Chapter 62

CHAPTER 62

Skye

I planned to be the first one at Finn's show. Leaving so early from Malibu. But because of the unexpected fog, the drive along the Pacific Coast Highway is reduced to a crawl. Bumper to bumper traffic. A red sea of brake lights. The frustrating ride does nothing to calm my nerves. We've worked out a plan. It's up to me to set it in motion. To plant the bait. I anxiously look down at my new watch. Four-thirty and we've only gone a short mile. At this rate, I may never get there.

Sitting next to me, my cell phone rings. I pick it up. It's Finn.

"Baby, what's going on? You're not even at Gladstones?"

Well, at least my new watch works. It does more than tell time. It's also a tracking and recording device. I tell Finn about the fog and the standstill traffic. Hopefully, it'll lift as we get closer to town.

Two long hours later, we finally exit onto La Cienega, and I try calling Finn to make sure he knows where I am, but after several rings it goes straight to his voicemail. I leave him a message as we make our way up the busy boulevard to Melrose. Another slow crawl. Another slow hour. The time: 7:15. The event ends at eight. As I gaze out the window, a mélange of anxiety and impatience makes my heart beat double time and my nerves buzz. We at last reach the gallery, where a long line of luxury cars and limos, waiting to be valeted, stretches down the street. Forget it. Adrenaline kicking in, I hop out of the sedan and hurry to the entrance in my skyscraper heels.

A bouncer, a Dwayne Johnson lookalike, confronts me. He's holding a clipboard and wearing a headset. "What's your name?"

"Scarlet Callahan."

He scans the guest list. "I don't see your name anywhere."

Kayla . My skin bristles. I bet she took me off it.

"Let me see."

Reluctantly, he shows me the long list. It's arranged alphabetically by last name. Skimming over some celebrity names, I get to the C's. Sure enough, one of the names is scratched out with a pen, but the letters "S-c-a-r" are still visible.

I point to the name. "This is me... Scarlet Callahan." And quickly come up with an explanation. "I didn't think I would make it because of the weather conditions so I called Kayla to take my name off the list." I flash a smile. "But here I am."

The bouncer glares at me suspiciously, then says to my relief, "Okay. You can go in."

Without thanking him, I dash inside.

The gallery is still packed with well-dressed Hollywood types mingling and admiring Finn's paintings. My eyes search the vast space for Finn. He's nowhere in sight. Maybe he's on the second level. I look up but don't see him. Scanning the main level again, I spot my target in front of one of Finn's finest paintings. Metamorphosis. In my head, I change things up... switch gears. The predator is now the prey. My prey. Holding a drink, he's chatting with a stunning couple. I recognize them instantly. Jaime Zander, the gallery owner, and his statuesque platinum-haired wife, Gloria, the founder and CEO of the lingerie chain, Gloria's Secret. I recognize them because I happened to have covered a headline-making red-carpet event that became the talk of Hollywood when Gloria shot and killed a Russian thug to save the life of her future husband. With my new identity, I'm sure neither of them will recognize me. Inhaling a fortifying breath, I make my first move and strut over to the painting. On the way, I grab a glass of champagne from a passing cocktail waiter. Bubbling with nerves, I need it.

To my relief, the power couple moves away to chat with another that I also recognize. Blake Burns, the head of Conquest Broadcasting where I used to work, and his pretty wife, Jennifer. I seize the moment and make a beeline for Sheldon, while he's not distracted.

I soak him in. The fat ugly pig! Wearing a smug expression and stuffing his face with hors d'oeuvres. One after another. Slowing my pace to a coquettish gait, I make eye contact with him. A salacious smile wolfs across his face. A small victory for me.

Deliberately crossing by him, I study the painting I know so well and sip my champagne. The bubbly does little to slow down my pulse. It speeds up when a hot breath descends on my shoulder.

"There's nothing like a woman in a red dress."

I spin around and face him, meeting him eye to eye. I give him a seductive smile.

"Why, thank you," I say breathily.

"It takes balls to wear red."

I silently snicker. Trust me, I have them.

His beady, lustful eyes roam down my body before darting to the painting. "You like this painting?"

I glance at it briefly. "Yes. It's very intense. I love the way the colors jump at you and collide. A metaphor for sex."

He grins. "Wow. I never thought about it that way. You're so fucking smart."

"Thanks," I say humbly.

"I like smart, sexy women. And you've got great taste." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, missing a chunk of bruschetta on his stubbly double chin. Then, takes a chug of his drink and glances at the painting again.

"I'm glad you like this painting because guess what... I just bought it. Fifty thousand clams. I'm a big supporter of this artist. Phineas Jackson. I know art and one day his pieces will be commanding high six figures. Maybe more."

