Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

He liked her.

No, not just like. He actually respected her.

More than that, he was attracted to her. Attracted. Wasn’t that a lame word. It was more than attraction. It was primal. It was need. He wanted to possess her. To claim her. To wrap her in his arms and keep her safe and close and his.

And if that wasn’t the damnedest, most bizarre thing ever…

Simon shook his head, trying to clear those crazy thoughts. Frannie had turned out to not be the bitch from hell that he’d expected. Great. Good.

And, yes, he was attracted to her—something that was clearly mutual, and something that he was more than willing to pursue, especially now that he’d tasted her. Had felt her responsiveness. Her need.

Her trust.

He’d told her to obey, and she had. This woman who’d lived her life and her career by grabbing control. With him, she’d surrendered, almost without question.

It was humbling. Surprising.

And one hell of a turn-on.

But love?

No way.

Lust. It was lust. And so long as it was mutual, what was the harm in pursuing it?

He pushed the thoughts away as he watched her interacting with her fans. They’d been at the con now for almost four hours. She’d been on two panels, after which she’d chatted with anyone who’d come up until the con organizers had kicked them out of the room for the next event.

Now they were in the hotel basement, the only place she could find where the fans could come, and they’d be out of the way of other panels and events. The line was huge, but Frannie had promised all the fans that she’d stay and sign autographs for everyone. A few wanted to ask about her other work, but most were there because of her Blue Zenith superhero movies. Films that Simon knew meant far less to her than her smaller passion projects like the upcoming Spiraling.

But while the Blue Zenith movies might mean less to her, it was clear that the fans didn’t. She didn’t simply sign her name to a proffered program. Instead, she talked with each person, even the ones who were too shy to start the conversation themselves.

Every fan left with a smile and a memory to be cherished, and it was all because Frannie cared. She was, in a word, nice.

And Simon was surprised to realize that he wasn’t surprised at all. Before this assignment, he would have laid money that she blew off her fans, barely deigning to scrawl her name when they asked for an autograph, more often just lifting her nose and ignoring them.

Now he knew the real woman, not the celebrity bitch he’d concocted in his mind and not the controlling femme fatale that the press chattered on about. She knew how to grab control, sure, but that was self-preservation.

The bottom line was that she respected the fans. And they loved her for it.

Hell, maybe he did, too.

The thought slammed hard against him, and he tried to push it away. But the harder he tried, the more it clung to him. Love?

No way. Respect, sure. Like, absolutely.

But love?

No way.

Or at least, not yet.

“You hanging in there?”

Simon looked up to see Trevor approaching with two Styrofoam cups of coffee. Stark Security had sent a team, of course, and Leah and Jasper were on the other side of the open area, both wearing blue jackets with SECURITY stenciled on the back. He’d hoped that Renly would be working today—after all, he’d once dated Frannie back in his Hollywood stunt coordinator days—and Simon would have loved to hear Renly’s thoughts on her.

Now he turned to Trevor. “Thanks,” he said, taking the coffee. “So do you know Frannie? Damien and Ryan said something about you being too known in this world to play her fake boyfriend.”

Trevor’s brows raised. “Is that what you are? A fake boyfriend?”

“Excuse me?”

The other man shrugged. “I’ve been watching you all day, my friend. There’s some serious sparks flying between the two of you. Either you’re as good an actor as Frannie is, or something’s going on.”

Simon sighed. “Would that be bad? You know her, right? So tell me. How much trouble will I be in if I let her under my skin?”

“Seems to me it’s a little too late to be asking that.”

Simon scowled; Trevor wasn’t wrong. “Are you going to give me grief or answer the question?” He glanced at the line of fans. Only a few left, which meant he only had a few moments to get answers.

“Frannie’s a good egg,” Trevor said. “My aunt’s been in the industry for years. She’s a script supervisor, and she’s worked on a lot of films with Frannie, and she was on the crew for Bright Eyes, too.”

“Frannie’s break-out show.”

“She always laughs when there’s stuff in the news that suggests Frannie is a stuck-up bitch. She says she believes the sex stuff—Frannie seducing her co-stars. I guess the woman’s got control issues.”

“That she does.”

“But the stuff about Frannie being a bitch in general? No way. Says she’s as professional as they come.” He cocked his head. “Want to tell me why you’re asking?”

