Trena Moretti propped a pile of pillows behind her head and watched as James walked from the bed to the bathroom. As far as men went, James was as fine a specimen as they came, his body so finely honed it was a thing of beauty to see. And Trena enjoyed looking as much as James enjoyed being looked at.
She ran her hands over her skin and kicked her legs out before her, confident she looked as good as she felt. Between her interview with Ira, which had been picked up by news outlets across the globe, and the recent airing of her exclusive televised interview with Aster Amirpour, which had aired well before most of the world even realized Aster was out on bail, Trena found herself suddenly sought after by just about every news station that mattered, including those that’d once rejected her.
Her phone buzzed from the nightstand where she’d placed it, but Trena opted to ignore it. A journalist was rarely off duty, but for the moment anyway, her only plan was to revel in the glow of her recent bout of success. Last night, for the first time since she’d arrived in LA, she’d stood among the glittering masses and felt at home.
Normally, a glitzy product launch was exactly the kind of invitation she’d snub. Her party-going days were well behind her, not to mention how she found that sort of commercial hype especially annoying. But Ira Redman’s party was not to be missed. While it wasn’t exactly the Met Ball, there was no doubt it would be widely photographed and endlessly talked about. She also had Ira to thank for the sudden uptick in her star meter. And then there was the matter of the guest list—comprising the hottest celebrities, many of them members of Madison’s circle. And the very fact that James would be there as well had given Trena something to look forward to.
While seducing him hadn’t been nearly as easy as she’d assumed, it didn’t take long to determine that the key to getting with James was to let him think it was entirely his idea, and not hers. Clearly he was a guy who enjoyed the chase, and after an initial reluctance, Trena gladly gave up the reins and let him believe he was in charge.
By the time the lights had gone out, the deal was well on its way to being sealed. The heat between them was incendiary—the only thing left to determine was how soon and where. While there were plenty of bedrooms to choose from, Trena was too discreet for a semipublic hookup. So when the lights came back on about fifteen minutes later, she simply looked him in the eye and said she should probably head home. Next thing she knew, he’d invited her back to his place, and the rest was . . . Trena grinned to herself . . . the rest was worthy of remembering next time she found herself feeling lonely and unloved.
“I’m gonna shower.” James peeked his gorgeous shaved head around the corner. “Care to join me?”
Trena grinned and rubbed one long leg against the other. “Sure, let me know when you’ve got the water good and hot.”
James laughed and disappeared back inside, and the next thing Trena heard was the sound of water hitting the marble tiles and the whoosh of a shower door opening and closing. Then she sprang into action, wasting no time fishing his cell out of the back pocket of the jeans he’d dropped on the floor the night before.
Of course the screen was locked, which meant she wouldn’t get very far. Still, there was a string of partial text messages that were visible, one of them mentioning something about a building that had exploded in the middle of the night.
Trena frowned. Why would James be getting a text about a burning building? What connection could there possibly be? Was he somehow involved?
She glanced around the well-appointed room, taking in the king-size bed with its black leather tufted panels and gray sateen sheets, the ornate silver table lamps resting on top of matching charcoal-stained sand-blasted night tables, the cream-colored flokati rug at her feet. The room was sexy, sophisticated, decorated with an eye to high-end design, and the building he lived in was far nicer than hers. Also, if she remembered correctly, he drove a customized Cadillac CTS-V coupe. All of which left her to wonder, how did he afford it?
What sort of odd jobs did he do on the side?
“You coming, babe?” he called, his voice competing with what sounded like a powerful set of showerheads.
She swallowed hard, her hand shaking ever so slightly, and said, “Actually, I . . . think I’ll take a rain check. . . .”
Quickly, before he could get suspicious and catch her in the act, she snapped a pic of James’s cell phone screen with her own, and was just replacing his phone when she found him standing dripping in the doorway. His muscled physique was slick, wet, and coiled for action.
“What’s going on?” He kept his voice light, but his gaze was dark and unkind.
She pretended she was merely folding his pants, and carefully placed them at the foot of the bed. “You should be careful where you leave these.” She laughed, a high, false note she was sure he would see right through. “I just tripped over them. Nearly knocked myself out.”
He remained dripping onto the rug, his gaze so studied, so intense, she cringed under its glare.
“I don’t like snoops.” His voice was quiet, calm, and loaded with menace.
Trena fought to keep from shaking as she wiggled her dress over her hips and said, “Who does?” She moved in an exaggerated way, hoping to distract him, all too aware of the reality of the situation she found herself in—half-naked, vulnerable, and at his absolute mercy. “So how about I promise not to stalk you on Facebook or Twitter and you do the same?” She forced herself to approach him, turning her back as she looked over her shoulder and murmured, “Zip me?”
It was probably the most dangerous, foolish move she could make. Never turn your back on the ocean, bears, and shifty men who are onto you. And yet she needed him to think she had nothing to fear, that she hadn’t crossed the very line he suspected her of crossing.
She sucked in a breath as she felt the zipper slowly climb its way to her neck. He paused at the top, his breath hot on her flesh, his hands kneading the skin at her nape, until his fingers gently circled to the front and he pressed the tips tightly together.
“Be careful out there.” His lips nipped at her ear, as his body pressed hard against hers. His fingers tightened for an agonizing moment, before he finally released and nudged her away.
“You too,” she croaked. Hurriedly fishing around for her shoes, her purse, she waved a shaky good-bye and found her way out of the apartment.
Barefoot, she raced down the hall and had just rung for the elevator when her phone buzzed in her purse. Glancing at the screen, she saw it was from her source at the LAPD.
Madison B’s car found outside office building that burned.
Was it the same office building she’d read about on James’s phone? Impatiently, she punched the call button again, desperate to flee, all the while reminding herself that it was hot, they were in the middle of a drought, the Santa Ana winds were at gale force, and fire season had been officially declared one month before. Which meant it wasn’t at all out of the question to think there had been more than one office park that had burned over the course of the night, and yet . . . She checked the pic she’d taken of James’s text. There was no name attached—just an odd series of numbers that provided no clue to his source, probably sent from a burner phone.
Had the rest of the text, the part she couldn’t view, made mention of Madison’s car being found?
And if so, why was James receiving a message like that?
He wasn’t press, wasn’t an investigator. He had nothing to do with any of it—or did he?
From somewhere down the hall Trena heard the click of a knob being turned, a lock disengaging, followed by the prolonged creak of a door slowly opening.
Deciding not to stick around long enough to see whether or not it was James, Trena raced for the stairs and fled from the building as though it was on fire.