Just Between Us...

Another cringe.

She looked at Jack who was glaring at her.

“What?” she barked. “What is it about the three of you this morning? I swear, you’re enough to make a corpse be sorry for dying.”

Layla sighed heavily for what seemed like the umpteenth time. “You don’t understand, Mallory.”

“What’s there to understand? I may not be Mensa material, but I’ve been known to rub two thoughts together.”

“You don’t get it,” Reilly said, gesturing with her hands. “Because you’re…single.”

Mallory’s spine snapped upright.

Jack pushed from the table. “I’m going to get some more napkins.”

Coward, Mallory wanted to say.

Instead she sniffed and said, “I’m not single, I’m busy.”

Layla and Reilly looked at her pitifully.

“At least I’m not crying into my coffee like you two,” she said quietly. “God, you guys know how I hate whining. And right now you two are walking, talking poster children for whiners the world over.”

Reilly snapped to. “For someone who claims to be a liberal, you’re awfully opinionated and judgmental.”

Layla agreed. “Is there a single person, group or entity that you haven’t insulted at one point or another?”

Mallory honestly didn’t know what to say.

Layla pushed from the table. “God, you can be so damn cynical.”

“Bitter,” Reilly said. “She’s bitter.”

Jack picked that moment to return to the table. “I’d go with cynical. To be bitter you have to have something to be bitter about. And Mallory’s too scared to live.”

All three women stared at him, shocked.

Making Mallory want to die.

She glanced at her two female friends, wondering what Jack had revealed with his little piece of personal insight. Was what he’d said something a friend would offer up? Of course, it probably was, but when coupled with the fact that he, as a rule, disappeared whenever one of these discussions surfaced, and never contributed anything, his change in protocol was sure to raise some brows.

Interestingly enough, however, neither Layla nor Reilly seemed to catch on.

Reilly pointed at him. “You know something? You’re right.”

Mallory made a face and gathered her backpack. It was chock full of everything a working producer needed.

Now, if only she could find some work.

Actually, not so much work, but capital to work with. Her current subject, The Red Gardenia, was waiting.

The Red Gardenia who haunted her at times when she’d be better off thinking about something else. But there was just something about the subject, about Jenny Fuller, that intrigued her. The similarities in their ambitions, maybe. Whatever it was, this documentary, more than the others, was one she was driven to make.

“Jack, I think it’s time for us to go,” she said.

He leisurely drank his coffee. “Go where? I’m not going anywhere.”

Mallory glared at him, resisting the urge to point out that Layla was watching the interplay with great curiosity. “Yes, we are. You promised to take me to that site for The Red Gardenia, remember?”

He slowly shook his head. “Nope. I don’t recall.”

Reilly narrowed her eyes. “Have you two had a fight or something?”

“No,” Mallory said.

“Yes,” Jack said at the same time.

Layla looked back and forth. “Well, which is it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mallory said quickly. “We’ve already kissed and made up. Haven’t we, Jack?”

He didn’t answer her.

Reilly made an uh-oh sound. “Doesn’t look that way to me. What are you two arguing about?”

Oh, was it ever time to get out of there. Mallory grabbed Jack’s arm and virtually jerked him from his chair. “We’d really like to discuss it with you, but from the looks of things you both have enough on your plates already. Don’t they, Jack?”

He looked like he might like to strangle her.

The Red Gardenia had been strangled. Which Mallory really wanted to look into more—if Jack would just cooperate.

“It might help us forget our own problems,” Reilly said.

“Don’t worry. It’s nothing the two of us can’t work out,” Mallory said. “Come on or we’ll be late.” She flashed a smile at her friends. “I’ll call you both later, okay?”

They both smiled at her like they expected those phone calls to fill them in on what they were missing.

Ha! Fat chance.

WHAT WAS IT ABOUT THE woman that got under his skin so?

Jack sat behind the wheel of his ’69 Chevy Camaro Z-28 and watched Mallory walk up and down Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood, stopping every now and again to take notes. Today she wore a tight pair of faded jeans and a powder-blue T-shirt that read “Outta My Way or You’re Roadkill.”

Jack leaned his elbow in his open window and sighed. He only wished he didn’t feel like roadkill.

He really couldn’t say what had made him drive her to where she wanted to go. One minute he’d been about to spill all to Reilly and Layla, the next Mallory was giving him directions and he was following them.

He absently rubbed the back of his neck, watching as she approached someone and struck up a conversation, her pen waving in the air as she gestured with her hand. She was good at what she did. He knew that. Her documentaries were edgy and current and offered an unflinching viewpoint that not many filmmakers could capture. The word “real” sprung to mind. Her vision was real. Just like Mallory, herself, was real. Earthy. No nonsense. Sexy as hell.