“Nope.”

Trevor laughed. “Good luck. I get the impression she’s a handful. I also think she’s probably worth the effort.”

“Thanks. And thanks for hanging. Weren’t you supposed to be off an hour ago? I thought you were meeting a friend. Going to go be an attendee at the con. Not just a working guy.”

“Nah, it’s fine. Turns out he’s running late.”

“Date?”

“I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed. But, no. He’s straight and just a friend. Ollie McKee.”

“The FBI agent,” Simon said, remembering meeting the man who was a lifelong friend of Damien’s wife, Nikki. “He had that on-again-off-again engagement for a while, right?”

“Yeah. Before we met, but yeah. I heard about that.”

Simon shrugged. “Maybe he’s ready to move on to you.”

“Don’t tease me, man.”

“Just saying, maybe it’s time you found out for sure.”

Trevor shot him a sideways glance. “I’m serious. Drop it. He’s a good friend. That’s important to me.”

“Right. Sorry. I didn’t mean to push. Or pry.” Hell, he had relationships on the brain. Or at least, he had Frannie on the brain. He’d taken a hell of a risk last night. He’d already decided that he wanted her in his life, but last night…?

Last night raised the question of how. More than casual friends, that was for sure, and it seemed she wanted that, too. But a relationship?

He didn’t do relationships with actresses. That was his longstanding rule, and for damn good reason.

So that left friends. Or more specifically, friends with benefits.

And that was fine by him. Hell, that was perfect.

Except if it was so damn perfect, then why did it feel so wrong?

* * * *

“Ms. Muratti! Francesca!”

They were heading across the hotel lobby toward the elevators that led to the parking garage when Simon heard the voice. He took Frannie’s hand, moving in front of her as they turned around to see the pale blond man in jeans and a flannel shirt hurrying toward them.

Beyond the man, he saw Aaron and Matthew walking together. Aaron looked up, and for a moment, Simon was certain he was going to come over. Then he returned his attention to Matthew, and the two of them cut off to the right, veering away from him and Frannie in favor of the food court.

“That’s him,” Frannie said. “The reporter.”

“Thank you,” the man said, breathing hard as he caught up to them. “Thank you.”

They were on a bridge that connected the two sections of the hotels. The walls were glass, looking down on the street below, and Simon lunged forward, taking the reporter by the collar and slamming him back up against one. “You sent that note?”

“I—I—it’s just that I needed corroboration.”

The guy was so agitated, it was a wonder he didn’t piss himself. He glanced at Frannie, who nodded. Then he released the guy and took a step back. “Talk,” he said. “And if I don’t like what I hear, it’s not going to go well for you.”

“I’m sorry. I know the note was stupid. Really. But I just—I didn’t know what to do. I’m sitting on a career-making story, but my source is dead. I can’t do a thing with this story without corroboration.”

“Why the hell is that my problem?” Frannie asked.

“Because you’re the only one alive who can help me.”

“I—” She cut herself off with a shake of her head.

“Here,” Simon said, then led them both into the stairwell, hoping to avoid the curious stares—and possible keen hearing—of the fans who were passing them on the bridge, their eyes on Frannie.

“What’s your name?” Simon asked. “Let’s start there.”

“Corey. Corey Burnet.”

“Good start. Now what’s the story?” Simon asked. “What story is so damn important that you’re willing to send threatening notes and risk being arrested in order to maybe get corroboration?”

The reporter winced, and Simon was certain that the idiot had pulled a stupid prank designed to get Frannie to talk. But there was no legitimate threat. Idiot.

“It’s okay, Frannie,” he said, putting his hand on the small of her back. “This guy’s not going to hurt you, are you?”

“You son-of-a-bitch,” she said. “Do you have any idea how scared I was?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just—it’s just, this could be really important. This could be huge. And there are dangerous people who don’t want this published. But it needs to be. Please, please believe me that it needs to be.”

“You sent me a threat. You threatened my life, and you didn’t even tell me why.”

The pale reporter looked like he was about to cry. He was probably in his early thirties, but right then, he looked all of 12. “I’m sorry. It was stupid. I’m sorry. But if you would only let me tell you—”

“Then talk,” Simon said. “We’re standing here, we’re listening. Talk. And it better be good.”

