Undercover Mistress

Chapter 10

“She took me shopping,” Roy said morosely. “On Rodeo Drive.” He paused to take a swallow of beer from the longneck bottle he’d been cradling against his chest before continuing. “Do you know the last time a woman took me clothes shopping? It was my momma-I think I was ’bout eight.”

“She’s got good taste, you gotta admit,” said Max, nodding at the slacks, pullover and leather jacket Roy was wearing.

They were sitting on Celia’s deck and although the sun still had a ways to go before taking its nightly dive into the Pacific, there was a stiff wind blowing and a December chill in the air. The weather reports had said there was a storm moving down from the Gulf of Alaska that probably wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, but in the meantime it had blown away the fog.

Roy looked down at himself and snorted. “I get a shock every time I walk past a mirror. Shoot-I look like my own daddy.” He didn’t, though. From what he recalled of his daddy, Joe Starr had been a man with considerably less hair and all the outward signs of a lifetime of good down-home Southern cooking.

Max studied him for a moment from behind his sunglasses. “What’s with all the complaints? You’ve been undercover before. You’ve put up with disguises a lot worse than this.”

“Yeah? I’ve never had to be somebody’s ‘boy toy’ before.”

Having been completely unsuccessful at stifling a snort of laughter, Max turned his head away, still snickering.

“Okay, laugh, but I’m tellin’ you, it’s not funny from where I’m sitting. Hell, I was supposed to be the millionaire-”

“Billionaire.”

“Whatever. She’s supposed to be my mistress-so how come I feel like I’m the one being kept?”

“Poor baby,” Max said with absolutely no sympathy. “By the way, is that your new set of wheels I saw out in the driveway?”

Perking up a bit, Roy said, “You mean, the Land Rover?” Then, since it was obviously a rhetorical question, he shrugged. “Celia’s idea-she seems to think it goes with my ‘rugged, outdoorsy image.’ Canadian…north woods…all that…stuff.” He snorted and took a swallow of beer, wondering what Celia would think of his damned image if she knew his idea of “rugged and outdoorsy” was hooking a marlin on a warm, sunshiny day on the Gulf of Mexico.

“I sure never expected I’d be driving a Land Rover,” he said, shaking his head in a wondering way. Then he looked over at Max and had to grin. “Never expected I’d be living with a soap opera queen, either. But what the hell-it’s just make-believe, right?” He lifted his beer bottle in a sardonic toast to the sparkling view.

“You sure about that?”

Roy snapped Max a look. Max nodded toward the small figure jogging toward them from far down the beach. “That’s one gorgeous and sexy woman you’re sharing a house with. Sleeping in her room-hell, in her bed. I won’t say I’d approve, given the fact that you’re working together, and the seriousness of the situation, but I couldn’t entirely blame you, either.”

“Come on.” Roy waggled his shoulders impatiently. “She sleeps upstairs, I sleep downstairs. Anyway, are you nuts?” He watched the jogging figure for a moment, and he could feel a heaviness building inside his chest. When he spoke again, his voice had grown gravelly. “Even if we weren’t in the middle of an operation-forget it. She’s from a different world. Hell, practically a different species. I’m a small-town Southern boy. She’s-you said it-she’s Hollywood royalty.”

“Can I ask you something?” Since that was such an unusual thing for Max to say, Roy nodded out of pure curiosity. “You’re…thirty-five, right? How many girls-women-would you say you dated in the past twenty or so years, while you were growing up…living in that small Southern town?”

His curiosity growing, Roy said warily, “I don’t know, quite a few, I guess-why?”

“And yet…you’re not married. Why is that?”

Feeling vaguely annoyed, Roy shrugged and wriggled around in his deck chair. He didn’t like the way the conversation was going. He’d been called to account on the subject of marriage by various members of his beloved family enough times that it was a sore subject with him. He gave Max the same answer he generally gave, which was the shortest and simplest, not necessarily the most truthful. “I don’t know-why does anybody not get married? Never met the right woman, I guess.”

“Ever think maybe that’s because those small-town Southern girls weren’t what you wanted? Maybe what you want is someone different. From a whole different world, even.”

