Chapter One

Chapter One

Get a grip, Frannie. You’ve got this.

I stand in my kitchen and draw in a breath, determined to listen to my own pep talk. Yes, it’s a threat. But that doesn’t mean I have to be scared.

And even if I am scared, that doesn’t mean I have to show it.

I’m a good actress, after all. I know this. Hell, everyone knows it. I’ve been in front of the camera my whole life—literally. My little tush was filmed on many a changing table for diaper commercials, and I was the baby or toddler in so many Law & Order-type shows I can’t even remember them all.

Granted, that was more like modeling, not acting. But I’ve been doing the real thing—stepping into another persona, acting the part—since I was six and landed my first soap opera. At nine, my character died in a tragic helicopter crash, but that was okay. I’d been noticed, and after that, I’d played the perky elementary-age daughter in many a big-screen rom com, then the best friend, then the love interest.

And, of course, there’s Bright Eyes, the family sitcom that centered around the Bright family with the single dad and seven darling kids who were more than a handful. I was ten when I landed the role of Kelly Bright, the second youngest daughter. That show ran for a decade, and even though so much of it was hell, the bottom line is that I kicked serious acting ass, even parlaying that part into bigger movie roles.

Basically, I worked my tail off. I listened to my directors, took classes, and honed my craft. I’ve won Emmys and Academy Awards and raves from critics all over the globe.

Bottom line? I know how to act. More important, I know how to fake it.

And yet here I am standing in my very own house with absolutely no idea of the part I should be playing.

I draw a deep breath, then look around the kitchen. I’d supposedly come in here to top off my orange juice, but that had just been the best excuse I could come up with in the moment.

The real reason was to get away from the cabal forming in my dining area—the slew of friends and security specialists sitting around my dining table as they bang out ideas for how to keep me alive.

Alive.

Someone is trying to kill me, and the blow or the bullet or the poison or whatever could come from anywhere at any time. I’ll have no warning. No control. And that team in there is supposed to protect me, but I’m not running that show either. They’re just taking over, doing all the things to keep me safe. To keep me managed.

I shudder, but whether it’s because of fear from the cryptic note or the hard memory of my father’s controlling hand, I really don’t know. I gasp, suddenly lost in the past, and the glass I’m holding slips through my fingers and breaks on the Italian marble floor.

I gape at the mess of glass and OJ at my feet, then jump when one of the Stark Security guys bursts through the door. He’s tall and muscular, with thick honey-blond hair and green eyes with the kind of glorious lashes I pay a small fortune for. I can’t recall his name, though it’s on the tip of my tongue.

He’s not as hot as some of the men I’ve been cast opposite, but I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed. Of course, as far as every ridiculous tabloid-style website is concerned, I never kick anyone out of my bed.

“Careful,” I say, nodding to the mess. “The tiles are slippery when they get wet.”

“Especially in those shoes,” he says, glancing at my feet. I’m wearing silk slacks, a tank, and a matching jacket. A semi-casual power outfit designed to convey that I’m in charge. And, naturally, I’ve paired it with my favorite heels. I look elegant and in control.

Unfortunately, he’s absolutely right. Slip on the OJ, and I’ll look like a fool, not like a confident woman who’s taking control of a bad situation by hiring a bodyguard.

“Did you need something?” I ask.

His brows rise with what I can only assume is surprise. “I heard the glass break. I came to check on you.”

“You can see that I’m fine,” I snap, then immediately want to kick myself. I wish I could take back the words. At the very least, I should apologize for the tone. But I don’t. I have a reputation for being strong and in control. I drive hard bargains in my movie deals, and publicists know better than to try to push me around. Maybe I do need a bodyguard—but I do not need to lose control of the situation or show anyone that I’m scared.

I lift my chin, making sure my fear and embarrassment are hidden. That much, at least, is easy. I’m an actress, after all. “You can go,” I say. “I’ll just put a towel over it. Deb can clean it later,” I add, referring to my housekeeper.

He doesn’t go, and I’m about to order him out when he takes one long stride toward me.

“You shouldn’t be in here at all. You said you were going into the staging area. Not the kitchen.” His voice is hard and harsh, and I recoil from this unexpected intensity.

