She Does Know Jack (2 page)

S
even months later…

I am the biggest
patsy this side of the Pacific.

She’d been
played. Expertly. Like a video game controller in the hands of a teenager. And
still she’d caved.

Patsy.

Calling herself
a few other choice words, hard words, Gabrielle Chapman stared out at the ocean
from a limo racing toward her future home for the next several weeks. A home
she liked to call
hell
. After all, to her, hell was reality TV.

When Uncle
Franco asked her to go undercover as a contestant on a bachelor reality TV show
to investigate threats made to the
groom
, Brielle knew one of two
things. Either she needed her hearing checked or Uncle Franco needed his head
examined. When he’d repeated the request, it had become clear. A CAT scan was
definitely in his future.

Maybe a full
neurological workup.

Franco DeMarco,
owner of DeMarco Investigations, had been a confirmed bachelor until she’d
arrived twelve years ago at the age of fifteen, just after the death of her
parents. Brielle’s younger bubblegum-chewing, rocker T-shirt, blue-jeaned clad
image flashed through her mind. She smiled. Uncle Franco had been great. Having
lost his own father at a young age, he’d known when to give her space and when
to keep her busy.

As much as she
loved her mother’s brother, though, Brielle had had every intention of turning
the assignment down. And she had. Several times. The fact the client was an old
war buddy of her uncle’s never swayed her decision. No. The case wasn’t for
her. She’d learned the hard way to avoid investigating a television show, no
matter the reason. Lesson learned.

Once upon a
time, she prided herself on being good at her job, not just through hard work
and training, but from listening to her intuition when it made itself heard. Her
one-time lapse in judgment had nearly cost her everything. Heart. Job. Her
uncle’s business. What if she made a similar mistake?

“No,” she’d told
him, yet again. “The variables are endless. Too many people have access to the
groom
.
Between the crew, contestants and mansion staff coming and going, you can’t
possibly account for everyone every minute of the day or keep them from
contaminating evidence. This job has all the makings of a disaster.”

He’d argued, of
course, but she’d held her ground…until the Andersons arrived and double-teamed
her.
Patsy
. One look at the tears in the mother-of-the-groom’s eyes and
Brielle had caved like a hollowed out donut. Sophia Anderson insisted her son
was in trouble. Even with her older son on the set to provide security, she
felt Brielle would be an asset investigating the contestants at the
bachelorette mansion.

The woman had
made a point. A good point.

Dammit.

So, here she
was, seated next to two actresses, all three of them going on the show under
the ruse of being women the Anderson’s picked out for their son, Matthew, the
groom. Brielle insisted on telling both sons the truth about her presence, but
only gained approval for the
groom
.

“This way he can
keep choosing you to stay and inform you of any new threats,” Uncle Franco had
said. “The producer and a few of the crew will know, too.”

Unfortunately,
try as she might, she couldn’t get anyone to agree to Jack Anderson knowing her
real identity. According to his parents, the oldest son, a former Army Ranger, would
insist she leave because he couldn’t protect her in a different mansion, even
though he’d be well aware of her qualifications.  

Never one to
prejudge people, Brielle found it difficult in this case. What was he, a
Neanderthal? The image of a big, bulky, stern military man, who thought his
stuff didn’t stink, flashed through her mind.

So, she’d informed
the Anderson’s she preferred to be Lancelot over Guinevere and didn’t need
protecting, to which they’d readily agreed and thanked her profusely.

And that’s how
she ended up a plant on another reality show.

Idiot.

The urge to flee
tingled Brielle’s toes. Not exactly an option. Dressed in a fitted, black
Faviana gown with a front-side slit and sequined bodice, she sat wedged between
the two actresses and a cameraman in the white limo.

I’ve lost my
ever-loving mind
.

A long, deep
breath helped her focus on the positive. Fancy digs. Fancy rides. Fancy
clothes. Okay, so the case might have some perks. It wasn’t everyday she got
paid to dress up and suffer the attention of a handsome man.

At least, she
assumed Matthew was handsome. Uncle Franco had neglected to add pictures of the
Anderson brothers to the file he’d given her on the contestants. Odd.
Especially for Uncle Franco—he was always so thorough.

The vehicle
slowed to a stop.

So did her
heartbeats. Time to get into character.

As the door
opened, adrenaline shot through Brielle, quickening her pulse and sharpening
her focus. She loved the rush of a new job. The jolt always made her feel so
alive. Only one thing better. Great sex. But, being she hadn’t had any since
last year, and that had been a fluke, and in a dressing room of all places, she
intended to embrace the rush for as long as possible.

With a firm
grasp of the offered hand, she stepped from the limo and gasped. A massive,
four-story brick mansion with towering white pillars and a huge outdoor
chandelier met her gaze.
Damn
. She’d hate to pay the light bill.

A sour taste
coated her tongue as bad memories threatened to surface.
This time will be
different.

She pasted on a
smile while three white-tuxedoed hunks escorted them up the wide marble steps.
Enjoy
the perks
, she silently chanted, clutching the muscled forearm of a
good-looking man the size of a stone wall. She took a closer look. Clean
shaven, short haircut, earwig in his ear—security. Her gaze went to the other
two escorts. Same thing.

A shaft of
admiration flowed through her.
Smart
. Jack Anderson was smart. His men pulled
double duty. Her gaze returned to her escort’s profile. Jack? Her mind
dismissed the possibility. The former Ranger would stick to his brother.

One of the two
big, wooden front doors swung open, and she forgot about the security Ranger as
her stomach clenched tight. Déjà vu reality TV style. Did all producers share
the same brain?
Uncle Franco owes me big time for this
. Once inside, she
ignored the hovering cameramen and drew in a breath.

