Face of Danger (3 page)

“Fortunately, your opinion doesn’t matter. She’s got a chance.” She gave him a slow smile, revealing that tiny chip on her front tooth. God, he’d thought about licking that, too. “So I think I have a chance, too.”

He just shook his head, not following, but maybe because his body was betraying him again.

“Look at me,” she demanded, leaning back to prop her hands on her hips and cock her head to one side.

“I’m looking.” That was the problem. She was so damn cute he forgot what they were talking about.

“
Look
, Lang.”

At what? The way her position pulled the T-shirt just tight enough to outline her breasts? They weren’t big but perky and sweet, just as spunky as she was and, well, even on Vivi some things were feminine. Was that what she wanted him to look at? Because if he eyed them any longer, his hard-on was poised to make a reappearance.

“Don’t you see the resemblance?” She turned her face to give him a profile, lifting her chin, closing her eyes, and dropping her head back in a classic movie-star pose. His gaze drifted over her throat which was—just another fucking thing he wanted to lick.

Jesus, Colt. Get a grip.

She spun her face around and for one insane second he thought she’d read his mind.

“I look exactly like Cara Ferrari,” she insisted.

He let out a soft hoot of laughter. “Are you as stoned as half these other skaters?”

She scowled at him. “Real skaters don’t get high—posers do. And look at this face,” she demanded, pointing to her cheeks with two index fingers. “Is this not Cara Ferrari’s twin sister?”

He chuckled again. “Speaking of posers.”

“Lang,
damn
it.” Frustration heightened her color, making her even cuter. “Everyone says I look like her. I mean if my hair were longer and I—you know, had some makeup on.”

“Like a truckload.”

“I get stopped and asked if I’m Cara Ferrari all the time,” she insisted.

“And you believe what drunks say to you in bars?”

“Jeez, you’re as bad as my cousins. Quit teasing me and take this seriously.”

He worked his face into the most humorless expression he had, and he had many. “Cara Ferrari is a movie star, Vivi.”

“So?”

How deep was she going to let him dig himself? “I mean, she’s a gorgeous icon….”

Deep.

“Not that you’re not attractive in your own way.” This was getting worse, but on he went. “It’s just that she’s all glitz and glamour and gloss and you’re…” Not.

“I can glam up.”

Now that, he’d like to see. “All right,” he relented, not wanting to hurt her. He squinted at her, and made a camera viewing box with his fingers. “Yeah, I can see the similarity. You both have dark hair and dark eyes.”

She swiped his hands down. “Never mind, Lang. I should have known you couldn’t think outside the box. You’re all linear, trapped by your rules and the way things are
supposed
to be done. I shouldn’t ever dream that you might approach something creatively. That would just be asking too much from your structured, formulaic, uninspired brain.”

All right, he deserved that after the insults he’d just heaped on her, but something was really off in this conversation, even for them. “What the hell are you getting at, Vivi?”

“A body double.”

This time he just stared at her for a minute. “You’re not serious.”

She thumped her fist on the table. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Told me what?”

“C’mon, Lang, it’s the oldest form of security in the world. Put a fake—a
professional
fake—in her shoes until the killer is caught. If there even is a killer, which I don’t happen to think there is. But, still, we bait with a decoy and—”

“Stop it,” he said, his voice low and harsh, not having to pretend seriousness at all now. “All kidding aside, you’d need an extreme makeover to pass as Cara Ferrari.”

“Not from a distance.”

“A job like that should go to a trained professional, not an outside consultant. And good luck getting to Cara Ferrari. It’s easier to get an appointment with the President.”

A flicker of arrogance crossed her face. “Maybe I already have.”

“What? How?”

She shrugged. “What do they say—everyone is six degrees of separation from someone.”

“You are not six degrees of anything from Cara Ferrari.” Was she?

She picked up her drink and then set it down again. “Forget it, Lang. You’re right, she did suck in
Now, Voyager
. She should stick to the trashy stuff that made her real money.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed, ignoring her sarcasm. “Like one of her really early B movies, the one where she played the undercover cop working as a stripper? I liked that.”

