“We got an extension to the deadline,
and
you’re expanding the staff?” Josie could almost see David shaking his head. “Excuse me for being thickheaded, but what do we want with
four
assistants, anyway?”
“Two assistants,” Josie said. “We’re promoting Annie and Frank. The new people will be
their
assistants. See, I’m going to be working shorter days—effective immediately. I’m going to need a car and driver. Have Annie start looking for someone reliable, pronto. As of next Monday, I’m going to be commuting from Connecticut and—”
Cooper took the phone from Josie’s hands. “Dave! Josie has to go now because I have to kiss her,” he said.
“Tell him to tell Annie, I’m going to need a car phone,” Josie said.
“Car phone, Dave,” Cooper said. “She needs a car with a phone. Got that?”
David laughed. “Yeah, Cooper,” he said. “I’ve got it. I’ll tell Annie.”
“Tell her tonight,” Cooper said. “Maybe over cocktails and dinner.”
David coughed. “Annie?” he said. “Dream on, Cooper.”
“You’re kidding, right, Dave?”
“Kidding?” David sounded genuinely confused. “Kidding about what?”
“Do you mean to tell me after all this time, you don’t know that Annie’s got a crush on you the size of the Sahara Desert?”
“Annie?” David’s voice rose an octave in surprise. “Has a crush on
me
?”
“Oh, Dave, you bone-head,” Cooper said, laughing in disbelief. “You should have had me teach you to dance while you still had the chance. Now I’m up here in Connecticut and you’re on your own.”
“Annie?” David said again. “And me? Wow.”
“See if you can’t manage to muddle through without me,” Cooper said. He hung up the telephone and shook his head. “Annie’s in for one hell of a ride.” He smiled at Josie. “We are, too, aren’t we?”
“This isn’t going to be easy,” Josie whispered. “I’m going to need your help.”
“You got it,” he said. He touched the side of her face. “One hundred percent.”
He kissed her again, then he stood up, gently lifted Ben from the floor and set him down next to Lucy. “Why don’t you guys go finish watching that videotape?” he said.
“Wait a sec, Lucy,” Josie said. “I need to ask you something. Come here.”
Lucy crossed the room, and as Cooper and Ben watched, Josie whispered something in Lucy’s ear. Very seriously, the little girl turned to Josie, and whispered something back. Josie ruffled Lucy’s hair.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Hey, no fair telling secrets,” Cooper said.
“Lucy was just giving me my first Spanish lesson,” Josie said. She smiled.
“Yo te amo,
Cooper.”
For a sneak peek
at Suzanne Brockmann’s
thrilling new novel,
HOT TARGET,
Coming in hardcover in 2005
Published by Ballantine Books
C
OSMO’S MOTHER
was driving him crazy.
Well, okay, to be fair, it wasn’t his mom, but rather her choice of music that had pushed him out of her condo, into his truck, and back down I-5 to San Diego.
He parked in the lot next to the squat, ugly building that held the offices of Troubleshooters Incorporated. The sun was warm on the back of his neck, as he crossed to the entrance door. As usual, it was locked—apparently Tommy Paoletti had had no luck yet finding a receptionist for his personal security company. But he
had
installed a system that would allow him to let people in without having to run all the way to the door, twenty times a day.
A surveillance camera hung overhead, and Cosmo looked up at it, making sure Tommy would be able to see his face as he hit the bell.
The lock clicked open as a buzzer sounded, and Cosmo went inside.
“Grab some coffee, I’ll be right out,” Tom shouted from one of the back offices. “How’s your mom?”
“Much better, thanks,” Cosmo called back.
And she was. Right after the accident, when Cosmo had first gone to see her, she’d been in a lot of pain. Her face had been almost gray, and she’d looked old and frail, lying in that hospital bed.
But she’d been home a few days now and was feeling far more like her old self.
Which was great.
But, dear sweet Jesus, if he had to listen to the soundtrack from
Jekyll & Hyde
one more time, he was going to scream.
Cos took his coffee and sank down into one of the new leather sofas in the Troubleshooters waiting room. Buttery soft and a light shade of honey brown, they replaced the former mismatched collection of overstuffed chairs—thrift-shop rejects—that had cluttered the area in front of the receptionist’s desk.
Whoa, the walls had been repainted, too.
Tom’s wife, Kelly, had been threatening to redecorate for months, insisting that the image Tom was trying to establish for his new company probably wasn’t “piss poor and tasteless to boot.”
But huge leather sofas—as nice as they were—weren’t exactly Kelly’s light-and-breezy-New-England-beach-house style.
Someone else had done this.
Someone other than Tom—who was a great leader, but seriously fashion challenged.
“Are you here for the meeting?”
Cosmo looked up. The woman coming down the hall toward him was a stranger. She was wearing a pinstriped suit that had been tailored to accentuate her feminine shape. Tiny, with blond short-cut hair and delicate features in a launch-a-thousand-ships face, her blue eyes were coolly polite. Professional. Intelligent.
Ivy-league intelligent.
Her hands were ring free. Both of them. Her fingernails were short, bitten down almost to the quick—a direct and intriguing contrast to the career-woman persona.
