"Love you," she said and slapped me on the rear, hard, as she walked away.

"Touche," I called, feeling her words smart as much as the whack on my rear end.

18.

A man in reflective sungla.s.ses and a headset motioned for me to roll down my window.

"Hi, there," I said in an alarmingly squeaky voice. I dragged my eyeb.a.l.l.s away from the gun in his shoulder strap and said, "I'm Charlie Garrett. Ms. Jacobs and Mr. Rowe are expecting me. To cook. I'm a cook. A chef, actually, of pastries, confections, some candy, chocolate, though chocolate is really finicky-"

Spartacus held up one hand as a very effective silencer. "I've got a five-three and a two-six," he said into a small black wire with a dot on the end. "Garrett, Charlie." He paused, waiting, I suppose, for divine clearance. "Copy that." He produced an iPad and offered me a stylus. "Read this and sign."

I pretended I could read and even understand the five thousand tiny, highly technical words that made up some sort of nondisclosure form. The gist appeared to be that should I take any photos, record any conversations, reveal my whereabouts, or generally appreciate tabloid journalism, I would be sued for all my earthly goods and sent to the gallows.

"Looks good." I couldn't seem to shake the squeak. I signed with a flourish and handed it though the window. "Do I just follow this road up to the house then?"

He pursed his lips and placed the iPad on a black camping chair. "Not yet. Step out of the car, please."

I stared. "What's that?"

He opened the door. "Would you prefer I radio for a female officer for the frisk?"

I stepped out of the car and onto bright white crushed limestone. "No, no, that's not necessary," I said. "I've been frisked plenty of times, almost always by men." I winced and was glad I could not see his eyes behind the reflective gla.s.ses. One hates to see oneself disdained by muscular men.

I watched as he unleashed a wand with a red blinking light. "Besides ..." I couldn't stop talking! "I'm sure you want to keep your job as much as I want to keep mine." I meant it as a joke, but Sparty was not keen on laughing with his subjects. He was done with the frisk before I had the chance to worry aloud if my b.u.t.t looked lumpy in my chef pants.

"Nero!" he called over a hyperdeveloped deltoid. A German shepherd bounded from behind a spotless black truck. He loped over with an expression that mirrored his master's. Within thirty seconds, he had scoped my car and its trunk. Satisfied that I was only a woman in shapeless clothes and not a terrorist or a photographer, Sparty allowed Nero to return to the truck and me to get back in my car.

"Clear," he said, patting the hood of my car as a final jot of punctuation. I gunned the gas with a tad too much enthusiasm and cringed when I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Sparty checking his ensemble for dust.

I followed the private lane for at least a mile, driving slowly and leaving my window open to breathe in the mountain air. When I crested a final hill and saw the property, I felt like Dorothy entering Oz.

The "house," which seemed such a plebeian word for the structure ahead, perched on the edge of a rise and overlooked a groomed, green lawn that stretched down the mountainside. Trees had been cleared to allow for the lush gra.s.s and a heart-squeezing view of Seattle beyond. I could see pockets of seating areas, both on the expansive patio that wrapped around the house, and on the grounds below. Plush outdoor furniture with cushions that were utterly impractical in Seattle's climate cl.u.s.tered around outsized copper bowls serving as fire pits.

I parked my car in an area roped off for staff and walked along a wide path that led to the front of the house and a mammoth set of doors. I pinned my shoulders back, willing the b.u.t.terflies in my stomach to settle down, and I reached out to grasp the heavy doorknocker. Just as I was about to let it fall, the door opened in a wide arc, pulling the knocker out of my hand and causing me to stumble over the threshold and into the house.

Tiffany Jacobs helped me up, murmuring apologies in her much admired, heavily insured low, scratchy voice. I crouched to gather the bag I had dropped, and my face collided with her long ropes of shiny, black hair.

"I'm so sorry," she said again, then extended a cool, slim hand. "So lovely to see you again, Charlie. I'm glad you could help us out tonight."

"It's my honor," I said, back to squeaking again, a lovely counterpoint to her Lauren Bacallesque voice.

She gestured for me to follow her. "I'll show you to the kitchen, but can you have a gla.s.s of wine with me first? Or is that verboten when you're about to commandeer a hot oven?" She winked at me, and I followed her like a love-struck puppy dog.