The faint smell
of citrus tickled her nose, and she fought back a sneeze. Everything was
polished and massive, from the vases and artwork—which she estimated cost ten
times as much as she’d make in her lifetime—to the grand, spiral oak staircase,
gleaming before them like the sun hitting the Pacific Ocean on a California
afternoon.

“Wow,” the
actress next to her exclaimed. “Look at the mural on the ceiling.”

She let her gaze
follow the pink-manicured fingernail pointing skyward.

“It’s
beautiful,” the other actress breathed.

Brielle nodded
at the bevy of clouds and angels mingling in warm earth tones above. A lot of
work and love went into the fresco.

“There’s another
mural in the ballroom. Maybe you’ll get to see it,
if
you’re picked to
stay,” one of the hunks informed before the escorts turned and walked away to enter
a room down the hall.

The girls’
smiles disappeared, while a twinge of guilt hit Brielle between the solar
plexus. She shook it off. The actresses were getting paid for their minor parts
tonight. Their arrival and eliminations were in their contracts, leaving Brielle
with the three contestants the groom decided to keep on. Those women—
the
suspects
—were her main concern. She wasn’t there to make friends or land a
husband. She had a mystery to solve and an attack to prevent.

With her mind
back on the case, she peered around the foyer and immediately understood one of
the problems plaguing the investigation. No wonder Jack Anderson couldn’t break
the case; the place was like a museum. He could never keep an eye on all the
girls with so many rooms, nooks, crannies and corridors to hide in. Even with
security cameras. According to her notes, the bachelorette mansion was nowhere
near this size. Thank God. The place would take days to search.

At the sound of
a door opening behind them, she turned and regarded the clipboard-toting,
bespectacled man hastening toward them. The producer, no doubt.

“I’m Bill
Houston, the show’s producer,” he said in confirmation of her thoughts. He
motioned to a door with his clipboard. “The bathroom’s in there if you want to
check your appearance before you go in to meet Matthew and the others.”

The two
actresses made a beeline, but Brielle declined, wanting to have a word with him
instead, since he knew her secret.

“Is everything
set?”

“Yes, Ms.
Chapman, it is,” Bill replied, shoving the clipboard under his arm. “You’re
going to be introduced as Brielle Bennett, twenty-seven-year-old dance
instructor.”

She nodded,
having already given her uncle the go-ahead on her cover. “And Matthew is aware
of my real reason for being here?”

“Yes. Only he
and key members of my staff know.” The thin man removed his glasses to clean
them on his shirt. “No one else is aware, and don’t worry about them...” He paused
to nod to the cameramen. “It doesn’t matter if the world knows because this
won’t air until after the show is in the can.”

“Okay, good,”
she said, turning toward the six-foot mirror hanging on one of the side walls.
Her heels echoed as she walked across the foyer. “Although, I still say it’s a
mistake not telling Jack.”

“That’s out of
my hands.” His reflection shrugged. “Your uncle and Mr. and Mrs. Anderson are
calling the shots. I just want to get my show done without casualties.”

Her steps halted
in front of the mirror, and she studied his reflection carefully. Threats made
for good television. Maybe Bill knew more about them than he let on. He pushed
his glasses back onto his nose and glanced at his watch. She chewed her lower
lip. Uncle Franco had ruled out the producer and the possibility of this being
a publicity stunt. No sense wasting her time on Bill. The threats came from
another insider.

Her gaze swung
to her own reflection. She hardly recognized herself. Dark brown hair, which
normally fell several inches below her shoulders, was twisted into an upsweep
while her side-swept bangs and several loose tendrils framed her face, bringing
attention to her chocolate brown eyes. She turned sideways. Not bad…

The designer
gown transformed her slightly taller than average frame into an hourglass
figure. “Hollywood magic,” she muttered, although, getting a date had never
been a problem. It was keeping the guy’s interest she failed at once he
realized the real reason she carried handcuffs.

Over the past
year, her lack of male suitors even prompted Uncle Franco to attempt to fix her
up with so-and-so’s nephew, son, brother…etc. She blew a curl out of her eye
and scowled. What a nightmare. Thank goodness he’d finally listened to her
wishes and accepted she was perfectly happy concentrating on work.

Smoothing a hand
over her hips, Brielle willed her apprehension to go away. The other reality
television case was in the past. Uncle Franco’s reputation was intact and would
remain that way. No one in the company could best her investigative skills. Her
anxiety was unfounded; she’d been in more harrowing situations in her
undercover work.

Like when she’d
busted a smuggling ring on a fishing boat full of three-handed men who'd
smelled worse than the catch of the day. She wrinkled her nose. And this case
certainly wasn’t worse than when she’d donned skimpy outfits and danced around
a pole in front of a bar full of men for almost a month at The Limelight. She
released a slow exhale. Last year’s undercover work had helped stop a
home-invasion ring plaguing the Los Angeles area. She’d had reservations about
that role, too, but took solace in the fact no one would recognize her. Not
only because she'd lived two hours up the coast, but because of the radical
change to her appearance.

She’d been glad
to shed the shells, get back to her natural hair color and get rid of those
God-awful blue contacts. She used the name Ariel, donned the contacts, wore
heavy makeup, dyed her much longer hair auburn and teased it to fit in with the
other performers. Exotic dancing in front of strange men had been unnerving—except
for one.

That had been
unsettling in a very different way.

A smile pulled
at her lips as she recalled the man whose presence drew strange reactions from
her body.

Dodger.

For nearly three
weeks, the attractive man in the Dodger’s baseball cap had shown up at The
Limelight and sat off to the side during her show. He’d looked like the other
patrons, with a few bottles of beer in front of him. But that’s where the
similarities had ended. Dodger’s fit body stretched his T-shirt and jeans—not
to mention her professional resolve—to their limits.