“Okay. Right. Okay.” He cleared his throat. “So I’ve always been fascinated by Hollywood scandals. It’s kind of what I write about. I started out in high school writing about scandals that happened on movie sets. And then when I actually got a job in LA, it was like the biggest deal ever for me.”

“We don’t need your life story, Burnet. Cut to the chase.”

“Yeah, okay. Right. Carolyn Pruitt,” he said, and in his peripheral vision, Simon saw Frannie hug herself. “That was such a huge story, right? And no one ever really knew the whole story.”

He did a mental sweep of his research on Frannie, then remembered that Carolyn Pruitt had been a minor recurring character on her first show, Bright Eyes. Carolyn’s father had been the show’s producer, Anthony Pruitt, and they’d both died on one horrible night almost twenty years ago.

“Go on,” Simon said, reaching out to take Frannie’s hand, relieved when she held it tight.

“Yeah, right. Um, so as I’m sure both of you know, Carolyn and her father were killed in her bedroom one night when she was fifteen.”

“That bastard was abusing her,” Frannie said. Simon saw tears in her eyes. “You damn well better have something new to tell me, because this is not something I want to be revisiting.” She sniffed, then swiped a tear away. “He used to hit on me, too, if that’s the kind of corroboration you’re looking for. I didn’t know until after the fact that he’d touched her like that. I—I thought about some of our conversations and realized. But I never knew at the time.”

Tears were falling freely now, and Simon squeezed her hand. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

She looked at him as if he’d just told the biggest lie imaginable. “I should have known.”

“What happened?” he asked gently.

“Apparently her mom—Leslie—walked in when Pruitt was trying to—Leslie lost her shit and killed them both.” Her throat was clogged, the words barely able to come out.

“That was the story,” Burnet said. “But there’s more to it.”

Her head snapped up, and her voice was hard and tight when she asked, “What are you talking about?”

“You know that her mom was convicted. That they found a gun on her, and everyone believed that she shot him, then herself. But she survived.”

Frannie’s hand tightened around Simon’s fingers. “Go on.”

“She pled guilty by reason of insanity and ended up in a facility. Recently, she was allowed to move to an assisted living community. I interviewed her there. She told me that there was someone else there that night. She said that she did walk in to Carolyn’s bedroom, and she saw Carolyn trying to fight off Pruitt. Pruitt shoved her back, and he slammed her head hard against the wall. She passed out.”

Frannie was squeezing Simon’s hand so hard he was surprised that the bones didn’t crunch. He wanted to ask her what was going on in her head, but Burnet barreled on.

“According to Leslie, Pruitt freaked out. He started to shake Carolyn. Saying he hadn’t meant to hurt her. And then she came to. She’d only been knocked out.”

“What?” Frannie looked between Simon and the reporter, her face ghostly pale. “He revived her?”

“That’s what the mom said,” Burnet confirmed. “She was in this weird little alcove that separated Carolyn’s room from the main hallway. The room had double doors that opened onto the pool, and I guess that’s how Carolyn wanted everyone to come and go. So she had furniture and stuff in the other entrance way. Mostly blocked. But it was still useable. And Leslie was standing there, mostly hidden in the shadows.”

“Carolyn was alive?” Frannie had spoken the words, but her voice didn’t sound like hers. She sounded lost. Alone. And terribly, terribly sad.

“Yeah. And Leslie was about to run to her daughter, but then someone else came into the room.”

“What? Who?”

“I can’t say. That’s the part I need you to corroborate. But he started screaming that Carolyn was a slut. That she belonged to him. That he’d always known that she was pulling strings, trying to climb her way up the acting ladder by fucking her stepfather.”

“That’s stupid,” Frannie said. “Carolyn didn’t even want to be an actress. She was only in the show because her stepfather wanted her to be.”

“I’m just telling you what her mom told me.”

“So then what happened?”

“The guy came in, and he shot Pruitt in the back of the head. Then he went over to Carolyn, and he told her he loved her, and he told her that she’d betrayed him, and he smacked her head against the wall once again. That time, he killed her.” The guy swallowed, took a deep breath. “Leslie must have made a sound, because he found her. She tried to get away, but she tripped, and the guy caught her. He put the gun in her hand, then fired it toward Pruitt. He wanted gunpowder on her fingers.”