"You've got great taste." The cloying scent of his cologne getting to me, I take a sip of my champagne.

Licking his upper lip, he relishes my innuendo.

"Sweetheart, how come I've never seen you at one of these events? The art world is small. Everyone knows each other."

"I'm new in town."

He focuses his energy on my cleavage. "What's your name?"

"Scarlet Callahan."

"Are you a starlet or something?"

My demeanor perks up. "Indeed, I am. I'm actually an aspiring actress-slash-screenwriter." I draw a sharp slash mark with my forefinger. Like a knife blade I want to scroll across his chest. "I have a film project I want to sell and star in."

So far, I'm right on script.

He snorts. "Well, you've just met the right person."

Feigning innocence, I lift my brows. His eyes bore into me.

"Do you know who I am?"

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I don't."

"Does the name Sheldon Greenberg sound familiar?"

"Oh my God! You're the big TV producer! I love Criminal Justice! I think I've seen every episode three times." The truth is I boycotted the show once I learned he was the producer. Why give the monster another moneymaking eyeball?

A smirk curls the corners of his slimy lips. "I'm liking you better and better, sweetheart."

A server passes by and he snags another hors d'oeuvre. A stuffed mushroom. He shoves it into his mouth.

"I have a pending three-pic deal with Netflix. Maybe your movie idea fits the bill. Is it high concept?"

"Yes!" I say excitedly. "Very!"

Then, on my next breath, he gropes my breasts.

"I like high concepts." Leering at me, he squeezes them. "And I like big tits. These are very nice."

I'm repulsed by him, but have my first opportunity to prove sexual assault. This is just the beginning. By the end of tonight, the beast will be wishing to be tried as a felon. Fingers crossed my new watch is working and he'll be charged for attempted murder. Squirming, I confront him.

"Please take your hands off my breasts. It makes me uncomfortable. And you're hurting me."

Ignoring my plea, he squeezes harder. "Drink some more champagne. C'mon, babe. Loosen up."

I do as he asks, taking another sip. It pleases him.

"Good girl." Another pinch. "Sweetheart, we should get to know each other better."

Before I can respond, a familiar voice trills in my ears.

"What are you doing here?"

Kayla! She scoffs at me, then shoots Sheldon a dirty look.

"Darling, why are you wasting your time with this pedestrian schoolmarm?"

I hold my own. "Sheldon, I should have told you. I'm teaching until I get my lucky break. A girl needs to make a buck."

Sheldon's face sweetens like syrup. "You've got my respect, beautiful. My beloved mother, God bless her, was a schoolteacher. She put the bread on our table. I wouldn't be here without her."

A miffed Kayla throws back her head and rolls her eyes. "Whatever. I'll catch up with you later." As she stalks off, I breathe a silent sigh of relief. That my lecherous companion didn't learn about my connection to Finn.

Not wasting any time, the swine goes back to tweaking a nipple. "So where were we, doll?"

Flinching, I notice the crowd thinning and glance down at my watch. Almost eight p.m. The event's almost over. I've got to score! Sheldon notices me fretting about the time.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. We've got all the time in the world. The party's just getting started. Why don't you come with me? I'm throwing a small intimate after-party. A dinner. You can meet one of my buddies and tell me your movie idea. What d'ya say?"

"I'd really love to meet the artist first." Where is Finn?

Sheldon snickers. "Get over it. He's not worth it. C'mon. Let's blow this pop stand." He snatches my hand, lacing my fingers with his thick, stubby ones, and lumbers toward the entrance of the gallery. While he snags one more hors d'oeuvre—a greasy chicken skewer—en route, I look over my shoulder and glance up at the second level. My husband, so devastatingly handsome in dark jeans, a Springsteen T-shirt, and a ridiculously sexy leather bomber jacket, meets my gaze. For a brief moment, I think about when we first met at Christie's, making eye contact across the gallery of paintings. How we fell in love at first sight. My aching heart reaches out to his. How I long to be in his loving arms! How I long for this night to be over!

He begged me not to go through with this, but nothing he could say or do could stop me. Worry burns in his eyes as he shoots me a thumbs up and mouths, "Be careful. I love you."

Pursing my lips, I blow him a kiss. A loud burp from Sheldon intercepts it.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Let's get the hell outta here."

Dread knotting in the pit of my stomach, I give myself a quick mental pep talk like I used to do when I confronted adversity as an investigative reporter. Skye, stay strong. You can handle this. Skye's the limit. It works!

I've got my mojo. My mind is armed like a battalion ready to charge the enemy. You scumbag! I'm going to take you down. Put you away. Whatever in God's name it takes.

On our way out, we pass one of the few remaining attendees. A thickset, raven-haired man in a crumpled trench coat. In my peripheral vision, I see him pull out his cell phone.

Game on.