“Of course you did. What man doesn’t love the raw acting talent it takes for a woman to use her mouth to unzip thigh-high boots during a lap dance?”

“You have to admit that was a memorable scene.”

“Yeah, that took mad acting skills.”

“And coordination,” he agreed. “Just think how many college boys she made happy.”

“Were you one of them, Lang?”

“Please. I was in the FBI Academy when that movie came out.” Still, he fought a smile. “But it was a pretty sexy lap dance. Although, I guess that’s redundant.”

“Yeah, whatever. Can we just forget we had this conversation? It’s moot anyway. They say Kimberly Horne has the Oscar in the bag.”

He relaxed a little. “Vivi, you can’t seriously think you could convince Cara Ferrari to let you
be
her for however long it takes for this Red Carpet Killer brouhaha to die down. I think you should forget this idea completely.”

“Brouhaha.” She rolled her eyes and grabbed her drink. “I don’t care what you think.”

He didn’t respond and she sucked the straw again,
looking up at him with her wide eyes—kind of exactly like she’d look up from a blow job.

Goddamn his dancing dick.

“Just forget it,” he said, as much to his disobedient organ as to his unintentionally sexy consultant. “It’s a cute idea, but—”

“Fuck you, Lang.”

“Sorry, I know you hate anything cute.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?”

Evidently not. “Get what?”

“What I’m trying to do with this business my brother and I started.”

“How can you say that?” He pushed his drink aside to move closer to Vivi. “I believe in your business. Hell, if I’m not careful, my boss is going to start questioning just why I’ve given you—what, four or five assignments in as many months? We’re supposed to spread the outsourcing wealth, not focus on one firm.”

She just shook her head. “This isn’t about you and your office. This is about
me
and
my
office.”

“Seriously, Vivi. You only started this business last fall. What do you expect?”

“Greatness,” she replied without pause. “There are companies doing what mine does and making millions. They’ve got multiple offices and hundreds of investigators and bodyguards and security specialists on their payroll.”

“And that’s what you want?” Somehow, the dream of big business just didn’t fit this skater chick. The raw ambition, like so many things about Vivi, surprised him.

“I always want to be the best,” she told him. “I don’t like to do things half-assed.”

“I respect that, but”—he placed both his hands over hers, damning the electrical charge he got every time his skin made contact with hers—“you’re not starting with Cara and your body-double idea.”

She snapped her hands away. “You can’t tell me what to do, Lang. No one can.”

Obviously.

“Give me one good reason why not,
other
than the fact that I don’t look like a movie star, as you’ve pointed out with great relish and candor.”

“What if there really is a Red Carpet Killer? Or a copycat? It’s dangerous.”

“My job is dangerous,” she replied. “Your job is dangerous. That’s the life we’ve chosen. If we get the assignment, Zach has three excellent bodyguards who can come stay with me twenty-four/seven.”

Three guys with her twenty-four/seven? Unfamiliar and ugly jealousy rolled through him. “Doesn’t matter. With all the nutcases out there, it’s too risky.”

She pushed back with a disgusted breath. “You are so… careful.”

“You say that like it’s a detriment. I’m an FBI agent, Vivi. Cautious is my middle name. And if you’re going to make it in the security consulting business, you’d do well to adopt the same one.”

“Well, my middle name is Belladonna,” she informed him.

“A poison.”

“ ‘Beautiful woman’ in Italian,” she corrected him, then raised a palm to stop his response. “Don’t. You’ve insulted me enough for one day. My point is,
cautious
doesn’t always work in business, Lang.”

“It does in the security business.” Three bodyguards? Shit, he hated that.

“Nobody gets ahead playing it safe. It’s like that half-pipe over there.” She tipped her head to the concrete slopes where skaters flew and flipped. And fell on their asses. “You gotta go big or go down.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve gone big and gone down hard.” No, he hadn’t gone down. The one and only woman he’d ever loved had gone down. All the way down. Six-feet-under down.

“What happened?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Just don’t take crazy risks, Vivi.”

“Can’t help it—that’s how I roll.” She got up, kicked her board out from under the table, and hopped on it. “I’m going to be late for the Rossi family Sunday dinner if I don’t leave now. See ya, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Colton
Cautious
Lang.”

