Chapter 1

It’s a sunny Wednesday afternoon in L.A.—just one more perfect day if you don’t count the heavy blanket of smog hanging over the city like acid-tinged perfume. In the distance, the Hollywood sign that is ubiquitous to this small section of Southern California is nearly obscured by the cloying, smothering stuff, but no one on the patio where I sit, waiting, even seems to notice, any more than they notice the goddess—no, strike that—the legend,—no, not that either—the siren—yes, that works—any more than they notice the famed siren who weaves her way between the cramped and crowded tables.

The lunch rush is over, but the small sidewalk café several blocks off the main see-and-be-seen drag that makes up so much of Los Angeles’s entertainment-based culture continues to do a brisk business as Veronica Romero slides into the seat across from mine.

She’s all bright eyes and smiles, all shiny blond hair and tight jeans and colorful gemstones glittering on every finger. Her blouse is white—her signature color—and oversized. Her shoes are high heeled, and the telltale soles of Christian Louboutin are the same shade of crimson as her lips. And yet there’s a casualness about her, an openness, that I don’t think anyone expects when they think of Hollywood’s most powerful—and highest paid—actress. As she introduces herself, I even catch a glimpse of the elusive dimple that many speak of but few ever get the chance to see.

It’s charming, and so is she.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she tells me in the throaty rasp that has sent shivers down the spine of many a red-blooded male through the years, myself included.

“You’re not.” A quick glance at my watch speaks to the veracity of my answer. “I’m always early.”

“I like that in a man.”

It’s a canned response, one that I can’t help thinking is beneath her. At least until I see the dimple flash again and realize she’s poking fun—at herself as much as at me and the artificiality of this situation.

“So, how do you like L.A.?” she asks after ordering a sparkling water from the hovering waiter. The patrons might not have noticed she’s here yet, but the waitstaff certainly has and they circle like buzzards around a freshly killed carcass.

“It’s…” I pause, try to think of a description that isn’t a lie but that also won’t offend this Beverly Hills–born- and –bred icon.

She just laughs, though. “Yeah. That’s what I figured. Thanks for doing this”—she gestures between the two of us—“out here. I just couldn’t fit in a trip to New York this week.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s my job to come to you. You’re the star, after all.”

“And you’re the Pulitzer Prize–winning, New York Times bestseller who’s slumming by doing this piece.”

I crook a brow. “Writing the cover article for Vanity Fair is never slumming. Doesn’t matter who you are.”

“Funny. That’s exactly how it feels to be on this side of the story, too.”

She grins at me—and it’s not the exotic—sexy—man-slaying—grin that graces so many movie screens. It’s softer, more human. The goddess with feet of clay.

“What does it feel like?” I ask after the waiter has delivered her water and taken our order—a grilled salmon salad for her and a burger for me. “To be on that side of the story?”

She reaches up, toys with one perfect, golden lock of hair, and for a moment—just a moment—a shadow falls over her face. It’s gone almost before I can register it and then she’s tossing her hair, stretching languorously, yawning delicately, one pale, fine-boned hand pressed to her mouth.

“Are we there already?”

“Where is ‘there’ exactly?”

“The boring interview questions.”

“And here I was trying so hard to be interesting…”

“Oh, you don’t have to try.” Her smile is impish now, inviting me to share the joke. “I’ve spent the last few days trying to cull down the million or so questions I want to ask you.”

Now both my brows are up. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how these interviews are supposed to work.” This one in particular, considering I have a limited amount of time with her and so many, many things to figure out. Only a few of which are also part of Vanity Fair’s agenda.

“Interview-shminterview. Let’s just have a conversation. You ask me a question and I’ll answer it. Then I’ll ask you one and you answer it.”

“Oh, so that’s how a conversation works.”

“Yes, well, one never can be too careful with writers. You people are…”

“Crazy?” I offer.

“I was going to say eccentric.” She tries out an innocent look. It might work, too, if she didn’t have a body made for long, sweaty, sex-filled nights and a mouth made to—She tries out an innocent look. “But crazy works, too.”

