Hollywood Secrets (9 page)

I silently glided across the white carpet, making footprints in its freshly vacuumed tracks, and peeked through the doorway. A large, marble-tiled hall greeted me, the massive wood front door visible to the right, the locked dining room to the left. I took a small step out into the open area, which I’m sure had some very fancy French name, and cringed as my sneakers squeaked on the polished floor.

An ornate, iron staircase wound upward to my left while three doors stood directly across the hall from me – all closed. I walked across the floor, my footsteps echoing with each squeaky step. I tried the first, peeking my head in the door. A study. Furnished in more dark woods, a wall of tastefully displayed books, and an oriental rug in deep burgundy hues. Unoccupied. Perfect.

I was just about to push into the room and start rummaging through the drawers of that huge desk when a voice stopped me in my tracks.

“
Who the hell are you?”

I froze. My heart suddenly leaping into my chest.

While I might have been able to bluff a member of Trace’s household staff, I knew that voice. And I knew there was no chance of sweet talking my way out of this one.

I slowly turned around…

…
to find myself face to face with Trace Brody.

Chapter Seven

I blinked, my brain trying to process what my eyes were telling me.

“
What the hell are you doing here?” I blurted out.

Trace cocked his head to the side, a strand of hair slipping off his forehead in exactly the same way it had in his last movie,
You’ve Got Email
. Sexy.

“
I could ask you the same thing,” he replied.

I felt my cheeks redden. Right. I suppose I was the one trespassing.

“
No, I meant… well… you’re gone. I mean, clearly you’re not gone because, duh, here you are. But you weren’t here. Last night. At the club. Okay, well, if you were at the club then you weren’t here, but you weren’t at the club either. Or the storage place. Or at the Starbucks or dry cleaners or anywhere! Which isn’t surprising, considering you were kidnapped!”

I stopped to take a breath, painfully aware that I wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. As I may have mentioned, on a good day I’m not necessarily the most suave when it comes to talking to guys. But faced with a real live movie star, one I’d been basically stalking for the last six weeks, my tongue had suddenly turned to rubber, spewing out babble every which direction. I bit down on it. Hard. Willing myself to shut up as I took a deep, cleansing breath.

God, he was just as good looking in person. No. Scratch that. He was better. Airbrushing didn’t do him justice. His tanned skin wasn’t quite as picture perfect IRL, hinting at stubble along his jaw line. But instead of flawed, it made him look more real, like a true man’s man. Faint laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes, speaking to the fact that, unlike his fiancée, he wasn’t a devotee of Dr B’s. His hair was a little mussed, but not the perfectly gelled into a fake bed-head look that was currently all the rage, but an actual I-just-came-out-of-the-wind muss that made him look rugged and vulnerable all at the same time. And he had a pair of sandy eyebrows that were perfectly plucked to still look masculine yet avoid the unibrow look. A pair that were, I noticed, currently furrowing into a look of concern as they studied my face.

“
Who let you in here?” he asked, his gaze shifting behind me.

“
Uh…”

“
And who exactly are you?”

I cleared my throat, getting over my initial surprise at finding him here (and hotter than hell) instead of in some guy’s trunk. “Cameron,” I answered.

“
Cameron what?”

“
Dakota.”

“
Great. Nice to meet you. Now what the hell are you doing in my house?”

“
Your Koi pond is broken.”

“
My Koi pond is outside. You are in my foyer.”

Is that what they called it?

“
Right. Well, I… uh… took a wrong turn.”

Trace crossed his arms over his chest, a motion that showed off biceps to make his personal trainer proud. I wondered whether the move was deliberate preening or just a lucky break for me.

“
I’m not quite buying that,” he said. “Wanna try again or should I just call security?”

“
Okay. You’re right. I’m totally lying. The truth is I’m a…” I racked my brain for a better lie. But as Trace’s clear blue eyes stared me down, I found the truth inconveniently falling from my lips instead. “I’m a photographer.”

Trace’s eyes narrowed. They did a slow sweep of my frame. So slow and lingering that I felt my cheeks heating again and shifted nervously under his gaze.

“
I know you,” he finally concluded.

I swallowed back a dry gulp. “You do?”

“
Yeah. I’ve seen you following me around. You work for some tabloid, right?”

A teeny tiny part of me was flattered that he’d taken notice of me. It was kind of like the star football player in school admitting he actually
had
seen you in the back of science class all year.

I nodded. “The
Informer
.”

“
Riiiiiight.” He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was the same sexy little half-smile that women the world over paid ten bucks a pop to watch larger than life on the big screen. And in person, it was twice as nice. Worth a twenty at least.

“
Cameron Dakota at the
Informer,
” he repeated.

Ohmigod, the star football player said my name.

“
Hi. Nice to meet you.” I stuck my hand out.

Only Trace didn’t move to shake it, instead raising one eyebrow in a questioning motion.

“
How the hell did a tabloid reporter get into my house? Security slacking out there?” he asked.

Only he didn’t seem as pissed as I might have imagined at the idea. More… amused. His eyes were still crinkling in the corners, his mouth threatening to crack into a full-fledged smile any second. It was his boyish “romantic comedy” face, and, I had to admit, I was having a hard time not melting under it like his
Email
co-star.

I cleared my throat, trying to clear out my hormones’ goofy teenage reaction to him as well. “How I got in isn’t important.”

“
Maybe not to you.”

Good point.

