The sound of a gunshot blowing out a massive window should have been enough to bring a halt to the most crowded of parties. That hadn’t been the case at the gallery showing, however. In fact, nobody in the noisy downstairs section of Venice on the Beach Fine Arts had even realized what had happened Friday. Reece had raced down an emergency staircase, dragging Jessica with him, to warn everyone. His—definitely sexy—brother, a cop, had taken over. All the patrons were quickly ushered into windowless bathrooms and conference rooms to wait for emergency responders.
It had been a long night. She’d been interviewed by the police. There were worried patrons and, to everyone’s surprise, a quick sellout of Liza’s art.
Well, maybe it wasn’t so surprising. Word of the drive-by shooting—or run-by, since the shot had to have come from the beach, from someone on foot—had, of course, hit the news. Celebrities were involved, after all. Everybody knew curiosity got people talking; in this town scandal steeped like Earl Grey. Buying a piece of art on display at the same time somebody had shot at Reece Winchester seemed like a sound investment.
Unfortunately, all the press coverage brought people she’d rather not hear from crawling out of the woodwork. Like the one whose number had shown up as Unknown on her phone screen Tuesday morning as she walked across campus. God, she wished she hadn’t answered it.
As soon as she heard his voice, she snapped, “How did you get this number?” And how soon can I change it? Again.
Johnny, her ex, ignored the question. “Are you all right, baby doll? You weren’t hurt?”
Cringing at the endearment she’d hated but endured, she said, “I’m fine.”
“I literally died when I saw the pictures and read about the shooting. You could have been killed!”
Did you? Literally? “I wasn’t. And it’s not your concern, anyway.”
“Of course it is,” he said, a hint of a whine in his voice. She’d always hated that whine, which didn’t match his big ex–football player’s body. “You know how much I care about you.”
“Well, stop it. I don’t want you caring about me, Johnny. I want you out of my life.”
As usual, he ignored what she wanted. “Why were you alone with that guy?”
Of course. They’d arrived at the real reason for his call. Not because she might have been shot, but because she’d been alone with a handsome man when it happened. He hadn’t changed a bit. She was tempted to hang up, but cutting off communication and trying to keep out of his reach, verbal or otherwise, hadn’t worked during the past year. Why would it now?
She swallowed, not sure if what she wanted to say was going to inflame him or get him to finally realize they were finished. But she had to try. “I was alone with him because we’re involved,” she said, crossing her fingers behind her back.
“You’re screwing that spoiled Hollywood prick?” He’d yelled so loudly she had to pull the phone away from her ear.
“I’m hanging up now.”
In his rage, he didn’t even hear her. “Did he fuck you right in the building while that slut sister of yours was showing off the garbage she calls art?”
Ahh, there was the good ol’ boy she remembered. “I’ve moved on. You need to, too.”
“You bitch!”
Jess was trying hard to remain calm and strong, but the fury in his voice made her shudder. It brought back so many memories of his verbal and emotional abuse. He hadn’t ever hit her, though she knew he’d wanted to a couple of times. He’d screamed at her often, and had done what he could to mess with her head. Things like attacking her self-confidence about her writing, her looks, and her femininity.
After the breakup, he’d followed her, not caring if she spotted him. There’d been endless heavy-breathing calls and notes slipped under her door. The worst was when he’d smashed the windows in her car. He’d found her books and papers and burned them. Blackened pieces of a script she’d been working on were strewn on the floor with the glass. Although she had backups, she’d felt utterly assaulted. Invaded.
Fortunately for her sanity, everything had calmed down over the past couple of months.
Then the phone rang. If the harassment and threats started up again, she might lose her mind.
“Reece is very protective. He won’t like you calling me, so you’d better back off.”
Letting out a loud laugh, he said, “You think I’m scared of some pussy actor?”
“Not only is he incredibly strong, he’s also wealthy.”
