodily fluid staining the
waxed concrete floor.

Noah covered his mouth and nose with the neckline
of his t-shirt while he scanned the rest of the room, automatically cataloging
details for later. There were a few odds and ends of makeup scattered along the
vanity top, and a small wheeled suitcase in one corner. Hooks on the wall held
articles of clothing and a pair of women's sneakers sat under them. There were
no footprints, bloody or otherwise, on the floor.

“Has anyone else been in here?”

“I got a few steps in before I saw it.” Jessica's
voice was definitely shaky now, and she looked miserable. She stood back in the
hall where she probably couldn't see much of the dead bunny.

He stepped back into the hallway and yanked the
door shut. “We don't need to smell that.”

 That helped contain it a little, but the hallway
still reeked like an open sewer.

She leaned back against the wall and crossed her
arms around her waist as if she was cold. Or nauseous. She gave him a timid
smile that looked incongruous next to the daring lingerie top that peeked
around the edges of the oversized robe. “Sorry about any fingerprints. But you
already have mine on file from the robbery last week.”

He shrugged. “Forensics always figures that out
for us. Has anyone else been in there? Is anything missing?”

“It doesn't look like it, but I didn't exactly go
count the pennies in my purse.”

“Right.”

She raised one eyebrow at him. “Shouldn't you be
writing all this down?”

“No paper. Besides, the cops are on their way.
They will take care of it.”

Her eyes flew wide in confusion for a moment. She
glanced down at his chest, and then back up to his face. “You’re not with the
cops?”

Noah squared his shoulders, a sick feeling forming
in the pit of his stomach. For a moment she had almost seemed relieved to see
him. But that moment was now gone.

“Are you even here on FBI business?”

He took a quick breath and exhaled it.
Here it
comes.
“Yes.”

“The business of someone breaking into my dressing
room and threatening me?”

He seized on her words to derail this
freight-train of a conversation. “Did you receive a threat as well as that
prank?”

She seemed to shrink down into herself a little
bit at that. “I guess it could just be a prank, but...”

He waited. Something in the tone of her voice told
him that she was not just a little bit rattled by the dead animal. She was a
lot rattled. He stepped directly in front of her, forcing her to look up to
meet his eyes. “But what? Did someone threaten you?”

“Didn't you see it?” Her eyes glanced nervously
over her shoulder back towards the door as if expecting the rabbit to come
hopping out.

“It looks like a horrible prank to me.”

She nodded. “That's what I thought too. Until I
saw the doll necklace wrapped around the rabbit's neck.”

***

The E! Cameraman walked a slow circle around Jess
as she posed, breasts out, hip cocked, and a flirty smile plastered to her
face. The huge lobby where the afterparty was being held was freezing despite
the crush of bodies, and she could feel her nipples puckered underneath the
satiny fabric of her corset top.

“Is tonight a sign of things to come? Will we be
seeing more of you around town?” The reporter shoved an overly-large microphone
in her face.

Jess took a deceptively long sip of her pink
margarita before answering. The flavor reminded her of cough syrup.

“Oh, absolutely. I can't tell you how much I've
missed the nightlife. These are delicious. Have you tried one?” She allowed the
liquid to slosh a bit over the rim, giggled, and then sucked the drips off her
fingers.

The distraction maneuver was totally lost on the
female reporter. “What can you tell us about the robbery last week?”

Jess waived her free hand dismissively. “Oh that.
Don't worry about me. Those wonderful young men from the police department tell
me that they are close to cracking the case.”

“Does that mean they have a suspect?”

Jess raised her eyebrows and made a slight Oh with
her lips. “Umm...I don't know if I'm supposed to say anything about that.”

Did she sound tipsy? Dear God she hoped so. This
was the millionth person to ask her the same set of questions tonight. She
would give a thousand bucks for a nice, straightforward come-on, a lewd
suggestion, or a hotel key slipped down her top. Those she knew how to deal
with.