But he let it go. “Okay, let’s move on then. Why are you here? From what I’ve seen in your paper, you get plenty of intimate enough shots with your telephoto lens.”

I bit my lip. “You saw those, huh?”

“
The pool montage in yesterday’s paper? Yeah. I got that.”

I felt my cheeks warming further.

“
Are you blushing?”

“
No!” I protested. Way too loudly and in way too high a voice to be anywhere near believable.

His smile cracked, showing off a row of perfectly white teeth. “A paparazzo that blushes. Cute.”

The movie star called me cute. Jesus, if I didn’t get out of here soon, I was gonna be a gonner.

I cleared my throat again. “Yeah, sorry about those shots. Just, you know, doing my job.”

He shrugged, still grinning. “Just give me a little airbrushing next time, okay?”

Like he needed it. But I nodded anyway.

“
So, Cameron-“

“
Cam,” I said automatically. “My friends call me Cam.”

“
Okay. Cam.” He paused, as if contemplating the aftertaste of that name. Apparently it worked for him as he continued, “Once again I have to ask - why are you here?”

I hesitated. Okay, standing here seeing him in person – and clearly not kidnapped, shot, missing, or otherwise in any danger – I suddenly felt very silly. A little relieved, yes, but mostly silly. And embarrassed. Reluctant to even admit that his act last night had fooled me. That, apparently, everyone else in Hollywood could spot a publicity stunt from a mile away but Cameron Dakota fell hook, line and sinker.

On the other hand, unless I did some explaining, and fast, I was likely to be escorted out in handcuffs. Trespassing was something the Malibu police didn’t take lightly. So I took a deep breath and spilled it.

“
I saw you last night.”

He shrugged. “You and about a hundred other media vultures.”

Ouch. Did the cute guy just call me a vulture?

I shook my head. “No, I mean after that. In the alley.” I leaned in, whispering as if we were both in on a secret. “I saw you get kidnapped.”

“
Kidnapped?” He let out a blast of laughter. “That’s a new one.”

My eyebrows drew together. “In the alley behind the Boom Boom Room. I fell for your publicity stunt, okay. Ha ha, pull one over on the tabloids. You got me good. I totally believed you were kidnapped by those guys.”

“
What guys?”

“
The guys who forced you into the back of the delivery truck. At gunpoint?”

Trace laughed again, his voice echoing oddly off the marble tiles. “Wow, I knew the tabloids were famous for making shit up, but this takes the cake.”

“
Wait,” I said holding up a hand. “What do you mean making shit up? You’re denying someone forced you into the back of a van last night? That two guys abducted you at gunpoint outside the Boom Boom Room, kidnapping you and driving away?”

Trace spread his hands out in front of him. “Do I look kidnapped?”

No. He didn’t.

But I knew what I saw.

I narrowed my eyes at him. He was a good actor, but he wasn’t that good. Just beneath his air of levity I could swear another emotion was lurking. He was still doing that sexy half smirk, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes now. His voice was light, but his arms were still crossed over his chest in a protective gesture. And he’d taken a step backward, as if the mere mention of the guys with guns had him on the retreat.

“
Wait a minute… this wasn’t a publicity stunt after all, was it?”

“
I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“
You’re scared.”

“
You’re crazy.”

“
That was real last night.”

“
I don’t know what you mean.”

“
And I saw it all go down.”

“
I don’t think so.”

“
I have photos.”

“
Tabloids doctor pictures all the time.”

“
Deny it all you want. I know what I saw.”

“
You must be mistaken.”

I clenched my jaw, the rapid back and forth suddenly giving me a headache. “What happened after they transferred you at Pacific Storage?”

I saw Trace’s leading-man face falter for a second and did a mental, “Ah ha!”

Only that was about all the victory I was going to get.

“
I think maybe you should leave now,” he said, his amused smile a thing of the past.

“
I think you should tell me about what happened last night!”

He took a step forward, his expression hard, his eyes dark. It was his action-hero face, the one that he’d worn when he’d beaten the confession out of that guy in the subway bathroom in
Die Tough
.

“
Time to go, tabloid girl.”

He grabbed me by the arm and steered me toward the front door. I could have protested, but honestly I was lucky he hadn’t called the cops and had me arrested for trespassing already. Instead, I let him lead me through the front foyer, and out the ornately carved door.

Apparently his security was not, indeed, slacking, as waiting for me right outside the door were two big bodyguards. They looked like former WWF guys and were both dressed all in black. The first one took over Trace’s grip, clamping down on my arm as he led me down the pathway. The second fell into place beside him, should I try to make a run for it. I could have told him that was highly unlikely.

I snuck one look over my shoulder at Trace before he shut the door. Action Hero was slipping. And in its place was a part I’d never seen Trace play before.

The victim.

I could read the look of fear on his face as plain as day. Of me? Of what he’d find splayed across the
Informer
’s pages tomorrow? Or of two guys and a gun? I wasn’t sure. But I knew one thing for certain; no way was I going to let this thing go without getting a straight story first.

Flanked by the two gargantuan goons, I made the walk of shame down the driveway and out the ornate front gate, now standing wide open in anticipation of my eviction. It wasn’t until the iron doors had swung closed behind me (with a clear look of reproach from both big guys), that I remembered my car was around the back of the massive property.

Great.

I shoved my hat down low over my eyes and prepared to make the two-mile hike to the other side of the estate.

* * *

“
Something weird is going on,” I said around a bite of Caesar salad.