“Oh, sure, you’re after him for his money. I wasn’t rich enough for you, huh?”
“I said that to make sure you understand he has connections. He can hire security.” She scrambled for more. “His own brother is a cop.”
Johnny fell silent, and Jess hoped he was reevaluating his actions. She’d never called the police on him before, afraid it would escalate things. Maybe this ruse with Reece would do the trick, and her ex would actually be smart for a change.
His snarl said he was still completely stupid. “He’ll dump you. He’ll use you and throw you away. You’ll be begging me to take you back.”
She ran a weary hand through her hair, knocking her ponytail holder loose. “If he does, it will be my business, Johnny. Not yours.”
“JJ, listen…”
“No. I’m done listening. As for begging you to take me back?” She laughed, knowing she sounded a little hysterical. “I wouldn’t beg you to throw water on me if I were on fire.”
Then she hung up. Johnny Dixon had already consumed far too much of her time and energy.
“Do your worst, you son of a bitch,” she muttered, sensing a resolve in herself that might not have been there a year ago. Glancing at the time, she realized she was late for her appointment with her academic advisor. She shook off the worry her life was about to detour back into Crazypants land, and raced across campus, knocking on Professor Alan Bent’s door at exactly four minutes past her scheduled time. Bent was a former Hollywood staple whose successful screenwriting career had grown old, as had he.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, out of breath, after he’d ushered her in.
“Please, sit down,” he said, smiling. “Take a few breaths. I looked out the window and saw you running across the lawn.”
She dropped to the chair, heaved a few times, and then nodded her readiness.
Apparently, he had something other than academics in mind. “So, has there been any word on the investigation into the shooting?”
“No.”
The older man, tsked. “I still can’t believe you were caught in the crossfire.”
“There was no crossfire, Professor. It was one shot. Mr. Winchester protected me. We alerted everyone else. And the police didn’t find anyone.”
He still looked curious, as everyone had in the few days since the incident. Good thing Reece had bought the camera from the photographer; the pictures would have been much more popular with the news coverage. The story about the attack had gone national.
Unfortunately, a reporter had found out who she was and where she worked, and came into the restaurant for an ambush interview. He’d been less interested in the shooting than in why she had been alone with Reece at the time. More reporters had followed, and her boss ordered her to stay home until this all blew over. She hoped it would soon. She couldn’t afford the unpaid time off. Liza could cover the bills for a while, given her success at the showing, but Jess liked to pay her own way.
Remembering Johnny’s phone call, though, she acknowledged there might be a silver lining. If she wasn’t at work, he couldn’t come in and harass her, as he had a couple of times last winter before her boss banned him.
“Frankly, my dear, I’m glad there was too much traffic for me to get to the gallery in time,” Alan said. “These old bones can’t handle that much excitement.”
“I’m glad, too.” She had invited him, sensing he was lonely. The Hollywood elite weren’t always kind to those who aged out of usefulness—in their view. Alan had hit the skids, career-wise, and, judging by the shabbiness of the tweed jacket he always wore, financially. Jess wouldn’t want to think about any harm befalling him physically.
Fortunately, nobody else had been hurt at the gallery. Only her and Reece. She had tiny cuts on her face, arms, and shoulders, and a few on her legs, but nothing else. Reece had lifted her off the glass on the carpet with one powerful arm, and shielded her from the shards tinkling onto them from above. His head, broad shoulders, and back took the brunt of it.
He’d refused to let anyone look at his injuries. But the flecks all over his suit and the gleams of glass twinkling in his hair hinted he hadn’t escaped unscathed.
He’d put himself in danger for her. She still didn’t know how to feel about his heroic actions, given how devastated she’d been in the minutes leading up to the potentially deadly shot.
“Have you got any thoughts about who might have done it? Or why?”
“No. The police questioned me that night and called me again yesterday to follow up, but didn’t give me any more information.”
“I suppose they’re focusing on Mr. Winchester, since he was most likely the target.”