“There wasn’t anything to drink in the staging area’s fridge,” I explain. “So I headed the rest of the way into the kitchen. It’s hardly like I breached the Pentagon.”

The swinging doors off the dining area enter into a small corridor where staff can keep drinks, extra napkins, appetizers under warmers, and all the other necessities that make a formal dinner party flow smoothy. That staging area is like a short hallway, with another set of swinging doors that open onto the massive, commercial quality kitchen, which is where we are now. This room is huge and airy, with a massive granite island and walls of picture windows that look out over the property. And that, of course, is the problem. Which I know. But which I wasn’t thinking about because all I wanted was an excuse to leave that table before I broke down and revealed to the entire team how scared I truly am.

He rubs his temples and sighs. “I thought you understood. The team is upgrading your security system right now,” he continues. “That means it’s partially off. That means that anyone could have slipped onto the property, lifted a gun, and shot you through that window.”

“But they didn’t.” The moment I say the words, I realize how idiotic they sound. I know I should call them back, but that would be admitting that I screwed up. That I lost control of the situation.

“Is that really the argument you want to make to justify your behavior?” His voice is tight, and when he speaks, it’s as if he’s talking to a naughty five-year-old. I might have been scared and contrite a few moments ago, but now I’m just pissed. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“The man assigned to keep you alive,” he says at the same moment I remember his name.

“Mr. Barré,” I say. His name is Simon Barré. I make a show of looking him up and down. He and all the others might be in my house because I’m scared for my safety, but there is no way I’m going to let this guy look at me as if I’m some simpering fool. Even if I was acting like one.

Damien and Ryan had told me this agent has incredible skills and years of training, and I give him a slow, thorough once-over, taking in his wind-ruffled hair, faded jeans, and the long-sleeved scoop-neck shirt that hugs his pecs in a way that suggests he has some serious muscle.

He doesn’t react to my inspection—which, honestly, impresses me. Most men are intimidated by me. It’s a perk of the job.

“Dining room,” he says. “You’re holding up the show.”

My brows rise. “It’s my house.”

“It’s my time.”

I cock my head, not sure if I’m annoyed or amused. But there is no way I’m losing this battle. “You were late getting here in the first place.”

“I wasn’t late,” he says. The corner of his mouth twitches, and my always-fast temper ratchets up a notch. “I was walking the perimeter.”

“On my time,” I repeat.

He takes a step toward me, and I have to resist the urge to back away. Like most men, he’s a few inches taller than me. Usually, that doesn’t matter. Usually, I always feel like the tallest person in the room.

With Simon Barré, that isn’t the case.

“The time is mine,” he says, his voice low and steady. “At the end of the day, time is all any of us have.”

I take a step back, surprised. I wasn’t expecting those words. That thought. The same words, more or less, that I’d thrown at my manager when I turned down a piece-of-crap blockbuster that would have paid enough to buy my own island. No private island is worth those hours I would never get back.

I swallow, then speak despite my suddenly dry mouth. “It’s my money that’s paying for your time.” Despite all my theatrical skills, the words do not come out with the intensity I’d intended.

He studies me, then nods slowly. “Very well. I guess I’m yours. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

I draw myself up, my shoulders going back automatically. “Excuse me?” It’s the tone that usually makes people scurry in fear. My secret weapon against an industry that treats me like property. Nothing more than an asset on the balance sheet. I learned a long time ago how to protect myself and control my destiny, and it’s second nature to slide into the fortress I built around myself as a child. My safe place. And I always erect those walls to perfection.

Somehow, Simon Barré has toppled them, and instead of backing away with a muttered apology, he’s coming closer. “You’re scared, right?” To my surprise, I hear both sympathy and kindness in his voice. “I’m here because I was assigned to protect you. So that you’ll be less scared.” He pauses, waiting for me to acknowledge his words. Against my every instinct, I nod. “Well,” he continues, the soft tone replaced by sharp edges, “tell me how to protect you. Tell me what the plan is.”

“I don’t know the plan,” I snap.

“You don’t?”

He slides his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and my eyes follow, noting the way the denim clings to his legs, his hips, his everything. I feel an unwelcome quickening of desire, and I snap my eyes back up to his.

“Are you saying I do?” he asks. “Know how to protect you, I mean.”

