L.A. Confidential (4 page)

“What location?” she asked, more confused than ever.

“Greg said you'd be able to get the crew inside to film at Oxygen. If you can do that, you're hired.”

A numbing cold swept over her.
“Oxygen?”
Her voice was little more than a croak. “You want permission to film in the restaurant?”

“You can arrange it, yes? Greg said you know the owner, Kenneth Hooper.”

“Harper,” she corrected automatically as the room seemed to close in on her. “And yes…I know him.”

Miller leaned back in his chair, his arms spread. “Excellent. So you can do it? You'll be my new location scout?”

She swallowed, knowing that the odds of Ken wanting to help her were very, very low. But she was out of options. If she couldn't pull it off, Miller would fire her and she wouldn't be any worse off than she was right then. But if she
could
convince Ken to help her…and if she could find some more locations for Miller…well, if she played her cards right, she could be back on her feet within a year.

“Ms. Neal? An answer today would be good.”

She looked up and smiled brightly. “Sorry. Just running through possible locations in my head.”

“So you'll do it?”

She held his gaze, careful to keep an expressionless poker face. “On one condition.”

He cocked his head. “Condition?”

Her hands trembled, and she held them tight in her lap. “If I pull this off, I want a producer credit. Not associate producer, not line producer. Producer.”

For a long moment he said nothing, just stared at her.

“I want my career back, Mr. Miller.” Her voice shook, and she dropped her eyes, sure he was about to tell her to get the hell out of his office.

Leather creaked as he shifted in his chair, and she looked up to see him looking at her quizzically. “Tyrell screwed a lot of people, Ms. Neal. But there were a lot of folks in bed with him who deserved to be screwed. If I do this for you, I'm taking a hell of a risk.”

“I wasn't one of the ones who deserved it. I worked my tail off for Tyrell and don't have a damn thing to show for it.”

He tapped his thumb against his chin, his mouth turning down into a frown. After a moment he stopped and looked at her, his expression stern. “Ms. Neal?”

She fought a cringe. “Yes?”

“It looks like we have a deal. Don't disappoint me.”

 

“I
CAN'T BELIEVE
I'm really doing this. I must be a total idiot. It's never going to work. What was I thinking?” Lisa stopped tossing clothes into her suitcase long enough to glare at Greg. “For that matter, what were you thinking?”

Nonplussed, he leaned back against the doorjamb and popped the top on a Dr. Brown's cream soda. “I was thinking you needed the work.” He pointed toward her
bed and the pile of clothes. “They'll travel better if you fold them.”

She was in no mood for packing lessons, and purposefully crumpled her favorite dress and shoved it into her luggage.

“It's your laundry bill.”

“I'm not worried about my clothes. I'm worried about this job.” She sat on the bed and then flopped backward to stare at the ceiling. “This is a nightmare.” Rolling over, she propped herself up on an elbow to look at him. “I'm the last person Ken's going to want to help.”

“The man's going to jump through hoops to help you. You were the love of his life.”

She cringed, knowing all too well how much she'd hurt him. “‘Were' being the operative word.” Her eyes welled, and she flashed a weak smile at Greg. “I'm thirsty,” she lied. “Would you get me a soda?”

He nodded, probably knowing she needed privacy more than she needed a drink, and slipped out toward the kitchen.

With a sigh, she rolled over, dragging her pillow across her face. She'd made a huge mistake hitching her star to Drake Tyrell, and made an even bigger mistake leaving Los Angeles in the first place.

She'd been so naive. Working for Drake had been the biggest thrill of her life, and she'd actually seen two movies come out with her name as associate producer…before her world had come crashing down.

At the time she'd smelled success, so she'd thrown herself even more into the work, giving it every ounce of energy she had, knowing there'd be nothing left for a personal life, especially not a personal life an entire continent away. She'd had her eye on the prize, so she'd
sucked up her courage and told Ken she wanted some time apart and unattached.

She didn't regret the decision. Not then, not now. But she'd always regretted the consequences of that decision. She'd hurt Ken, and she'd never really told him how sorry she was.