Roy stared at him for a moment, then grunted and shook his head. He looked down at his beer bottle, but it had lost its appeal. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of telling Max how he felt about the choices he’d made in his life so far. How for him, choosing a career as an undercover agent pretty much meant there was never going to be a Mrs. Roy Starr and a bunch of little Roy Starr Juniors waiting for him back home, all cozy in a little house with a picket fence. From what he could see, undercover agents made lousy husbands and even worse daddies. He said, “That’s pure fantasy, man.”

“Maybe.” To Roy’s great relief, Max seemed to have finished with the subject. But a moment later, just when Roy was starting to relax, he said, with the air of somebody starting a whole new subject, “Ever think about the fact that actors, even Hollywood royalty, even soap opera queens, are just people, too?”

Roy couldn’t help it-he burst out laughing. “That is truly lame, you know it? You’re as bad as she is.”

Max gave him a long look he couldn’t read at all, thanks to the damn sunglasses. One thing he was sure of, though-it wasn’t even close to being a smile. “I’m serious. She’s just a woman, Roy. Okay-prettier and richer than most, but a woman all the same. Smart, too. And funny. Not to mention, nice…”

“Jeez,” Roy said, with a grimace of severe pain, “you sound just like my momma.” He made his voice high and singsong. “Roy, you know, Lena Grace Osmond’s youngest, you remember her-Jolene? She is just the nicest girl-pretty, too, and bright-”

“Okay, okay.” Laughing, finally, Max held up his hands in surrender. “Just as well you’re not interested. Should make it easier to keep your mind on the job. Speaking of which,” he said, casually shifting gears, “any progress on that front?”

He didn’t add the obvious-that the holidays were fast approaching, which meant they were running out of time.

The intelligence “chatter” had been growing more ominous by the day. Something big was being planned for around the holidays-just no specific word, yet, on what…or where.

The terror alert hadn’t been elevated, but it would be soon-most likely the week before Christmas. The thinking was if the alert was raised too soon or too often, it would lose its effectiveness-like the boy who cried wolf.

Roy shifted and straightened up as Celia approached the bottom of the stairs, flashed them a smile and a wave, then paused to do some cooling-down stretches. Without taking his eyes off of her, he said to Max in a low voice, “She’s got some party we’re supposed to go to tomorrow night. It’s at some producer’s house up in Bel Air. Seems to think there’s a good chance al-Fayad’ll be there…”

The truth was only part of his mind was engaged with renegade Arab princes, luxury megayachts and international terrorists right then. The rest was thinking about the long, slender body doing toe touches and waist swivels down at the foot of the stairs, covered from neck to ankles in sweats, tank top and zippered warm-up jacket. Thinking, too, about the scar he’d glimpsed in the slit of her robe, and wondering if she was hiding it from herself, the world or just him.

He didn’t know why, but more than her beauty or fame or personal history or anything else he’d learned about Celia Cross in the short time since he’d met her, more than how much he wanted her body-and any red-blooded male in his right mind would-that scar intrigued him. Which should have been a warning to him, right there.

“It’s around the next bend,” Celia said. She could hear the strain and tension in her own voice-small wonder, since her whole body felt as if she’d been encased in concrete, and her jaws as if they’d been wired together. She concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths and mentally reciting a yoga mantra she remembered. “The gate should be open-you’ll see it on the right. Just drive on in-there’ll be a parking valet…”

Roy nodded, his expression grim in the Land Rover’s dashboard lights. He didn’t say anything or glance her way, for which she supposed she should be grateful. She would hate for him to guess how nervous she was. No-not nervous. Terrified.

It’s only a party, she told herself, for the umpteenth time. These people are your friends.

Friends? Even as she formed the word in her mind, she wondered if it was true. In her world friendships, like love affairs, tended to be transitory. Like treasures from the sea, she thought. They usually vanished with the changing tide.

They were pulling up in front of the huge Spanish-style, wrought-iron gated entry, and a valet was opening her door. She gave him her hand and a dazzling smile.

Roy came around the front of the Land Rover, and she thought, No, not Roy. I must remember to call him R.J.! As she watched him, she felt an alarming upside-down sensation in her chest. Switching to her painted-on smile, she inquired brightly under her breath, “Ready for your debut, R.J.?”