And an unqualified pain in the ass.

He glanced at his wrist only to find he wasn’t wearing his watch. Which wasn’t surprising, because he usually didn’t wear his watch. That he was even looking to see what time it was said a lot.

Didn’t she understand that he had places to go, people to see?

No, he realized, she didn’t. Because, unlike her, he didn’t lay out his agenda like an open book.

He laid on the horn. Mallory shielded her eyes and looked in his direction while still talking to the woman she’d just introduced herself to. Then she gave him a little wave and returned her attention to her new friend.

Jack was half-tempted to drive away. But he knew he wouldn’t. No matter how maddening it was to watch her curvy little bottom in those tight jeans. Or wonder at the way the light December California breeze toyed with her dark curls. Or stare at the way her mouth moved when she talked.

He forced his attention away and stared instead at the street ahead. Shit. He was in deep, wasn’t he? When he’d thrown out the ultimatum last night, it had begun as a joke of sorts. But once it was out of his mouth, he’d discovered that he’d said exactly what he’d wanted to say.

And was now finding out that not only was he in deep, he was in it up to his elbows.

Not good.

Not good at all.

Especially since he had the sinking sensation that Mallory might never come to her senses and would spend the rest of her life—and his—making him live in a state of limbo.

He searched in the glove compartment for the pack of cigarettes he always kept there. Only he didn’t find them. He pulled down both sun visors, glad when the driver’s side one yielded a crumpled pack with one cigarette inside. He shook it out and lighted it with the car lighter.

Shit.

He filled his lungs with the acrid smoke then slowly blew it out.

Shit, shit, shit.

4

HAD JACK REALLY JUST beeped the horn at her?

Mallory gaped at the old Chevy and at Jack himself. The late morning sunlight caught his dark hair just the right way, bringing out sandy highlights that only lent to his lean, handsome appeal. She swallowed past the sudden tightness in her throat, gave him an irritated wave, then returned her attention to the prostitute she’d just introduced herself to.

Coco Cabana (she’d fought not to snicker) was more than just your average, run-of-the-mill hooker. First off, she had to be pushing fifty, a fact no amount of makeup, exercise or designer clothing could hide.

Second, she wasn’t a woman at all, but a man.

Of course, Coco hadn’t come right out and shared the information. And Mallory guessed that, after sundown, shadows obscured age and gender and Coco would probably be drop-dead gorgeous. But Mallory knew the score the instant she began talking to him.

He…she…whatever…was also the first person among the dozens Mallory had interviewed who knew more about The Red Gardenia than just passing rumor.

Coco lifted a cigarette to her mouth, her nails long, talonlike and blood-red. “Sure, I knew The Red Gardenia.” She rolled her eyes, blue ones enhanced with spidery false eyelashes and blue eye makeup. “We both arrived in L.A. at about the same time.”

Mallory’s heart skipped a beat. But she still didn’t completely trust the extent of Coco’s knowledge. “And her real name was…”

“Jenny Fuller, of course.”

Check.

“And she was from?”

Coco waved her cigarette. “Omaha, I think. Yeah. It was Nebraska.”

Double check.

“Horrible tragedy, that one,” Coco added with a sigh. “She had a future. Could have been a real contender.”

Now that was a different take. Most people Mallory spoke to said that Jenny Fuller had probably gotten what she deserved. That Hollywood had a way of glossing over the details and that a good girl usually wasn’t all she appeared.

Mallory sometimes wondered how much bad a girl from Nebraska could get into in six months.

Jenny Fuller’s story wasn’t all that unusual. People who came to L.A. armed only with their dreams were a dime a dozen. But the aspiring actress—whose claim to fame had been a beer ad that featured her wearing a twenties getup and a red gardenia in her hair—and her unsolved murder twenty-five years ago had come to represent all those forgotten someones whose dreams of stardom had ended, and would end, in tragedy.

Mallory looked back to Coco. She’d been digging for more info of the sympathetic and specific variety for months now. And while it seemed her personal life was in the dumps, her professional life appeared to have just taken a full tilt toward the better.

At least she hoped so.

“Look,” Coco said. “If you’re not going to feed me, pay me, or provide some other kind of amusement, sweetie, then I’m going to have to move on. This is a working day, you know.”

Mallory tried to hide her smile. “Tell me about it.”

Coco reached into her sequined purse, watched as a Cadillac with tinted windows rolled by, then reapplied peach-colored lip gloss that Mallory suspected she could see her reflection in if she leaned in close enough. “My landlord just kicked me out this morning so I need some quick cash to look for a place.”

Mallory pointed her finger at the hooker then back at herself. “You and me both.”

