And she told herself McFadden wasn’t that attractive. His scent—his aftershave or whatever—was not at all compelling. He wasn’t striking, rugged, just really, really masculine and all the things she might find sensual and hypnotic and...
He hunkered down before her, petting George, who had already taken his position at her feet again. Maybe it wasn’t such a good thing the dog had already determined his complete loyalty was to her. People kept getting very, very close to her, just to pet George.
McFadden was very, very close to her.
Sparks, Sophie had said there were sparks, chemistry...
But did she just give in to chemistry? And what if he didn’t think there was any chemistry at all?
He smiled a little grimly looking up at her. “Sophie had a great idea here. This guy is perfectly trained, and he adores you already.”
“He’s amazing,” Marnie agreed. “I always wanted a dog, but I’ve traveled a lot, too. Filming on location, seeing my folks. I’d never know when I was going to be here. Of course, Bridget’s work is really close to home. So I don’t know why—between us—we’ve never gotten a pet before.”
“Maybe you were just waiting for this guy,” he said, and again there was that light in his eyes, the smile curving his face making something in her veins leap just a little bit.
“Maybe,” she murmured. She would have backed away then—if she could have. But she was sitting in a chair, and he was so close to her she could almost feel the heat of his flesh...muscle, bone, heartbeat...
“How long do you think this will go on?” she asked. She meant to speak clearly and in a moderate volume. Her voice came out in a breath.
He let out a long sigh, the whole of his body seeming to shrug. “I don’t know. I’m so sorry. We never know on something like this. But I do have a theory.”
“You do?”
He nodded grimly.
“The man we found in your pool tonight is the man who killed Cara.”
“What?”
“Here’s my theory. Whoever killed Cara was hired to kill her. Or to kill you, and he missed and killed Cara. Or maybe he was just supposed to murder someone from the Dark Harbor cast. At any rate, the person who hired him to kill either killed him in return or possibly hired another killer to kill the killer.”
“That’s... I mean... How could that be possible? How do you just find hired killers so easily? I mean, what do you do? Advertise on Craigslist?”
He smiled grimly again. “Here’s what is very sad indeed—hired killers aren’t all that difficult to find if you really want one. But I could be wrong. Hopefully, we’ll find out who the dead man is by tomorrow. Whoever killed him left his fingers intact, so it won’t be hard getting his prints. With any luck, he’ll be in the system.”
“If he’s a killer—and he’s in the system—why would he be out on the streets?”
“He might never have been brought in for murder, but maybe he was apprehended on another charge. Most killers for hire don’t just decide in high school that’s what they’re going to do for a living. They start out with something petty, maybe fall into drugs and drug deals, maybe even human trafficking. Then...well, there’s money in killing. Horrible as it sounds.”
“I see. But then, if someone wants you dead—really wants you dead—aren’t you dead?” she whispered.
“No,” he told her. And his smile was suddenly real. “Not when I’m here. You won’t wind up dead. I swear it,” he vowed.
She didn’t know what seized her then, what insanity. She suddenly leaned forward, threw her arms around him and kissed him. She was kissing him hard and passionately, finding the kiss was openmouthed and very wet and very hot and sensual to the core.
Then sanity gripped her with the same ferocious force that had precipitated the kiss.
She drew away. She stumbled up, leaning on him to escape him, almost knocking him over from his hunkered-down position and definitely dislodging George, who whined in terrible confusion.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Truly sorry. I like living. I don’t want to die. I am very grateful. I acted very badly. Excuse me. We need to go to bed. I mean, we need sleep. Separately. I need sleep. I’m so sorry. Excuse me! Good night!”
The ridiculous thing was she had to steady herself on him. Feel his arms. Feel his hands as he maintained balance and helped her. She felt the muscles in his arms. As she had imagined, she felt the heat. And she really needed to flee.
She did.
But he called her back by name just as she reached her door.
She turned, looking at him down the length of the hall.
He was smiling—really smiling. His hair was askew over his forehead. He was rakishly macho and amused and so compelling.
“That was—terrific. Please, don’t be sorry for a kiss like that. Lord above us, please don’t ever be sorry!”
She swallowed and nodded.
She hurried into her room and closed the door with what she hoped was dignity and finality.
But she’d shut George out.
She had to open the door again, look weakly at the man still watching her, urge the dog in and, once again, close the door.
Bed, yes.
Alone.
Except for George.
And George, amazing creature that he was, immediately curled into a ball at the foot of her bed.
The dog could sleep.
She could not.
She just lay awake. She imagined throwing her door open, rushing out of the room and hurrying across the bit of distance between her and McFadden. She would throw her arms around him... No, she would stop, she would be sultry and subtle. She would stop right before him and she would say, “Never be sorry, huh? Dear sir, I will not be!” And then she would cast her clothing off and stand naked before him, and he would pull her into his arms and...
She’d been working with scripts way too long. If it were scripted, of course, she’d be wearing a silk caftan or robe, and it would flutter beautifully to her feet, and he would be overwhelmed with desire and...
Reality.
She would never do it. Bridget was asleep in the guest room.
And what if he had just been polite? What if he picked up the imaginary silk caftan and drew it back around her shoulders and said, “I’m sorry, Marnie. There’s a girl back home.” Or worse: “I’m sorry, Marnie, you’re just not appealing to me.”
No, it would never happen.
But it didn’t stop her daydreaming, not until she finally fell into a fitful sleep, and in that sleep, it wasn’t dreams of an amazing sexual encounter that plagued her, it was a vision of a black-clad and masked man, Blood-bone, chasing her down with a light-up sword, ready to slash her into ribbons of flesh and blood.
*
It was never good to become involved with someone you were protecting.
Nope. Not good at all.
They weren’t involved. She’d kissed him out of gratitude. She was a smart woman. She was still grieving a friend and worrying about her own life. It had been a moment, nothing more.
Like hell.
There was something there. And he couldn’t act on it. He couldn’t.
He shouldn’t.
He could still taste her on his lips.
His phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and quickly answered. It was Jackson Crow. For Jackson, it had to be about four in the morning.
“Have you seen the news?” Jackson asked when Bryan answered.
“Uh, not tonight. But there has been another incident.”
“I know. Angela was watching for another case we’re working on, and she saw what had happened in LA. You might want to take a look.”
As it stood, there was no real reason for the Krewe to be involved. Everything that had happened had happened in LA. That meant the local police handled it, and he sure as hell couldn’t find fault in Vining and Manning and the other officers—or MEs or crime scene techs—in any way.
The FBI needed to be invited in on a case like this. But now...
“Did anyone give out Marnie Davante’s home information?”
“No. They just said a dead man was found in the pool of a Hollywood star. But there was some footage of the outside of her house, so I’m imagining it wouldn’t be too hard for anyone to figure out.”
He hadn’t even noticed the media that night. They hadn’t been allowed close, he was certain, and he’d been too concerned with what was going on.