guards. His voice is dangerously low and ugly, deceptively so when you take into account that he is still smiling and attempting to fool the paparazzi on the upper level of the concourse.
“Sorry, Mr. Reins,” the shorter of the two says. He is bald, his body thick with steroid-improved musculature, his eyes small and deeply set into his puffy, reddened face.
“I’m afraid we were unavoidably detained,” the taller one says, his voice deep and gruff, like an ex-military officer. He smiles, his blue eyes twinkle and I realize he is attempting to be charming, but when I take in the flattop haircut and the military bearing, I don’t buy the act. His eyes are flat and cold. He is angry at being taken off guard and resentful of me because I’m the “girl” who just did his job for him—at least, that’s how I figure he is thinking.
“What is it that you people say, Scott?” Jeremy says. His tone is mocking. “Excuses satisfy only those who make them?” He doesn’t wait for the man to answer. “Perhaps you and Dave stopped to bugger each other in the men’s room. It really makes no difference to me. What matters is that I was nearly killed and I pay you to prevent that!”
Jeremy’s voice had taken on a hysterical quality and I began to wonder if Jeremy’s complete personality was just one long acting class. Rage, then hysteria with the bodyguards, and cheeky nonchalance with me; what does he really feel about what just happened?
Mark’s cell phone rings and he turns away briefly to take the call. Behind us, a door from the concourse building flies open and two uniformed security guards come barreling out onto the concrete, heading at a run toward our little cluster.
“Handle them,” Jeremy says to his security guards. He turns his back on the others, blocking my view of them with his body. The smirk has returned as he cocks his head and reaches out with one finger to chuck my chin. “Shall we go to the car?”
“Give me a moment,” I say. “I need to collect Marlena.”
Jeremy raises an eyebrow. “Oh? You’ve brought a playmate along? How delightful! The more the merrier, I always say. Will she be sleeping with us?”
I feel a tiny switch flip somewhere inside myself and I temporarily forget all about Renee Dalton-Sinclair, the Gotham Roses and the salivating paparazzi above us.
I reach out, snatch Jeremy’s shirt collar and, before his little pea brain can register what’s happening, pull him toward me, so close I can smell the scent of cigarettes and cologne on his small, wiry body.
I smile as I look into his insolent eyes, but the smile is all show. I am well aware that he can read the full intent of my warning in my eyes.
“Listen to me, you little punk,” I say. “I am here to cover your ass, not grab a piece of it. You will keep your hands to yourself and your mind out of the gutter where I’m concerned. If you don’t, I promise you this, I will cut your balls off while you sleep and stuff them inside your still-beating heart. Are we clear on that point, lovey?”
I smile and wait for his answer.
“Why, Lovey,” he murmurs. “I didn’t know you cared!”
Chapter 2
I don’t slap Jeremy. I want to, but I realize this is just what he wants me to do, so I stop myself. Marlena is mad as hell, though, and she starts chittering and hissing at Jeremy, who seems highly amused by her. I watch all this and begin to formulate an opinion about my spoiled charge; he gets off on other people’s reactions. I suppose this makes him more of a true director than an actor, but it also fits with Renee’s supposition that Jeremy is staging the threats on his life in order to create publicity. I mean, Jeremy Reins is about as well known as any star in Hollywood. He doesn’t need more publicity, but now I see he craves it.
Andrea takes my arm as we’re walking toward the car, with Jeremy and Mark several yards ahead.
“Porsche, I’m so glad Renee sent you,” she says in a low voice. “I was afraid she might not follow through on this.”
I am trying to calm Marlena down and so I am not being my most tactful self when I say, “He’s full of shit and this is just a big game to him.”
To my total surprise, Andrea nods in agreement. “Actually,” she says, nodding to the two men ahead of us, “they’re both assholes at times, but you need to look past that.”
I’m not sure what to say. I mean, I think she’s just called her own husband an asshole, which even my mother, faced with her husband’s philandering, fails to do when the occasion really calls for it. So I switch to active listening mode and nod sympathetically. “So, you look past their behavior?” I murmur, using her own words to lead her on to her next thought because this is what good therapists do, they open the gate, but never shove the patient through.
“Yes,” Andrea says. “Mark is really an overgrown little boy who desperately wants approval, but he needs to feel that he is in charge. He blusters and tells me what I should and shouldn’t do, and then I just do as I please. You know what I mean?”
I nod and smile softly, but I’m thinking, why would you do that? We enter a building and as we follow the two men down a long corridor, Marlene falls asleep again—she is not therapist material.
“Jeremy is a lot like Mark, really,” Andrea continues. “He comes off like a spoiled brat, but he’s really quite insecure. Mark would give you the shirt off his back, but he needs to be praised. Jeremy’s the same way—he’s really very good-hearted.”
I forget therapist mode and fall into my new bodyguard persona. “Then why the threats on his life? Why set up a scenario like that? Why doesn’t he just buy a poor family a house or something?”
Andrea laughs and sound makes Mark look back over his shoulder at her. Andrea’s laugh sounds like wind chimes—high, musical and pleasant.
“Jeremy needs the drama and Mark loves to provide it.” Andrea’s eyes darken and a small frown furrows her forehead. “I think at first it was just to call attention to Jeremy’s new project. It’s a very dark picture about a religious figure who rises to become the leader of a powerful new nation. I think they wanted to blur the lines between the project and Jeremy the person, but something has gone wrong and Mark won’t tell me what it is.”
I switched back to therapist. “Mark won’t tell you what it is?”
Andrea almost whispers her answer, “no.” She takes a deep breath and pushes through double doors that lead to a waiting stretch limo. Jeremy and Mark are just climbing inside the car, and in order to finish her thought, she grips my arm tighter and pulls me aside.
“They don’t think I know about all this,” she says. “And really, I don’t. What I mean is, Mark would be terribly angry if he thought I was interfering with his business. We made an agreement when we got married years ago that I stayed out of his business affairs. He’s quite particular about that. I think his first wife nearly ruined him and he needs to feel as if his business is completely under his control now. So I learn what I can by listening when he’s talking and piecing things together.”
She glances at me, as if trying to gauge my reaction. “I don’t mean I intentionally eavesdrop. I just mean that when he says something, or if he’s on the phone, I pay attention. I try to look out for him. The entertainment business is ruthless, Porsche. The more I know about Mark’s business, the easier
