Dangerous Secrets

1 He didn’t believe in ghosts. Conor Fitzpatrick was a pragmatic man—the only sort, he often thought, who could stay sane in the frenzied glamour of modern-day Hollywood. The memorable characters he played on television and the illustrious silver screen might range from dusty immigrant pioneers to lofty industrial tycoons, and everything in between. But he himself was well grounded in reality. Ghosts were nothing more than excellent special effects inspired by a creative director’s vivid imagination. So if he hadn’t seen a ghost—and he quite definitely did not believe in ghosts—then there could only be one of two explanations. Either the pretty young woman strolling across North Hollywood Park was the same girl he’d left behind in Ireland nearly thirteen years ago, or he was having a nervous breakdown. His feet were in motion before his brain caught up enough to slow his impetuous headlong dash. This was Hollywood, after all, where gossipy tourists and nosy paparazzi swarmed elbow to elbow. One survived either by breaking every rule in the book with a flamboyance that kept the voracious public hungry for more scandalous antics—or by maintaining an impeccable image. Conor had always viewed the ‘wild child’ crowd with cool disdain, so he maintained an air of dignified sophistication whenever he entered the public’s discerning eye. All the same, he couldn’t still the pounding of his heart as he hurried, in a manner he hoped looked dignified to any curious onlookers, across the dusty grass. “Peggy?” Ireland’s greenest hills shimmered through his rich voice as the elusive scent of wildflowers tickled his nose. An electric shock tingled through his long fingers when his hand closed over her slender arm. The girl spun around, and gaped up at him in blank shock. And even before she stepped back, with a stammered, “My name isn’t Peggy!” he knew he’d been wrong. There were similarities, enough to baffle the mind. But Peggy’s hair had been the purest sunlit gold, and this girl’s long curls were ever-so-slightly touched with auburn fire. Peggy’s eyes had been sapphire-blue, the color of a deep summer sky. And though their shape was nearly identical, this enchanting stranger was staring up at him with eyes the color of a deep Irish lake, full of mossy green shadows and mystical secrets. “I’m sorry, you looked so much like…” “My name is Kiera Donovan.” They both spoke at the same time, then stopped in momentary confusion. Conor broke the baffled silence first by flashing her a smile guaranteed to melt even the stoniest heart. “You are from Ireland.” It was more a question than a statement as he absorbed other subtle differences between the woman he’d once loved and this girl standing before him. Definitely younger than Peggy would now be, perhaps by a good six or seven years. And though his memories had surely dimmed with the passage of time, it seemed to him that Peg’s lovely body had been, well—softer, more rounded in all the best places. A bit less slender and athletic. But perhaps, like everything else about that long-ago relationship, his wistful mind had exaggerated the details. “County Wicklow, yes.” Kiera offered him a tentative smile, and breathed a silent sigh of relief when he eased back a step. He was so much taller than she’d expected—and he had such presence! How could any woman not feel totally overwhelmed when Hollywood superstar Conor Fitzpatrick turned on the full force of his charm? “My mother and I lived near Dunbur Park, close to the bay.” “Kilbaha, County Clare.” Opposite sides of the isle, then—which explained the faint eastern lilt to her light musical voice. “It’s amazing, you know, your resemblance to Peggy Malone, the girl I knew back home. And I’m completely forgetting my manners.” With a rueful grimace, he offered his hand. Another electric jolt sizzled along his nerve endings as their fingers met. “I’m Conor Fitzpatrick.” “Yes, I know.” The entire world knew Conor Fitzpatrick’s astoundingly handsome face. And Kiera felt mesmerized as she stared up at him, drinking in details made even more stunning by proximity. It was as though all the gods had saved their very best, then bestowed it all on this one man. His eyes, a piercing Irish blue, were framed by shiny black hair so thick and full it defied imagination—and positively begged a woman’s fingers to glide through it, she acknowledged with