She took a few steps closer and tried again. “May I help you?”
“No, ma’am,” he finally answered her, then mentally kicked himself.
Talk, asshole.
She mostly certainly could help him. He would love for her to help him. And at least be polite. “Thanks.” More. Explain. “I’m waiting for Commander Paoletti.”
She finally smiled, and it transformed her from breathtakingly beautiful to full-power-defibrilator gorgeous. He wanted to drop to his knees, and beg her to bear his children.
“You must be one of his SEALs,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Stand up, fool. But, Christ, don’t spill the coffee. . . .
Too late. It splashed over the edge of the cup and onto his fingers. Gahhhhd, it was hot.
She pretended not to notice as he pretended that he hadn’t just been scalded. She even held out her hand to shake. “I’m Sophia Ghaffari.”
Sophia. It was a beautiful name, and by all rights, violins should have started playing when she said it. She looked like a Sophia, she dressed like a Sophia, she even smelled like a Sophia.
He tried to wipe his fingers dry on his pants, but it was hopeless. “Cosmo Richter. Sorry, I’m . . .”
. . . A freakin’ idiot.
He crossed to the coffee setup, where he found some napkins, thank the Lord.
But Sophia didn’t run out of the room screaming Save me from cretins!, as he wiped his hands. “You must be here to help out with the Mercedes Chadwick job.”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted, turning back to her. Yes, she was still incredibly beautiful from this angle. Amazing how it worked that way. “Tommy said something about an easy op in L.A.”
“That’s the one.” She was holding the files she was carrying against her chest with both arms. “She’s a movie producer—and I guess a screenwriter, too. She’s been getting death threats.”
His chance to touch Sophia, to shake her hand, now that his hands were clean, had apparently passed. What a crying shame.
“Hey, Cos.” Tom Paoletti came out from the back, smiling his welcome. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem, sir.”
“Why don’t you come on back, into my office?” He looked at Sophia. “Soph, you better get going, if you’re intending to catch that flight.”
“Yeah. It was nice meeting you,” Sophia told Cosmo, then turned back to Tom. “Tell Decker I’m sorry I missed him.”
“I’ll do that,” Tom told her. “He’s stuck in traffic. It’s bad—really, you better get moving.”
As she hurried down the hall, Tom led Cosmo back toward his office. “We’ve had a change of plans,” he continued. “Originally Decker was going to meet us here, but the Fifteen’s a parking lot. I’m going to meet him tonight at the client’s. Any chance you can come along?”
“Sure.” Cosmo couldn’t help hesitating, turning to watch Sophia hustle out of her office and down the hall and out the door.
Tommy, of course, noticed. “Sophia’s handling our ‘Paranoia’ accounts. You know, people who are panicked by the changing terrorist-threat levels. They want to make sure they have the best security system possible. She sets up a team to try to get past their system, see just how good it really is against professionals. She does the face-to-face work, initial meetings, report presentations, that sort of thing. She’s very good at it.”
“Sounds like fun,” Cos said as casually as he could, while closing Tom’s office door behind them. “Right up my alley. The breaking-in part, I mean. She need any help?”
Tommy laughed as he gestured for Cosmo to take a seat. Someone had gotten him new furniture for his office, too. A real desk instead of that rickety table he’d been using. “Her current assignment is out of state. I thought you wanted to stay close to your mom in . . . Where is she? Laguna Beach?”
“Maybe I could commute.”
Tom lifted an eyebrow. “From Denver?”
If it had been Phoenix or Vegas, he would’ve tried it. But Denver . . .
Tom knew what he was thinking. “Nice try, Chief,” he said. “But she’s recently widowed—she’s not looking to get involved with anyone right now. And I really need you in L.A. Hollywood, actually.”
“The movie producer who’s getting death threats,” Cosmo repeated what Sophia had told him. “Is Deck the team leader?” Decker was a former SEAL, former Agency operative.
“Yep,” Tom told him.
Cos nodded. If he couldn’t work with Sophia, Decker would be his strong second choice. “Count me in.” He backpedalled. “If, you know, he wants me.”
Tom nodded. “I’ve already spoken to him. He wants you. You’ve got how many weeks of leave left?”
“Three weeks, two days, seventeen hours.”
His former SEAL CO smiled. “Well, at least you’re not counting the minutes.”
Cosmo glanced at his watch. And fourteen minutes.
“And you’re sure you don’t want to use this time as a vacation?” Tom asked.
“I’m quite sure, sir.” Like many SEALs in Team Sixteen, Cosmo wasn’t good at taking vacations. After just a few days, he got bored. Restless. “I just want to be able to check in on my mother once or twice a day.” He got down to business. “So tell me about this Hollywood producer. Her name’s Mercedes? Like the car?”
“J. Mercedes Chadwick,” Tom told him, then smiled at the look of disgust Cosmo shot in his direction.
“What’d she do,” Cos asked, “to piss people off enough to make them want to kill her?”
“I don’t need personal protection—a team of bodyguards? God! This is absolutely ridiculous.”
Patty didn’t seem convinced, so Jane Chadwick looked at Robin, hoping for just a teensy bit of brotherly support.