“Most likely.”
Alan frowned. “He’s not the charmer the world thinks he is.”
Disdain dripped from his words, which surprised her. She didn’t respond, curious about his tone.
There was some bad blood here. “He could have been killed,” she pointed out.
The shooter almost certainly hadn’t been aiming at her. Famous movie stars were often targeted by stalkers.
Or maybe Sid Loman had been pissed off about being fired. According to police, his car was still in the gallery lot, and he hadn’t returned to his apartment.
One more possibility whispered in her brain. She dropped her gaze to her own hands, not even listening to what Alan was saying. What if it was Johnny?
“Are you all right?” her professor asked.
“Fine,” she said, knowing she sounded breathy.
He got up and went to a small refrigerator, getting her a bottle of water. Twisting off the cap, he put the bottle in her hand and ordered her to drink.
She gulped the water down, trying to douse the heat of her own imagination. It was impossible. Wasn’t it? Johnny couldn’t have been spying on her Friday night. He couldn’t have seen her in the arms of another man, the first she’d even kissed since the breakup. He couldn’t have fired at them. Could he?
“Feeling better?”
She nodded, finding it hard to focus on this meeting. But she had to think about her degree, so close she could almost taste it. Johnny couldn’t be allowed to cost her that, not on top of robbing her of her peace of mind for so long. “I’m fine. Thank you for the water.”
“Certainly.” He sat down again. “Are there any leads at all?”
Back to the subject she didn’t want to discuss. But he’d been kind, and she couldn’t brush him off. “There are cameras all over the building, including one facing the beach. The police think the shooter stood in the surf, in the darkness, just out of range.”
“It sounds like a long distance.”
“Which could be why he missed.”
Johnny’s father had put a hunting rifle in his hands at age nine, and he continued to do so whenever he went home to visit.
“Well, I do hope you are being careful,” the professor said, clearing his throat.
“I am, thank you.”
“Now, about why I called you in today…”
“Have you read A Child in the Street?”
She had finished the script she’d been required to write as her final project weeks ago and had been sweating about his reaction since. She’d clawed the script from a dark, private place that dwelled deep inside her. It wasn’t easy to let somebody else visit there.
“Actually, no.”
Well, shit was her first reaction. Her second was Thank God.
“You seem relieved.” He peered at her over a file. “Are you concerned about it?”
“You remember how nervous I was in my first class with you.”
He chuckled. “I had to pry your papers out of your hands.”
“This project. It’s especially…”
“Intimate, I’m aware.”
“I thought you hadn’t read it.”
“I might have peeked at the first few pages.” His unruly gray brows furrowed, and she suspected she wasn’t going to like what he was about to say. “They’re…a bit self-indulgent.”
Jess felt herself deflate, knowing what he meant. Although Alan didn’t ask what she’d based the story on, he would probably soon realize it was about her. Sooner or later, every writer wrote autobiographically. She was no different. So the main character was an eleven-year-old foster kid, sassy, smart-mouthed, streetwise. Bad things happened to her, but she didn’t get a happily ever after. It was a might-have-been tale, and she didn’t need a shrink to tell her why she’d written it.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. She’d been stupid to pour so much of herself into it, opening herself up to not only criticism of her writing, but judgment on her own life.
“Don’t be discouraged. As I said, I’ve only read part of it.”
“Well, hopefully it will improve for you.”
“You’re certainly talented, Jessica. I’ve always seen you writing comedy, however. This dark angst might not be exactly right for you.”
She managed not to laugh in his face. Dark angst was why she reverted to comedy much of the time, verbally and in her writing. Getting herself out of bad situations with caustic humor had become second nature. That didn’t mean, however, that the darkness wasn’t still there, lurking beneath the wisecracks. She didn’t dwell on the things that had happened in her past—the loss, the heartache, the fear—and she had mostly good memories, thanks to her mothers, biological and adoptive. Memories had a tendency to lurk, however. She’d felt the need to exorcise those demons through her fingers on the keys.
