Redemption (24 page)

“That’s right. Who’s calling?”

“I don’t want to give you my name. But I’ve got some interesting gossip. Do you still pay for tips?”

“That all depends. If we use it, sure.” Alicia was used to anonymous sources. She also knew that most of the news they bore was either well-known gossip or total fabrication. Of the two, she preferred fabrication. At least it had the ring of originality.

“So, who’s been abducted by space aliens out in your neck of the woods?”

“You know Matt Grayson is here in Philadelphia filming a movie?”

“So I’ve heard.” Alicia perked up, though she was pretty sure she could guess the contents of this latest “tip.”

“Look, if you’re calling to tell me he and Laura Hayes are shacking up, it’s old news. That was in my column last week, and neither party denied it.”

“No, it’s not Laura Hayes I’m calling about. It’s a woman at the department store where he’s been filming. Claire Porter. She and Matt Grayson have been spending a lot of time together. He’s been phoning her office, and a couple of people have seen him drop by there during the day. He even sent her flowers.”

“Big deal. You know how many women he’s sent flowers to in the last month? More than there were days.” Alicia was ready to ring off, when the voice on the other end became urgent.

“You don’t understand! Claire Porter is the Kaslow’s executive who wanted to keep him from filming here. Those two were practically at each other’s throats during the contract negotiations for the location shoot. All of a sudden, he’s looking at her, well, sort of like he looked at Jennifer Garner in
Time Bomb
, just before they escaped from that building.”

Alicia’s eyed a copy of last week’s column, the one where she had hinted at the latest blonde in Matt Grayson’s life. “If he’s exchanging gooey looks with this executive, then what’s he doing sharing space with Laura Hayes?”

The woman gave a superior laugh. “Decent living space is at a premium in downtown Philadelphia. Nothing more than convenience.” From the tone of her voice, Alicia sensed she was dealing with a comrade in the insider-information trade.

“Another thing. I know for a fact that he’s made several trips out to her place. Supposedly her son is watching his dog.”

“She has a son? Is she married?”

“No, according to the personnel file at Kaslow’s she never was married. And she never mentions the kid’s father. Or the kid, either, according to the few people she deigns to talk to.” A sneer accented her voice.

Alicia was about to write off the gossip as an in-house grudge, when the woman said something that piqued her interest. “I know he usually dates blondes, but there was that woman about ten years ago—what was her name? The one he was having an affair with when Hayley James…?”

“Clarissa Peters.” Alicia’s mind was a virtual storehouse of facts, a necessary attribute when one’s profession called for skirting them on a daily basis.

“Well, Claire Porter has dark hair, too, though she’s got a lot more class than that tramp. Sort of untouchable, if you know the type. Which was why it was so surprising to see her cozying up to Matt Grayson. I mean, a few weeks ago, she was acting like she was too good for Hollywood. It was because of her they had to triple their offer.”

Alicia’s eyes lit up as she pictured the headline.
Hollywood’s Hunk Bested by a Corporate Delilah?
Though she doubted it was true, it would sell magazines. Matt Grayson was hot right now. If she could bring him back down to earth, her Page Two column would once again be the avenue for first-rate gossip.

“Why don’t you give me more information? And would you happen to have a photo of this Claire Porter?” Alicia flipped through her contact list until she found the number of another East Coast informant who had reliably supplied her with information in the past. If there was anything to the story, she would know in a couple of days, just in time to include it in next month’s column.

She loved it when celebrities screwed up in time for a deadline.

Claire listened to the
thunks
of the basketball hitting the driveway as she got an early start on spring cleaning. Occasionally, a masculine whoop of joy punctured the crisp February air, eventually coaxing her outside, where Matt and Tripper were tossing a basketball at a portable goal Matt had had delivered from a sporting goods store. An early birthday present, he had called it, and she hadn’t had the heart to protest.

When she finally joined them outside, she felt a smile of contentment spread on her face, surprising her. Two months ago, she never would have thought she would be watching her son play basketball with his father and actually enjoy it.

Part of her wished this could have taken place long ago, but she hadn’t forgotten the reasons she’d never told Matt about his son. She shivered, a reaction that had nothing to do with the chill in the air.

The ball landed in front of her and bounced neatly into her hands. “Your turn, Claire,” Matt called from the makeshift court in the driveway.

She demurred. “No, basketball isn’t my game.”

Her protest fell on deaf ears. Matt stalked toward her, worn jeans hugging his hips, his shirt tail hanging out, a rumpled sexy look that would appear right at home in the pages of a fashion magazine. His green eyes were filled with challenge. Claire’s heartbeat quickened.

“Come on. Let’s see what you can do.”

She eyed the ball in her hands, then gave the basket a measuring look. Frowning, she aimed, tossed, then hid a grin as the ball slid through the net. She lifted her shoulders in a “nothing to it” shrug, even though she had spent the better part of an hour the day before practicing her hoop skills.

Tripper punched the air. “Way to go, Mom!”

Matt whistled appreciatively. “Obviously a woman of many talents,” he said, catching the ball as it bounced. “Tripper tells me you’ve got a killer serve. Want to try to score some points on the tennis court?”

She shook her head. “My backhand’s a little rusty. I haven’t played since last summer.”

He gave her a perceptive look. “Don’t like to play unless you can win, huh?”

“Something like that,” she agreed, knowing they were talking about more than sports. “Are you guys hungry?” she asked. “I made some fresh salsa. Tripper’s favorite.”

They went inside, where Claire had set chips and salsa on the pine table.

“We should wrap up filming next week,” Matt told her as she handed Tripper a napkin.

She glanced at him in surprise. She hadn’t realized they were so close to completing the location work.

“And then what?”