I'm having a gla.s.s of wine with Tiffany Jacobs. In her new house. And she's barefoot, which must mean she thinks of me as a close friend! My thoughts chased one another, chastising the ones that recalled I hadn't even known who Tiffany Jacobs was a week prior, and focusing instead on the view that greeted us as we entered the living room.

Ebony wood floors stretched in wide planks from one end of the room to the other, interrupted only by a see-through fireplace that divided the kitchen area from the great room. An oceanic white rug covered much of the living room floor. I got so distracted by the thick pile on that rug, I wanted to take off my clogs and throw them into one of the copper fire pits, then sink my unpedicured toes into the fluff.

"These windows are from Switzerland," Tiffany said as she stopped in front of a curved wall of floor-to-ceiling gla.s.s. "I thought they were far too indulgent, but Macintosh insisted, and now I'm so glad he did." I turned and saw a softness in her expression. "He is really, really hot."

As if on cue, Macintosh Sween's crocodile-skin shoes clacked on the hardwood behind us. "Hey, it's the berries and ice cream lady," he said, offering me his hand. I shook it and felt my cheek muscles cramp, my smile was so engaged. "That shot of hot chocolate had Tiff swooning all week." The beginnings of fine lines made delicate jewelry around jarringly green eyes. His teeth shone so white, they were one shade shy of blue.

Tiffany nodded. "Nectar of the G.o.ds. Babe, would you bring us the bottle of Tempranillo and the gla.s.ses I put out on the counter?" He strode into the kitchen, and she called after him, "Bring another gla.s.s, too, if you'd like to join us."

Only after letting my eyes swim in a pool of kitchen-marble-lighting-appliance l.u.s.t did I force my gaze back to Tiffany, who, by the way, was magazine-ready, too.

Crossing one lithe leg over the other, she studied my face. "I hear you're from the Midwest," she said.

I nodded. "Minnesota."

Mac returned from the kitchen and offered each of us a gla.s.s from the Lucite tray he carried.

"Will you stay for some wine, my love?" Tiffany asked. I wondered if she'd had work done on her cheekbones or if they just came like that.

"Can't," Mac said. He leaned down to kiss Tiffany long on the lips. I almost looked away but also felt a bit like I was watching a movie. Surely I was allowed to look, after paying twelve dollars plus popcorn?

"Roger wants to talk about that Berrini script. If I don't call him now, he'll hunt me down at the party tonight." Turning a full-wattage smile in my direction, he said his good-byes and left the room.

I swallowed hard, hoping I didn't look as much like a Teen Beat reader as I felt.

"I'm from the Midwest, too," Tiffany said. She pushed a cascade of hair to one side of her head, tilting her chin as she looked at me. "I grew up in Nebraska."

"That's great!" I said with an enthusiasm I had never before felt about the Husker State. I dipped into my gla.s.s of wine and sniffed a bouquet of expensive and ... expensive.

She nodded, a small smile on her lips. "I loved growing up there. Hay rides, football games, church potlucks, even the depressing winters. It was a good, safe place to figure out who you were."

She'd fixed her gaze through the wall of windows, on a faraway point that fell under and away from us. I waited for her to speak again, and when she did, she seemed to be searching my face for the answer to a question.

"You know, I've found people in this business are nothing like the people I grew up with." She frowned slightly but corrected herself at once. I could only imagine what frown lines could do to her script options. "People from our part of the country know how to be discreet. How to keep their mouths shut. How to allow others their privacy."

I nodded, gripping my wine gla.s.s with clammy fingers. Had Spartacus the wonder guard radioed up that I was too chatty? Too eager? Too jumpy?

"Actually," she said with a laugh. "That's not true at all. The people in my hometown didn't know how to be discreet at all. They were insufferable gossips. No one kept their mouths shut, and we were all watching each other constantly. I couldn't even buy Advil at the pharmacy without the pharmacist calling my mom and making sure I was having normal periods."

I winced. "I know about that kind of a gossip machine." I laughed to remember. "Once I skipped third-period study hall with my boyfriend to try a cigarette behind the bleachers. By the time we had reached the end of the parking lot, my dad had been called at work by three different people who lived near the school and must have been spying out their windows. My biology teacher asked during the very next cla.s.s if I'd been paying attention the first time or if I needed one more look at the smoker's lung before I made my decision."

Tiffany groaned in commiseration. "Well, Mac and I have learned the hard way that most people in the entertainment industry would rather throw you under the bus than offer you a bit of privacy. This kind of lifestyle demands a lot from a person."