He gave a noncommittal grunt and touched her elbow, guiding her up the walkway in a proprietary way. It felt astonishingly good, him doing that, and her heart began to thump and her skin felt hot, as if she’d stayed too long in the sun.

“I feel like a damn performing gorilla,” he muttered, leaning his head close to hers.

She laughed and whispered back, “Welcome to my world.”

The thought came to her: This is opening night. You’ve always wanted to do live theatre, right? Well, it’s curtain time. So, you’ve got a few butterflies? It’s not as though you’ve never had them before.

“It’s a private party-I’m still supposed to tip the guy, right?” Roy whispered, bending closer.

Celia gave a little hiccup of laughter and wondered whether the delight she felt was because his naiveté amused her, charmed her or, in some indefinable way, touched her soul. “To tell you the truth, I have no idea.”

“Well, I did, anyway,” he growled, now that they were inside the mansion’s courtyard entry and for the moment, at least, alone. “Figured I couldn’t go wrong-might even have made his day.” He paused in straightening his shoulders and resettling his jacket to give her a suspicious frown. “What?”

“What? Nothing.” She gulped the denial, embarrassed by the fact that she’d been caught flat-out staring at him, practically mesmerized by his unconscious grace. Girl, you’ve got it bad. If just looking at the guy makes you go weak in the knees…

“Just checking,” she said archly, looking away.

“You sure I’m dressed right for this? I mean, the jacket’s okay, but I still think-I mean, come on. Jeans?”

She looked back at him warily, knowing how dangerous it was. Sure enough, the endearing uncertainty in his frown made her heart flutter in a maddeningly adolescent way. “I told you,” she said crisply, “this is Hollywood. In this town, jeans will take you anywhere-except maybe the Academy Awards.” She turned to face him and, after a moment’s inner struggle against the urge to hurl herself at his chest and weave her fingers through the gleaming silver hair at his temples, stepped closer and reached up to brush at his lapels. “Trust me-you look…perfect.”

His blue contact lenses glittered oddly in the torchlight as he stared down at her. “I must’ve gone undercover in a dozen different situations,” he said in a low, rumbling voice. “Never felt like I didn’t know what the hell I’m doing before. Hell, I don’t know if I’m gonna blend in, or-”

“You don’t have to blend in, darling,” Celia said softly, touching the fake scar on the side of his jaw, surprised at the ache of secret pleasure that simple action awakened. “You’re Canadian, remember? Just don’t forget to whisper.”

She heard a faint intake of breath-or was it only wishful thinking? Imagination? And did she also imagine the moment stretching…and a kind of building suspense, with breaths held, humming under the skin and a far-off thumping of pulse beats? She did see his lips move-no imagination there. And she was mesmerized by his mouth. The memory of how wonderful it had felt…tasted…made her throat ache and her eyes smart with unexpected tears of longing.

Somewhere nearby, a door opened, leaking sounds of voices and music and laughter into the courtyard.

Close to her fingertips, Roy’s lips formed a smile. He dutifully whispered, “Yeah, Canadian. Right.”

She snatched her hand away from his face and they turned together to walk on through the courtyard, Celia feeling light-headed and fluttery in her stomach, wishing he’d take her arm again. Wondering if she should take his…

Just as they reached the door, he looked down at her and said gruffly, “You look nice, too.”

Such an innocuous thing to say. But he said it with a kind of innocence and sincerity that was rare in her world. She caught a shaken breath, once again unprepared for the ache that clutched at her throat, the sting in back of her eyes.

But there was no time to reply. For Celia, time had begun to stand still. She took a deep breath, drew herself up. I’ll get through this, she thought. I will.

Then, she was standing with Roy in a great tiled entryway, looking down into a huge sunken living room filled with people. Faces turned toward them. There was a break in the hum of sound, then a ripple, as if a breeze stirred through the crowd. She could hear individual voices. It took all the strength she possessed just to lift her head high.

“Look-isn’t that…”

“My God, it’s Celia Cross.”

