Red Carpet Arrangement

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you driving yourself around,” Riley said.

“I’m fully licensed in five states, including California. My driving record is clean. Not a single parking or speeding ticket.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know this city very well. The roads can be tricky and the freeways are nuts.”

“Riley, I’ve driven through all kinds of weather conditions all over the place. I even have a truck license.”

“Still. I’m not sure you should be driving around.”

“Why? Because I’m pregnant?”

Silence. She chewed her lip. Maybe he wanted to control her movements and ensure she didn’t simply drive away, or go to meet some journalists or something. He should’ve known by now she wouldn’t do that—why would she jeopardize her meal ticket?

“I don’t need anything fancy,” she added, in case it seemed as if she was asking him to buy her a Mercedes. “Just something to get me from point A to B. There’ll be a lot of appointments...”

“All right,” he said, sighing. “I’ll call and have someone drop something off tomorrow.”

She pursed her lips. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Kat...” he began tentatively.

Her breath stalled in her lungs—she didn’t know what she was waiting for, what she was hoping to hear. She didn’t even know if there was something she wanted to hear from him. “Yes, Riley?”

“Take care of yourself. I’ll be back in Modesto on Sunday.”

Disappointment filtered through her. She nodded stiffly. “Okay.”

He hung up without saying goodbye.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_94f7c540-b3ee-5bbb-9ff9-e0935a90c2c1)

“WE HAVE TO find out who she is.”

Jamie peeked up from her desk as Limelight Whispers’ editor-in-chief, Lance McVeigh, paced behind his enormous desk, his thinning straw-yellow hair forming a wild halo around his head. A pattern of coffee-ring stains linked across the wood-veneer tabletop like caffeinated chain mail. Two open packages of cigarettes lay atop a small stack of file folders. Lance had been trying to quit all year.

On the other side of the desk, freelance investigative reporter Charlie “Chameleon” Durst watched him with the poise of a cat, one ankle crossed over his knee. His tailored blue suit fit his lean, angular form very nicely. He might have passed for an important investor, except that he wore white high-top canvas sneakers. She almost never saw him in his “regular” attire—the last time he’d been in, he’d worn a golf shirt, cargo shorts and black socks with sandals, as well as big sunglasses and a wig of thick black hair.

As if he knew she was watching him, he met her eyes and raised one dark eyebrow. Jamie averted her gaze and refocused on the webpage she’d been working on. That didn’t stop her from listening in, of course—the open-plan office didn’t offer much privacy.

“Until I’m reimbursed for the sources I’ve paid off, I won’t go further with this story.” Durst folded his arms over his chest.

“C’mon, Chuck. The IRS is on our asses. Everything’s gotta go through accounting. You’ll get your money, just not as fast as you usually do.”

Durst shook his head. “I need cold hard cash to get the information you’re asking for.”

“What happened to being a good journalist?”

Durst bleated a short, unpleasant laugh. “You think this is journalism? I was nominated for a goddamned Pulitzer—”

“And, oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Lance deadpanned. “But that’s not my problem, is it? I’ll remind you I’m the only one willing to believe the word of a proved liar.”

Jamie sank behind her computer, sensed her colleagues doing the same. Charlie Durst’s career had ended after he’d been caught plagiarizing numerous articles he’d written for a national newspaper about five years ago. Now he chased celebrities for a living. That Lance would mention the scandal made her cringe. She thought Charlie had paid for his mistakes long enough. It had nothing to do with her crush on him, of course.

“C’mon, Lance. I’m not made of money. Spot me some cash so I can complete the next leg of this story.”

The older man snorted. “You’re gonna need a whole lot more than a first name and speculation to get me to open my wallet.” He screwed off the cap of a bottle of antacids and popped two into his mouth. “Bring me definitive proof this woman exists and has a tie to Riley Lee Jackson. And I don’t mean the word of a couple of rent-a-cops.”

“It’s always been enough before. What’s changed? You finally grew a conscience?”

Lance glowered. “According to Legal, I can’t afford any more lawsuits.” He took a few bills from his wallet and dropped them in front of the reporter. “Bring me something good, ’cause until then you’re not getting any more than that. Now get the hell outta here.”

Durst took the cash and pushed up in one smooth motion. Jamie fixed her eyes on her screen and held her breath as the reporter walked toward her.

Just talk to him, Jamie.

He was three steps from her desk.

Say hello. Tell him you loved that piece he did last month.

Two steps.

Tell him you studied his stuff in journalism school. Tell him you did your independent study on his work.

He was right behind her.

“Mr. Durst!” She spun around, nearly crashing into his long legs. The man jumped back as she almost rolled her chair over his toes. She leaped to her feet and stuck her hand out. “Jamie Yarbo. I wanted to tell you I’m a big fan of your work.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Before or after I got shit-canned?”

Her words stalled. “I... I...”

“Sorry, I don’t let myself get an inflated ego when pretty young women throw themselves at my feet.” He winked, though there was more than a hint of self-deprecation in his eye. He shook her hand firmly. “Nice to meet you, Jamie. And, please, call me Charlie.”

Butterflies took flight in her belly. She pulled her shoulders back, intent on not letting his “pretty” comment faze her. “Would you like to go for a cup of coffee?”

He regarded her with a tilt of his chin. “When?”

“How about now?”

His smile spread. “She moves fast. I like it.”

She grabbed her purse, heart pounding. Who knew when he’d be in the office next? She rarely saw him, and this was the first time she’d had the nerve to speak to him.

They went to the café on the ground floor of the building. The food wasn’t anything to write home about, but the coffee was fresh.

As they carried their coffees to a table in the corner, she said, “I couldn’t help but overhear... Lance was really riding you hard.”

Durst lifted a shoulder. “He’s allowed to. He’s one of the few guys in town willing to pay me.”