Hot Target (7 page)

“Why?” she asked, her frustration with Robin, with HeartBeat Studios, with the idea that the Freedom Network’s crazy-ass, neo-Nazi beliefs could impact her life this way all pushing her extremely close to her personal edge. “We were only downstairs for a few minutes.”

There was that maddening pause as Cosmo-never-Rambo either considered her words, perfected his upcoming predictably terse response, or mentally composed another verse of his latest love sonnet. Yeah, right. She actually laughed aloud at the idea of this man writing poetry. But really, God only knew what was going on inside that head.

“You need to let me do my job,” he finally told her.

“No one’s in any screaming hurry to check Robin’s room,” she pointed out.

“No one’s threatened to kill Robin,” he countered—for him, a lightning-swift repartee.

“Actually, I did,” she quipped. “Just this morning, as a matter of fact.”

No reaction. No laughter. No smile. He just stood there, gazing down at her. When she’d worn her high heels, he hadn’t seemed that much taller than she was. But as she stood there in bare feet, she had to tip her head back to look him in the eye.

And jeez, his eyes were a weird color. Jane had always thought of herself as being pretty good at staring contests, but this time she caved and looked away first. It was just too odd, staring into those eyes and having absolutely no clue as to what he was thinking.

She shifted out of the way, silent in her capitulation, half afraid that if she spoke, she wouldn’t be able to keep herself from calling him Rambo.

Chatterbox that he was, he somehow managed to keep from speaking, too.

Once again, he flipped the light switch.

Perfect. Glaring lights, and her with absolutely no makeup on.

But he didn’t so much as glance at her again. He walked through her office, checked the windows, then headed toward her bedroom.

Then he did look back at her, but only to make sure she was following. Apparently he didn’t want to leave her out in the hall alone.

Jane went to the doorway between her bedroom and office, where the light was less harsh, as he went through his whole search-the-room routine. The shower curtain screeched as he pulled it back. Yeah, this was going to get really old, really fast.

As if reading her mind, he spoke. “Won’t have to do this every single time after the security system is in place.”

Lawrence Decker had told her that the installation would be started tomorrow.

But finished when?

As Cosmo came back toward her, he stepped carefully over the T-shirt, boxers, and socks she’d left scattered on the floor, briefly meeting her eyes as he did so.

Great. He was silent, not stupid. In fact, Jane suspected that he was really, really,
really
not stupid.

She moved aside to let him pass, more than half expecting him to close her office door behind him with no more than a nod as an unspoken good night.

But he stopped and looked back at her, his hand on the doorknob. “If the costume change was for me, it’s not necessary.”

She was so surprised, she spoke without thinking, automatically playing dumb. “Costume change? I don’t know what . . .”

He didn’t even bother giving her an “oh, yeah, right” look. He knew she knew he’d seen the clothes on the floor. He was just patiently waiting for her to finish making noise. She trailed off, and they stood there in silence as he made sure she was done.

“Thing is,” he told her, “you’re better off in darker colors, nonreflective fabrics. Cotton. Gray’s good.”

Like the T-shirt she’d left on her bedroom floor.

“If we did have a situation,” he continued, “at night, wearing something like that”—he motioned toward her white robe with his chin—“you’d be a clear target. You own a pair of sneakers?”

She blinked at his sudden swift change of subject. “Cross trainers. Yes. Of course.”

His smile came and went so quickly, she was left wondering if she’d imagined it. “Cross trainers. Right. Good.” He nodded. “Keep ’em by your bed. In case there’s trouble and we need to move fast.”

“I look stupid in sneakers, I never wear them outside of the gym, and I don’t want to move fast.” She gave voice to her frustration. “I don’t want there to be trouble. I don’t want a ‘situation.’ I don’t want any of this!”

“No one ever does,” Cosmo said, and with another nod, he closed the door behind him.

Chapter
F
OUR

“She really is doing quite well,” Kelly Paoletti said as Cosmo gave her a boost up and into the passenger seat of his truck. She waited, carefully fastening the seat belt across her rounded belly, as he climbed behind the steering wheel. Only when he was inside did she add, “You’re right about Tanya. She’s very good. Her concern for your mother is absolutely genuine, but you should know, I talked to her while you were helping your mom set up the new computer keyboard. Tanya’s not a nurse—she’s a home health aide. And there is a pretty significant difference between the two.”