Maybe she would throw the whole thing out, hit delete on her laptop file and consign it to the recycle bin. And then empty that bin. Even if she failed, even if she never pitched it, at least she’d gotten the words out, and could, she hoped, move on to new things.
Alan reached across the desk and patted her hand with his pale, wrinkled one. She knew he didn’t like to give harsh criticism, and he usually tempered it with praise. “You’re an excellent student. I have no doubt you will go far.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
He moved a pile of papers on his desk—scripts from other students who were probably going to get better grades—his expression growing serious. “As for the reason I asked you to stop by today, you’ve been offered an internship.”
She gasped. “Really?”
“A well-paying one.”
Her jaw fell. She’d been prepared to work like a dog for pennies. That was how things went in Hollywood. Everybody was interested in cheap labor; any student wanting to break into the industry prepared for indentured servitude as part of the dues-paying process.
“Where?”
His mouth twisted. “The offer is from Win or Lose.”
“Son of a bitch,” she snapped, immediately throwing herself back in her chair.
“So you’re not interested in working with Mr. Winchester?”
Right now she’d like to give Mr. Winchester the same treatment she gave to handsy, grabby customers at the bar. Anything from a drink in the face to a knee in the crotch. Because the man she most wanted to avoid was the owner of Win or Lose Studios.
It was a small outfit, but there was nothing small about its films. The company had a great reputation, winning a lot of prestigious awards. If anybody else in the world owned it, she’d leap at the chance. But how could she work with Reece Winchester, given what had happened between them? How could she trust him with her career when she didn’t trust him with her body? Get real. You don’t trust yourself around him.
“I’m not interested in him at all,” she mumbled.
Alan’s brow went up in skepticism, but she told herself she meant it. Reece had humiliated her in front of paparazzi. He’d sucked her into his stalker drama, as if she didn’t have enough of her own in the past year. He’d put the police in her life and the media on her tail. He’d caused her to lose her much-needed hours at Hot Buns. Now he thought he could make it up to her with a job?
She didn’t wonder how he’d found out she was in need of an internship. Judging by the things he’d said Friday night, he’d been interested enough in her to research her background. Her status as college senior wouldn’t have been too hard to find out for someone with his contacts.
“I can’t do it,” she said.
“I concur.”
“You do?”
Her advisor nodded. “You don’t want to get further entangled with the man. The world might think he’s the golden child of the industry, but his life is riddled with secrets and scandals. Believe me, I know. I worked with him.”
Jessica gaped.
“Oh, yes,” he said, seeing her reaction. “Without my writing and direction on Walk Along with Me, Reece Winchester would never have become so famous.”
When she’d learned during her first class with him that Bent had written and directed one of her all-time favorite childhood movies, she’d been surprised. Alan was fussy, staid, highly literary, and old-school. “That was such a popular film.”
“It wasn’t in my regular line. Honestly, I was in a financial bind.” He wrinkled his nose. “I did it for the money.”
That was not a surprise. As a teacher, Alan was about the art. Everything they studied in his classes involved scripts with deep themes. A hit kids’ movie didn’t qualify.
“Well, no matter why you made it, I want to thank you for it. I loved that film. It got me through some rough days as a kid.”
He nodded to acknowledge the compliment, then returned to his point. “The whole Winchester family was bad news. The boys were wild, and the poor sister wasted on drugs. Their mother was obsessed with fame. The ultimate stage mom. I had her banned from my set.”
Jess suspected he wanted her to prompt him for details about the whole family. But she knew better than to indulge in backstabbing and gossip. Here, words were repeated and embellished, often creating feuds and scandals. She didn’t need to start her career that way.
“What if I don’t get another job offer in time?”
“You might get something, or you could pick up a job in the fall.” He cleared his throat, straightening and appearing a bit pompous. “Perhaps I could help. I do still have some connections in this town.”
