My Gun Has Bullets (13 page)

He was a strong believer in the symbolism of power. His office commanded a view of the valley and the entire studio. He wanted people to know that, at his whim, he could cast his awesome glance upon them and, in that instant, decide their fate. When they were summoned to see him, he wanted them to feel as if they were ascending into the heavens for an audience with the almighty.

And so it went at home. Even at rest, he towered over everything he saw. There was no higher point for a home in Los Angeles; he had looked into it. While other men cowered in vast estates in Bel Air, he rose above them. Don DeBono might run the network, but Boyd Hartnell could piss on his roof. He knew, because he had.

Boyd Hartnell was a powerful man. Sabrina Bishop had to know that from the moment she met him. Her stardom was his to make, or break.

When he came to her on the set this evening, she had to have been giddy with surprise, bowled over that he deigned to spend his dinner with her. He swept her away to an intimate meal at an absurdly expensive bistro, where the price of a glass of bottled water rivalled that of a fine wine. But he wanted her to know money was of no consequence to him. He was above such concerns. He was a star-maker, and he wanted her to know that, for the moment, he had cast his eye upon her and everything else was a distraction.

Now, as he prepared drinks for them both, he could see her standing on his deck, her back to him, taking in his extraordinary view. She said she needed air.

Of course
she needed air. She had to be dizzy with the desire to please him, to stand out amid the glittering lights, the uncountable masses of people below, that clamored for his attention. To be in his home, to be so close to the center of everything, had to be intoxicating for her. He envied her the experience.

Boyd couldn't read her thoughts, but he knew what she must be thinking—that she couldn't believe she was actually here.

He had that right.

Sabrina couldn't believe she was standing on the deck, which jutted from the house, which jutted from the cliff, which meant she was just compounding the risk of toppling to her doom.

But the way she figured it, she'd been pushing her luck all night, first when she accepted Boyd's invitation to talk, then his invitation to dinner, then his invitation of a drink. Going on the deck couldn't make things much worse. It certainly put some distance between her and Boyd, a scrub brush in a suit.

I live right by the studio, he'd said. We'll have a couple drinks, talk a couple concepts, and I'll bring you back. And like an idiot, she'd said that sounded great. She was regretting her decision, and thinking of excuses to leave, when Thor, Boyd's buoyant golden retriever, came bounding out onto the deck, shaking every timber.

Sabrina gripped the wooden rail in terror, as if holding on to it would somehow protect her when the whole damn thing went plunging down into the dark canyon. What the hell was she doing here?

Of course, she couldn't say no to dinner. It was good politics. He was, after all, the president of the studio. And if she wanted her own series, he could give it to her. Unfortunately, that wasn't all he wanted to give to her. She'd caught him staring at her several times during the evening. She'd seen the look before. Men had been looking at her like that since puberty, when her breasts took over her body.

The panting dog danced around her, eager for some attention, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. He nudged her with his head, prodding her fora little affection. It was irresistible. Boyd could learn something from his dog—at least the animal was clear, honest, and straightforward about what it wanted. It wasn't until she was running her hands through the dog's unbelievably smooth, clean hair, that she realized she had been gripping the wood so tight there were splinters in her palm.

She went back inside. The dog chased after her, hungry for more attention, then obediently sat at her side when she stopped to look at the photographs on Boyd's wall.

Each one was a picture of Boyd with his arm around another celebrity. Boyd with Dean Martin. Boyd with Sharon Stone. Boyd with Annie Potts. Boyd with Corbin Bernsen. There must have been fifty of them.

"I'm looking forward to adding a picture of us to the wall," said Boyd, walking out from behind the wet bar with her Bacardi and diet Coke.

It was a stupid drink, she knew, but it fooled her into thinking she was sticking to her diet. She turned around to take the drink from him, and was stunned to see that he'd slipped into a red silk smoking jacket.

She took the drink and tried not to stare at his hideous jacket. There must have been a garage sale at the
Playboy
mansion. Five minutes, she figured, was all it would take to finish her drink and call a taxi.