Cos glanced at her as he headed north. “Bottom-line it for me, Kel.”

“Tanya is providing exactly the level of care your mother needs right now. Technically, she’s not supposed to administer any medication, but considering your mom doesn’t need help remembering when to take her pills, but rather getting them from the pillbox to her mouth, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Despite the fact that she looked barely older than J. Mercedes Chadwick’s college intern, especially with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, Tom Paoletti’s wife Kelly was a doctor—a pediatrician who understood the complicated intricacies of the health care system. She’d graciously offered to come out to Laguna Beach on one of her rare vacation days to check up on both his mother and her nurse under the pretense of a lunchtime visit.

When Cosmo had picked Kelly up this morning, down in San Diego, he’d warned her that his mother was crazy. She’d just laughed and told him that everyone thought their mother was crazy, that her mother was crazy, too.

His, however, was crazier than most.

Cos hadn’t been able to go into exact detail, though, because Kelly had turned pale green. She’d insisted she was fine—it was only morning sickness—but she’d closed her eyes and attempted to sleep through it, and they’d made the ride in silence.

It was obvious she was feeling much better now—she had color in her cheeks, and her blue eyes sparkled with amusement. There was no chance she was going to sleep away the ride out to Malibu, where she and Tommy were going to spend the next few weeks relaxing.

Allegedly.

This visit to his mom had served a double purpose. Tom hadn’t wanted Kelly lifting anything as he moved their vacation gear into the beach house. This way, when Kelly arrived, Tom’s truck would be completely unpacked. She could go right onto the deck, sit in a lounge chair, and sip a virgin daiquiri.

“You need to check with your mother’s health insurance company,” Kelly continued, and he forced himself to pay attention, “and make sure they’re not paying for a nurse while you’re getting an aide.”

“Yeah,” Cosmo told her. “Thanks.” He glanced at her. “I’m sorry that my mother . . . you know. Embarrassed you.”

Kelly laughed. “She didn’t. Honest.”

Yeah, he was the one who had been dumbstruck with horror.

She giggled. “You’ve got to admit, it was pretty funny.”

He just shook his head. His mother had taken one look at Kelly’s physical condition and had jumped to the absolute wrong conclusion.

Cosmo had had to spell it out for her—no, Kelly was not his pregnant girlfriend whom he was bringing to meet her in order to discuss plans for their impending nuptials.

But who was she? And what was she doing with Cosmo? And why couldn’t he marry her anyway? So what if it wasn’t his baby—they could have another of their own. Clearly the young lady was capable . . .

Christ.

“She’s sweet,” Kelly said now. “And obviously single-minded in her determination to have grandchildren.” She giggled again. “And I thought
my
mother was bad.”

He’d had to explain to his mom in precise detail: Kelly was already married. To Tom Paoletti, the former commanding officer of SEAL Team Sixteen and his current boss at Troubleshooters Incorporated. And since Cosmo was loyal to Tom to the point of being willing to die for the man, it was highly unlikely he was going to follow his mother’s suggestion and try to convince Kelly to leave Tom and marry him instead.

“I guess you haven’t brought your girlfriend home in a while,” Kelly said. She was snickering now. “Understatement.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Try never.” He laughed, too, rolling his eyes. “What a nightmare that would be.”

“No—” Kelly started.

He cut her off. “Yes. Can you imagine if I really liked someone and . . .” He imitated his mother’s slightly breathy voice. “I know you said you don’t really enjoy Broadway musicals, but if you’d just listen to this song in
Jekyll and Hyde
where Lucy—she’s the whore, dear. How do you young people say it these days? That’s right, ho. She’s the ho who sings about hope. . . . Oh, isn’t that funny? The hopeful ho . . . Let me play it for you, dear, fourteen times in a row. . . .”

Kelly was laughing so hard, she was gasping for air. “She’s not that bad. And so what if she’s passionate about her music—that’s wonderful.”

“Yeah,” Cosmo said. “I know.”