Connections like an Oscar-winning writer and director who created hit movie after hit movie? Hmm. The more she thought about this, the more she realized she might have to do what was right for her future, no matter why she’d been offered the position.
“God, this is confusing. The trouble is, with work and classes in the fall, summer is really the only time I can do an internship. I need something to happen now.”
“Don’t decide yet. Let me make a few calls.”
“I appreciate that. But I have to admit, a recommendation from him would open doors.”
He nodded curtly. She hadn’t meant to hurt Alan’s feelings, but she had to wonder if he really had any connections left in this fickle town.
“It is, of course, your decision.”
Jess had come too far in her life to lose an opportunity just because she questioned why she’d gotten it. Besides, if Reece Winchester was hiring her to get in her pants, he was in for a big disappointment. Zipper up, buttons buttoned, buddy.
“I think I should do it.”
“With your personal connection to him?”
She couldn’t even respond. Yes, she’d let herself get caught up in the glamour, the excitement, the atmosphere, and the stupid Flaming Orgasm the bartender had made for her. Heavy on the orgasm. All of that might have made her a little reckless with Reece Winchester, but should it affect an important decision about her future?
Reece had hurt and embarrassed her, yes. He’d also protected her, however. When the shot rang out, and the glass burst inward, he’d thought only of her safety, not his own. He’d covered her, wrapped himself around her, physically sheltering her as no one ever had in her life. Like she was precious. Like she mattered to him.
She’d tried to block out those memories. Late at night, though, when she was alone and could no longer believe the lies she’d been telling herself, his tenderness was what she remembered. Even more than the kisses, than the touch of his hands on her naked skin. It was the way he’d held her. The way he’d protected her. That she couldn’t get over.
Jess slowly let a deep breath ease out of her mouth. Emotion couldn’t overwhelm logic. Too much was at stake. Her heartbeat slowed from its rapid rhythm, and a calm settled over her. She might be disappointed—in fact, she probably would be, since he was a man, and a spoiled one. But that dive, that embrace, those soft whispers and the brush of his hand through her glass-strewn hair, meant she had to give him a chance.
Maybe he just wanted to get her into bed. Maybe he thought she owed him.
But maybe it was something else.
“I’m going to say yes.”
Alan nodded, his mouth pinched. Reaching for a piece of paper, he jotted down an address. “They’d like you to come in today at two.” When she lifted her hand to take the paper, he added, “I assume I don’t have to warn you about how cutthroat this business can be.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m going to anyway. Watch yourself. There are rogues and thieves who live to take advantage of the young and vulnerable.”
Rogues? He really was Errol Flynn–era Hollywood.
“Don’t trust. Don’t share your ideas. Definitely don’t share your script, especially not with your new boss. It would be the worst mistake you’ve ever made.”
“Are you kidding? I haven’t even told my sister what it’s about. I’m paranoid about leaving my laptop at home because I’m so worried she or my roommate will snoop.”
Not that they would. She knew that logically. Emotionally, the fear was always there.
“You’re in good company then,” Alan said with a chuckle. “No one has neuroses like a writer. I’m afraid it never gets better.”
Wonderful.
“You have to be determined and must truly want to succeed in order to make it in this industry.”
She was. She did.
He wagged his index finger and warned her one more time. “Remember, trust no one.”
She had dreams of Hollywood success—on her own terms, not on the coattails of a man who’d gotten her naked within an hour of meeting her. Ugh. But she wasn’t stupid. She’d been around the block a time or two, and had been burned. She was taking enough of a risk by agreeing to accept Reece Winchester’s job; she wasn’t about to trust him enough to hand over her guts, soul, history, and dreams in written form. Since she was soon going to be working with the man, probably closely, considering the trouble he’d gone through to make this happen, she only hoped she didn’t live to regret trusting him with her body.