After the breakup, Tyrell had told her that her sacrifices were worth it because she was going to be a real player someday. Lousy, lying bastard.

He hadn't meant a word of it—he'd just wanted Lisa in his bed and, by the end of a year, that's exactly where she was. Ken found out, of course, since the affair was plastered all over the tabloids. Even though they'd already broken up, Lisa's sleeping with Tyrell had hurt Ken—badly—and she hated herself for it.

When the studio shut them down and Tyrell fled for his native Britain, Lisa was out on her own—and her production credits didn't mean a thing. She had a scarlet T on her forehead, and it was all she could do to find work on even the lowest-budget flicks.

Greg came back in, jarring her from her thoughts, and she sat up in time to see him flip the desk chair around to straddle. He crossed his arms over the backrest and nodded toward the diet Coke can on her nightstand. “Feeling better?”

“You're just too damn perceptive.”

“I know. It's a gift.”

“I feel fine.” She took a sip, letting the fizzy drink work its magic. “I'm not going to be royally humiliated until later when I'm in Los Angeles.”

“If you don't think you have a chance, why'd you take the job?”

“Because I'm an idiot.” She scooted backward and
slipped off the bed to start packing again, this time taking more care to fold each item. After a second she sighed and looked him in the eye. “Okay. You win. I took it because it's the best shot I've had in a long time.”

“You're welcome.”

“You just want me in L.A. so you can have the bedroom.”

“True enough.”

He laughed, but she knew he was only half joking. They shared the one-bedroom apartment with two others, a flight attendant and another actor/waiter. Each month, one of them got dibs on the bedroom and the others shared the living room with its three foam chairs that pulled out into tiny beds. So much for pop culture's perception about life in the big city. Monica and Rachel might have their own bedrooms and a humongous apartment, but
Friends
was a far cry from Lisa's reality.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, realizing she was biting her lower lip. “Yeah. Just nervous. If I can pull off the locations, I'll get a producer credit.” She looked him in the eye. “And if the film does well, that means my career will be back on track. I've got a lot riding on this job, and for all I know Ken's just going to slam the door in my face.”

“Then you won't be any worse off than you are now.” He moved to sit on the bed. “But I think you're going to do great.”

Her smile felt watery. “Thanks. I appreciate you going out on a limb for me. Really.”

“What can I say? I'm a heck of a guy.”

“You?” she teased. “I hadn't noticed.”

His grin widened. “No? You should pay more attention.”

At that, she laughed outright then her smile faded to a frown again. “I'm just afraid Ken's going to laugh in my face. And I wouldn't blame him one bit. I was a bitch. Self-centered and stupid.”

“Ah, but now you're a reformed bitch. Or at least you're a charter member of Bitches Anonymous and firmly on the wagon.”

She managed a smile, wondering if it was true. If it came down to it, would she do the same thing all over again?

“Seriously,” he continued, “there's no crime in wanting to focus on your career.”

“I know. But I'm sure he thinks I left him for Tyrell, not for Tyrell's job offer.” She sighed. “Besides, fat lot of good it did me. I came out here expecting to return to L.A. in triumph, and look at me. I'm going back now with less in my checking account than when I was fresh out of school.”

“I don't think Ken's going to care about your checkbook.”

“Except to feel some smug satisfaction that I blew it.”

Greg's smile was patient. Clearly he knew she was in one of her moods. “The way you've described him, I don't think he's the holier-than-thou type.”

She wasn't ready to concede. “Maybe not five years ago, but he's Mr. Big Shot now.”

“And a damn good-looking Mr. Big Shot, too,” Greg said.

“He's not your type.” She smiled, but her heart wasn't in it.

“Too bad.”

“Do you know I went to the opening of Oxygen? That
was the night he was going to ask me to marry him. Of course, I found that out later, after I told him I was moving back to New York. Not a very happy memory, and now I'm supposed to go back and ask to film there? Do you have any idea how many old wounds this is going to open?”

“So don't take the job.”