It does have its perks, I found myself thinking and immediately felt disloyal. I swallowed the last of the wine and placed the gla.s.s gently on a nearby burnished bronze table.

"Charlie," Tiffany said. She leaned forward in her chair. "I like you. I like your desserts, I like the way you conduct yourself, and I like your self-a.s.surance. I really enjoyed talking with you at Thrill the other night."

I felt my heart speed up. "I did too. Thank you. I mean thank you for liking me."

She laughed, a low, musical, blockbuster kind of laugh. "You're welcome. I'm hoping that tonight will go very well."

She drew out those last two words, and I nodded, agreeing with her wholeheartedly.

"In fact," she said, still watching for my reaction, "if it does go well, and I'm sure it will, I hope to introduce you to some friends. Powerful friends who would be very grateful for a discreet, hardworking Midwestern chef like you. Friends who appreciate loyalty and the value of a kept secret."

I'm sure my eyes widened, and I hoped to high heaven that I didn't look like I was suddenly worried about Tiffany Jacobs's connections to the Mob. She did look a little Mediterranean, now that I thought about it.

"Nothing too intense," she said, apparently picking up on a flicker of my uncertainty. "Parties, personal chef work every now and then. Margot has told me you love your job at Thrill and aren't looking to move on."

"You know Margot?" I hated the way I sounded, so green, so unaccustomed to the networking dance.

"I do," she said after taking a sip of her wine. "We've known each other a long time. She's not a woman to be trifled with." Tiffany arched her sculpted eyebrows. "But she's mostly harmless. As long as you do what she says."

My laugh sounded uneasy and tinny.

"So I know you like working at the restaurant. But I can a.s.sure you, if you're interested, you could expand that horizon." She stood and smoothed her shirt with manicured hands. "Well. I'm sure you have plenty of work ahead of you. Shall I show you to the catering kitchen?"

I stood quickly, clutching my bag in both hands, and followed the movie star through her palatial home and back to the area of the house where I felt most comfortable. I air-kissed Tiffany as she walked away, leaving me alone to greet the rush and bustle of the team Avery had a.s.sembled from Thrill. They moved in a quiet, controlled manner, all under the watchful attention of the cameras and production crew that had been able to tag along only because of Margot's promise that they would stay in the kitchen for the evening. Now that I knew Margot and Tiffany were old friends, I was sure this evening had been cooked up between the two of them. A pulse of doubt rippled through my thoughts, and I wondered if Tiffany and Mac really had liked what I had served at Thrill, or if it had all been preplanned before they'd set foot in the restaurant.

No matter, I thought as I caught Avery's eye from across the room. It doesn't matter how I got here, just that I'm here. I steeled my shoulders and walked toward Avery, stepping over a camera cord and a man fiddling with a boom mic. Linoleum-clad kitchens in Minnesota, galley kitchens in New York, commercial kitchens in Seattle, Architectural Digest kitchens in the homes of celebrities-I'd tried them all. And, I thought, as I moved toward the ovens and my crates of supplies, I knew how to make them obey me.

Avery approached. "Ready?" he said, his eyes shining.

I didn't say anything in response. I didn't need to. We both knew the answer to such a silly question.

19.

THE following morning, I made a mad dash around my apartment, picking up stray newspapers, empty coffee mugs, shoes, and coats and gave myself a hearty verbal lashing on what a slob I'd become. Since when was it all right to leave little pools of Shiraz in the bottom of a wine gla.s.s to be scrubbed out when they became dry and unyielding a day later? When had I decided that flinging a drippy raincoat on the tile was a better option than shaking it out over the sink and hanging it above the tub, like any self-respecting clean freak would do? When, for sweet goodness' sake, had my organic 1 percent milk curdled in a desolate and barren fridge and I hadn't even noticed?

Since when?

I felt a smug smile form in response to that question: since I'd started meeting movie stars and cooking for them in their own houses.

I hummed as I continued my clean up, trying to create some sort of order before Kai came over to help with Zara's birthday cupcakes. The images of the TiffanTosh event swam before my eyes as I swept the floor around the kitchen island. I remembered the warm, tawny light of a dining room bedecked with candles; how I felt when the dessert plates came back to the kitchen, practically licked clean; the way Tiffany introduced me to the entire dining party as "Seattle's newest gift" and said that I was "nothing short of a sugar genius." I wanted Kai to see all those memories, to feel them with me, but I knew that by the time I could tell him everything, some of the sheen would be lost, some of the sharpness dulled.