It really does. But then, there are all kinds of crazy in the world. “I prefer honesty to diplomacy.”

“Well, that’s certainly unique.” She makes a face at me—eyes crossed, tongue out, nose all scrunched up. She looks ridiculous and still far too gorgeous. “And total bullshit if I’ve ever heard it. In this town, nobody prefers honesty.”

“Yes, but I’m not from this town.”

“That,” she says as she squeezes an extra lime into her sparkling water, “is a very good point. And now that it’s out there, I really will insist on asking you questions. And you answering them.” She pokes a finger at my chest for emphasis. “Honestly. Since it’s your thing.”

“Quid pro quo?” I suggest.

She sighs. “I suppose. If you insist upon thinking of it that way.”

“Is there another way to think of it?”

“As fun.” She lifts her water to her lips, takes one long, thirsty sip. I very deliberately don’t watch the way her throat works as she swallows. “You do know what fun is, don’t you?”

Fuck. I expected a lot of things from this interview. I never expected to like her.

“I believe I’m familiar with the concept, yes.”

“I hoped you would be. I know there probably isn’t much fun in true crime, but you can improvise a little, right?”

“Is that what you do with your scripts? Improvise?” She gave me the opening and I can’t resist sliding in with the first of my questions. “I’ve heard working with you always involves the unexpected.”

“No answers to your questions until you promise that you’ll answer some of mine.” Her smile is bright white and beaming.

This may be my first celebrity interview of this ilk, but I know when I’m being taken for a ride. I’m pretty sure this wide-eyed, friendly approach works on most of the Hollywood journalists she runs into, but I’ve spent the last fifteen years of my life interviewing people whose lives—not just their livelihoods—depend on their ability to lie. Murderers, policemen, federal agents, witnesses, family members of the victims, not-so-innocent bystanders. I’ve interviewed them all and those varied experiences let me see, all too clearly, the calculation lurking in the depths of those world-famous violet eyes.

Recognizing it doesn’t keep me from taking the plunge, however. Some things are inevitable, after all. And calculation isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Sometimes it’s prudent.

Sometimes it’s fun.

And sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps you alive.

I wonder which—if any—it is for her. Or if it’s all of the above.

Veronica Romero is a lot of things. An ingénue isn’t one of them, no matter how many she played early in her career.

She’s patiently waiting for my response, though, so I nod. “I’ll be happy to answer whatever questions you have. As long as you extend me the same courtesy.”

“Of course. That is what we’re here for, isn’t it?” She glances down at her nails, which are surprisingly short and painted a purple so deep and dark that it’s almost black. The way she doesn’t look me in the eye is how I know she’s telling the truth—and feeling vulnerable—defenseless—exposed about doing so. “Life is full of surprises. I feel like art should be, as well. I don’t improvise just to improvise while on script, but there’s an honesty in the unexpected, isn’t there? In the responses that have nothing to do with preparation and everything to do with…” She pauses, looks uncertain for the first time.

“Being thrown off your game,” I fill in. “And scrambling for purchase.”

“Yes. Exactly.” She smiles approvingly.

“Do you like it?” I ask. “Being off your game? Not knowing what’s coming next?”

“Are you kidding? I hate it.”

“And yet you force yourself and your co-workers into it several times a film.”

“I do, yes.”

“Some would say that’s foolish. Arrogant. Courting disaster, even.”

The dimple flashes again and she laughs a little. “Some have said that.”

“And still you do it.”

“Still I do it. True art doesn’t come from complacency. You of all people know that.”

“So you consider yourself a ‘true’ artist?” I ask.

Something flickers across her face and for the first time I wish that I was videotaping this interview instead of just audio recording it. I would love to be able to come back to this moment later and analyze each of her facial expressions.

“And if I say I do?” Her chin is up, her voice pure bravado.

“I’d agree with you. I think doing that—dropping the mask to get the rawest, most real moments—is very brave.”

“Brave?” She says it like she’s never heard the term applied to herself before. “And here I just thought I was masochistic.”

The words are loaded, the look she gives me even more so.

