Just Another Pretty Face (HT 459) (2 page)

"Unless the woman has a gun."

"Those letters didn't say anything about a gun," Pierce snapped, exasperated with her.

"I'm sure Rebecca Schaeffer's murderer didn't say anything about a gun in his fan letters, either," Claire shot back, equally exasperated with him. "But that doesn't make her any less dead."

Brother and sister glared at each other for a full ten seconds.

"Aw, jeez, Claire," Pierce said finally, deciding to take another tack. "Have you thought of what the tabloids will say if some no-neck sumo wrestler in a bad suit starts following me around with a .357 Magnum strapped to his hip?"

She fixed her brother with a gimlet stare. "Since when have you started caring about what the tabloids say?"

"Since never," Pierce said airily. "But as one of the head honchos at Kingston Productions, you certainly should—because what they'll say is that I've wimped out and hired a baby-sitter." A crafty light entered what the press liked to call his 'laserlike baby blues.'
"The Devil's Game
will be premiering next month," he said, referring to his latest movie. "Think what effect that kind of negative publicity could have on the box office."

"I have thought about it," Claire said.

"Aha," he crowed, sensing victory. "I knew I could make you see reason."

"That's why I hired a woman."

Pierce's mouth fell open. "A woman! You hired a
woman
bodyguard?"

"Careful there," Gage murmured, but Pierce ignored him.

"Just what's wrong with a woman bodyguard?" Claire demanded.

"If I needed protection—which I'm not saying I do," Pierce said. "But if I needed protection, just how good do you think a woman would be at providing it?"

"This particular woman is highly qualified," Claire informed him. "She was an MP in the marines for four years. The last eight months of which were spent in the Persian Gulf helping to keep the peace among who-knows-how-many battalions of homesick, horny soldiers."

"She ought to be able to handle Pierce, then," Gage said, aiming a sly grin at his brother.

Tara put her hand on her husband's knee, silently shushing him, and shook her head at her brother-in-law, quelling whatever response he had been about to make. "Listen to Claire," she ordered softly.

"She's also an expert pistol shot," Claire went on, regally ignoring the byplay, "and she has a black belt in karate. Bill Bender couldn't praise her enough," she added, referring to a former stuntman who'd been running a very successful and very discreet personal security business ever since he got too old and sore to fall out of buildings for a living. "He says she's as tough as they come."

"Oh, my God." Pierce moaned, falling against the back of the sofa as if he'd been shot. He covered his face with his hands. "You're siccing a female Rambo on me," he accused from behind his splayed fingers. "A no-neck ex-Marine sumo wrestler in a skirt and combat boots!"

"I'm providing you with some much-needed protection," Claire corrected calmly, ignoring his theatrics with the ease of long practice. "And if you refuse to cooperate with me, then I
will
sic a female Rambo on you." She smiled slightly as she played her trump card. "I
'll
call Mom home from Italy."

Pierce lowered his hands from in front of his face. "You wouldn't," he said, aghast at the very thought.

"I would."

"But she's
working,"
he said, trying to appeal to his sister's overdeveloped work ethic. "The old man's running amok over there with his leading lady—"

"So?" Claire said, letting him know he wasn't going to distract her with that sorry old chestnut.

All four of them knew—all of
Hollywood
knew— that Elise Gage had stopped concerning herself with her ex-husband's affairs a good fifteen years ago, when she'd finally filed for their second divorce. The only time she paid any attention to his love life now was when it threatened to interfere with the smooth operation of Kingston Productions.

Which was exactly what Pierce was getting at.

"Now, don't look at me like that, Claire," he said. "It's no secret that Dad's latest romance is interfering with business. He's behind schedule and way over budget on
Mafioso.
Not to mention the scandal he's creating." He glanced over at his brother and sister-in-law to solicit their support, seeming to have suddenly forgotten that he'd been the focus of more than one scandal himself. "Francesca Soleri is only twenty," he told them, feigning shocked dismay at his father's outrageous behavior, "and I read somewhere that she'd been living in a convent before Dad discovered her."