"Is that like having my star on the Hollywood walk of fame?"

"It just means you're one of my special friends," he replied.

Truth be known, he had lots of photos of her. Stacked neatly in the drawer of his nightstand. Right beside the bed.

He covered the thought by flashing a loopy, casually lascivious grin that was supposed to pass for sophistication. But to Sabrina, he looked Iike a man whose hemorrhoids had just flared up.

"So you had all these pictures taken?" she asked, turning her back to him and studying the pictures. She had a hard time believing any of them were his friends, much less his "special friends." They all looked like they were being goosed by a guy with a dead animal on his head. And the ones that were signed "With love" all seemed to have been written in the same handwriting.

"No, most of them are candid shots, taken of my friends at charity events and premieres, and I just got caught in the flash. They kept sending me the pictures, so I started to stick them on the wall as a courtesy. Got to be a tradition, after a while."

He had a photographer on retainer, of course, just to take candid pictures of him with stars, many of whom no longer ventured out in public for fear Boyd Hartnell would be there, ready to slip his arm around their waists for a photo. But after a while, even Boyd began to believe his lie was the truth.

"Now, whenever I go out, they kind of make a point of shoving me in front of a camera," he laughed.

The dog nudged Sabrina's arm with his cold nose, so she absently reached out and started petting him. It startled Boyd so much he grabbed the couch for support.

"But you said you looked forward to putting my picture on the wall," she said, combing the dog's fur through her fingers. ''That sounds premeditated to me."

The sight of her running her hands through Thor's lush, golden mane sent a shiver through Boyd's body that started at his groin and rippled all the way up through each expensive strand of hair on his head. He tried to summon the breath to speak.

"I just meant"—he sucked in more air—"that I hope we'll become good enough friends that we'll have the occasion to be out together and have our photo taken."

"And that I'll send it to you," she said, idly smoothing the dog's hair, "signed 'With love, your good friend Sabrina.' "

It was flirtation. It had to be. She was doing to the dog what she wanted to do to him.

"Yes," he moaned, quietly setting down his drink and dropping silently to his knees beside the dog.

Sabrina was staring at a picture of Boyd with Candice Bergen, trying to discern if her autograph was, indeed, identical to Roseanne Arnold's, when her hand slipped from the dog's soft hair to what felt like a paintbrush dipped in bacon grease.

Disgusted, she yanked her hand away, and was horrified to see Boyd at her feet, his eyes closed in ecstasy. She dropped her drink and backed away, but not quickly enough. He lunged at her, wanting more.

She sidestepped him, grabbed him by the back of his smoking jacket, and flung him into the couch as if he were just another ninja assassin. He slammed into the couch with such force it tipped over with him, covering him with cushions.

The dog, thinking it was a game, jumped up on her, wanting to be tossed around, too. She gently pushed the dog away and glared down at Boyd, pinned under the couch.

"If you want to talk to me again," she said, "do it through my agent."

She walked out and began her long walk down to Ventura Boulevard, the look in her eyes so fierce, no one would have dared assault her.

Boyd lay under the cushions, embarrassed and aroused at the same time. He didn't blame Sabrina, it wasn't her fault.

He glared from under the pillows at Thor, who sat beside him, panting happily, blissfully unaware of the fate Boyd had in store for him.

C
harlie Willis could think of only one person who would want to hurt him, and she was passing out home-baked cookies to the crew on a silver platter, a big, warm smile on her face.

She glided through the drawing room set, offering cookies to the gaffers adjusting the lights, the dolly grip moving the camera into first position, the sound guy figuring out where to dangle his boom, and the prop masters as they made sure every doodad was in the right place.