I feel myself respond despite all the lectures I gave myself to the contrary before she got here. But she’s got a good laugh and an even better outlook on her life. Plus that word, masochistic, calls up all kinds of images of her that are better left unimagined.

Still, now that it’s out there, I can’t just leave it alone. The descriptor is way too powerful for that. “Is that what acting is?” I ask after a moment. “Masochism?”

“If you do it right.” She takes another sip of her water, her eyes locked on mine as her tongue darts out and licks a stray drop of moisture off the perfect bow of her upper lip.

“And do you? Do it right?”

“I think that’s for you to say, not me, isn’t it?”

That’s when I forget how to breathe. For one second, two.

She’s talking about being at the mercy of the audience—a stern taskmaster, no doubt—but at this moment, that doesn’t seem to matter. Not when it feels very much like she is the one in control. Of her career, her destiny, and this interview.

But there’s a gleam of triumph in her eyes that says she knows it and that jump-starts my brain. This interview is a two-day marathon and I’m not prepared to go down this early or this easily.

“I’m more than happy to be the one who says it,” I answer with complete sincerity. “The emotion you brought to the Belladonna was breathtaking, and somehow totally authentic despite the subject matter.”

“It was a brilliant role. Thank you for writing it.”

“All I did was write the book. Derek James wrote the screenplay. And you brought her to life.”

She shakes her head at me, tsk-tsks a little. “False modesty is so unbecoming. It’s one of the first lessons they teach you in Hollywood. Is it not the same in New York?”

“False modesty? Yes. But a writer had better be modest if he wants to be any good. Especially a non-fiction writer.”

“Why non-fiction specifically?”

“I think you know the answer to that question better than anyone. Because it’s never about me. It’s always about them. Isn’t it the same for you?”

“I’m not known for my modesty,” she says with a laugh. “Just ask my ex-lovers.”

“I don’t need to ask anyone. I’ve seen you act.”

“What does that mean?” For the first time, she looks wary.

“It means you become every character you play. From the ingénue to the queen to the—”

“Sociopath?”

“I was going to say savior, but yes. There are times in the footage I’ve seen that I can’t distinguish you from her. And I spent hours, days, interviewing her.”

“That’s quite a compliment.” And yet her voice says it’s anything but.

“It was meant to be,” I try to soothe. “What’s it like, being so talented that you can be anyone you choose?”

“I think that’s a question I should be asking you. You’ve written books on two serial killers, one mass murderer, and two of the most notorious unsolved murder cases of the last century. To write the way you do, you have to get inside the murderer and his victims. The same goes with the profiling you did early on in your career. What does that feel like?”

Like I’m balancing on the edge of an abyss, waiting to fall in.

Like I’m sinking in quicksand with no hope of ever being pulled out.

Like I’m drowning.

“Disturbing. Fascinating. Sometimes sad.”

She tilts her head in acknowledgment. “Exactly.”

I hope not. For her sake, I really hope not.

Before I can say anything else, our lunch is delivered. She smiles at the waiter as he slides her salad in front of her and he gets so flustered that I nearly end up wearing my hamburger and fries. She pretends not to notice.

Once our food is delivered, our water refilled, and extra napkins placed in a position of honor on the table, there’s no other reason for the waiter to hang around, much to his dismay and my amusement.

I give her a couple minutes to eat undisturbed before diving back in. “So what’s that like?”

“What?”

“Men falling all over you everywhere you go.”

She could pretend she doesn’t know what I’m talking about—just like she pretended not to notice how flustered our waiter was. But she doesn’t. Instead she turns the tables. “What do you think it’s like?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”

She gives me a slow, thorough once-over. “I’m pretty sure women must fall all over you—”

“When are you going to stop deflecting and actually answer what I ask you?”

She freezes. “Excuse me?”

“I’m here to interview you and the last few questions I’ve asked, you’ve thrown back in my lap. I already know what I think—I’d like your thoughts or this article is going to end up being an autobiography.”

“That’s not a bad idea. I’d read your autobiography in a heartbeat.”