“Oh, God,” Frannie said, and Simon realized that he’d pulled her close. No longer just holding her hand, but holding her.

“Then he made her turn the gun on herself and fire again into her face. After that, he ran, probably assuming she’d die. She almost did. She lost an eye and some motor function. But she survived.”

“And she was convicted,” Frannie said, her voice thin. “She didn’t do it, but she was convicted.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I should go see her. All these years…” She trailed off with a shudder. “I should go see her.”

“You can’t,” Burnet said. “She’s dead.”

“Oh.” Frannie closed her eyes, then drew a deep breath. “From her injuries?”

“Suicide. Got her hands on something. Sleeping pills, I guess. Drowned in her bathtub. She had a small unit at the facility.”

“I’m so, so sorry to hear that. I was close to Carolyn, but not her mom. I mean, I knew her, but only a little, but this is horrible.”

Simon put his arm around her waist and pulled her close, relishing the easy way she leaned into him, letting him comfort her.

“What exactly is it you need, Mr. Burnet?” Simon asked.

“Corroboration of Leslie’s story. About who really killed Carolyn. And who really shot Pruitt and Leslie.”

Frannie shook her head as she met Simon’s eyes. He saw the confusion there. “I don’t understand. I don’t know anything.”

“Leslie said you might.”

“What?” Frannie pulled away from him, then took a step forward. “What are you talking about?”

“Leslie said you were there, too. She saw you walk past her window. She said you did it all the time. You would go visit Carolyn at night. The two of you would hang out in her room. She never closed the curtains all the way because she liked to look at the hills. And every night that you came over, she’d see you.”

Frannie dropped Simon’s hand. “I need you to go,” she said to Burnet.

“Please. I need corroboration. If you were there, then you must have seen the other person. The one who framed Carolyn’s mom. Who slammed Carolyn’s head against the wall the second time, killing her? I’m only looking for corroboration. I know who it is. Leslie told me. All you have to do is tell me that you know, too. Give me a name, and I will publish this story and take down the killer who murdered your best friend. Tell me. Let me help put this man away.”

“It’s okay, Frannie,” Simon said. “I think you should tell him. It was an asshole move to threaten you, but if you can get justice for Carolyn and Leslie….”

But Frannie was shaking her head, her eyes wide and frightened. “I don’t know who it was. I was there. You’re right about that. But I didn’t see anybody else. No one came in while I was there. It was just me in the shadows. And I was terrified.”

Burnet stared at her, looking dejected. Looking as if all he wanted to do was take her by the throat and force the truth out of her. But Simon knew better. Simon believed her. There was nobody else.

Leslie had played a Hail Mary. She’d lost it and screwed up and tried to put the blame on someone else. To make her husband not be an abusive murderer. To make herself not be a killer. But wishing wouldn’t change the truth.

“You need to go,” Simon said. “She’s told you she didn’t see anyone else. That’s the end of it. You walk right now, we’ll forget about your note. But if we hear another word out of you, we’ll arrest you in a heartbeat. And I assure you, even though you may not realize it, that threat you sent is actionable. She’ll press charges, and you will serve time. Do you understand me?”

Burnet nodded. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Of course you did,” she snapped. “And it worked. But I don’t know anything. So you did it for nothing, you son of a bitch. You dredged it all up for nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” Burnet said, sounding genuinely contrite. Not that it mattered.

“Just get the hell out of here,” Simon said, and the reporter turned and scurried away, pushing out of the stairwell door and back into the hubbub of the con.

Frannie looked at Simon, her eyes burning with tears. “Get me to the car,” she said, and he took her by the arm and led her down the two levels to the lobby, then into the parking structure until finally they reached his Honda.

As soon as they were inside with the doors closed, her tears started to flow.