“Didn’t she-”

“I thought she was in rehab!”

“She looks-”

“…amazing-you’d never know she almost-”

“Who’s that she’s with? You don’t suppose…”

“Who knows? Never seen him before…”

“…think maybe he’s her therapist?”

Roy felt those hackles he wasn’t sure he was supposed to have rising again. He couldn’t believe the things he was hearing. Who the hell did these people think they were? Far as he could see, there wasn’t one of ’em who could hold a candle to Celia Cross when it came to looks, style, elegance, class.

As if to confirm what he already knew to be true, he glanced over at her, and it shocked him to see, instead of her usual cool, calm, breathtaking beauty, that her blue eyes were shimmering deep in smudgy sockets, that her face had gone deathly pale.

He didn’t know how or why, but in that moment his own nerves and uncertainty vanished, swept away in a wave of protective fervor.

Without knowing he was going to, he put his hand on her back and gave her waist a reassuring squeeze. And he got his second shock of the evening when he felt her tremble.

But before he could begin to process that phenomenon, a short bald guy with a reddish-gray goatee came sweeping toward them, crowing, “Celia, my darling-you look incredible! I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you.”

With a trill of laughter and a light and musical, “Hello, Arthur, I’m glad to see you, too,” she floated away from Roy’s supporting hand and moved forward to meet the bald guy. They exchanged air kisses, and then Celia turned to Roy. “Darling, I want you to meet Art Milos. This is his house. And his party. Art, this is my friend, R. J. Cassidy. He’s Canadian.”

She said it all with a smile so playful and eyes so serene, Roy felt confused and a little bit foolish-sure, now, that he must have been mistaken about the trembling.

He shook his host’s hand and-remembering to whisper-produced some apparently adequate answers in response to the man’s standard questions: Canadian, huh? What part? What business are you in? Where did you two meet? At least he hoped he did. If anybody’d asked him, he’d have been hard-pressed to remember one word of what he said. His eyes and most of his mind had wandered off with Celia as she moved into the crush of people, pausing to speak to someone, then moving farther afield to take two wineglasses from a tray borne by a passing waiter.

“What is it?” he asked in a growly undertone when she returned to hold out one of the glasses to him.

She was already gulping from the other like a thirsty child. She considered, licking her lips. “Chardonnay, I think.”

“You don’t suppose they’d have any beer?” Though he said it in a whisper, Milos, who was already moving on to the next arrival, evidently heard him anyway, and turned back long enough to point toward a wall of arches that opened onto a stunning view of the L.A. lights.

“Foreign, domestic and weasel piss-otherwise known as lite beer. Bar’s outside on the patio.” And he was gone-swallowed up in the crowd.

“That’s for me,” Roy muttered. Celia, having drained the first glass of wine, smiled at him gaily, shrugged and took a sip from the other. “Back in a minute,” he said under his breath, and as he began to make his way toward the arches, he was thinking, I’m here five minutes and I already feel like I’m making a prison break.

Outside, he found the bar with no trouble and selected a bottle of Mexican beer. While he waited for Celia to join him, he strolled across the tiled patio, carrying his bottle of beer in his usual way, close to his chest. One of those aluminum and canvas affairs had been set up to keep out the rain, and there were several tall aluminum outdoor heaters holding off the December chill. Between them, people stood around in small groups, laughing and talking in the mellow light of torches…drinking…a few eating-nobody smoking, though, he noticed. In Hollywood, evidently, healthy living was In.

Some of the people gave him curious looks as he passed; a few nodded and smiled, just in case he was somebody important. Most ignored him.

He saw some people he recognized, and some others he thought he probably ought to have recognized, if he’d been more up on the latest goings-on in the world of entertainment. But it wasn’t his world. Truth was, he felt more out of place in it, more conspicuous and exposed, than he ever had mingling with street thugs, underworld bosses and international arms dealers.

Wondering what was keeping Celia but reluctant to go back inside where the bulk of the noise and the crowd were to find out, he wandered to the edge of the patio, to the point where it dropped away in an impressive series of Spanish-tiled terraces, hot tubs, pools and fountains toward a carpet of city lights. Tonight, the distant spangles seemed to blur and shimmer in the lightly falling rain, and Roy found himself thinking about another night not so long ago, a warm, clear night, when he’d stood on a hill above Los Angeles Harbor with Max, talking of boats, and unthinkable acts of terror.