“Ha, ha.” Taking a fortifying breath, she latched her suitcase and tugged it off the bed. “Wish me luck. I'm off to beg a favor from my ex-boyfriend.”

“Good luck.”

She paused in the doorway. “Thanks. I'm going to need it.”

“T
HANKS FOR CHOOSING
the Bellisimo, Ms. Neal. Enjoy your stay.”

Through a haze of exhaustion, Lisa thanked the clerk as she clutched her room key, still not quite believing that Avenue F was footing the bill for her to stay in a hotel as lush as the Bellisimo. She hadn't slept at all the night before, and now she was having trouble remembering her name, much less what she did with her luggage. She looked down toward her ankles, trying to find the matched set of suitcases her mother had given her years ago and fought a wave of panic until she remembered the bellhop had taken them.

Stifling a yawn, she surveyed the lobby, trying to find the bellman and her bags. The hotel was just as she'd remembered it. Polished marble columns, polished hardwood floor, everything shiny and gleaming and not the least bit understated. The place practically smelled of money, and it attracted the type of clientele who were drawn to that particular scent.

Exactly the kind of atmosphere Ken had wanted for his very first restaurant—a prestigious address with a
crowd made up of climbers and those already at the top. As Lisa glanced around, she knew he had to be pleased. Not some small part of his success was tied to his skill in choosing the right location.

Some sort of convention was going on, and the lobby was filled to overflowing with men and women in suits sporting little plastic name tags. When the crowd finally parted a bit, Lisa caught a glimpse of the bellhop near the bank of elevators. With a wave, she signaled that she was on her way.

Actually getting to him was a bit more tricky, and she ended up having to squeeze between the stacks of luggage left lying around by the conventioneers, a process that took a lot more energy than she had left. She finally made it, though she ended up feeling frazzled and far too jostled for comfort.

After handing the bellhop her room key, she ran her hands through her hair, sure she was probably making it a spiky mess. Not that it mattered. The one thing she wanted was to get to her room, then collapse on her bed for a long nap and spend a few blissful hours completely ignoring the problem that had kept her awake in the first place—how she was going to persuade Ken Harper to help her.

The bellhop punched the elevator button, and Lisa leaned against the cool marble wall as they waited for a car to arrive. In truth, persuading Ken wasn't her biggest worry. No, what she feared most was her reaction—and his—when she saw him again.

When she'd told Ken she was leaving five years ago, she had no way of knowing that he'd been planning to ask her to marry him that very night. She'd found out the next day when she'd gone to the restaurant to say
goodbye to Tim and Chris and all the other friends she'd made. Tim's usually cheerful face had seemed cold and closed off, and she'd pushed him to tell her what was wrong.

When he told her about Ken's plans, she'd gone cold inside, but she hadn't changed her mind. Ken had wanted to wait until marriage to sleep together, but Lisa'd never made any promises. If anything, she'd been completely forthright. Marriage wasn't on her radar—then or now. Five years ago she'd been entirely focused on her career. Her whole life she'd wanted a career in the film industry, and she'd had no intentions of getting distracted by a relationship. Maybe someday she'd marry and have a family, but not now—and certainly not back when she'd moved to New York.

Not that leaving had been easy. She adored Ken. Maybe they hadn't slept together, but his kisses, his touch,
his nearness
had always done amazing things to her body, making her breathless and tingly in a way no man since had ever made her feel. He had always been a perfect gentleman—had never teased her sexually and then pulled away. And despite the firm boundaries in their relationship, there'd been a chemistry between them that was undeniable.

She'd wanted to sleep with him, had wanted him to gather her in his arms and make love to her for long, endless nights—but she'd fought the feeling, using all her effort to box that passion and push it to a secluded corner of her mind.

In a weird way, Ken's old-fashioned insistence saved her. Her reaction to him was explosive, and she wasn't sure she would have been able to keep her focus if they'd given in to passion.

The bell sounding the arrival of the elevator pulled her from her thoughts, and she stifled a shiver. Now that she was here, she was terrified that she'd react just as powerfully to Ken—but that he'd only react to her with anger and hurt.