“I’m sorry,” she said when her body had stopped shaking, and she looked at him through red-rimmed eyes and a face splotchy from crying. “That was the most horrible night of my life,” she said.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I did go,” she said, because apparently she did want to talk about it. “I got there, and it was supposed to just be me and Carolyn hanging out that night. But Pruitt was in the room with her. She told me that he used to try to touch her, he did the same to me too, so I never thought that it was more than just stupid touching on set. She’d suggested that it was, but I guess I never really listened. It wasn’t until that night that I realized what he really did to her.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I should have understood that it was worse than what she was really saying.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now. But I walked in, and I saw her fighting him off. He slammed her head against the wall. I thought she died. And I was so scared. I made a noise, and he looked in my direction. I thought he’d seen me, so I ran. I ran so fast. I went to the cabana. I was going to hide there. But I realized he’d probably find me. So I left. But I took her diary because now I wanted to read it. I wanted to know if she’d written about what he’d done to her.”

“How did you get her diary?”

“She kept it hidden in the cabana. Said she was afraid he’d read her entries. I thought she was paranoid. Now I guess she wasn’t.”

“So you took it. Then what?”

“I ran down the service drive back to my car. I was sixteen. I’d just started driving. I left, and I went and told my father. I told him we had to go to the police. That the diary had proof that Pruitt had been abusing her for a while. And I wanted the cops to arrest him.”

“What did the cops say?” Simon asked. “By the time they got there, Leslie had shot him, right?”

“We didn’t go. My dad told me I had to throw the diary away and never say anything. Otherwise I might lose my job, and my dad wouldn’t do anything that might keep me from working in the business. He always said if I ever stopped working, we’d starve, because he was my manager, and that meant all we had was my income. And he said if I ever opened my mouth, everyone would look at me and call me a liar, because Pruitt was well respected in the industry.”

“Did you get rid of it?”

She shook her head. “No. I told him I did. But I lied. I’ve kept it all this time. It’s all I have left of her.”

He took her hand. “Tell me the rest. Tell me about your father.”

It was clear she didn’t want to. She pulled her hand free, then hugged herself before speaking. “He told me that we couldn’t say anything. That I would be dragged through the press and that I would lose my job. That I couldn’t say one thing that would sully Pruitt’s good name because the scandal might mean they’d cancel Bright Eyes.”

She drew in a deep breath, then closed her eyes as if gathering courage.

When she opened them again, her expression was fierce. “My mother died when I was little, so I only had my dad. He never beat me, but he was a controlling bastard and verbally abusive. I remember how my skin would feel raw after he lost his temper just from the horrible things he would say. And I obeyed. Always. I think because I was always afraid there’d be a blow coming one day. So I was always the good girl.” She swallowed, then blew out a breath. “But this time, I was going to disobey and suffer the consequences.”

“What do you mean?”

“That I was going to go to the police anyway. I was—I really was. But then the next morning, the news came out that he was dead, and I figured my dad couldn’t argue anymore. So I told him I was going. But then he said that I still couldn’t. Because once they learned that I was there, I would be a suspect too. I believed him. I was scared. I was so scared.”

“Of course you were. Who wouldn’t be?”

“But there wasn’t anybody else there. I never saw anybody else. They must have come as I was leaving. I just never saw them.”

“Did you know that her mother was there?”

“No. Not until it came out that she was the one who shot him.” She exhaled a shaky breath. “I lost my friend that day. I just wanted to forget. I tried to forget, but I never did.”

He pulled her close and held her. “No. Of course you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry. I probably should have realized that was what the note was about. It’s the biggest scandal of my life. The one I pushed down the hardest. Nothing else compares.”

“It’s okay. We know now. And it’s over.”

“So this is it,” she said. “This threat against me. It’s gone. I don’t need a bodyguard anymore.”

“No. I don’t think you do. It was pretty clear that you had no idea what he was talking about. Plus, I don’t think he’s dangerous. He sent that note as a stupid maneuver to try to get you to talk, but he would never have followed through.”

“I know. He’s an idiot. The world is full of idiots.”

“Yes. That’s true.” He twined his fingers with hers, wishing they could stay like that, still and quiet and safe. After a moment, he released her, then started the car. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

“And then you’ll go?”

He tensed inside. “Job’s done. You don’t need me to stay.” He managed to keep his voice level. To not let her hear the disappointment that surprised even him.

She turned to him then, her teeth grazing her lower lip. “What if I asked you to stay?”

“Why? Do you still need protection?”

“No,” she said, squeezing his hand. “But I think... Simon, I think I might need you.”