an uneasy twinge. Add tall, muscular, and unbearably sexy, and you had one seriously potent package on your hands. He was the hottest name in Hollywood…and with good reason. Thirteen years ago, he’d exploded on the scene in the unforgettable action flick, Master Mercenaries, where he’d played the leader of a teenage street gang bent on avenging his mentor’s brutal death. Since then, he’d starred in ten more box office blockbusters, and guest-starred in dozens of popular dramas and sitcoms. Already, despite his relative youth, he commanded a higher salary than most seasoned veterans. There was even talk about him becoming the next Bond sensation—partly, she was sure, because of his striking resemblance to an earlier Bond actor. The media played up that angle at every opportunity, even though both actors had laughingly denied any familial connection. Still, there was no denying they’d become the best of friends, and were often seen together at the better clubs and resorts. The one movie they’d made together, playing a devoted father and son on the run from the Russian mafia, had broken every possible box office record. Rumors abounded that more joint scripts were being bandied about—unless, of course, he chose the highly-coveted Bond role instead. And he was smiling down at her with that multimillion dollar smile, and clasping her hand like a long-lost friend! The sheer energy radiating from his lean body made Kiera feel like she’d grabbed the wrong end of a bare electrical cord. At any moment, smoke might start pouring from her ears! “I’m sorry I’m not your Peggy.” She didn’t know why that popped from her mouth, except she didn’t really know what else to say. And anyway, it was true. She was sorry, in more ways than she could possibly explain. “So am I.” He was sober for a moment. Then another warm smile curved his lips as he inclined his head and studied her golden-tanned face and wary green eyes. “Well, it’s a lovely treat to hear a familiar voice so far from home. Will you have lunch with me, Kiera Donovan, and tell me about Dunbur Park near the bay?” Any other woman would have sold her soul for the chance to stroll down Sunset Blvd. on Conor Fitzpatrick’s muscular arm. But for Kiera, the prospect was a terrifying nightmare. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a jackhammer as she hastily tugged her hand free, and backed away. “I can’t.” Even in her own ears, her panicked refusal sounded rude and abrupt. Quickly she forced an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. My lunch break is only an hour, and I’m due back in ten minutes. If I’m late, Chandra will have my head.” He’d expected her to either play coy, or leap at his offer and invent a suitable excuse for the boss later. It was, after all, what most women would do. But Kiera seemed genuinely agitated by his impulsive invitation. So her feeble explanation only fueled his curiosity. “Tomorrow, then. Or whenever you have a day off. My schedule’s flexible right now.” Before she could concoct a plausible excuse, Kiera felt a restless movement in the worn navy knapsack draped across her chest. Then a tiny head popped out, and gigantic golden eyes peered curiously up at her. “Rowr?” Taken aback, Conor gaped at her in surprise. “You have a cat in your purse!” A tiny paw joined the tiny face, and gently patted against Kiera’s smooth throat. Then the kitten swiveled its head in Conor’s direction, and slowly blinked twice at him. “Rowr!” “Phantom!” Exasperated by her pet’s awful timing, Kiera lightly rubbed between its black and gray striped ears. “We’re running late.” “Rowrrrr!” “Oh, all right.” Sighing, Kiera lifted the knapsack higher, so that the kitten’s head was nestled beneath her chin. “This is Phantom. It’s a long story how she came to me, but we travel everywhere together. And sometimes she’s a rotten little pest.” But the lyrical words were spoken with deep affection, and Phantom responded by rubbing her downy head against Kiera’s chin. He’d always been a dog person, but this appealing little bundle of fluff was too cute to resist. Cautiously Conor extended his hand, and rubbed a finger between the kitten’s perked ears. Phantom began to purr, and wrapped both paws around his tanned wrist. “She likes you.” Kiera tried to keep surprise from coloring her voice. Normally Phantom was as shy as her name suggested, and rarely even peeked out of her makeshift carrier unless they were alone. “Animals are good judges of character.” Laughter danced in Conor’s blue eyes as he petted the kitten again, and at the same time, slyly stroked the long column of Kiera’s neck. She jumped like she’d been bee-stung, and took a hasty step backwards. “I really do need to go now.” Her heart was pounding so loudly she could barely even hear her own breathless voice. Quickly she tucked Phantom back into the knapsack, and tugged the drawstring tight. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Fitzpatrick.” “Conor.” But his automatic correction met thin air as she turned and scurried toward the small parking lot. Conor watched the graceful sway of her back as she unlocked the door of a small, battered black Honda, and slid inside. Then he made his thoughtful way back to Liam Kerry, his personal assistant and bodyguard, who’d been carefully watching the entire exchange from a tactful distance. “What on earth did you say to her, Con?” Liam looked as baffled as he felt, and it showed on his deceptively-boyish, freckled face. “That’s not the usual effect you have on women!” “For a moment, I thought she was an old friend from Ireland. I suppose this proves the old tale that everyone has a double roaming about somewhere.” Conor leaned one broad shoulder against a nearby tree, and slowly shook his head. “Irish she is, and alike enough to be Peggy’s sister. But Peggy Malone she’s not. It’s all very curious.” Something in his voice made the younger man look closer, and then a crafty grin curved his lips. “You aren’t going to let her get away, are you?” “Oh, no.” Smug satisfaction colored Conor’s rich voice. “Lady Luck’s with me today, boyo. I know where she works. Chandra the Dragon Lady is her boss.” Liam greeted that accidental tidbit of information with an undignified snort of laughter. “Chandra the Dragon Eater, you mean! Well, that is a stroke of luck, if you’re into big, mean, and ugly. So you’re going to brave the fearsome ogre in its lair?” “No, you are.” “What?” Conor’s mouth quirked in a disgruntled scowl. “I’ve a gut feeling there’s more to this Kiera Donovan than meets the eye, and I want to see her again. But if I go chasing after her, I’ll scare her even more. You, on the other hand,” he added, drilling a long index finger into Liam’s chest, “can come and go without raising her suspicions. So I want you to get friendly with her mates, and learn what you can about her.” It sounded to Liam like a recipe for disaster. “And when she finds out I work for you?” he frowned. “Because sooner or later, she’s bound to make the connection. She’ll be pissed as hell.” That, too, was a likely possibility. But Conor shrugged away that problem for now. “First things first. I don’t like Chandra any more than she likes me. But she’s a goldmine of information if you play her just right.” “Bribery?” Liam wrinkled his freckled nose in feigned horror. “For God’s sake, Con, have a heart! Please don’t tell me I have to sleep with her!” That made Conor chuckle as he moved away from the shady tree. “God forbid! She makes a bulldog look sexy by comparison! No, it’s more an exchange of favors,” he assured the younger man. “She gives you the information I want, without tipping off Kiera Donovan I’m asking; I bring in a nice big crowd of customers by shopping there for an hour or two. Even trade.” Arrogance was an actor’s stock-in-trade, but Liam figured Conor was right enough on that score. Still, he was dubious about the entire prospect. No woman appreciated being spied on, and he wasn’t all that keen to be stuck in the middle when she rounded on Conor in a righteous fury. But he knew his duty, even if he didn’t always enjoy it. Conor paid his salary, and he was nothing if not loyal—even when he did think his boss had clearly lost a few screws. “I suppose you’ll want me to get started on this right away. Should I drop you off at the club on my way over?” “No, I think I’ll have lunch at Off Vine. It’s been a while since I enjoyed some really good home cooking. And if I should get mobbed by screaming groupies during dessert,” he added with a wry grin, “you’ll only be just around the corner.” Liam’s mouth watered at the memory of their delicious pastries. “Grab me a few slices of Four Berry Pie, will you, mate? I’ll need ’em after dealing with the Dragon Eater.” Conor chuckled again and slapped him on