L.A. Confidential

“I didn’t expect to see you today, Marty. I figured you’d be tired of me after we spent all day yesterday together in a conference room.”

The older man chuckled, his silver-gray hair giving him a congenial appearance that belied his slick negotiating skills. “I never get tired of a man who pays my bills so promptly.” Marty gestured to the empty seat, and Ken sat down. “Actually, Alicia asked me to pitch her show to you one more time.”

Ken stifled a groan. A former news anchor, Alicia Duncan now had her own morning talk show. Apparently she didn’t have anything better to fill the air with, so she’d taken to bugging Ken.

He shook his head, annoyed that he had to revisit what he’d thought was a dead issue. “I told both of you yesterday, I’m not interested.”

“Fair enough. I just wanted to make sure you’d fully considered her proposition before turning it down.”

“I’ve considered,” Ken said, trying to hide his irritation.

“Have you?” Marty asked.

“Come on, Marty. You of all people should know how I feel about publicity.” An old college friend of his father’s, Marty had known Ken his entire life.

Marty waved his fork in Ken’s direction. “Promotion’s a good thing, son. It’s not like you’d be falling in with the enemy.”

“That’s not the point. I built this restaurant up my way, and I’ve always advertised it my way. So far, I think my plan has worked like a charm.”

All of his advertising focused on the food and the mystique that had grown up around the Oxygen name. No testimonials, no personal appearances, no tacky commercials filmed inside the restaurant, nothing that might diminish the aura that Ken had worked so hard to build.

And since every restaurant he’d launched had been a remarkable success, Ken had no intention of now screwing with his advertising plan. As his dad used to say, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

Marty just shook his head and took another bite of salad without saying a word. Marty’s habit of suddenly dropping out of conversations drove Ken crazy. And this time Ken was certain the older man was doing it on purpose, presumably to give Ken time to once again ponder Alicia’s proposal.

One pernicious side effect of Ken’s success was his semi-celebrity status—a status that unfortunately attracted the Alicias of the world. But just because the press now treated him as a celebrity, that didn’t mean he had to encourage such nonsense. So when Alicia had suggested filming a segment of her show in the kitchen—and having the restaurant’s hailed executive chef, Tim Sutton, whip up one of his famous creations on camera—Ken had flatly and resolutely said no. It wasn’t an answer he intended to change, no matter how much Marty or Alicia pleaded.

Across from him, Marty finished his salad without saying a word. Not until the waiter slipped over and silently removed the empty plate, did Marty look up and meet Ken’s eyes.

“Go ahead,” Ken said, his voice resigned. Years of experience told him that there was no getting rid of Marty without first hearing him out. “Finish what you came here to say.”

“It would bring in a broader clientele.”

“I’m content with the clientele I’ve got.”

“Then do it as a favor. For Alicia.”

Ken ran his fingers through his hair, trying to figure out what the hell Marty was talking about. “Excuse me?”

Marty just shook his head, then ripped open a sugar packet and dumped it into his coffee.

The clack of the spoon against the coffee cup grated on Ken’s nerves. “Marty…”

“Well, son, it’s just that I think you ought to think of the girl,” he said, signaling for a waiter, “especially after the way you two broke up.”

Ken swallowed a burst of anger as he wondered what kind of nonsense Alicia had been spouting. “For one thing, we weren’t dating. We went out to dinner twice. That doesn’t make a relationship.” They’d slept together, true, but both of them had known it wasn’t going anywhere. “And even if we were, I’m not changing my philosophy for anybody. Not you, and certainly not Alicia. Nobody. I’m off limits. My restaurant’s off limits. And that’s just the way it is.”

“If you’re sure…”

A waiter, Jake, came over.

“I’m sure,” Ken said.

“It would make a great tie-in with the anniversary. Five years next Saturday since you opened this place.” He let the thought linger, then turned to Jake and started discussing the day’s dessert selection.

Ken’s stomach twisted. He knew perfectly well what day next Saturday was. Every year at this time he struggled through his own private hell. When the anniversary of Oxygen’s opening rolled around, it was as if someone opened a memory floodgate and he was sucked out with the tide.