Instead, he wasn’t paying attention. He was giving the new college intern one of his “hey there” smiles. Patty, naturally, was dazzled. Of course, she was impossibly young and didn’t yet have the mileage that would enable her to see past Rob’s gorgeous face to the lowlife womanizing scum within.
“Yo,” Jane said, clapping her hands sharply. “Robin. Focus. Patty, go call the studio back and tell them no. Thank you, but no. I’m perfectly safe. Be firm.”
Unlike many young movie-loving girls who made the pilgrimage to Hollywood, Patty’s freckled-face cuteness wasn’t an act. She wore kneesocks and actually meant it. Jane didn’t know her that well yet, but, unfortunately, being firm didn’t seem to be high on Patty’s skill list.
Well, at least she was out of Jane’s office, closing the door behind her and releasing Rob from her captivating spell.
“If you touch her,” Jane told him, “I will kill you and I will make it hurt.”
“What?” Rob said. Mr. Innocent. He made that sound that was half laugh, half indignation. “Come on. I was just smiling at her.”
One thing was certain, her too handsome brother was a brilliant actor. If they could get this movie made, and—most important—if they could get it distributed and seen, he was going to be a star.
“Besides,” he added, “you of all people shouldn’t be making idle death threats.”
That was supposed to be funny. Jane didn’t crack a smile.
“That wasn’t a threat,” she said. “It was a promise. Let me put this in terms you’ll understand, Skeevy. If you sleep with her, she’ll think she’s your girlfriend. And when she finds out that she was merely your Friday night distraction, she’ll be badly hurt. Now, maybe you don’t give a damn about Patty’s feelings, but I do. And I also know what you do care about, so listen close. If you break her heart, she will quit. And if she quits, you will become my personal assistant, and you won’t have a single minute to yourself from that moment until we are done making
American Hero.
Do you hear me?”
Her little brother laughed. “Relax, Janey. I’m not going to sleep with her.”
Jane just looked at him. She liked Patty. A lot. The girl was smart, she was sweet, she was way overqualified for this glorified gofer position. The lack of backbone could be worked on—besides, Jane had plenty of that to go around.
Best of all, though, despite being paid only a stipend, Patty liked Jane. It was a win/win situation . . . as long as Robin kept
his
personal win zipped up tight inside his pants and out of the equation.
Problem was, Patty had a serious crush on Rob. Which meant that it was going to fall on him to keep his distance.
God help them all.
“You need to lighten up,” her brother told her now. “What is it
Variety
calls you?” He reached for a copy of the trade magazine that was out and open on her desk, and started to read the latest section that Patty had highlighted. “ ‘Never too serious, party-girl producer and screenwriter Mercedes Chadwick heats things up at the Paradise. . . .’ ” He looked at her over the top of the oversized page. “Who are you, you too serious she-bitch, and what have you done with my real sister, the party-girl producer?”
Jane gave him the evil eye that she’d perfected back when she was twelve.
It didn’t seem to scare him as much anymore. “Look, I know you’re freaked out by these e-mails—”
“But I’m not,” Jane said. “I’m freaked out by the fact that the studio’s freaked out. I don’t need a bodyguard. Robbie, come on, it’s just a few internet crazies who—”
“Patty told me you got three hundred messages just today.”
“No,” she scoffed. “Well, yeah, but it’s, like, three crazies, each sending a hundred e-mails.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Yes,” she told him.
Rob was silent.
“Really,” she insisted. “How could this possibly be real?”
More silence. Then, “Who’s paying?” Robin finally asked.
“For my lifetime of sin?” Jane responded. “I am, apparently.”
He gave her a get-serious look—which was vaguely oxymoronic. Robin, telling someone else to get serious. “For this added security that HeartSong studio wants to set up,” he clarified.
“They are,” Jane said. Her budget for this film was already stretched thin. She was using her personal credit cards to pay for craft services. No way could they afford around-the-clock guards.
“Then I don’t see what the big deal is,” Rob said. “So HeartSong wants to hire a couple of bodyguards for you. Use it, babe. Spin it into something that’ll get us two, maybe three stories in the trades. Shit, if you do it right, maybe AP’ll pick it up.”
“You don’t understand,” Jane said. And he didn’t. Her brother, while not exactly simple, presented his true self to the world at all times. Well, except when lying to her about Patty. . . .
Jane, on the other hand, had carefully crafted her public persona. “Party-Girl Producer Mercedes Chadwick,” was as much a fictional character as any she’d ever created for one of her screenplays—Jack Shelton and Hal Lord and the rest of the real-life gang in
American Hero
not included.
For the first time in her career, Jane was making a movie based on fact.
Patty knocked on the door, opening it a crack to peek in. “I’m sorry.” She started most of her conversations with an apology. It was a habit Jane intended to break her of long before
American Hero
was in the can. “They’ve set up a meeting for four o’clock, here, with the security firm they’ve hired—Troubleshooters Incorporated.”
Jane closed her eyes at Patty’s verb tense.
Hired.
“No,” she said. “Tell them no. Leave off the thank you this time and—”