“I have to be on camera soon.” Trena rose to her feet and brushed a hand down the front of her dress, straightening the seams in a way that enhanced her lean curves. She might not trust him, but she was still vain enough to want to impress him.
James peeked at his shiny gold Rolex. “In exactly six minutes,” he said. “Give or take.”
“What’re you doing here?” Trena fussed with the random items strewn across her dressing table, trying to appear unconcerned about being alone in a room with him.
“I thought I’d try for a better ending. I got a strange vibe last time we said good-bye.”
It was then that Trena noticed he clutched a long, rectangular box behind him.
She swallowed hard, fought to compose herself. Last time she’d received a similar package before a show, it contained a threatening message that continued to haunt her.
“Wow, you’re a tough one.” He laughed softly when she hesitated to take it. “You’re really going to make me earn my way back, aren’t you? Tell you what—I’m up for the challenge. But can’t a guy at least give you flowers?”
As long as they have their heads. She bit back the words and, with a shaky hand, accepted the package and opened the box.
“Did someone die?” She glanced in dismay between the dozen long-stemmed white roses and James.
“What? No!” He looked perplexed. “The woman behind the counter told me they stood for new beginnings.”
Or endings. Trena held the box, unsure how to proceed. James was sexy, mysterious, and quite possibly dangerous. Last time she’d seen him, she felt lucky to have gotten away. But maybe she’d overreacted. Maybe the flowers really did have two meanings.
The list of reasons to keep him at bay was seemingly endless, and yet she found herself saying, “Is that what this is, an offer for a fresh start?”
James pressed his lips together and hitched his shoulders high.
“I have a show to do.” She kept her voice firm, wanting him to think she remained in control. That his mere presence hadn’t set off her alarms.
James consulted his watch. “In three minutes,” he said. “Which allows you just enough time to answer my question.”
Trena turned away and placed the roses on the dressing room table. Then she stalled for as long as she could under the guise of checking her makeup.
“I was hoping maybe we could meet up after the show? Grab a late bite and just talk?”
She knew she should decline, and yet there was a good chance James had insider knowledge about the Madison case, that he knew the kind of things that could really cement her standing as a big-time journalist. In the interest of furthering her career, she figured she might as well. . . .
“What did you make of Layla’s blog entry? You think it’s legit?” She trained her focus on James, watching for even the slightest hint of deception.
He flashed his palms wide and said, “Nothing surprises me in this town.”
She was about to follow up, when there was a knock at the door. “Two minutes!” someone called.
She looked at James. They could sort it out later. Maybe over that late bite he’d offered. “You can hang out here.” She kept the tone as professional as she could, considering the deeply interested look he gave her.
He grinned and settled into the same chair she’d just vacated. “Break a leg!” he said as she passed him.
Immediately, she turned and stared. He’d just recited the words from the threatening note she’d originally suspected him of sending.
“That’s what they say before a performance, right? Break a leg?” He cocked his head and shot an appreciative glance over her body.
She pressed her lips tight and made for the door. She’d just reached the threshold when her phone chimed with an incoming text, and she glanced over her shoulder at James. Had he sent it? She could’ve sworn she heard that telltale swoosh seconds before she’d received it.
He lifted his gaze to meet hers and flashed a flirtatious grin that could mean just about anything.
Was James helping her or harming her? She couldn’t be sure. But she knew better than to read too much into his response until she could gather enough evidence to prove either way. Without another thought, she left him alone in the room and went in search of Priya.
“You okay?” Priya reached an arm toward her, but at the last second, quickly pulled away.
“I need them to run that clip with the nurse at Eileen Banks’s convalescent home,” Trena said, her voice a bit shaky from her encounter with James. “Tell them to cut the clip of Ira if they’re worried about time.”
Ira wouldn’t like it, but too bad. That was what he got for refusing a live interview in order to manipulate her into doing a piece on his empire. He’d get his segment, but for tonight, he was on the cutting room floor.
“Did something happen?” Priya seemed surprised by the change.
Trena considered sharing the text, which included an image of Madison’s birth certificate, revealing her real name, as well as the true identities of her parents. After all, it was Priya who’d discovered that Madison, aka MaryDella, had lived with Paul Banks’s mother, Eileen Banks, between the time Madison lost her parents in the fire and when she moved in with her adoptive family.
Paul had been the first on the scene when Madison’s childhood home burst into flames, ultimately claiming the lives of her parents. He’d been there to help when Madison moved to LA, and he’d been looking out for her every day since. Paul had been impossible to track down. They didn’t call him the Ghost for nothing. But Trena was convinced that if anyone knew where Madison was, it was him. She just needed to find him.
She studied Priya. Something about her covetous