Five years ago he’d thought he had it so good. The opening of his first restaurant, a woman he adored and whom he thought adored him. But he’d been a fool. He’d stood right in this very room with an engagement ring in his pocket, so sure she wanted a life together as much as he did. Two days later, she’d left for New York with another man. Years later, the memory still rankled.

He’d wanted to wait until after they were married to make love, but apparently that wasn’t enough for Lisa, and soon enough Ken heard the rumors and saw the pictures in the tabloids. She and Drake Tyrell were an item, a regular fixture in all the Manhattan hot spots.

The turn of events had completely sideswiped him—and Ken didn’t consider himself anyone’s fool.

What bothered him most, though, was that after five years, he still couldn’t get her out of his head. If he saw her again, he didn’t know if he’d want to run to her or away from her. He hoped the latter. The thought that, after so much time, Lisa Neal still had power over him was more than a little disturbing. And yet it was true. The woman had gotten under his skin and stayed there.

“I’ve decided to skip dessert,” Marty said. “How about you? Have you made a decision about Alicia’s program?”

Keeping his expression mild, Ken stood. “I’m skipping it, too,” he said. “And this discussion is over.” He told Jake to comp Marty’s meal, then headed back through the tables toward the kitchen, needing some down time to relax and regroup.

Ken wasn’t the type to feel sorry for himself, but one week out of the year didn’t seem too outrageous an indulgence. The other fifty-one weeks he focused on his business and generally got on with his life. But despite the parade of women that came with his pseudo-celebrity status, so far he hadn’t met a woman who affected him the way Lisa had. Half of him prayed that one day he would, so that he could finally forget about her. The other half wanted to hang on to the memory of her forever. Unfortunately, though, right on the heels of the memory was always the now-familiar anger that burned a hole in his gut every time he thought about the way she’d left him.

“I know that look,” Tim said. “That’s your one-week-before-the-anniversary look.”

The familiar smells and sounds of the kitchen accosted his senses and lifted his spirits—the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of oil in a skillet, the gentle hiss of steam rising, the pungent aroma of minced garlic and diced onions. Despite himself, Ken’s lips curved into a grin. “I think I’m entitled.”

“Entitled? To what? To mope?” Tim looked up from where he was supervising his sous-chef, his face ruddy from the heat of the stove. Behind him, the assistants were doing prep work and the expeditor was finishing up the final orders for the latecomers to lunch.

“The woman I loved turned down a marriage proposal and told me she was moving to New York five years ago,” Ken said, making sure his voice was low enough for only Tim. “A year later, she dumped me and shacked up with some Hollywood big shot. I think I’m entitled to a touch of melancholy.”

Before Lisa left, Ken had been absolutely certain of the way his life was going to go down. He was going to live in a bungalow near the beach with his filmmaker wife and their beautiful kids, and they’d spend Sunday mornings trying to outdo each other with exotic and bizarre omelet variations. Weekend afternoons, they’d go see movies, then sit on the deck overlooking the ocean and analyze the heck out of the film they’d just seen while the kids played in the surf. During the evenings, he and Lisa would mingle among the Hollywood elite as they dined at a Ken Harper restaurant.

It had never once occurred to him that Lisa had a different view of the world.

Of course, they’d never seriously talked about marriage, although his insistence that they not sleep together until after they were married had meant that the topic had come up once or twice. The fact was, he’d wanted to bury himself inside of her more times than he could count. But he’d been down that road before, though never with a woman like Lisa. He’d thought she was special. He’d thought she was the one. And cliché or not, he’d wanted his ring on her hand before they’d shared a bed.

When she’d walked out, he’d been shaken to the very core. He’d begun to second-guess every decision as he lost the control he so prided himself on. His business acumen faltered, and he’d made some bad decisions. Decisions that had set him back months. He didn’t intend to lose control like that ever again.

Tim was still staring at him, an almost sorrowful expression on his usually jovial face.

“What?” Ken demanded.

“You need to move on.”

Ken crossed his arms and leaned against the stainless-steel prep area, trying to find a retort. But nothing came. Tim was right, but he didn’t have the faintest idea how to go about it.

Lord knew, he’d cursed Lisa enough, especially on those rare occasions when he’d let the bitterness and humiliation get the better of him. He’d cursed and yelled and ranted until sheer exhaustion pulled him back. And still she was there, just under his skin. Part of him.

