Part 14 (1/2)

”Love you,” she said and slapped me on the rear, hard, as she walked away.

”Touche,” I called, feeling her words smart as much as the whack on my rear end.

18.

A man in reflective sungla.s.ses and a headset motioned for me to roll down my window.

”Hi, there,” I said in an alarmingly squeaky voice. I dragged my eyeb.a.l.l.s away from the gun in his shoulder strap and said, ”I'm Charlie Garrett. Ms. Jacobs and Mr. Rowe are expecting me. To cook. I'm a cook. A chef, actually, of pastries, confections, some candy, chocolate, though chocolate is really finicky-”

Spartacus held up one hand as a very effective silencer. ”I've got a five-three and a two-six,” he said into a small black wire with a dot on the end. ”Garrett, Charlie.” He paused, waiting, I suppose, for divine clearance. ”Copy that.” He produced an iPad and offered me a stylus. ”Read this and sign.”

I pretended I could read and even understand the five thousand tiny, highly technical words that made up some sort of nondisclosure form. The gist appeared to be that should I take any photos, record any conversations, reveal my whereabouts, or generally appreciate tabloid journalism, I would be sued for all my earthly goods and sent to the gallows.

”Looks good.” I couldn't seem to shake the squeak. I signed with a flourish and handed it though the window. ”Do I just follow this road up to the house then?”

He pursed his lips and placed the iPad on a black camping chair. ”Not yet. Step out of the car, please.”

I stared. ”What's that?”

He opened the door. ”Would you prefer I radio for a female officer for the frisk?”

I stepped out of the car and onto bright white crushed limestone. ”No, no, that's not necessary,” I said. ”I've been frisked plenty of times, almost always by men.” I winced and was glad I could not see his eyes behind the reflective gla.s.ses. One hates to see oneself disdained by muscular men.

I watched as he unleashed a wand with a red blinking light. ”Besides ...” I couldn't stop talking! ”I'm sure you want to keep your job as much as I want to keep mine.” I meant it as a joke, but Sparty was not keen on laughing with his subjects. He was done with the frisk before I had the chance to worry aloud if my b.u.t.t looked lumpy in my chef pants.

”Nero!” he called over a hyperdeveloped deltoid. A German shepherd bounded from behind a spotless black truck. He loped over with an expression that mirrored his master's. Within thirty seconds, he had scoped my car and its trunk. Satisfied that I was only a woman in shapeless clothes and not a terrorist or a photographer, Sparty allowed Nero to return to the truck and me to get back in my car.

”Clear,” he said, patting the hood of my car as a final jot of punctuation. I gunned the gas with a tad too much enthusiasm and cringed when I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Sparty checking his ensemble for dust.

I followed the private lane for at least a mile, driving slowly and leaving my window open to breathe in the mountain air. When I crested a final hill and saw the property, I felt like Dorothy entering Oz.

The ”house,” which seemed such a plebeian word for the structure ahead, perched on the edge of a rise and overlooked a groomed, green lawn that stretched down the mountainside. Trees had been cleared to allow for the lush gra.s.s and a heart-squeezing view of Seattle beyond. I could see pockets of seating areas, both on the expansive patio that wrapped around the house, and on the grounds below. Plush outdoor furniture with cus.h.i.+ons that were utterly impractical in Seattle's climate cl.u.s.tered around outsized copper bowls serving as fire pits.

I parked my car in an area roped off for staff and walked along a wide path that led to the front of the house and a mammoth set of doors. I pinned my shoulders back, willing the b.u.t.terflies in my stomach to settle down, and I reached out to grasp the heavy doorknocker. Just as I was about to let it fall, the door opened in a wide arc, pulling the knocker out of my hand and causing me to stumble over the threshold and into the house.

Tiffany Jacobs helped me up, murmuring apologies in her much admired, heavily insured low, scratchy voice. I crouched to gather the bag I had dropped, and my face collided with her long ropes of s.h.i.+ny, black hair.

”I'm so sorry,” she said again, then extended a cool, slim hand. ”So lovely to see you again, Charlie. I'm glad you could help us out tonight.”

”It's my honor,” I said, back to squeaking again, a lovely counterpoint to her Lauren Bacallesque voice.

She gestured for me to follow her. ”I'll show you to the kitchen, but can you have a gla.s.s of wine with me first? Or is that verboten when you're about to commandeer a hot oven?” She winked at me, and I followed her like a love-struck puppy dog.

I'm having a gla.s.s of wine with Tiffany Jacobs. In her new house. And she's barefoot, which must mean she thinks of me as a close friend! My thoughts chased one another, chastising the ones that recalled I hadn't even known who Tiffany Jacobs was a week prior, and focusing instead on the view that greeted us as we entered the living room.