“After you, miss.” The bellhop held open the door, gesturing for her to enter the windowed elevator. He followed with his cart laden with her luggage, and a swarm of conventioneers piled in after him, pushing her all the way to the back. A wave of claustrophobia swept over her, and she turned around to look through the glass at the lobby coffee shop, trying to ignore the uncomfortable press of people behind her.

Her gaze swept the lounge, taking in the chic attire of the Los Angeles elite. Still early morning, and already the movers and shakers were having their breakfast meetings, making decisions. Producers were meeting with directors, agents were meeting with actors, and more than anything, she wanted to be in on the action.

With a little sigh, she pressed her forehead to the glass and was just about to close her eyes when a familiar movement caught her eye. She blinked, trying to figure out what she'd seen.

And then there it was again—a starched white shirt, khakis, broad shoulders, a head of thick brown hair. He moved with the casualness of the completely self-confident.

Her pulse quickened. Even from behind, she knew that body, knew the way those broad shoulders moved as he walked, knew the way those strong thighs felt beneath her fingers.

The elevator stopped and most of the conventioneers stepped off. She knew she should move away from the
glass, quit watching before he turned around. But she couldn't tear herself away. He was following a hostess to a table near a potted palm, and when they arrived, he pulled out his chair and turned around to sit, facing her.

From her angle above him she couldn't see his entire face, but what she could see made her stomach twist with memories, both delightful and disturbing. Slowly, almost as if he felt her watching, he lifted his head and seemed to look right at her.

She gasped and took an involuntary step back, banging into the bellhop's cart and almost tripping.

“Are you okay, miss?”

“What?” She was still staring at the glass, trying to work up the courage to step closer to see if he was still looking up at her. “Oh. Yes. I'm fine. Just tired. Long plane ride.”

“Well, you'll have a room and a comfortable bed soon.”

She nodded vaguely as she gripped the handrail, her fingers tight against the brass bar. Trying for casual, she stepped toward the glass and peered through it to the lounge below. Their eyes met, and her body tingled from a rush of warmth that spread through her, languid and inviting. She held his gaze until, finally, the elevator rose high enough that she could no longer see him.

She exhaled, her breath shaky. She had no idea if he'd really seen her, or if he'd just been looking in her direction. Even if he had seen the woman in the elevator, would he recognize her after five years? She didn't know.

She gnawed her lower lip, knowing one thing for certain—at least on her part, whatever chemistry, whatever
magic, had been between them five years ago, was just as overwhelming today.

 

I
T COULDN'T HAVE BEEN HER
. Absolutely not. No way.

He'd been repeating the mantra for more than ten hours, ever since he'd noticed the woman rising in the elevator. The woman with the slim figure and the chin-length blond hair. The woman he imagined was Lisa.

Not possible. And not worth obsessing about.

He needed to quit obsessing and to focus on his work. He'd left the hotel right after breakfast to run the gaunt-let between his clubs and restaurants in Orange County, Ventura and Palm Springs. He'd crawled back to Oxygen at midnight and the restaurant was now hopping with late-night energy. Though the dinner crowd had left, the place was by no means empty. A few late diners dotted the tables, along with folks who'd come in for dessert and coffee. In the lounge area, a small crowd had already gathered on the dance floor as the jazz band cranked out favorites from the thirties and forties.

Ken eased his way from the main dining area to the lounge, trying to focus his thoughts. They focused all right—directly on the woman in the elevator. There'd been something about the way she'd looked at him, something about the way she'd held herself. And he'd been unable to rip his eyes away.

Frustrated, he took a seat at the bar, then tugged at his tie, loosening the blasted thing.

“Something on your mind, boss?” Chris put down a napkin, then topped it with a tall glass of sparkling water.

“Just thinking about old times.”

“Not surprised. Coming up on five years. That's a hell of an accomplishment.”

True enough, but what Ken was thinking about wasn't his restaurant; it was his ex-girlfriend. Still, he didn't intend to clue his bartender in on this particular neurosis, and he lifted the glass in a toast. “To five more years.”