So how the hell could he move on?

Tim turned to Kelly, his sous-chef, then added some herbs from a nearby bowl to her roux, and Ken inhaled the wonderful scent. “Smells great,” he said, partly to change to subject, but mostly because it was true.

“Of course.” Tim’s grin broadened shamelessly. “It’s my recipe.”

Ken let his gaze wander over the kitchen, not really seeing, as his thoughts drifted back to Lisa. “The thing is…” Ken trailed off, wishing he hadn’t even opened his mouth.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Tim headed toward the stockroom, looking behind him to make sure Ken was following. “Spill it,” he said when they were out of earshot of the rest of the staff.

“It’s just…I don’t know. I guess, when I think about her, even after all this time, I’m furious with her…but I also wonder what the hell I did wrong. You know. What I should have done differently.”

“I repeat—you need to move on.”

Ken brushed aside the comment. “I know, I know. But I’m not just talking about her. I’m talking about me. Not just with Lisa, but with my life.” The truth was, she’d left him with a legacy of self-doubt, and it burned.

“Never second-guess yourself because of a woman, my friend. That’s the path to an early grave—or at least a psychotic episode.”

Ken chuckled. “Yeah? Well, you may be right about that.”

“And speaking of moving on…I interviewed the cutest pastry chef last week.” Tim kept his expression totally serious as he checked a produce list. “Now there’s a cream puff—”

“Knock it off,” Ken said with a grin.

Tim cracked a smile. “Just watching out for my best friend. You should date more.”

“Me? You’re the one who hasn’t had a date since Melinda left. I’ve had so many dates I should buy stock in a little black book company.”

“First,” Tim said as they left the stockroom and headed for the break room, “we’re not talking about me. Second, you haven’t had dates, you’ve had physical encounters. Hit-and-run dating.”

He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the Formica-topped table, his large, former-NFL-linebacker body looking out of place on the small chair. If his knee hadn’t blown out, Tim probably would have made it far in football…and Ken would be out one hell of a chef.

“I mean, have you tried to get to know any of those women?” Tim asked.

Ken cocked his head and tried to look stern. “I can’t say I’m comfortable being psychoanalyzed while my head chef sits in the break room right as the lunch rush is wrapping up.”

“No?” Tim took another slug of coffee. “Well, I’m a perfectionist, you know. And I don’t think I can work until I’m sure you aren’t making a mess out of your life.”

Ken pinched the bridge of his nose, half in irritation and half in amusement. “I appreciate your concern, but my life is fine. I’m not holed up in some dark room pining away for Lisa. I hardly think about her—”

Tim snorted.

“—except for this time of year. And I am dating.”

“You’re not seeing anyone seriously.”

“Neither are you.”

“We’re not—”

“Talking about you. I know. But maybe we should.”

“It’s only been a year,” Tim said. “And it’s not like I have a ton of free time.”

“Touché.”

Tim sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “All right. You win. But just tell me one thing.” He looked Ken in the eye and waited for his nod. “You doin’ okay?”

“Sure,” Ken said, not sure if it was the truth or a lie. “I’m absolutely fine.”

ALICIA DUNCAN hated to fail. Particularly when the failure was known, as was this most recent setback. Now she sat perfectly straight in front of the mirror as her producer poured out his litany of complaints. A ponytailed bimbette fussed near her, supposedly fixing Alicia’s makeup, but clearly eavesdropping.

Well, wasn’t that just great? The bimbette would probably run to the phone the second Alicia left, and soon enough the gossip would be everywhere—Alicia was on the outs with her producer because she couldn’t land a piddly-ass little story about restaurant mogul Ken Harper. What made the defeat even more grating was that she and Ken had actually dated last summer, but he still wouldn’t do her this one favor.

She closed her eyes and pressed a finger to her temple. She’d won two Emmys, for crying out loud. She really didn’t need this garbage.

“Have you even heard a word I’ve said?” Gavin’s irritated voice filtered through her thoughts, and she looked up, the reflection of her eyes meeting his in the lighted mirror.