I was deeply involved in this remorse and a vigorous scrub of the kitchen sink when the phone rang from the concierge's line. I pushed the b.u.t.ton to allow Kai up, noting with alarm that he was fifteen minutes early. Plus, I'd given Omar the go-ahead to let Kai up without the need for that infernal buzzing. Strange, I thought as I tossed my sponge under the sink and reached for the trash can.

The elevator door opened, and I finished lining the bin with a fresh bag before popping my head above the counter.

I did a double take. "Avery! What are you doing here? I thought-"

"-that I was someone else?" He grinned, looking like a cat who had just enjoyed a plump canary. "I can see that. You never wear your hair down for me."

My hand flew to my hair, self-conscious under his teasing eye.

"But listen," he said, still grinning, "I won't stay long. I brought you these." He held out a dramatic, statuesque bouquet, bursting with birds of paradise, deep purple orchids, fully opened and fragrant roses. I took them and thanked him with a peck on the cheek.

"To the toast of the town," Avery said, sounding a bit like a proud coach. "You absolutely crushed it last night." His eyes shone. "Could you believe it?"

"No!" I said, giddy and relieved not to have to hide it. "The whole night was insane. Could you believe that house?"

"Unreal." He crossed to the kitchen and took a seat along the counter while I rummaged for a vase. "And have you ever seen so many ridiculously beautiful people in one room?"

I shook my head. "It was unbelievable. Willa Olivier was far prettier in person. And so was her date. What was his name again?"

"Christian Bjornberg. Swedish star of Zeus: Prime Meridian."

Avery accepted the gla.s.s of lemonade I offered. "I want to know every word they said to you. Out with it." He lifted his eyebrows over his gla.s.s.

"From what I heard, they loved it all. The cherry almond fritters, the boysenberry brioche pudding-my personal favorite."

I smiled. "Thank you. And the baked whiskey chocolate tortes. Mac asked for a second plate of those." I blushed, remembering how the actor came back to the kitchen to put in his order personally.

"Could you believe it when they asked the two of us to come into the dining room for an after-dinner coffee? I talked with Roger DuPage for, like, twenty minutes. He's the most powerful agent in Hollywood! And he asked me to pa.s.s the cream and sugar!"

"I know," I said. "Tiffany introduced me to guests I've only seen in People while getting my hair cut. Margot said-"

The light above the elevator door illuminated, and the doors opened. Kai took one step into the apartment and then hesitated, a small bouquet of wildflowers held out awkwardly before him.

"Oh," he said, the boyish grin he'd worn fading quickly. "You're, um, not alone. Omar said I was on the list and I could come on up." He looked like he might just turn around and go back the way he'd come.

I hurried around the counter and to where he stood. Kissing him quickly on the cheek, I said, "You're definitely on the list. I wrote the list myself. Come in."

Still holding the flowers, he let them drop to his side. He walked with purpose toward Avery like a determined, very masculine florist. He held out his hand. "Kai Malloy."

Avery scrambled off the kitchen stool and stood. He pushed his chest up and out, which only made the height difference between him and Kai more noticeable. "Avery Michaels. Great to meet you, buddy."

Kai nodded slowly. "Avery Michaels. Exec chef at Thrill, right?"

Avery tossed his head to the side, looking suddenly like an arrogant filly first time out at the track. "One and the same. I'm afraid Charlie has probably relayed plenty of stories about me." He punched Kai a little too hard on the shoulder. "Sorry, dude, that I've had to keep her out so late and so often." He smiled at Kai, but I could feel the bolt of tension connecting the two.

I cleared my throat, hoping the dance of the strutting roosters would come to its end. "Well, Avery, thanks for coming by. I'll see you at work tonight."

"Definitely," he said and winked at me. "Looking forward to it." He nodded to Kai. "Great to meet you, man. Stop in sometime at the restaurant. I'll hook you up with a free drink at the bar."

Kai said nothing, just stared and flexed his jaw.

I swallowed hard and made big eyes at Avery to remind him where the elevator was. Just before the doors slid to a close, he wiggled his fingers at us in farewell.

"Sorry about that," I said.

"About what?" Kai's tone had hardened. "Just a visit from your boss. At your home. During nonwork hours. What's there to be sorry about?" He wouldn't meet my gaze.