“Bye, Private Investigator Viviana
Poison
Angelino.”

She untied a ratty sweatshirt and pulled it over her head, then tugged on her helmet. “Thanks for the slurpy and the advice.”

She zipped off, giving him a perfect shot of her ass as she kicked into high speed.

There went his cock again.

To make the blood flow north to his brain, he forced himself to think about her stupid, foolish, crazy idea. Okay, it wasn’t entirely stupid, but the last time he took a risk like that, he’d lost everything.

Never again.

L
ang had gotten one thing right: Vivi wasn’t six degrees from Cara Ferrari. She was three. Her cousin Nicki had gone to shrink graduate school with a guy who was the brother of Cara’s stylist, Bridget McKeever, who’d agreed to help arrange a meeting because the brother convinced the stylist that Cara should at least talk to Vivi.

So maybe that was four degrees from Cara, but it really didn’t matter. Because three days after the little run-in with Lang at the park, Vivi drove under the world-famous arches of the Paramount Studios lot, flashed her license to a security guard, and headed for the set of
Jehovah’s Witness
, the legal thriller Cara was wrapping this week.

The end-of-filming schedule was perfect, no doubt forced by the star herself, giving her the ability to disappear for a few weeks following the Academy Awards this coming weekend. Although all five of the nominated actresses had made public statements that they were not the least bit concerned about the folklore of a Red Carpet Killer or
Curse, they’d all somehow managed to clear their calendars for the next six weeks.

All five women had a life-or-death reason to not want that statuette on their mantel.

Of course they wanted it, Vivi mused as she parked and followed the directions Bridget had given her to the set. Who wouldn’t want to achieve that pinnacle of success? But they also wanted to be safe, and live to enjoy it, which was why Vivi’s idea was such a good one.

If Cara liked the body-double strategy, it could set up the Guardian Angelinos as one of the most sought-after security firms in the country. And, dream of dreams, if there really was a Red Carpet Killer and Vivi lured and caught him—bingo! They’d be made.

Besides, Vivi’s investigator’s instinct told her there was no real threat, making the assignment easy money and a brilliant career move.

Screw Lang and his pessimism. This was a risk, but as Uncle Nino would say, you can’t get the good fruit if you don’t go out on a limb. And he’d be right.

Worse things had happened to Vivi, and she’d weathered them. Pretty much.

She ran a hand over her smooth hair, purposely combed and gelled down into a tame style that went along with her simple skirt and jacket, both borrowed from her best friend Sam, the woman who someday soon would be marrying her brother, Zach.

Vivi scanned the lot, passing the commissary and turning a corner that opened up to several large white buildings, each marked with studio numbers. People milled about, a few on foot, some on golf carts, the pavement warm from the California sun under the soles of Vivi’s
brand-new and horrifically uncomfortable high-heeled shoes. She spotted her makeup artist contact striding toward her, all long skinny legs in pencil jeans and flying platinum hair.

Bridget looked more like a movie star than some of the real stars, but, then, so did damn near every woman in Los Angeles.

Lang would love it here in the land of milk and honeys.

“Hey,” Bridget called as she approached, not slowed by even higher heels. “Sorry, I was stuck on the set.”

When they reached each other, Bridget gave Vivi air-kisses on both cheeks, then leaned back, assessing Vivi.

“Good look for you,” she said, all professional and serious. “But we’re going with Plan A. We really have to blow Cara away.”

“I’m ready,” Vivi assured her.

“So am I. She’s doing a scene that will definitely go ten takes, on an inside set, so we have an hour. Let’s go clear her trailer and get it done.”

“Have you told her anything?” Vivi asked.

“Just that I have a solution and asked her to consider it, no matter how off the wall. Beyond that, I think it’s better if she sees you exactly as we planned: in full Cara costume.”

The “trailer” was hardly a doublewide. Set off from the rest of a row of motor homes along the side of a long parking lot, Cara’s “dressing room” stood two stories high and at least seventy feet long. A husky guard lingered outside the entrance but said nothing as Bridget and Vivi breezed by him.