If Esther Radcliffe were auditioning for the part of Betty Crocker, she would have won it, hands down. Of course, it was only a coincidence that a reporter from
Esquire
was on the set that day, a woman who greedily snagged four cookies for herself. The star-struck journalist said she was taking a couple of extras for Annie Leibovitz, who was on the backlot, preparing for Esther's afternoon photo shoot. But judging by the reporter's body, Charlie figured the onlyplace Leibovitz would see those cookies were on the reporter's hips.

Charlie tried to envision how the world-famous photographer would choose to immortalize Esther's charm. Sitting in a Rolls, a smoking gun in her hand, would be his suggestion. Somehow, he doubted Annie would be that perceptive. Esther would probably end up on the cover dressed only in cookie dough.

He caught Esther's eye, and she nearly spilled her cookies, and probably her lunch, on the gaffer. Charlie held the gaze for a long moment, then slipped behind the three-walled drawing room set and headed for the soundstage exit. He knew she'd come after him soon enough.

He paused at the heavy door to slip on a pair of sunglasses, but before he got the chance he was hit by a burst of blinding glare as someone walked into the soundstage.

"You're the last person I expected to see on the lot," the person said softly, with genuine surprise.

It took a long two seconds before Charlie's eyes adjusted enough for him to see that the voice belonged to Sabrina Bishop, whose skin-tight black leather wasn't helping him distinguish her from the darkness. But he wanted to.

"Especially after what happened," she added, as if she needed to. "Shit. That wasn't what I meant to say. What I meant to say was, I'm very sorry."

"So am I," Charlie said, then surprised himself by adding, "But not as sorry as the person responsible for it is going to be."

Sabrina crinkled her brow, confused. "I thought it was an accident."

"A loaded gun is never an accident."

Who
says shit like that? Certainly not me, Charlie thought. And yet he just had. It was happening again. Just like it had before. It was as if he had a split personality, Derek Thorne on one side, Charlie Willis on the other. Only this time, he wasn't saying it to seduce someone. He was just being honest. But he never would have spoken like that
before.
Then again,
before,
he had never killed anyone.

"You sound like a man investigating a murder," she said, a tentative smile playing on her lips. He figured what he had said was too silly even for her to take seriously.

"I am."

"Isn't it a little late to be getting into character?"

Charlie shrugged. "I figure it's about time."

Now that he could see clearly, he noticed just how tight her leather jumpsuit was. "How's Miss Agatha treating you?" he asked.

"She hasn't taken a shot at me yet," Sabrina said. "If that's what you mean."

"She will," he said. "Watch your back."

He slipped on his sunglasses and stepped outside. Sabrina trailed after him. "You're really serious, aren't you."

Charlie stopped and turned around slowly. She was squinting at him either because she couldn't make sense out of him or the sun was right in her eyes.

"Is that why you're here? You think she had something to do with what happened?"

"Yeah, I do," he replied.

Sabrina shook her head. "I must be missing something. We're talking about Esther Radcliffe, right? The lady who bakes cookies for the crew? The lady who knitted me an afghan?"

"The lady who shot me in the stomach."

"You're unbelievable," she said. But there was no edge in her voice. He could almost swear she said it with affection.

"I'm not asking you to believe me, Miss Bishop. In fact, I don't care whether you do or not." He met her eyes and smiled. "It's just that I like you, and I would hate to see you get hurt."

And with that, he walked away. Sabrina stared after him, a bit dumbfounded. She couldn't figure this guy out. One minute he was talking tough, like some TV character, and the next, so sweet and polite she could melt.

Miss Bishop.

In a business where absolute strangers and casual acquaintances hug and kiss each other with false sincerity and feigned affection, genuine courtesy was something she was not used to. It was almost, well, gallant. And she liked it. He was a sharp contrast to most of the men she met in the business. The image of Boyd Hartnell sitting at her feet, offering his head for petting, came immediately and sickeningly to mind.

It was only after Charlie disappeared behind the soundstage that she realized she'd forgotten to give him back his shirt.

She would just have to run into him again.

Sabrina was still standing there when Esther marched out, unconsciously banging her silver tray against her hip. "Where is he?"