Ebony wood floors stretched in wide planks from one end of the room to the other, interrupted only by a see-through fireplace that divided the kitchen area from the great room. An oceanic white rug covered much of the living room floor. I got so distracted by the thick pile on that rug, I wanted to take off my clogs and throw them into one of the copper fire pits, then sink my unpedicured toes into the fluff.

”These windows are from Switzerland,” Tiffany said as she stopped in front of a curved wall of floor-to-ceiling gla.s.s. ”I thought they were far too indulgent, but Macintosh insisted, and now I'm so glad he did.” I turned and saw a softness in her expression. ”He is really, really hot.”

As if on cue, Macintosh Sween's crocodile-skin shoes clacked on the hardwood behind us. ”Hey, it's the berries and ice cream lady,” he said, offering me his hand. I shook it and felt my cheek muscles cramp, my smile was so engaged. ”That shot of hot chocolate had Tiff swooning all week.” The beginnings of fine lines made delicate jewelry around jarringly green eyes. His teeth shone so white, they were one shade shy of blue.

Tiffany nodded. ”Nectar of the G.o.ds. Babe, would you bring us the bottle of Tempranillo and the gla.s.ses I put out on the counter?” He strode into the kitchen, and she called after him, ”Bring another gla.s.s, too, if you'd like to join us.”

Only after letting my eyes swim in a pool of kitchen-marble-lighting-appliance l.u.s.t did I force my gaze back to Tiffany, who, by the way, was magazine-ready, too.

Crossing one lithe leg over the other, she studied my face. ”I hear you're from the Midwest,” she said.

I nodded. ”Minnesota.”

Mac returned from the kitchen and offered each of us a gla.s.s from the Lucite tray he carried.

”Will you stay for some wine, my love?” Tiffany asked. I wondered if she'd had work done on her cheekbones or if they just came like that.

”Can't,” Mac said. He leaned down to kiss Tiffany long on the lips. I almost looked away but also felt a bit like I was watching a movie. Surely I was allowed to look, after paying twelve dollars plus popcorn?

”Roger wants to talk about that Berrini script. If I don't call him now, he'll hunt me down at the party tonight.” Turning a full-wattage smile in my direction, he said his good-byes and left the room.

I swallowed hard, hoping I didn't look as much like a Teen Beat reader as I felt.

”I'm from the Midwest, too,” Tiffany said. She pushed a cascade of hair to one side of her head, tilting her chin as she looked at me. ”I grew up in Nebraska.”

”That's great!” I said with an enthusiasm I had never before felt about the Husker State. I dipped into my gla.s.s of wine and sniffed a bouquet of expensive and ... expensive.

She nodded, a small smile on her lips. ”I loved growing up there. Hay rides, football games, church potlucks, even the depressing winters. It was a good, safe place to figure out who you were.”

She'd fixed her gaze through the wall of windows, on a faraway point that fell under and away from us. I waited for her to speak again, and when she did, she seemed to be searching my face for the answer to a question.

”You know, I've found people in this business are nothing like the people I grew up with.” She frowned slightly but corrected herself at once. I could only imagine what frown lines could do to her script options. ”People from our part of the country know how to be discreet. How to keep their mouths shut. How to allow others their privacy.”

I nodded, gripping my wine gla.s.s with clammy fingers. Had Spartacus the wonder guard radioed up that I was too chatty? Too eager? Too jumpy?

”Actually,” she said with a laugh. ”That's not true at all. The people in my hometown didn't know how to be discreet at all. They were insufferable gossips. No one kept their mouths shut, and we were all watching each other constantly. I couldn't even buy Advil at the pharmacy without the pharmacist calling my mom and making sure I was having normal periods.”

I winced. ”I know about that kind of a gossip machine.” I laughed to remember. ”Once I skipped third-period study hall with my boyfriend to try a cigarette behind the bleachers. By the time we had reached the end of the parking lot, my dad had been called at work by three different people who lived near the school and must have been spying out their windows. My biology teacher asked during the very next cla.s.s if I'd been paying attention the first time or if I needed one more look at the smoker's lung before I made my decision.”

Tiffany groaned in commiseration. ”Well, Mac and I have learned the hard way that most people in the entertainment industry would rather throw you under the bus than offer you a bit of privacy. This kind of lifestyle demands a lot from a person.”

It does have its perks, I found myself thinking and immediately felt disloyal. I swallowed the last of the wine and placed the gla.s.s gently on a nearby burnished bronze table.

”Charlie,” Tiffany said. She leaned forward in her chair. ”I like you. I like your desserts, I like the way you conduct yourself, and I like your self-a.s.surance. I really enjoyed talking with you at Thrill the other night.”

I felt my heart speed up. ”I did too. Thank you. I mean thank you for liking me.”

She laughed, a low, musical, blockbuster kind of laugh. ”You're welcome. I'm hoping that tonight will go very well.”