“When you did see him, he didn’t plague you with questions about getting into show business?”
“No, not that I recall, but I was just doing some dinner theater stuff then, mostly amateur. I doubt he would have been impressed. You know, though...” He hesitated.
“What?” Jason asked.
“I seem to remember him asking me one time if I’d do an interview for his school paper. Everyone thought his asking was so cute and grown-up. I think I told him I would, but it never came up again.”
“So he might have been interested in journalism,” Jason said thoughtfully, suddenly wondering if he might be a reporter after a scoop on a major TV celebrity. That would be motive enough for someone to encourage Terry to tell all. And who better to tell than an ex-brother-in-law, who might paint him in a more sympathetic light.
“Maybe,” Terry said, sounding doubtful. “But again, he was just a kid, no more than twelve, I’d say. He could have changed his mind a dozen times before he grew up. Why is he so important, anyway? I thought we were looking for Hannah.”
“We are, but you never know what might turn up along the way. He might be easier to catch up with and he might know where Hannah is.”
“I suppose so,” Terry said. “They were pretty tight once.”
Knowing that, Jason felt slightly better about the flimsy lead. “Thanks, Terry. I’ll keep you posted if we learn anything.”
By the time Jason got off the phone, Callie and her mother had cleared the table and done the dishes. Regina had retreated to her room.
“We’re all alone?” he inquired, sinking onto the sofa and pulling Callie down into his lap.
“Pretty much,” she agreed.
“How shall we spend the time?”
She grinned at him. “Not the way you clearly have in mind. I have lines to learn between now and tomorrow.”
“A love scene by any chance?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“How many lines can there be?” he asked drily, thinking of the significant close-ups that usually took the place of dialogue in such scenes. “Get your script. I’ll help you rehearse.”
He regarded her intently. “Of course, if Terry puts his hands anyplace near where I intend to put mine, I’ll have to cut them off at the wrist.”
“It’s called acting,” Callie reminded him. “And we’re talking about Terry. He doesn’t put his hands on me anyplace the director doesn’t tell him to.”
“How reassuring.”
She wriggled deliberately, setting his senses aflame.
“It wouldn’t be if you knew how seductive Paul Locklear wanted these scenes to be,” she said.
“If you’re trying to provoke me, it’s working. Maybe I’d better have a chat with the director tomorrow, too.”
“Not if you want those ratings to soar,” Callie reminded him a little too cheerfully. “Besides, you don’t have a thing to worry about. When Terry’s making mad, passionate love to me, I promise to pretend it’s you.”
“Is that supposed to thrill me?” he grumbled.
“No, it’s supposed to console you. A very famous network president once told me that this business is all about thrilling the viewers.”
“The man must be a fool,” he murmured, sliding his hands under her blouse until he found satin-soft, warm flesh. “The real thrills are real life.”
“Aren’t they ever,” Callie agreed with a sigh.
23
The next morning Callie found Hank Parker sitting in her dressing room contentedly sipping coffee, munching on a powdered doughnut and looking like the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary. Or in his case, like a man who’d very recently had fireworks-caliber sex.
She paused beside him to wipe a smudge of powdered sugar from his upper lip. She didn’t bother trying to erase the streak of lipstick from his cheek. She didn’t want to get her hand smacked. He probably considered it a souvenir.
“Let me guess,” she said. “You and Lisa got together.”
“All thanks to you,” he said, looking disgustingly besotted.
She wasn’t at all sure gratitude was in order. To make that point as gently as possible, she said, “Good luck.”
His gaze narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, my sweet, that holding on to her is not nearly the snap that getting her into bed might be.”
“That’s a pretty rotten thing to say,” he said, puffing up with indignation on Lisa’s behalf. A true gentleman.
“Sometimes the truth sucks,” she agreed. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. Why are you here, by the way, to gloat?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I am here to look after your sorry behind. The producers called me in and hired me full-time for a while.”
Callie tried to think of something in the script that required Hank’s professional coaching, especially on a daily basis. Unless his experience with Lisa had taught him a few new bedroom tricks, she couldn’t think of any. That meant the phrase “protecting her sorry behind” had nothing to do with the show.
“Exactly what are you consulting on?” she asked, hoping she was wrong.
“I’m not consulting. I’m here to play bodyguard.”
The confirmation set her teeth on edge. “Excuse me?” She wanted details before she started strangling people.
“They seem to think that there’s trouble on the horizon for their fledgling superstar—off-screen, that is.”
“And why would they think that?” she asked, her voice tight with barely suppressed and rapidly growing fury.
“Because a little birdie told them,” he guessed.
Callie knew exactly which little birdie she had to thank for this. The one perched in the network president’s penthouse office. “Okay, out of here. You’re fired.”
Hank didn’t seem to be taking his firing seriously. He shrugged and remained firmly planted right where he was. “Sorry, sweet pea, no can do. You’re not the one paying the bill.”
But she certainly knew who was. She snatched up the phone on her dresser and punched in the number for the limo. With any luck it was caught in morning gridlock.
“Henry? Is your boss still in the back or have you