My head is spinning. “Um, yes. That’s why you’re here. That’s why I’m paying you.”

Those green eyes flash with temper. And maybe a hint of victory. “Then get back to the dining table, stay there, and let me do my job. Because believe me when I say I never signed on to play babysitter to a diva.”

That’s it.“What the hell is your problem?”

“Right now, it’s you. You’re holding up our meeting.”

The door swings open, and we both turn to see Aaron step in. “Did you two get lost?”

Aaron Kepler is ten years older than me, with pale blue eyes, a straggly beard, and an easy smile. Most important, he’s been in my life for almost as long as I can remember. He was fresh out of college and working as a production assistant on Bright Eyes when I was ten and the show was just starting. He became like a brother to me and my bestie, Carolyn, the showrunner’s daughter, who also had a recurring role as the next-door neighbor.

I close my eyes, gathering myself the way I always do when I think about Carolyn and that horrible night.

“Frannie?”

I look up, startled to find Aaron right in front of me, his expression full of concern. He might now be the president of Freeway Flix, a streaming service with its own production arm that is giving Netflix a run for its money, but he’s still just Aaron to me.

I shake off my mood and meet his eyes, then watch as his attention moves from me to my jerk of a bodyguard, then back to me. He frowns as he searches my face, probably afraid I’m about to fly off the handle. He knows me well, after all.

But he also has a tendency toward overprotection, and I don’t need him playing savior. Mr. Barré really isn’t worth the trouble.

“We’re doing fine. Since Simon here is going to be my bodyguard, we were getting to know each other.”

“Yeah, well, I think they want you both back in there.”

“Right,” says the Captain America wannabe.

I sigh, then follow both men back into the dining area where command central is set up at my dining table, a huge, heavy thing that the designer I’d hired picked “because it suited my status” after I became a newly minted Academy Award winner. It’s supposed to make me happy—a reminder of that awesome night. Instead, it just irritates me.

Damien and Ryan are there, along with my long-time friend Matthew Holt. A force of nature in the entertainment industry, Holt is a triple threat, and through his company, Hardline Entertainment, he has fingers in the music, film, and television industries. Plus, Hardline owns Freeway and is providing most of the financing for my next two films, both of which will have a short theatrical run before streaming exclusively at Freeway.

Matthew’s brilliant, with a well-earned reputation for being dangerous. I’ve seen that famous temper more than once. And while I don’t believe the rumor that he actually killed a man, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that it’s true.

As a friend, Matthew’s here to support me. As a businessman, he’s here because I may be in danger, and since I’m slated to star in several Hardline films, that could be bad for business. Which is why he’s covering some of the cost of making sure I stay alive.

They are the only three at the table, five when Aaron and Simon join them. There are other agents in the room, though, all gathered near the doorway as they study tablets or talk into headsets, presumably conferring with the indoor and outdoor agents and techies who are checking and upgrading my security.

Damien looks up, his forehead creased in a frown. He may have founded Stark Security, but I know he doesn’t usually work the actual jobs, and I appreciate him being here. We’re not close friends, but we’ve gotten to know each other over the years, and I respect him and his wife.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Other than the fact that some dickwad has threatened my life? What could possibly be wrong?”

“Right now, you’re safe,” Ryan says. “Simon’s going to stay here with you to make sure you stay that way.”

“Oh, goody.”

“The man’s excellent at his job,” Damien adds, his voice casual. As if he’s just making conversation and not smoothing my ruffled feathers. Honestly, if he hadn’t become some huge tech billionaire, he could have been a diplomat.

“No one can be that good.” I shoot Simon a sour look that would have melted a lesser man. He just regards me mildly as I continue my rant, my temper—and my fear—rising. “This is not someone rational we’re talking about. They’re a loose cannon. Who knows what they’ll do? A sniper rifle. A bomb in my car. Hell, a miniature nuclear weapon dropped on my—”

“Francesca. Calm down.” It’s Aaron, and his calm irritates the crap out of me. He’s handling me. And I hate being handled.

“She’s right—”

I whip around to face Simon, who’s stood and is now pacing. “Don’t you dare dismiss my—wait. What?”