One thing was sure. She would never—ever—trust him with her heart.
* * *
After his brightest pupil walked out, Alan Bent listened to the door close and the click of Jess’s footsteps fading down the hallway. He sat in silence for a long moment, evaluating everything that had just happened. Once it sank in, he let his anger loose and swept a shaking hand across his desk. Papers flew, rubber bands snapped, sending pages of scripts flying. Seeing his dreams slip out of his grasp, he couldn’t bring himself to care about the mess.
“Damn that man. Damn that girl. And damn this town.”
Everything had been going so well. He’d laid out a clear path for his triumphant return to mainstream moviemaking, and had begun taking the first few steps down it. He’d worked hard to rebuild connections, calling in favors, putting out feelers. He wasn’t remembered as he should’ve been, which infuriated him. Cashing in on his least favorite but most successful film, Walk Along with Me, at least got him through the doors of lower-level studio executives.
They were interested. All of them, interested. He was once again fielding calls and taking lunches, part of the world he loved that had been denied to him for so long.
He’d envisioned studios competing for rights, giving in to his demand to direct and offering full creative control. His return would be covered by Variety. He would cast Farrah Allen, the hottest child-actor in the country, in the lead role. He foresaw a record-breaking box office, awards, and smooth sailing right into a new future.
Then Reece Winchester hired his prized pupil, threatening to rip away everything he’d dreamed of. Again.
Isn’t ten years long enough? He looked at the awards on the bookshelf, proof he belonged here, that he deserved a spot at Hollywood’s table. “I did my time in purgatory.”
Plus, he had changed. He wasn’t the man he’d been during his heyday, when drugs had been so easy to get and dark cravings so simple to indulge. If given a chance, he would prove that to everyone. Even Mr. High-and-Mighty Winchester. No, especially him.
But not if Winchester found out what he was up to and ruined everything.
“They should never have met,” he mumbled. “I should have gone to that gallery and prevented them from ever speaking.”
It was too late, though.
How long would it be before the intern asked her boss, the extremely successful writer/director, to read her screenplay?
She can’t do that.
Not if Alan wanted to sell it under his own name.
Opening a desk drawer, he reached inside and withdrew his working copy of A Child in the Street, which he’d renamed Street Girl. Although he’d had the original in his possession for only a couple of weeks, the copy he had made was worn and crumpled from rereading. Penciled notes filled the margins. Yellow highlights emphasized turning points and edited dialogue. He’d jotted in more detailed character descriptions and ideas for additional scenes.
Street Girl was the best screenplay he had ever read. It represented his future, his comeback, and the answers to his financial problems. As for taking it? Well, everyone in Hollywood lifted something from time to time. It was the price of being in the business.
The story was not that unique, but the way she presented it certainly was. Every turning point was perfectly placed, the beats laid out with precision. The dialogue sparkled, and the ending killed. Audiences would fall in love with a precocious little girl, only to have their hearts ripped out at her fate.
Until Jessica had met Reece, Alan hadn’t worried about what would happen when she found out about his movie deal. She might learn what it was about and grow suspicious. But who would believe her? Besides, movies took years to get off the ground. It would have to get backing, financing, then get made and released before she would ever know for sure.
This was a rough town. She might have given up by then.
Maybe she wouldn’t even be alive. Accidents happened, after all.
Even if she put up a fuss, it would be his word—the word of a respected, experienced moviemaker—against a nobody. She’d said many times that she’d never even told her family what she was writing about. She had handed him what she claimed was her only printed copy. As for her laptop, which she carried to school and where she kept the file…well, something could be done about that. He already had a few ideas…
It was the perfect plan. She was young and talented. She’d have other chances. But this was his last one.
“Unless Reece Winchester ruins everything for me again.”
There had to be a way to stop that from happening. He couldn’t give this up without a fight.
Alan leaned back in his chair, his fingers entwined on his chest.
He had some thinking to do.