“I don’t need to hear your every word, sweetie. I got your point twenty minutes ago when you first opened your mouth.” The bimbette dabbed her forehead with a powder puff, and Alicia jerked forward, glaring. “You. Out. Now.”

The girl backed away, her eyes wide, her teeth digging into her lower lip.

“And if you say a word about this to anyone, it’ll be your job.” She flashed her most charming smile, the one that had gotten her an anchor slot on a network affiliate. “Understand?”

The girl nodded, then escaped out the door. Alicia took a deep breath, then spun her chair around to face Gavin.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “You certainly have a way with people.”

“Don’t give me any crap. I’m in a bad mood, and you’re on my list.” She had better things to do than to sit and listen to Gavin complain about how she hadn’t managed to land a story. Especially since this story, about the fifth anniversary of Oxygen, was such an uninteresting fluff piece. Ken had flat-out refused her offer to have him and his chef on the program. A little banter, a little cooking demonstration. Lightweight stuff, and great publicity for him.

“So why’d he say no?”

“How the hell should I know?” His refusal had totally pissed her off, but she wasn’t about to admit that to Gavin. Instead, she just squinted toward the mirror then ran her finger under her lip, wiping off a stray bit of lipstick. “He’s an idiot?”

“I don’t think so. The man clawed his way up from nothing to become the hottest restaurateur in Southern California. I suspect at least a modicum of savvy, if not downright intelligence.”

She bit back a snarl, not interested in analyzing Ken Harper. “Who cares? He doesn’t want to do it. End of story.”

“Is it?”

She twisted around to look him in the eye. “Why are you so intent on going after Ken Harper?”

Gavin shook his head. “I’m not. I’m intent on going after a story. Harper’s been the unchallenged king of cuisine for years, yet no one’s ever managed to get him to consent to an interview inside his restaurant. We manage that, we get ratings. We get ratings, you get a better slot.” He held his hands out to his side. “I’m only thinking of you, babe.”

“It’s only worth pursuing if there’s a story, Gavin. The man’s as dull as dishwater.” A lie, especially if they were talking about in bed. But she wasn’t feeling particularly charitable at the moment.

“Or maybe you didn’t want to return to the place of your former defeat.”

That was another reason Gavin drove her nuts—he knew her just a little too well. “Don’t be ridiculous. We went out a couple of times, but I dumped him,” she lied. “Believe me, Ken Harper isn’t even in my league.”

“So what’s stopping you from doing the story?”

“There is no story.”

“Are you sure?”

Irritated, she spun the chair back to face the mirror and saw him watching her in the reflection. She hated admitting it, but maybe Gavin was right. Maybe Ken was hiding something. If he was, it would feel damn good to be the reporter who aired the remarkable Ken Harper’s dirty laundry.

“Or maybe you do think it’s out of your league?”

“Not hardly,” she said tightly as she made up her mind. She met his eyes in the mirror and smiled sweetly. “You want the dirt on Harper? Then that’s exactly what you’ll get.”

2

THE MANHATTAN OFFICE of Avenue F Films was more spartan than Lisa had expected. A polished metal-and-glass table served as a reception desk, and a few uncomfortable-looking chairs made up the waiting area. An Oriental-style tapestry covered one wall, while the other was decorated with geometrically shaped mirrors. At the far end of the room, frosted-glass panels separated the reception area from the boss’s lair. Overall, the room gave the impression of too much money and not enough taste.

Lisa grimaced. She wasn’t there to criticize Winston Miller’s decorating skills; she was there to interview for a much needed job. The place could be knee-deep in seventies-style shag, and she wouldn’t complain.

Her back straight, she moved forward, letting the frosted-glass door—complete with an ornately etched F—swing quietly shut. She flashed what she hoped was a confident smile at the receptionist, then waited for the girl to finish her phone call. When the petite redhead finally looked up, Lisa’s pasted-on smile had almost faded. “I’m Lisa Neal, Mr. Miller’s four o’clock.”

Apparently not one for conversation, the receptionist gestured toward one of the torture-chamber chairs, her attention now directed at her fingernails. Lisa checked her watch. Four o’clock on the dot. “Is he—”

“Running late,” the girl said, pulling a nail file from a drawer. “Just have a seat.”