Coco leaned back in order to get a better overall look at Mallory. “Girl, you’ve got to work on your appearance if you hope to get any business.”

Mallory nearly choked. “Strangely enough, talking to you now is working for me.” She flipped her notepad closed and considered the other, um, woman. All she had to do was say the word and Candy Cane would snap up Coco without batting an eyelash. Lost causes seemed to be her middle name. As long as Coco didn’t have any animal allergies, these two people who shared the same vocation would get along famously. “Look, I have a friend in my apartment complex who would be willing to put you up until you find a place. What would it mean to you if I gave this friend a call and checked it out for you?”

“Monetarily?” Coco asked.

“Information wise.”

Coco stared at her unblinkingly. “On The Red Gardenia?”

Mallory nodded.

Coco took three quick drags off her cigarette then picked a piece of tobacco off her tongue as she considered the proposition. “Where’s this place?”

Mallory had her and she knew it.

Yes! Her first real lead in The Red Gardenia case.

Her smile slipped.

Well, it wasn’t really a lead. But it was information that the police didn’t appear to have. Of course, she had to remind herself, her goal wasn’t to actually solve the case, but rather to create a more vivid picture of the young actress who had been murdered twenty-five years ago.

But if she did happen to solve the case…

She shivered all over.

Behind her Jack’s horn blew again.

“Do you have time to go see the place now?” Mallory asked.

WHERE DOES SHE FIND these people?

Jack pulled up outside Mallory’s apartment complex then glanced in his rearview mirror where “Coco” was staring into a round compact repairing his mask. Jack squeezed and released the steering wheel several times. Two large, faded tapestry suitcases were in his trunk. Lord only knew what they held.

Surely Mallory wasn’t going to let Coco move in with her.

“Do you want to come to Candy’s with me, or wait here?”

Jack knew a moment of relief. Good. She was taking the aging transvestite to Candy’s. He tried to make out if Coco’s cleavage was real. Well, not real, but surgically or hormonally enhanced. Oh, yeah, there were real swells there, all right. Then what would that make him? A transsexual? He supposed it all depended on if his original equipment was still intact.

He glanced at Mallory to find her glaring at him.

What? he asked silently.

Then he realized she was piqued because he’d been staring at Coco’s cleavage.

“So?” she asked.

“So what?”

“Are you going to wait here or come with us?”

He considered her for a long moment. He’d been with her for the past two hours and she had yet to breathe one word about last night. In fact, he would have thought she’d forgotten about it altogether if not for the wary shadow he saw in her brown eyes. She’d never been wary around him before.

“None of the above,” he replied.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’m going home.”

“You can’t.”

Jack turned to look Coco full in the face. “Do you mind waiting outside?”

“Outside? As in outside the car?”

“Is there any other outside?” he asked.

Mallory gaped at him. “I’m sorry, Coco. Domestic issues.”

Mallory climbed from the car to let the aging, questionable prostitute out of the two-door car, then she got back in. He watched Coco walk to stand behind the car, out of earshot.

“You can tell her…him he can take care of his own suitcases from here on out, too.”

Mallory made a sound of indignation. “What’s gotten into you, Jack? You’re being so…rude.”

Well, well, well. Look who was calling the kettle black. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens to a man when the woman he’s…interested in ignores his advances for something more.”

“Are we back to that again?” she asked.

“We never left it, Mall.”

She got out of the car again, then popped her dark head of curls back through the open window. “Stay put. You and I…we need to powwow.”

Powwow? Had she really just said powwow?

But as he sat watching her struggle with Coco’s suitcases, then waddle toward Candy’s, her jeans molded to her pert little bottom, he knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

Damn it.

He picked up his travel coffee cup and put it to his lips only to find it empty.

He grimaced. Was he seeing a pattern here or what?

What remained was whether or not he had the balls to do anything about it.

LATER THAT NIGHT Mallory flopped down on what she thought might be her couch hiding under clean laundry she had draped over it the day before. Of course, the dryer would have to break down in the middle of her load. And she hadn’t had a chance to fold the things and put them away yet. She supposed she might do it now, but…well, as she looked at Jack, other, more important, things came to mind.

Jack stood in the middle of the room, staring down at her while wearing the same expression he’d been wearing all day. At least five times she’d had to talk him out of leaving her to go home. And each time he’d grown sulkier and sulkier.

“Are we done now?” he muttered, his hands fisted and shoved deep into the pockets of his cargo jeans.

Mallory allowed her gaze to drift over him. He was quite a man, this Jack Daniels. Wherever they went, women openly ogled him, making no secret of their interest. Not that Jack paid any attention. He was completely oblivious to the attention he received. And when he did catch wind of it—like when she, Layla and Reilly jokingly threw cat calls his way every now and again—he’d mumble and curse and move out of sight as fast as he could.