They rode in silence for several moments before Kelly burst out laughing again. “I just . . .” she said, but couldn’t go on because she was laughing so hard. It took her a moment to compose herself enough to speak. “I’m not laughing at you or her or . . .”

He sighed. “It’s okay.”

“It’s just . . . I was sitting in her living room, thinking so that’s why Cosmo’s so quiet. You grew up unable to get in a word edgewise. And when your mother’s not talking, the music is up so loud. . . .”

“And you wonder why I never bring anyone to meet her?”

“Cos, come on, you really don’t need to worry about that. Anyone who cares about you will absolutely adore your mother, too,” Kelly told him. “It’s so obvious that she loves you. Clearly she just wants you to be happy.” She paused.

Uh-oh.

“Are you still seeing . . . oh, God, I’m blanking on her name,” Kelly asked. “I’m sorry. You know who I mean—the accountant.”

“Stephanie,” Cosmo said. “No. That was . . . No. She took a job in New York.” He shook his head. “That was never meant to be long-term.”

She reclined her seat a bit in an attempt to get comfortable, turning slightly to watch him as he drove. “You told me you liked her.”

“Yeah,” Cosmo said. He’d told Kelly a lot of things that he probably shouldn’t have in the past nearly two years that they’d been unlikely friends.

He was friends with Tommy’s Kelly. Who would’ve thought that? It had all started when Commander Tom Paoletti had been held under house arrest, charged with the unlikely treasonous crime of providing weapons to terrorists—among other equally ridiculous accusations.

Kelly had been hell-bent on running her own investigation, determined to find the proof she’d needed to clear her husband’s name. At Tom’s request, Cosmo had started hanging around her, riding shotgun, so to speak.

And when she dug just a little too deep, they’d both been injured from a car bomb that was intended to keep her from digging further.

She’d had some serious internal injuries and he’d badly broken his leg. Their friendship had solidified as they’d helped each other with physical therapy after getting out of the hospital.

“I did like Steph,” Cosmo told Kelly now. “I guess she just never got that attached to me.”

How could she have? They never spent any of their time together talking. Well, she’d talked. He’d listened. And before he’d gotten around to telling her how he felt, she’d found a replacement and left.

“I’m sorry,” Kelly said.

He shrugged. “It happens.”

They drove in silence for a mile or so before Kelly said, “So.”

Cos didn’t dare look up from the road. He just waited for it.

And it came, of course. “Sophia Ghaffari,” Kelly said.

He laughed, swearing under his breath.

“Tom mentioned that you came into the office and, um . . . noticed her,” Kelly said.

“Tommy told me she just lost her husband,” Cos countered.

“It’s not a just,” she said. “I mean, okay, it hasn’t quite been a year, but it’s close. I don’t really know her that well, but she comes across as being lonely. At the very least, she needs a friend. And if there’s anybody I’d trust to take it slowly with her, it’s you. I think you should ask her to dinner.”

They drove for a mile. And then another. She just sat there, watching him, waiting for his response.

“I don’t know, Kel,” he finally said. Dinner. With Sophia Ghaffari. Jesus God.

“How about this,” Kelly suggested, because she knew exactly what he was thinking. “A dinner party. This week. At the beach house. Me and Tom. And John and Meg—”

“No, no, no, no,” he said. “No officers from Team Sixteen. No way. Don’t get me wrong, I love Johnny like a brother, but in that kind of formal setting, he’d be Lieutenant Nilsson and I’d be S-squared, all night long.” Even without Nilsson’s presence, Cosmo would be inclined to sit down and shut up. He sucked at small talk. He was still rolling his eyes at his attempt to tell Mercedes how much he’d liked her screenplay. He didn’t even like the woman. There was nothing at stake, and he’d still ended up sounding like an idiot.

“It wouldn’t have to be formal,” Kelly argued. “We could have a cookout—”

“It would be hard enough with Tommy there.” Cosmo laughed his disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m actually considering this.”

“How about Vinh and Angelina Murphy?” Kelly was not going to let go. “They just got back from their honeymoon, and I’ve been dying to hear all about their trip to St. Thomas. You know Vinh, right?”