Great. Lisa moved across the room toward the chairs, glancing at her reflection in the mirrors as she walked. The chin-length bob she wore had the benefit of not only being easy to fix, but of looking professional. The suit was a cheap designer knockoff, and the shoes were leftovers of her more cash-flush days. Still, the outfit was sharp enough that it bolstered the businesswoman look. Overall, not too bad, all things considered.

As much as she hated needing work, she hated even more looking like she needed work. So much so that she’d almost splurged and put a new outfit on her one credit card that still had some room. But common sense had won out. She hadn’t worked steadily in more than a year, and the money she made from temping didn’t justify a new outfit, especially when she might need her credit card to buy food.

Still, the whole dress-for-success concept made a lot of sense, and yesterday after she’d received her best friend Greg’s message that he’d landed her an interview with Winston Miller, Lisa’d spent an entire afternoon prowling the garment district for something that would at least make it look as if she wasn’t destitute. One thing she’d learned after years of working on the fringes of the entertainment industry, the more someone looked as though they needed the work, the less likely they were to get it.

Smoothing her skirt, she sat on the hideous chair, her tailbone boring into the hard metal. She pulled her Day-Timer planner out of her purse and tried to look as if she had a schedule to keep. She wished she knew more about what Winston needed, but Greg had only left a note on the refrigerator. Though they shared an apartment, they were hardly ever home at the same time, and since he was in the middle of rehearsing for an off-off-off-off Broadway show, she’d been unable to catch him before the interview.

She shot a glance toward the receptionist, who didn’t even look her way. So Lisa spent the next thirty minutes doodling and making anagrams out of her name, until she’d wasted so much time she was beginning to get irritated. Trying for haughty, she stood up, tucked her planner under her arm, and marched toward the anorexic receptionist.

The woman blinked, but didn’t say a word.

“It’s been almost an hour,” Lisa said, trying to remain polite. “I have other meetings that I really can’t—”

“No problem.”

“Great. Thanks.”

The girl poised her pen over the open appointment book. “When would you like to reschedule?”

“Oh, uh,” Lisa stammered. “I guess I’ll have to check my schedule.”

The girl raised an eyebrow and waited, and Lisa knew perfectly well that Miller’s receptionist wasn’t buying it. The question now was, did she keep her pride and walk out, or did she fall to her knees and beg?

“Well?” the girl asked, the end of her pen tapping the appointment book.

“Right.” Lisa started flipping pages. She’d reschedule for tomorrow. That way she’d lose twenty-four hours in her job hunt, but she’d save a tiny bit of pride. “How about tomorrow?”

“No go.” The girl trailed the tip of the pen down the page, then flipped over a few days. “I can squeeze you in next Tuesday.”

So much for pride. Time for some serious begging. “Um, listen—”

“Miss Neal!”

She spun toward the source of the nasal voice, thrilled to be getting a reprieve from her fib.

“Come in, come in.” Winston Miller practically bounded toward her, shook her hand heartily, then led her back into his office. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Been on the phone with Los Angeles all morning.”

Lisa stifled a smile. As far as she knew, there were several million people in L.A.; she doubted Miller had been chatting with all of them.

“So, Greg tells me you’re the man for this job.” He motioned her toward a cushy chair as he slid behind his desk. “I understand you’ve got quite a range of experience.”

“That’s true,” she said, wondering how much her friend had told him. She’d known Greg for almost five years, ever since he’d had a bit part in a Drake Tyrell film that she’d associate produced. Flamboyant and opinionated, Greg had a wicked sense of humor that got her through some rough times during filming, and they’d spent hours eating bad food at the craft services table. By the time the shoot was over, they’d become fast friends and roommates.

Only Greg knew how scattershot her production experience had been. Certainly, she’d never told her family how bad times had become. From script supervisor to art director to property master, she’d held all sorts of jobs she’d never expected and didn’t want. Hardly what she’d anticipated five years ago when she’d followed Tyrell to New York with delusions of producing award-winning films. Still, the odd jobs paid the bills—at least until recently when work had seemed to dry up. Now, though, she couldn’t imagine which aspect of her background Greg thought was worthy of Miller’s attention.

Miller leaned back, his leather chair squeaking. “What did Greg tell you about the job?”