Those didn't remind her of that dead animal in the
dressing room, or the drawing left in her studio. She lifted the glass to her
lips again, ignoring the churning of her stomach. At least the reporter took a
step back this time.

“Excuse me,” Jess turned to walk away.

The reporter put a hand on Jess's arm to stop her.
The woman didn't quite dig her fingernails into Jess's bare flesh, but almost.
“One more question before you go. How long have you and Brandon Kingsbury been
involved?”

Jess's head snapped back and she spilled her drink
for real this time. A trickle of fear crept down her spine even as she tried to
laugh and brush the liquid off the costly designer lingerie. “We aren't
involved. Brandon was my husband's son.”

“That's not what he said ten minutes ago in an
interview on the Late Show.” The woman smiled like a cat with a cornered mouse.

Jess's mind reeled. The bastard. After his failed
attempt at negotiations this week, she knew he was up to something, but this
was worse than she had imagined. “You must have misheard him.”

She pulled away from the woman's grip and stalked
off without knowing where to go. Everywhere around her, people were talking,
chatting, laughing. The other models had changed into cocktail dresses before
making their appearances, but Jess's clothes were all still inside her dressing
room. The police inspectors didn't let her remove anything, and she could
hardly have worn that huge robe to the party.

This was part of her job for the night. Posing for
pictures. Chatting up the donors. Coaxing them to open their wallets. She
figured that showing up in the corset number couldn't exactly hurt her
reputation. Hell, it was modest compared to outfits she'd worn to parties in
the past.

She shoved her nearly empty glass at a surprised
waiter, and stalked toward a stairwell. Damn Brandon. No wonder she'd
practically been mobbed by the media tonight. They were probably editing their
interviews right now, pasting together photos of her bare ass, drinking and
flirting and acting like the whore that they knew she was.

If it were any other man, she might have been
amused.

That it was the same asshat of a man who had all
but disowned his father and tried to steamroller her was just disgusting.

She slipped her high-heeled shoes off and climbed
the steps until she found the roof. It had a rough, white-painted tar paper
surface and a huge A/C unit buzzing nearby. And no people.

She walked to the edge of the roof and leaned out
over the stucco facade, taking in the LA skyline. So damned many stars out
there. Why couldn't fate bother one of them tonight instead of her?

The slamming of a door scared the crap out of her
and she whirled, shoes in hand, stilettos aimed like daggers at the potential
attacker.

It was the sexy FBI agent, Noah Grayson. In the
shifting evening light, his black clothes faded into the background.

She took a calming breath and lowered the shoes.
Dumb things probably weren't sturdy enough to fend off an attacker anyway.
Noah, at least, wasn't going to hurt her.

“Are you all right?”

She shrugged. “How did you know I was up here,
Agent Grayson?”

He didn't answer. He stuffed his hands in his
pockets and shuffled over towards the half wall where she stood. Close enough
for her to smell a hint of his cologne, but not close enough to touch her.

“Does this mean I can go back to my dressing room
and change?”

He glanced at her. She could see the flicker of
white of his eyes, but couldn't read the expression. He shrugged off the suit
jacket he was wearing and held it out to her. He had changed out of the pink
Security t-shirt. “I don't know. I can call over and find out, if you want.”

She stared at the jacket, wanting to refuse it.
But the breeze carried a hint of rain and her outfit covered so little.
“Thanks.”

As she shrugged it on, his scent and lingering
traces of his body heat surrounded her. He smelled of soap and sandalwood and
maleness. She squeezed her eyes shut for half a moment. She couldn't remember
the last time a man had been nice to her without asking something in return.

“What are you looking for? It’s obviously not the
Hearst Diamonds.”

He glanced down at the street two stories below
where cars rushed past. “I am not sure I can answer that question.”

“Because you don't know what—or who—you are
investigating, or because you can't reveal it?”

His eyes flickered to hers and then back down
again. “Mrs. Kingsbury--”

“Call me Jess.”

“That is not a good idea.”