“Yeah,” Cos said. “He’s part of the team on this op in Hollywood. I’ve never met his wife, though.”

“She’s great,” Kelly told him. “You’re going to love her.”

That was a given.

She pushed harder. “It’s a plan, then, okay? I’ll call Sophia and find out when she’ll get back from Denver and—”

“Whoa,” Cosmo said. “Wait. I need to think about this.”

“Think fast,” Kelly said. “Or else while you’re thinking, Bill Silverman or Jazz Jacquette or, God, Izzy Zanella is going to beat you to it and ask her out first. You’re always grumbling about how you don’t get to meet the nice women until after they’re married to your friends.”

Always? Cosmo had uttered those words only once to Kelly, obviously in a moment of insanity.

“Can we stop talking about this now?” he asked, desperation leaking into his voice.

“Think fast,” Kelly said again.

He could feel her watching him again as he drove. One mile. Two.

“What’s on your schedule for later this afternoon?” she finally asked.

Thank you, Jesus. “After I drop you off in paradise,” Cosmo told her, “I’m heading into L.A. Mercedes—the producer—asked the entire team to show up at some kind of meeting over at the studio at 1630.”

“Mercedes Chadwick, right?” Kelly mused. “I’ve read about her, I don’t remember where . . .
People
magazine, maybe? What’s she really like?”

“Baby’s got back,” Cosmo said. “Her body could make a dead man dance.” He could see that he’d surprised her, so he tried to explain. “She’s this really intelligent woman, an awesome writer, but that’s not what she wants the world to see. She hides behind her knockout body: cleavage set on stun and belly button ring always in full view—you know what I mean?”

Kelly nodded, sighed. “Yeah. I’ve met too many women like that in California, unfortunately.”

“Most of the time, I don’t like her very much.”

She looked at him, eyebrows up. “And the rest of the time . . . ?”

Figures Kelly would pick up on the fact that he’d said
most
of the time . . .

“A five six seven eight!” Cosmo said, then sang a few bars of the instrumental riff of the opening dance number from
A Chorus Line,
and she laughed.

Yeah, Cosmo was far from dead. And where J. Mercedes Chadwick was concerned, he was just a little too ready to break into a dance.

Robin Chadwick looked incredible in his paratrooper uniform, his hair slicked back from his face in a classic forties style.

His scene had wrapped an hour ago. Any other star would have left by now, but several of their extras hadn’t shown up and Robin was filling in, careful to keep his back to the camera at all times.

He stood with a small crowd of extras, all wearing period clothing, on a set dressed to look like a nightclub in London in the late winter of 1945, listening as the director gave instructions for the upcoming shot.

Patty would’ve liked nothing more than to stand there, clipboard clutched to her chest, dreamily reliving last night.

When she’d kissed Robin Chadwick . . .

He’d wanted more. He’d pulled her with him into the kitchen, into the darkness of the formal dining room that was never used and . . .

There definitely would’ve been more to relive this morning, if it hadn’t been so late and his on-set call so early.

She’d caught him watching her when she arrived at the studio today. He’d smiled, and her heart had galloped in her chest.

She’d nearly gotten knocked over by one of the crew. “Heads up, watch out, coming through! Hey, you there, girlie with the time to stand still! Can we switch jobs?”

Outside of the actors, who spent most of their time waiting for action to be called, no one stood around on set. At least not on this set.

Patty had been running all morning, all through lunch, too—the one block of time that Robin, who was also one of the movie’s producers, had been free. She’d felt him watching her, but she hadn’t found more than a spare few seconds to give him a breathless hello.

Would this day ever end?

Patty put her clipboard under one arm as she carried two coffees—one black, one with extra milk and sugar—across the studio.

One of her many jobs was to make sure all guests to the set were comfortable—and that they stayed seated in a special area, out of the way of both actors and technicians.

Jack Shelton was here today, as was that FBI agent, Jules Cassidy.

With his stylishly short hair, trim athletic body, and soulfully dark brown eyes, Jules was nearly as cute as Robin. He’d told her when he’d arrived that Mercedes had called and asked him to meet her over here this afternoon.

That was news to Patty, but then again, as a lowly intern, she was often the very last to know.