Now she watched him shift his weight from his right foot to his left, his present discomfort level rising with the sweep of her gaze from his loafer-clad feet to his snug black T-shirt.

She’d begun the exercise of giving him a provocative once-over to tease him. And while it was working—as she’d known it would—she also found herself getting a little more than turned on.

Mmm…

“Can I leave now?” he said, obviously clenching his teeth.

“Nope,” she said, using the word he’d used on her all day.

His bedroom-brown eyes narrowed. “Mallory…”

“Jack…” she said, reaching for the hem of her T-shirt and pulling it over her head.

She knew he loved to see her undergarments. She might not be a total fashion plate, but just as she took extra care in picking her comment-laden T-shirts, she also took great pleasure in choosing her lingerie carefully. The bra she had on today was deep purple with demi cups and sexy lace edging. She sat up and gave a little shimmy as if trying to get more comfortable, satisfied when his gaze dropped to her cleavage and his pupils instantly took over the color of his irises.

Yeah, baby. Show Mama how much you want her.

Her nipples hardened under his steady scrutiny and she pushed her breasts out even further. They strained against the demi cups and she knew that Jack was wishing they’d just pop right out.

“Mallory…” he said again in warning, though most of the conviction had drained away.

She popped the front button on her jeans, allowing the zipper to slide partway down on its own steam to reveal her matching pair of purple lace panties.

She watched Jack swallow hard.

Mallory tried to formulate her next move, but the truth was her brain was starting to feel a bit muddled and the heat gathering between her thighs was downright distracting. His gaze moved back to her face as if he was searching for some way to combat his growing physical need. So she licked her lips, making sure to do it slowly and provocatively.

“Now,” she said, surprised to find her voice so husky. She’d been going after the effect but even she couldn’t have predicted the outcome. Candy, with her throaty cadence, had nothing on her. “I think we’d better discuss this, um, whole no-sex issue.”

She thought she heard a choking sound, but she couldn’t be sure. But she did know that Jack was looking a little rough around the edges. He nodded. “Yes. I think we should, too.”

She scooted over on the couch, pushed a few items of clothing out of the way, then patted the cushion. “Why don’t you sit down next to me?”

He did nothing for long, silent moments, then he shook his head. “I, um, don’t think that’s such a great idea.”

Mallory smiled. “Why?”

“Because we won’t discuss the sex issue. We’ll be having sex.”

“Exactly what I had in mind.”

“Exactly why I’m staying right where I am.”

She saw his face take on a competitive appearance. Damn. Maybe she could use a pointer or two from Candy.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Then I’ll come to you.”

Jack seemed so surprised by the proposal that he didn’t move when she pushed off the couch then stood before him, not touching, but definitely close enough to.

Of course, if she had a hope of getting this femme fatale role down pat, she’d have to learn to quiet her own riot of emotions whenever she came this close to Jack.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” Jack said, though his voice was hoarse.

“Mmm. You don’t have to.” She looked at the solid column of his throat. “But you don’t mind if I kiss you, do you?”

He opened his mouth to answer her but she put her palm over his mouth, trapping his words there. Then she tilted her head to press her lips against the front of his throat, then the side, breathing in the fresh scent of his skin, absorbing the warmth radiating from him like a fine musk. He swallowed again and she smiled, blinking her eyes so that her lashes dragged across his skin.

“Come on, Jack,” she murmured, itching to feel his hands on her. All over her. She wanted him to explore every inch of her flesh in that possessive way of his, lay claim to her. But he didn’t budge an inch.

“We are not having sex, Mall.”

She smiled and slowly began kissing her way down to the collar of his T-shirt. She tugged the soft cotton out of his jeans then worked her fingertips under the hem, not stopping until she felt the hard muscles of his abdomen. How he kept in such great shape, she didn’t know. A more inactive man, she’d never met. But whatever he was doing was working. He was a fine, chiseled specimen of male virility. And just looking at him made her want to rip off her clothes and beg for him to sex her.

She tugged down the collar of his T-shirt and ran her tongue the length of his collarbone. Of course, right now it looked like she was going to have to be the one doing the sexing.

Which was all right with her….

Under his T-shirt, she ran her fingertips down his sides, and he shivered. She smiled then started to slide down the length of him. When he would have protested, she chased the air from his lungs by suctioning her lips to his stomach, then sticking her tongue into his navel, which was a delicious innie. When she was finally kneeling in front of him, she easily found the thick ridge straining against the front of his cargo pants, all the while keeping her gaze plastered to his. It didn’t do much to her ego to see his quiet wariness. But there was no denying he was turned on so she pushed ahead.

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