“We are all alone in the dark and I am wearing
your coat. Call me Jess.”

Starlight and streetlights glittered hard in his
eyes. “Which makes the idea even worse. Jess.”

Her name on his tongue slid over her like the
finest silk. “Now that that is settled, maybe we can make some kind of deal,
Agent Grayson.”

“Noah.”

She rolled the word around in her mind before she
finally spoke it. “Noah. What if I could help you?”

The words hung there in the air between them like
the haze of smoke in a bar.

He faced her then, hands still in his pockets and
shoulders hunched like a sulky schoolboy. “How?”

She inched closer. Just a step, but he didn’t
retreat. “I know you are still investigating my husband, even though he’s dead.
If you tell me what you're looking for, I might be able to help. I met almost
everyone that he did business with. We had parties. We travelled together.”

He pushed himself back from the wall and crossed
his arms over his chest. The short sleeves of his dark t-shirt revealed cleanly
muscled arms. Protective arms

She inhaled, took another step. “Maybe we can make
a deal. I give you whatever information you are searching for. And in return--”

He sucked in his breath, his eyes flicking down to
her mouth and then back up. Three or four inches separated them. His crossed
arms were only a shimmy and a deep breath away from her breasts. A hint of
breeze blew between them and her nipples puckered. What would his kiss taste
like? Mint or brandy? His lips were supple, firm, frowning.

His face was shrouded in the deepness of night,
but yellow streetlights lit his eyes. His pupils were dilated, his breath
hitched. A hot vein of desire plowed through her, making her knees shake. Dear
lord, she wanted this man. Wanted his arms around her, not just his jacket.
Wanted his hips between hers. His mouth on her skin. She leaned forward and
touched her lips to his.

It was an invitation. A tease. A plea. It was all
she could do not to beg. His mouth moved under hers and with a groan he kissed
her back. Hard, demanding. She melted into his kiss.

She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck,
wanting to draw him closer. Couldn’t bring him close enough. His jacket fell
from her shoulders, leaving her bare to the night sky again. He captured her
hands just before she reached the hair at the nape of his neck. His thumbs
traced sensual circles on the insides of her wrists and she moaned against his
lips, straining her body towards his.

His tongue lingered on her lips until she parted
them, drawing him inside. He kissed her hungrily, frantically almost. His hands
left her wrists and skimmed up the bare skin of her arms, leaving trails of
pleasure in their path.

When he reached her shoulders, he drew back.

Jess sucked in a cold, empty breath, her head
spinning, nipples aching, panties damp with need.

“No.” His voice was thick and heavy but the
beneath the lust in his voice, she heard a tone that smacked of disgust. The
air between chilled as he pulled away.

“I can't make a deal with you, Jess.”

“But--”

His phone rang and he turned away to answer it.

Jessica wrapped her arms around her waist, chilled
now that the jacket was on the ground. Stupid
, stupid, stupid.

Noah had reminded her of a Boy Scout from the
first glance. Upright. Honest. The kind of man who would never fall for the act
she had just given.  The kind of man who would never fall for a woman like her.

She had thought for days that maybe, just maybe,
she could get protection from the FBI. It couldn't be a coincidence that all of
these events revolved around the missing necklace. Someone knew her secret.

The thought turned her guts to ice and ash. She
didn't have anyone she could trust. Neither Lindsay nor Tony had any
inkling—she had hired both of them after Charles had died. She still didn't
know how the thief had gotten into her house, but the logical conclusion was
that someone on the inside had helped. And Brandon was actively trying to bring
her down through the courts and the media.

And now she had just blown what small chance she
had of a plea deal by throwing herself at the man investigating the case. In
all likelihood, his search would lead him right to her. Maybe it already had.

Noah stood twenty feet away, talking in a low
voice. She picked up his jacket from the ground, dusted it off, and laid it
neatly on the ledge, then made for the stairs. She couldn't hide from the press
any longer tonight. May as well give up trying.