the back, then followed him to the dusty sunbaked parking lot. The average person might have expected Liam to unlock the door of a long, lush limousine, or a snazzy upscale sports car. But he wasn’t considered one of the world’s top bodyguards for nothing. And he was a master at the fine art of creative misdirection. When Conor wanted to impress the masses, Liam ferried him around in a gleaming fully-loaded silver Jaguar XJR. When he wanted to fade into the background, and escape all the adulation of being Hollywood’s newest mega-superstar, Liam drove a faded tan Mustang GT. It looked like a strong breeze would blow it to pieces. But thanks to one of the studio’s top stunt mechanics, its weatherbeaten appearance was deceptive; Conor had paid dearly to retrofit both cars with bulletproof glass and specially reinforced doors. There wasn’t a paparazzo who could match their speed or maneuverability. The Mustang got a lot of use. Kiera’s hands trembled with reaction as she shot back onto the interstate, and left the dusty park far behind. What on earth had she been thinking of? She’d heard Conor was back in town! Why had she decided, today of all days, to leave the store for even a few minutes? Luck of the Irish, she thought, then sneered into her rearview mirror. Luck of the Irish, indeed! Bad luck, the worst possible luck in the world! She’d managed to escape Conor Fitzpatrick’s notice for four years now by being oh, so careful whenever he was in town. Blogging made it easy to track his movements around the globe, and as a result, she was probably the world’s foremost expert on The Life and Travels of Hollywood Superstar Conor Michael Fitzpatrick. On any given day, she knew where he’d been, where he was headed, what he’d done, and who he’d done it with. Anyone else who followed his life so closely would be considered dangerously obsessive, a stalker, a viable threat to his safety. She considered her intimate knowledge the bare necessity for survival. So why, when she knew he’d returned from Tunisia three days ago to begin contract negotiations on a new movie, had she been idiotic enough to venture into a public place? Home, work, home again. It was the only way to be sure he wouldn’t notice her. “It should have been safe,” she muttered under her breath as she maneuvered the aging Honda through restless bumper-to-bumper traffic. “He should have been at his agent’s office all afternoon.” Who could have expected him to be slumming in that dusty little wedge of grass that passed for a luxurious downtown park? Hollywood was big, bustling, frenetic with activity at all hours of the day and night. She’d gotten careless, she admitted with an inner pang, counting on the distraction of a million eager tourists to veil her presence. And homesick for the fresh, vibrant green of growing grass and flowering trees. She could only pray her lapse wouldn’t prove fatal. And damn it, she realized, glancing quickly at her watch, she was going to be late after all! Only a few minutes, but Chandra was sure to give her grief. Just one more injustice, she supposed, to cap off a really lousy day. Chandra Weizowski wasn’t actually one of the store managers, but she’d been at Amoeba Records for so many years that she might as well be—and everyone treated her like one. So it didn’t matter that Kiera had never been late by even one single minute until today. Chandra would give her hell if she didn’t have a damned good reason for her tardiness. Being hit on by the great Conor Fitzpatrick himself qualified as a damned good reason. But Kiera didn’t want to discuss that brief, unexpected meeting with anyone. At least not until she’d had a chance to replay it all in her own mind, and decide how much—if anything—was safe to divulge. Another soft “rowr?” echoed from her knapsack as Phantom sensed her anxiety. “Hush, baby,” she murmured, reaching in with one slender finger to rub the kitten’s velvety head. “It’s all right. We won’t be seeing him again.” With a soothing purr, the tiny cat settled back down in her comfortable pouch. Kiera pulled into the store’s huge underground parking ramp without a backward glance. Amoeba Music was a Hollywood landmark, and an institution in its own right. Its vast selection of new and used posters, LPs, CDs, DVDs, tapes, and discs was arguably the finest in all of California. Musicians from across the globe flocked through its