"Oh, please." Claire rolled her eyes. "She's twenty-three going on thirty-five and the closest she's ever been to a convent is driving by one on the way to some illicit assignation."

"Well, you know how the Italian paparazzi are," Pierce said, undeterred by the soundness of her argument. "Much worse than the American press when they get their teeth into a story. No telling how much damage has already been done." He looked up at his sister with an expression of extreme reasonableness. "You wouldn't want to call Mom home before she's got everything straightened out over there, would you?" he asked, gifting her with his most sincere and sweetly persuasive smile, the one that never failed to get him what he wanted from most women. "Think what it could do to the bottom line."

He'd forgotten that Claire wasn't most women. She was his sister, comfortably familiar with his devastating charm. And she'd been an actress herself not so many years ago—one of the most accomplished child stars in the business before she'd decided she preferred working behind the cameras. She sat down next to her brother and put her hand on his arm.

"Do you really think the bottom line is more important to Mom—to me—than your safety?" she asked softly, lifting her gaze to his as she spoke. Her eyes were the same piercing blue as his own, the irises large and jewel bright beneath a film of unshed tears.

"Aw, jeez, Claire. That's not fair."

His sister's lower lip quivered pathetically.

"You're unscrupulous, you know that?" He threw her hand off his arm, pretending disgust. "Totally unscrupulous."

She blinked, allowing a single tear to well up over her bottom eyelid. It hung, suspended like a tiny diamond, in the web of her dark lashes.

"You might as well give up, Pierce," Gage advised, grinning as he watched his siblings try to outact each other. "She's got you."

"But I don't want a damn bodygu—"

Claire blinked again, dislodging the tear.

"Oh, all right. All right." Pierce threw his hands up, knowing he was beaten. He'd never been able to sit by and watch his baby sister cry. Even when he knew she was faking it. "I surrender. You win. I'll do whatever you want. I'll let this GI Jane of yours follow me around. Hell, I'll let a whole battalion of them follow me around if it'll make you happy. Just stop looking at me like I've dismembered your favorite doll."

The threatened tears dried up as if by magic. "I'm just asking you to meet her," she said, gracious in victory. "Just talk to her. If you don't like her we'll get someone else."

"Yeah, right," Pierce said, knowing his sister better than that. He reached out and lifted her chin with his index finger. "You've still got the touch, kid," he said admiringly, using his thumb to wipe away the single tear that had rolled down her ivory cheek.

2

NIKKI MARTINELLI
stood in front of the mirror that hung on the back of her bedroom door and decided that, no, the faded blue jeans and meticulously polished Bass loafers weren't going to do it, after all. Even dressed up with a tailored white blouse and the boxy red linen jacket from her one and only suit, they still looked woefully unprofessional. Too casual and breezy. Too...

She tilted her head, studying her reflection with the critical eye of a woman who'd learned that appearances counted in La La Land. Usually a lot more than they should.

Too unremittingly preppy, she finally decided. She looked like an overindulged U.C.L.A. coed out to spend as much of her daddy's money as possible in the ritzy stores on Rodeo Drive.

Not exactly the image she'd been aiming for.

Nor one Claire Kingston would likely be willing to pay for.

According to Bill Bender, Hollywood's most beautiful producer had made it abundantly clear she was intent on hiring some serious muscle to protect her pretty-boy movie-star brother from a crazy letter-writing fan.

And serious muscle, Nikki knew, demanded seriously muscular clothes. Especially in Hollywood, where people were frequently judged by how closely they resembled the overwrought fantasies brought to life on movie screens all over the world.

Unfortunately, the only thing the least bit serious about the outfit she had on was the 9mm Baretta automatic tucked, out of sight beneath the red jacket, in the shoulder holster under her left arm.

She glanced into her open closet, wondering if showing up at Pierce Kingston's Beverly Hills estate in full military regalia, complete with combat boots, helmet, sidearm and nightstick would be considered sufficiently serious by her prospective employers.

"Naw," she said aloud, grimacing at her reflection in the mirror. They'd probably think she'd stopped by on her way over to audition for a part as a commando in the new movie about neo-Nazis being cast over at Universal.