“Yeah, well, you’d be the only one.” I take a bite of my burger, give her a minute to figure out that she’s not going to be able to charm her way out of this one. Then I ask again, “So, what is it like?”

Her shoulders tense, and suddenly it’s like a switch flips inside of her. Gone is the friendliness of the last fifteen minutes and in its place…in its place is something else entirely. “Being attractive?”

I shoot her a look that tells her to knock off the bullshit. “Being Maxim’s sexiest woman alive seven of the last ten years. Topping Esquire magazine’s sexiest list. Making People’s Most Beautiful list every year for the last decade. Being number one on IMDB’s top one hundred sexiest actresses of all time.” I pause, take a very deliberate sip of my water. “Should I keep going?”

“No. I think I get it.” Her voice is about ten degrees cooler than it was and as she purses her lips, narrows her eyes, I’m reminded of a children’s fairy tale. The better to see—hear—eat—you with, my darling. “It feels exactly like you’d expect it to feel.”

The whole thing is very definitely a warning to lay off this line of questioning, but all it does is intrigue me. And solidify my belief that Veronica Romero would play the hell out of the big, bad wolf.

Too bad I’m not cut out for the role of Little Red.

“Gratifying?” I ask. “Claustrophobic? Unsafe?”

This time when she laughs, it sounds nothing like tinkling bells and everything like high-end sex. I try not to respond, but it’s pretty hard not to notice the way the sound goes straight to my cock like it was designed specifically to get me hard.

“Nothing about this business is safe,” she tells me. “I thought you’d be the last person I’d have to explain that to.”

“All that money, all those bodyguards, and you still don’t feel secure?” It’s a direct salvo, one that hits the mark judging from the way her shoulders tense and the dimple disappears completely. For a moment I mourn its loss, but then I’m too caught up in her transformation to think about anything else.

“Silly, Ian,” she all but purrs as she lightly traces one dark purple fingernail across the back of my hand. She’s dripping sensuality now, wearing her sex appeal like Perrault’s wolf wears its teeth and claws. “In this town, it’s not bodyguards that keep you safe.”

Her fingertip is gliding over the inside of my wrist now, stroking back and forth in a rhythm that takes my dick from semi-aroused to fully hard in seconds. Then again, maybe that’s the way she’s looking at me, eyes hooded, lips wet and parted, cheeks just a little bit flushed.

“So, what does?” I have to clear my throat twice before I can get the question out.

It’s her turn to lift a brow. “I would think that was obvious.” Then she’s sucking her lower lip between her teeth, biting down oh-so gently. Her breath hitches just a little and—fuck—so does mine, though I know exactly what she’s doing. Turns out being forewarned doesn’t always mean forearmed. “I keep myself safe.”

“Touché.” I make a concerted effort to keep my voice—and my hand—steady, even as desire pure, unadulterated lust sweeps through me. I ignore it, concentrating instead on the list of questions that I have memorized. “Before we were sidetracked, we were talking about your tendency toward improvisation—”

“But you already got your question,” she tells me, cutting me off. “Several questions, in fact. Now it’s my turn.”

I could push, considering she’s given me a non-answer to pretty much everything I’ve asked her so far. But she’s not the only one who knows how to play games at this table. “Ask away,” I answer, smiling broadly. “I’m an open book.”

“Why do people always say that like it’s a good thing?” she asks, and if possible, her voice is even huskier—even sexier—than it was just a few minutes ago. “An open book only shows you two random pages in the middle of the action. How is that supposed to tell you everything you want to know?”

“I guess that depends on the pages, doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps it does at that.” She looks me over, her eyes lingering on my mouth, my chest, my hands. “What two pages are you going to use to portray me?”

“Whichever two you show me.”

She smiles at that and this time it is the man-slayer she’s so famous for. Her hand is at her throat, her fingers deliberately toying with the amethyst pendant that rests just between her breasts.

“That is exactly what I hoped you’d say.”

I try to ignore the sudden sensation of bite marks on my ass, but it’s not easy. Especially when it hits me that I’ve just lost the first battle of whatever game we’re playing.