Was it only coincidence that a cold, damp breeze should skirl in out of the darkness and rain just then to find its way under the collar of his new leather jacket and make him shiver?

“Darling-there you are!”

Something leapt inside him at the sound of her voice. As he turned, he wondered if it would show in his eyes. Prayed it wouldn’t.

An instant later, that momentary spark was snuffed out, and a professional chill settled over him; his body stilled and his features froze into what he prayed would be an unreadable mask of calm. Impassive as a granite statue, he watched the small group of men come toward him. They were swarthy skinned and darkly dressed, and at their center, Celia, laughing and lovely, looked like a shimmering golden topaz set in onyx.

The man beside her caught and held Roy’s attention first, possibly because he had one arm draped around Celia’s shoulders. He was tall and, Roy supposed, would probably be considered handsome, in an exotic sort of way, with a hawk nose, gleaming black eyes and a perfectly trimmed goatee. (And what was it with these Hollywood people and goatees? He was glad he’d won the argument with Celia on that score, at least, and was, for the moment, clean-shaven.) He didn’t know whether it was the damned goatee or the arm around Celia that irked him, but he felt a sudden primitive urge to slug the guy.

Still…he wasn’t the reason Roy had gone still as stone, with every nerve and sinew vibrating with a primitive cognizance of danger. After the first second, his eyes had moved on to the four men arrayed in a rough semicircle behind Celia and her escort. They were much alike, of a type Roy happened to know well. Though formally dressed in seemingly identical dark suits, gleaming white shirts and black neckties, there was about them a certain alertness…and something more. Ruthlessness and even cruelty…a suggestion in their taut muscles and impassive faces of violence kept under tight rein.

And one of them, at least, he’d seen before. It had been dark that night, but he’d known he’d never forget the face of the man who’d shot him on the deck of the yacht Bibi Lilith.

“Darling…” It was Celia’s voice again, breathless and tipsy, reaching toward him across the black, echoing void that had opened up in his mind. He focused on her and saw her hand extended gracefully toward him. “This is…” she sang the name, punctuating each syllable with a wave of her nearly empty wineglass “…Prince Abdul Abbas al-Fayad-but everybody calls him Abby-don’t they, darling?” Her laughter was a silvery sound that twanged against Roy’s razor-edged nerves like aluminum foil on a sensitive tooth. “Abby, this is my friend, R.J., from Canada.”

“Your highness…” Roy returned in a grating whisper, smiling a clenched-teeth smile, extending his right hand. At the same time, he caught Celia’s outstretched hand with his left. He heard her breath gust sharply as he pulled her to his side.

Seemingly oblivious to that not-too-subtle demonstration of possession the prince raised his eyebrows and waggled a finger at his own throat. “Your voice-it is…?”

“An injury. It’s getting better…slowly.” His voice would have been sandy, he thought, even if he hadn’t been playing a part. He considered it a wonder his vocal cords worked at all.

Danger. Suddenly it was all around him; he could feel it. Inside his new designer clothes he was cold…sweating. Images…sensations still fresh in his memory played again in his mind. The searing pain of the bullet ripping through his flesh…the blackness of the water, the deathly, mind-numbing cold…

Had the bodyguard recognized him? There was no outward sign in those impassive black eyes. Don’t look too closely. Can’t risk looking him in the eyes. Mustn’t give him the chance to look too closely at me…

“R.J. and I met in the hospital-in rehab,” Celia said, and reached up to kiss his cheek.

He didn’t know where the impulse came from. Some primal directive of male biology predating civilized competition by millennia, maybe? He felt her lips brush his cheek, her breath warm and smelling of wine. In the next instant, he’d hooked his arm around her waist and brought her hard against him, turned his head and caught her mouth in a deep, claiming kiss.

He felt her lips…their warmth, flavor and texture…burst under his like ripe fruit in the heat of summer. Sensation flooded his senses and, for a moment, drowned all thought, infused his system like a potent drug, leaving him shocked, reeling, disoriented.