He pauses, his brows rising. “I said you’re right.” He looks at Ryan, then Damien. “And she is. Hell, I told her the same thing when she was standing in front of a window.” He crosses to where the matching buffet for my pretentious table sits against the wall. He hops up and sits on it, his heels lightly tapping on the polished teak.

“Do you mind?” I snap. More because his familiar attitude annoys me than because I give a flip about the buffet. That and the fact that even as much as I despise the table and buffet, I could never bring myself to sit on it like that. They’re reminders of what I’ve accomplished. What I’ve gained.

And, most of all, the secrets I’ve put firmly behind me.

Or I thought I had. Until this morning when the note arrived.

“She’s right about our perp,” he says, ignoring me. “The note didn’t say Keep your mouth shut and stay alive. It said You tell, or you die. He’s starting from a place of danger. Or she. But odds are it’s a man. And maybe that note means nothing. Maybe he was just trying to be dramatic and wouldn’t hurt a fly. But he has an agenda, and he’s making threats. We need to take him seriously.”

“And we are,” Ryan said. “That’s why you’re here.”

“Exactly,” Matthew continues, then turns to face Simon. “You’re her bodyguard. Around the clock, right?”

“And not just him,” I say. “There will be a whole team tomorrow, right? Because those cons get crowded, and—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Matthew says, holding up his hands. “You are not going to the con. The crowds? Anything could happen.”

“Of course I’m going. Some of these folks flew across the country to see me. They’ve paid extra to go to my panel, and then a surplus on top of that for the photo-op and autograph session.”

I glance at Simon to see him looking at me, his brow furrowed. “What?” I snap.

But he doesn’t answer, because Matthew jumps in first. “They’ll survive. It’s fandom. It’s not the end of the world if they don’t get their picture taken with you.”

I shake my head. “No. Forget it. I am not disappointing them.”

“So you’re going to put yourself in danger?” Matthew snaps. “Come on, Frannie. You don’t even like doing the Blue Zenith movies. You’re the one who says the best thing about them is that they pay for the smaller films.”

“Yes. Exactly.” I turn to Damien and Ryan, wanting their help, but it’s Simon who starts to speak. And since I know exactly what Mr. Rambo-Ass-Idiot is going to say, I whip back around to face Aaron and Matthew.

“That is exactly why it’s important to go,” I tell them. “Because even though I’m not a fan of superhero movies, we both know they pay the bills and keep the studio in business. Not because they exist in the world, but because fans go in droves. These fans. And that means it’s these fans—not either of you—who are funding the movies I am passionate about. And that means I care about these fans. Deeply.”

I think about Spiraling, my current passion project. A weird little Sci-Fi piece about a woman losing her mind as she watches her body slowly disappear. She does riskier and riskier things to try and keep her purchase on earth. It’s funky and bizarre and beautifully written. The next Blue Zenith movie might pay the bills. But Spiraling speaks to me. And I’ll be damned if I’ll let some bastard with a poison pen keep me from working.

I look at each of them in turn, then pull Damien, Ryan, and Simon in under the force of my glare. “You all need to listen to me and understand. There is no way—zero way—I am going to let those fans down. They are my bread and butter, and I’m going to be there for them. You can’t stop me, but if you’re really concerned, you can damn well protect me. That’s what this meeting’s about, right?”

“Dammit, Frannie,” Matthew says, “you can’t play fast and loose with your well-being. You’re worth too much, and insurance won’t—”

“Oh, thank you for your concern,” I snap. “I thought we were talking as friends, but nice to know all I am to you is an ATM.”

To his credit, Matthew looks like he wants to eat his own tongue.

“You know that’s not what he meant,” Aaron said. “But he’s right that insurance won’t cover—”

“Insurance has no idea that we’re aware of a threat.” I look between all the men, daring them to challenge me again. “I am going to that con. You can have security hanging from the ceiling if you want to, but I will be there.”

Matthew stares daggers at me. “Those things are crowded and crazy and—”

“And important to my fans.”

“They’ll survive.” His voice is hard and firm. “Don’t you think they’d rather you be alive than—”

“They want to meet me. They paid money to meet me, and—”

“She’s right.”

I whip around to gape at Simon. “Damn right, I am,” I say. “But, um, I’m surprised you’re agreeing with me.”