doors to promote their newest releases, and play beloved favorites for delighted customers. Every day, locals and tourists alike thronged into the massive store to browse and buy. Many of the clerks, like Kiera, were musicians themselves, so they took their work seriously. And sometimes, when the evening was balmy and the mood was right, she joined them for an impromptu jam session at any of a dozen nearby cafes or open street corners. Like Phantom, her battered Irish pennywhistle and cherished wooden flute were always tucked into her trusty knapsack. The generous tips she earned were carefully saved for a future rainy day. But some days, it just didn’t pay to stagger out of bed. And today, she thought with a resigned sigh, was definitely one of those days. Chandra was waiting for her by the information desk. And the angry scowl on her ugly face spelled Trouble. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t get you fired, Donovan.” Her voice was deep and raspy, and somehow seemed to fit her broad-shouldered, blocky body. “I’ve warned you…” “Two words.” Maybe the shock value was worth her loss of privacy. So Kiera strode past her without breaking stride, and gently tucked her knapsack deep under the counter. Maybe Chandra knew about Phantom, and maybe she didn’t—but now wasn’t the time to risk her certain wrath on that score. “Conor Fitzpatrick.” As she’d expected, the magical name stopped Chandra in her tracks. And turned heads in every row close enough to overhear her lilting voice. “You met Conor Fitzpatrick for lunch?” Not quite the way you mean it! But since it suited her purpose, and wasn’t entirely a brazen lie, Kiera feigned an admiring smile. “He’s even more handsome in person than he is on the screen. And sooo sexy! I couldn’t believe it when he asked me out again tomorrow.” Not that she had any intention of following through! “I saw him once, going into the Cinerama Dome, for the premier of The Final Dark.” Lisa, who stocked the main floor three afternoons a week, was still new enough to be thrilled by even that chance sighting. “Big deal.” Chandra shrugged her massive shoulders. “They all come out of the woodwork whenever there’s a premiere. In another two months, you’ll pass them on the street without even noticing.” “Not him!” Lisa’s perky voice was reverent as she gazed into the movie section, where an autographed Final Dark poster hung in dramatic splendor beside a priceless framed Jimi Hendrix tour poster. Conor Fitzpatrick looked sexy and powerful, despite his dirt-smudged face and shredded clothes, as he courageously led a stranded team of coal miners to safety. Privately Kiera had to agree. No matter how many years she’d spent in sunny California, and no matter how many glittering superstars paraded past Amoeba’s spotless doors on their way to the neighboring Cinerama Dome Theatre, Conor Fitzpatrick would always stand out from the rest. “You are going out with him again tomorrow, aren’t you?” Chandra’s gravelly voice scattered her troubled thoughts like dust. “Oh, you have to!” Half a dozen eager customers flocked to the info counter when she hesitated, torn between silent panic and outraged fury that Chandra was trying to manipulate her. “He’s so handsome!” “Think what he could do for your music career!” That was from Lisa, who hadn’t a musical note in her voluptuous body. But that didn’t stop her from trying, much to the dismay of the store’s real musicians. “Lisa, I don’t have a music career.” Kiera felt her patience dangling by a thin thread, and struggled to keep a cheerful smile pasted on her face. “I just like to play. It’s what we all did, growing up in Wicklow.” “This is Hollywood.” Chandra was all no-nonsense as she marched over to straighten a rack of New Age CDs. “Everyone here has a career. And you’re a fool if you don’t grab at anything that can boost it along.” The mere thought of Conor Fitzpatrick striding through ‘her’ doors had dollar signs sparkling in her squinty little eyes. His very presence would lure in a tanker-load of enthusiastic tourists. Just look at how jam-packed they’d been the last time Mick Jagger had appeared! And Conor was a helluva lot better looking! But the very idea of sharing a whole hour, tomorrow or any other time, with Hollywood superstar Conor Fitzpatrick made Kiera’s stomach twist into very painful knots. It was just too dangerous—for everyone concerned!