I heard footsteps and turned. The makeup guy stood behind me, eyes on Portia. He carried a plastic crafter case filled with spray bottles and paint palettes and rubbery pretend wounds. Spare-framed and friendly-looking, he had a wispy beard trimmed to disguise a soft chin. It was the hair that cinched the identification—dark brown, curly, pulled back in a ponytail. I peeked at the ID clipped to the hem of his tee.
Nick Talbot.
I suppressed a shudder. I couldn’t look at him without remembering the newspaper photos, the mug shot, Jessica Talbot’s body on the floor. I couldn’t look at his hands without thinking of them holding a gun, pulling the trigger three times.
Before I could say anything, a woman scooted up in a club cart, her cinnamon hair blowsy around her face. Three men got out of the cart. They wore deep charcoal business suits, almost identical, with ivory shirts open at the throat. White guys, nondescript, one of them obviously the alpha of the pack—the other two flanked him, mirroring his movements and never interrupting. They were smiling, easy with each other and with whatever privilege they were wielding. And they had some, that was for sure—they wore no IDs, yet they walked right up to Portia as if they were old friends. A khaki-clad security officer shot a quizzical look toward the woman in the cart, but she shook her head, and he backed down.
The woman climbed out and hurried toward Nick. Her jeans hugged her with painted-on efficiency, and her V-neck tee displayed an abundance of cleavage. She’d laid the perfume on a little thick, probably to cover the mosquito repellent, but her makeup was flawless.
“Where’s Mr. Talbot?” she said.
Nick didn’t take his eyes off Portia. “Quint’s in my trailer. Who are these people and why are they being allowed to disturb a photo shoot?”
“They’re investors. Big ones. They insisted on seeing her, said Mr. Talbot had promised to let them through.”
“And you believed that?”
“After I called him and verified, yes, but now he’s gone, and he’s not answering his phone. The guard post says he checked out thirty minutes ago.”
“Crap. He’s probably gone to the house and left me to deal with Portia’s wrath. He knows how much she hates sucking up to the money.”
That part was obvious. I watched her slip a look of extreme malice at the newcomers, a look she wiped from her face the second they got close to her. She glowed then, as if she’d been waiting for them all day. The one in charge shook her hand, obviously dazzled. The other two men waited politely behind him, didn’t say a word to her. Portia held his hand warmly between hers. The second he turned his back, she glared at Nick, who shrugged apologetically.
The woman beside us gathered her hair into a loose bun and clipped it into place. “Great. She’s gonna eat me for dinner.”
“Not if you get those people away from her ASAP.”
“But Mr. Talbot said—”
“Investors start to devalue the asset if they get too much access. Haul them down to props, let them play with the fake guns. I’ll run interference with Quint.”
Relief flared in her eyes. “God, thank you. You’re the best.”
“Least I can do. Did you bring her shake?”
“Freshly made and waiting in her trailer. Lots of weird herbs and a scoop of that nasty protein powder.”
“The kind that smells like sardines?”
The woman laughed and nodded. She was very pretty in a calculated way, perhaps a bit strong in the jaw, but she’d make a fine werewolf. Assuming she got the attention of someone with the power to cast her. And from the way she was looking at Nick, I was betting she thought she had. She had cunning in her eyes. Hunger, too, though not for a protein shake.
Nick waved a hand toward the men. “Go get ’em, Bree. Quick quick.”
Bree scurried over. She expertly corralled the men, murmured an apology to Portia, who waved it off even as she glared at Nick, who didn’t seem the least bit concerned. Having one’s brother as executive producer provided a certain shield, I decided, even from celebrity anger.
“You’ve got a fan,” I said.
He shook his head. “Bree? Hardly. Every runner around here thinks I’ve got the gold ticket to stardom.”
“Do you?”
His smile turned wry. “I’m toting around silicone scars and bins of latex. What do you think?”
Portia rolled her shoulders, adjusted her grip on her weapons again. Beads of sweat marked her forehead and chest. The photographer said something, and she twisted around to examine her shoulder.
“Uh oh,” Nick said. “Time for a touch-up.”
He jogged over. After a quick confab, he lifted the prosthetic scar on her shoulder, then gave it a little squirt from a tube and smoothed it back. Portia tilted her head, and he spritzed her neck with water, patted it with a towel. She said something that made her mouth curl at the edge. Nick shook his head, his expression pleasant and unperturbed. He returned to my side as the photographer moved in again.
He examined me curiously. “Who did you say you were?”
I held up my visitor pass. “Tai Randolph. Mr. Seaver sent me. He’s been detained.”
“Mr. Seaver, huh?” Sharp amusement laced his voice. “Is he your boss? Because you don’t say that like he is. You say that like someone who never calls him Mr. Seaver.”
“He’s my partner.”
“Partner.” Nick smiled knowingly. “I see.” He knelt and screwed the cap on a bottle of viscous red liquid. “Did Mr. Seaver tell you why I asked him here?”
“He did.”
“And you’re cool with being his stunt double?”
“I am.”
One of the photographers pulled his camera from around his neck. At that cue, a young man hurried up with a fresh bottle of water for Portia. She favored him with a smile, and I watched him melt. I’d