Chris nodded. “I'll drink to that.”

“Not on the job you won't,” he said in a jokingly stern tone.

“Whatever you say, boss,” he said, grinning as he turned to help one of the guests.

Ken swiveled on his stool, surveying the restaurant he'd started on a shoestring five years ago. No wonder he'd had such a visceral reaction to the woman in the elevator. Five years ago Lisa had walked out. In one week he'd face the anniversary of both her departure and his grand opening. Who wouldn't be a little raw? And it was certainly no surprise that he was seeing ghosts in the elevators.

But that's all she was—a ghost. Ken needed to forget Lisa and to move on with his life. Not that he was interested in jumping back into the dating game. What he'd told Tim was true. If the right woman came along, great. But he had no intention of searching her out. Considering he had to hire someone to run his clothes to the dry cleaner's and pick up his groceries, he had no time to waste looking for a date.

Once upon a time he might have been craving the domestic life, but no more. He'd made a success of himself, and he had everything he could possibly want. Everything. He didn't need to go hunting up trouble.

He was practicing not thinking about Lisa, or the
woman in the elevator, or women in general, when the maître d', Charles, caught his eye, signaling for him to come over. A woman was standing next to Charles, her face obscured by the ornate columns near the entrance. Since Charles tended to be protective of Ken's time, if he thought it was important for Ken to meet her, chances were she was a celebrity, a restaurant critic or some other mover and shaker in the Hollywood scene.

His professional demeanor in place, he moved toward the front of the restaurant. As he drew near, he realized who the woman was, but by then it was too late to turn back gracefully. Instead, he steeled himself and headed forward.

Alicia Duncan turned as he approached, her television-ready smile gleaming. “Ken!” She held out a hand for him to take. “Kiss, kiss! It's so wonderful to see you again.”

“Alicia.” He took a fortifying breath. As usual, she looked so picture-perfect it was scary. In the two years he'd known her, Ken didn't think he'd ever seen her without every hair in place and her makeup just so—even during some of their more intimate moments.

He clasped her hand in his, and let go as quickly as etiquette allowed. “What a nice surprise.” He was in no mood to hear Alicia's pitch again, and he said a silent prayer that maybe she really had come only for a late dinner.

“I was hoping to catch you.” She leaned in closer and he could smell bourbon on her breath. A lot of bourbon. “I need to talk to you. A favor.”

“Alicia—”

She held up a hand. “Dammit, Kenny. Just five
minutes? Can't you spare me five minutes of your precious time?”

He cringed at the nickname, but nodded. “Five minutes.”

Not worrying about being polite, he grasped her elbow, led her to the kitchen, then parked them just inside the swinging doors. His back was to the dining room, but he'd stepped far enough in to be out of the staff's traffic. Tim looked up for a moment, clearly curious but too preoccupied to pay much attention. The rest of the staff was too busy even to take notice.

“What?” he said without preamble.

She jumped slightly, her mouth set in a little pout. “Kenny, I'm surprised. I just want to talk and you're being so…” Her hand twirled as she searched for a word. “So short.”

“I'm not being short,” he said, knowing he was. “I just don't see the point in repeating what Marty already told you. I don't want to do a talk show. It's not my style, and you know it.”

Was it his imagination, or did her smile seem menacing? “I just want you to reconsider.”

“It's nothing personal, Alicia.” He tried to keep his voice pleasant.

She moved closer, her smile shifting from cold to seductive, and he fought a chill. “It's always personal,” she purred as she closed the distance between them.

“Don't.” He took a deep breath. “Look, Alicia, you know talk shows aren't my style.”

“Then do it for me,” she whispered as one thin arm snaked up around his neck. She looked him in the eyes.
“You dumped me, remember?” she whispered. “Don't you think you owe me?”

He felt his features automatically freeze into place. At one time he'd felt some attraction for this woman—enough to go out with her, anyway—but not anymore, and now it just pissed him off that she was trying to play the sex kitten to get what she wanted. Especially when he'd already said no.

“Alicia…” He tried to pull away, but she only moved closer.