He meets my eyes. Holds them. One second, then another.

I look away. What the hell is wrong with me? I never look away.

Ryan clears his throat. “Honestly, I’m surprised, too. Simon, explain.”

Simon glances once more at me, but this time I don’t meet his gaze. Then he reaches for the piece of paper I received that morning. A pale brown sheet with thick lines that looks like it was ripped from the kind of Big Chief notebook that little kids use. “You tell, or you die.” He reads the words scrawled in awkward handwriting, presumably from someone using their non-dominant hand.

“Thank you, but I can read,” I snap.

“Dammit, Ms. Muratti. Someone’s threatening to kill you.” His tone brings me up short. For a moment, I think he might actually care if that happens. Then again, I suppose my death would be a professional disappointment.

I flash him my most dangerous glare. “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I’m not scared? Of course, I am. But I meant what I said. Those fans deserve to see me. Some of them have traveled from other countries, and I’m not letting them down. I thought you were on my—”

“I’m not asking you to let them down. And if you’d quit being enchanted by the sound of your own voice—”

“What the hell?”

“And listen, you would know that I am not suggesting you stay away. It’s fine for you to attend the con. With me as your escort, of course. And a team in the background, just in case.”

“Are you crazy?” Matthew asks, at the same time that Aaron says, “Whoa—wait just a damn minute.”

“I can go?” I’m totally revising my opinion of this guy.

“Simon,” Ryan says, his voice mild. But there’s an edge to it.

“No,” Simon snaps back. “You assigned me this case. I’m running it my way, or you assign someone else.”

I see a muscle twitch in Ryan’s cheek. “Then tell us what you’re thinking.”

“It’s tomorrow. This event she’s going to is tomorrow.” He spreads his hand and shrugs as he looks at everyone, as if that explains everything.

It doesn’t, but since I have no intention of saying anything to turn Simon off of the Let’s Go To Con plan, I say nothing. Damien Stark, however, isn’t so trusting. He leans back in his chair, cocks his head, and says, “Explain.”

Simon exhales loudly, and right then, I know that he thinks he’s the smartest person in the room. Which, if he convinces the others he’s right, I’ll be prepared to agree with. Damien, however, isn’t used to being behind the curve, and I can see the curiosity—and the frustration—on that gorgeous face.

“The damn letter came today. Today. Now maybe the sender is just a one hundred percent whack job, but let’s assume there’s a shred of rationality. If so, he’s not going to make his move just yet.”

Ryan nods slowly. “He’ll give Frannie time to not only decide what to do, but also to figure out what it is she’s supposed to tell. You’re certain you don’t know?”

“You’ve all asked me that a hundred times,” I say. “I told you. No idea. I mean, yeah, I know some scandalous shit—you can’t work in this industry at the level I do and not hear stuff—but nothing I can imagine anyone would kill for.”

“Whoever sent that note must know that. He—or she,” Simon added, “will have factored that in. He’ll give you time to think before he gets dangerous. I’d bet my reputation on it.”

“And my life?” I ask. “Are you willing to bet my life?”

Simon has been looking at Ryan, but now he turns back to me. Whatever friction was between us in the kitchen, it’s gone now. The man is pure professional. “I am. But only because it’s a bet I don’t expect to lose. I already told you about the timing, but that doesn’t mean we won’t have precautions. Like not walking into your kitchen when the security system is down.”

I cross my arms and glare, but I get the point.

“And as for the con, there will be metal detectors at the door and a full team of undercover and uniformed security. I checked.”

“Really?” Despite myself, I’m impressed. I didn’t realize he knew about the con, much less that he’d researched it.

“So I guess the question is for you,” Simon says. “Are you willing to bet your life on my judgment?”

I draw in a breath, letting his words roll over me. I could issue an apology. I could disappoint all those fans. But the thing is, I think this Simon must be right. No one’s going to come after me this soon. Because I really don’t know what the threat refers to. You tell, or you die. But tell what? And who’s going to do the killing?

I only hope I can figure that out soon enough.

“Well?” Aaron says, his voice like a gunshot in the silent room.

“Yeah,” I say, looking only at Simon, and hoping like hell he can really help me. “Yeah, I’ll take that bet.”