Besides, even though Claire Kingston had made it clear she wanted to hire some serious muscle, she'd been equally adamant that it be female muscle. Apparently, protecting her brother's reputation as a macho leading man was at least as important as protecting the man himself. Pierce Kingston had a new movie coming out soon—one of those action-adventure epics full of guts and glory, bold heroics and impossible feats of derring-do. It might hurt the box office if people got the idea that the hero of such a movie was incapable of protecting himself. Which meant that having a marine in combat fatigues—female or otherwise—trailing around after him to see that he didn't get himself hurt by a pen-wielding, lovesick fan would no doubt be frowned upon by the entire Kingston clan.

Suppressing a sigh, Nikki toed off her loafers and wriggled out of her jeans, mentally reviewing the meager contents of her wardrobe. What she needed, she decided, was something that would make her look competent and tough but not butch. Sort of
L.A. Law's
Grace Van Owen meets Sarah Connor from
Terminator 2.

There was really only one item of clothing that would do all that, she thought, and reached into the closet for the black leather pants she'd just recently spent three months of her clothing budget on.

* * *

GEARING DOWN as she approached the driveway to Pierce Kingston's swanky estate, Nikki wondered— again—if riding her Harley Sportster to what was essentially a job interview had been a sound business decision.

Not that she'd really had any other choice. The ancient VW Bug she'd bought after mustering out of the marines was in the shop again, so the Harley was her only means of transportation unless she wanted to spring for a taxi. Which she didn't. Taxis were an expensive luxury and they often left one stranded at the mercy of others; Nikki didn't believe in wasting time or money. Especially when she had the Harley.

And, what the hell,
she thought, grinning at herself in the side mirror as she leaned into the long curving driveway,
it goes with the leather pants.

Of course, those might have been a mistake, too. One that might not be completely mitigated by the fact that she'd tried to tone down their impact by teaming them with her red blazer rather than wearing the more practical black mctorcycle jacket she usually wore for riding. But whatever their impact, she thought, shrugging, it was way too late to change now.

Refusing to think anymore about it—or about why she'd suddenly reverted to her old adolescent pattern of worrying about making the right impression—Nikki brought the Harley to a smooth stop behind the rear fender of a low-slung silver Jaguar and shoved the Harley's kickstand into place with her foot.

Parked next to the Jag was a pale yellow Mercedes station wagon with a top-of-the-line baby seat visible through the back window. Three other vehicles, a flashy red Lamborghini, a gleaming black four-wheel-drive Range Rover and—that requisite for true Hollywood stardom—a Rolls-Royce limousine, were visible in the open bays of the five-car garage.

With a low whistle of admiration, Nikki tugged off her helmet and looked around.

A whimsical English topiary garden with fragrant rose bushes and evergreen shrubs sculpted into fanciful shapes surrounded a small neoclassical fountain, which sat directly in front of the house, creating a roundabout driveway for easy in-and-out access. Lush velvet lawns bordered the wide curving driveway, sloping off to the left to the perfectly manicured man-high hedges that protected the tennis courts and cabana and hid the swimming pool from view. Stately evergreen trees, tall pink dogwoods in full bloom and bright beds of well-tended flowers surrounded the huge Norman English "castle," framing it like a rare and expensive painting. A pair of stone lions reclined in bored and regal splendor on either side of the massive double-wide front door.

Nikki eyed them, wondering if they'd been put there in Louis B. Mayer's time as a sly tongue-in-cheek reference to the MGM mascot—Hollywood legend had it that one of his mistresses used to live in the house.

"Welcome to the world of the rich and famous," Nikki muttered to herself as she swung her leg over the saddle of the bike and stood up.

She was bent over, peering into the side mirror, her helmet dangling from one hand, finger-fluffing her hair with the other, when she heard the front door open. She looked up quickly, the beginnings of a warm smile of greeting turning up her generous mouth at the corners.

A small, dark-haired woman in a simple blue dress with a plain white bibbed apron tied over it stood in the wide doorway, staring down at her with a stern expression on her face. "Miss Martinelli?" she inquired.