“Then I’ve got to go back to LA. Frank’s already got a start on editing, but I have to be there to go over it with him.” He cracked a chip in two, dipped it in the salsa. “We’ll spend about a month cutting it down to size, and then we should have something ready to show John DeSoto—he’s writing the musical score.”

“I’ve heard of him. He wrote the score for
Private Lives
, didn’t he?”

“Sure did. Won an Oscar for it,” Matt replied, tipping his beer bottle to his lips. Claire had begun stocking her refrigerator with his favorite local brew. “We’re lucky to have him on this project—he’s pretty busy these days.”

And Matt’s own time was at a premium, Claire knew. “What about your next film? Won’t you need to start the research on it soon?”

“Yeah, I’m working on that already. Pam’s trying to line up a stint in a state prison for me sometime in April—”

Claire froze. “What did you say?”

“It’s a prison film,” he explained. “Based on the book
Outrage
by Jessica Beaumont—you know, it was a bestseller a couple years ago?”

Claire remembered the book—a true story about a Louisiana man wrongly accused of murder and imprisoned for ten years; but the thought of Matt spending any time in a penitentiary caused her heart to lurch.

“You aren’t honestly going to have yourself locked up like a criminal, are you?” she asked, frowning.

“Sure. It’s the best way to prepare for the role,” he said, popping a chip into his mouth.

Claire turned away, not sure she wanted him to see the concern in her eyes. “Can’t you just interview the subject of the book? I’m sure he could give you an accurate picture.”

“But I want to know firsthand what it’s like, to hear the doors clang shut in my face, to smell the loneliness, the despair she talks about in the book.”

Claire closed her eyes, swallowing the sick taste.

“If they can work it out, I plan to spend some time in solitary confinement—”

She rounded on him. “So go lock yourself in a closet! Rattle some chains. You don’t have to risk your life!”

“It’s the contact with the people there I need,” he explained patiently. “I want to know what it’s like to live with that hopelessness every day.”

A wave of fury washed over her. That Matt could so calmly plan to immerse himself into the kind of hell she could all too easily imagine…

“You plan to risk your life, all for the sake of art.” She slammed the refrigerator door, hard enough to startle Sadie, who was lying next to her water dish. “Surely you’re not so naïve you think you can just walk up to a convicted murderer and have him share his deepest feelings with you.”

Matt looked annoyed at her lack of confidence. “I’m flattered that you’re worried, but believe me, I can take care of myself.”

“Now you’re conceited as well as—as naïve,” she scoffed. “The people in those places are killers, Matt. Rapists and murderers and psychopaths! They’d probably earn a merit badge for offing a celebrity like you.”

His lips twitched, as if he were holding in laughter. “There’ll be guards around at all times, just in case any boy scouts are working on that merit badge.”

She struggled to calm down, to erase the image of him locked in a solitary hole. Matt was a grown man, fully capable of taking care of himself. But the danger was more than physical. He needed human companionship, more so than she did. Her heart twisted at the thought of him locked away. “Joke all you want, but I warn you, when you get stabbed with a homemade knife, I’ll be the first in line to say I told you so.”

Then he did laugh. “As long as you show up at my bedside, honey, I don’t care if you tattoo ‘I told you so’ on my rear end,” he said, glancing toward Tripper, who was listening to every word with interest. “Didn’t you say you were cooking steaks? Come on, Tripper. I’ll show you how to light the grill.”

Claire remained silent throughout dinner, but Matt deliberately kept up the conversation with Tripper, hoping he wouldn’t notice his mother’s silence. Afterward, Matt enlisted Tripper’s help to clean up the dishes, while Claire settled on the floor in the kitchen, brushing out a freshly bathed Sadie. The dog sat patiently, occasionally lifting her face to acknowledge the attention with a lick of grateful pleasure.

“Not worried about dog germs, Claire?” Matt asked, coming to sit beside her.

“If you aren’t worried about getting a knife in the back, I’m not worried about a few germs.”

Matt propped his chin in his hand. “You really are worried about this.”

“Not at all,” she answered coolly. “You were right. I’m sure you’ll charm the entire prison population into remaining on their best behavior.”

“I’d be more interested in charming you.”

She glanced down, pressing on the wire bristles of the brush, flexing them in to the spongy rubber base with her thumb. “I told you—”

“Yeah, but can’t a guy dream?” he interrupted, keeping his tone light, but beneath his words was a thread of seriousness.

“I’m not the woman of your dreams. I never will be.”

Undaunted, Matt framed her face with his hands, then brushed her hair back with the same gentleness she had shown with Sadie. His eyes flickered over her face, her skin so pale, so flawless, as if it rarely felt the touch of the sun. “Sooner or later, you’ve got to risk getting burned.”

Her gaze wavered, but she didn’t pull away. His fingertip slid over the scar at the edge of her temple. Not flawless, after all. Something—or someone—had already marred her. The thought of her being hurt—deliberately—caused his jaw to clench. “Who hurt you, Claire? Tell me. Give me a name. I swear I’ll tear him apart.”

She jerked her face from his hold. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed. “It was an accident.”

He didn’t believe her. But before he could question her further, she stood up.

He let it go, for now. One day, Claire would learn to trust him, he was sure. Until then, he could be patient. He intended to do everything in his power to convince her that he was in for the long haul.

Because, insecurities and all, he wanted her, not just in his bed, but in his life, making him earn her love every single day—a challenge he couldn’t wait to meet. He wanted to make up for all the hard knocks life had dealt her.

But he had only one more short week, ten days at the most, to convince her she couldn’t live without him. Remembering her concern at the thought of him in danger, he decided there was plenty of reason to hope.

The email arrived two days after Alicia’s source in Philly had confirmed some of the details of her conversation with the anonymous informant.