It lasted no more than seconds. Not nearly long enough…much too long. What the hell was that? What did I just do?

She swayed a little when he released her, as if something she’d been leaning against had been removed suddenly.

“Darling-” Incredibly, her voice, her lowered lashes, her smile, still seemed sultry, sexy, intimate. Then she lifted her lashes, and he saw that behind their camouflage her eyes were fierce and bright. With confusion? Anger? And yet…when she continued, her voice and smile gave no sign. “Abby’s been telling me all about his boat. He has the most amazing yacht…”

“Really?” Mentally reeling himself in, Roy showed the prince his teeth.

With Celia tucked close against him, he could feel the tension humming in her body. Or maybe the humming was only in his. Every nerve, every instinct was telling him to run like hell, to get away from there before he was found out. Any moment now, the prince or one of his bodyguards would see through his charade. If they haven’t already. How could they not?

He’d never felt so exposed.

Meanwhile, maddeningly, Celia was chattering away, oblivious to the danger, asking questions about the yacht in her sexy, sultry voice. And Prince Abdul, dividing his attention between both members of his audience, was regaling them with the boat’s dimensions and specifications. Roy tried to listen with the right amount of interest, just a touch of awe, but he was restless and on edge. It was hard to concentrate when all he could think about was the danger he’d put Celia in, if, in fact, he’d been made. And when and how he could end the interminable small talk and get the hell out of this place.

At the same time, inexplicably and unforgivably, but in a very visceral way, he was thinking about the kiss. Thinking…not with his mind, but with the elemental pulse-pumping, heat-making part of him…about the thump in his belly…the fire in his loins. And how much those parts of him wanted to feel like that again.

Be careful, the thinking part of him warned. Don’t let them know you’re edgy. Don’t let them see you sweat. They’ll know something’s up. And for God’s sake, don’t let them get a good look at your face.

Celia’s shoulders were rigid against his arm as he turned her slightly and, with a casually possessive, almost languid motion, lowered his head to one side of hers. With her face between his and the bodyguards’ watchful eyes, as the conversation continued, he lazily stroked her hair with his chin…blew his breath along the intricate whorls of her ear…

He felt her shiver. Swaying, as if in a dance, she contrived to turn her head toward him, her smile quivering at the corners, her eyes questioning. But when he tried to explain silently-I have a reason…play along…please…trust me!-he could see the desperate appeal in his eyes bounce off the confusion and anger in hers, like pebbles thrown against a wall.

Or had it? A moment later, she managed to deftly and charmingly bring the conversation to a close, by waving gaily to some distant someone and explaining to the prince, with a wry smile and rolled eyes, that she’d promised her agent she’d say hello to this certain producer… The prince, being familiar with the ways of those in The Business, laughed and kissed her cheek, shook Roy’s hand…and he and his retinue moved on.

So did Celia and Roy, making their way with excruciating slowness through the crowd on the patio, then the living room, pausing often to exchange gracious greetings, introductions, small talk and good wishes with a whole lot of beautiful and famous people, much of which, to Roy’s mind, even seemed sincere.

Meanwhile, his neck, shoulders and jaws screamed with tension and a feral desire to bolt for the exit like a spooked deer. He could feel a similar tension in Celia whenever he touched her, a kind of minute vibration running like an electrical current through her body, and he marveled at how relaxed she appeared, how naturally she moved through what to Roy seemed an impossibly complex and utterly alien world.

Then he thought, She’s an actress. She’s in her element. These are her people.

Besides, he told himself, she doesn’t have to worry about a killer recognizing her face.

It was while they were making their way through the entryway, saying their goodbyes, waiting for Celia’s coat, that Roy caught a glimpse of her in an ornate, Spanish-style mirror that took up most of one wall, some distance away. For a moment he thought, Who’s the old guy with her? And he was actually glancing around when the realization hit: Holy… Jeez-it’s me!

Okay, so he was an idiot. As the tension drained out of him, he felt shaken and foolish. What had he been so worried about? It was just as Celia had said: the way he looked right now, his own mother wouldn’t recognize him.