Perfect Target, page 10
His gut twisted with anger and rage, for the fear and pain she'd gone through, not just that night but the days that followed when Spalding had told her he couldn't help her. And he knew why. It wasn't just that she couldn't identify her attacker or that she'd waited to tell her story. That yacht had been owned by pharmaceutical billionaire Phillip Graves. It was a birthday party for his son, and the guest list had been filled with both the kids' friends and the father's friends. There had been a lot of wealthy rich kids and celebrities on the yacht that night and Piper's story would have made some important people angry. He could only assume that one of those people had gotten to Spalding.
"I'm sorry, Piper. I mean that. You didn't deserve what happened to you on the boat."
"Maybe I did deserve it. I'd been running wild for too long, putting myself in bad situations. It wasn't surprising that one day it would catch up to me. I was lucky I escaped being raped. But the smear campaign that followed was shockingly thorough, and I know it happened because of what I'd told the detective. I'm sure he had some cop leak that first photo and then the rest followed. As soon as I was completely discredited, no one would believe a word I said."
He shook his head, wanting to rip Spalding in two. "That's disgusting, despicable behavior."
"I thought so," she said. "But I didn't know where else to turn."
"I always had a gut feeling that Spalding was dirty; I just never had any evidence to prove it. I did try to follow up on your case, but I had nothing to go on. The witness statements all corroborated the same story, and I was told to stand down." He paused. "What about Juliette? Did you tell her what happened?"
"Yes. She said she was sorry, and she felt bad for me, but she thought I should let it go. I was hurt by her answer. I didn't realize that she was in a world of her own pain. We drifted apart. I went down a dark hole, and so did she."
"What about her? Was she assaulted on that yacht?"
"At the time, she said no, but two years ago, she told me she was raped that night. She didn't want to say it earlier because her attacker was the producer of the movie she was in. She had to keep working for him."
He shook his head. "How could she do that? Why didn't she call him out?"
"Because she was afraid of losing everything, especially when she saw what happened to me. But it ate away at her. She was sick for years. She had an eating disorder and a substance abuse problem. It was killing her slowly. When she finally told me everything that happened, I encouraged her to go to the police. The climate had changed. There was a groundswell of support for women in her position, and she took my advice."
He saw the bleak look in her eyes. "What happened next?"
"She told the police her abuser's name and what he did. They said they would investigate, but everything was moving really slowly and before he could be arrested, he had a heart attack, and he died."
"What was his name?"
"Kevin Richards. He was a big-time producer, ten Oscar-nominated films, three winners, one of which was the movie Juliette was in. He was a brilliant filmmaker and a horrific person."
He thought about her words, the sequence of events. "And then Juliette killed herself—because of him?"
"Yes. She couldn't stand the fact that he would never pay for what he did to her. He ruined her in so many ways, Beck. That first time on the yacht, she was only seventeen."
"First time? There were more?"
She nodded. "Yes, she told me it went on for two years. She couldn't say no. He kept offering her plum roles, and she couldn't turn them down. There was a lot of pressure on her to keep her career going. But she was falling apart and eventually Kevin stopped hiring her. While that was a relief, it was also a disaster, because she couldn't get hired by anyone else. He blackballed her. He said she was difficult to work with, which was male code for won't play the game."
"I'm sorry he's dead, too. I would have liked to put him in jail. But the fact that he died—didn't that bring Juliette any comfort?"
"No. Because in death, Kevin just gained more fame. They're naming the new theater at USC after him. No one will ever know who he really was." She let out a breath. "So, that's it. Now you know what happened the first night we met."
"Did you ever gain clarity on who attacked you?"
"No. I could never bring his face into my mind. It's strange because I can remember the scent of the candles and there was a song that kept playing, but who it was—I don't know. It's a horrible feeling to have this blank space in your head. When I was still in Hollywood, I was afraid to even talk to a man. I'd always wonder, was it him? Was it this guy? I couldn't do it. I had to get out of that world."
He could only imagine the kind of pain she'd been in. Although maybe he couldn't even imagine, because he'd never been in her position. He'd never known what it felt like to be that vulnerable, that powerless, and not be able to tell the truth and have someone believe you. "We can still try to find him, Piper. You know who was on the yacht that night. There could be a process of elimination. I want to help you."
"It could have been any of a dozen or more men. And even if I could remember, nothing would happen. He didn't technically…" Her voice trailed away. "I don't want to keep looking back. I have a different life now. Or at least, I did. Yesterday muddled everything up just because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time." A buzzing sound made her jump. "My phone," she muttered. "I forgot I still had it." She pulled her phone out of her pocket, then frowned and sent it to voicemail.
"You could have answered it. Or do you not want to talk in front of me?"
"I don't want to talk anymore. I'm tired. And the best way for you to help me is to find out who ran me off the road."
"I will do that. Thank you for telling me what happened."
She shrugged. "It doesn't make a difference."
"It does to me. The police let you down before. I won't let you down now. So…food. Are you hungry?"
"I don't know," she said, a little bemused by the change in topic. "Hey, I was supposed to be asking you questions."
"There’s time for that. Let’s see what you have to eat." He got up and walked into her kitchen. Opening her refrigerator door, he was happy to find plenty of vegetables and some chicken breasts. A quick look at the cabinets revealed additional ingredients. "I'm going to make you something to eat."
"You're cooking dinner?" she asked in surprise.
"Why not?"
"Do you know how to cook?"
"Of course, I do. I wouldn't have offered if I didn't. I'm actually very good at it."
"Are you confident about everything you do?"
"Not everything, but cooking, yes."
"Did you have one of those moms who taught you how to make all the family recipes?"
Her question stabbed deep. "No," he said shortly, as he pulled out ingredients. "My mom didn't teach me how to cook. I taught myself."
"Why?"
"Because I like to eat. Where are the cutting boards?"
She pointed to a cupboard. "Bottom right. Your mom didn't cook then?"
"She could open cans and microwave, but she was usually too busy to do more than that, and then she was gone." He turned on the oven to preheat, then took out a knife and started slicing tomatoes.
"What do you mean by…gone?" Piper asked.
"She died when I was twelve." He didn't know why he was telling her about his mom. He rarely told anyone about his family. But he could see that she was eager to direct the conversation away from herself.
"I'm sorry to hear that," she said. "So, you were raised by your dad?"
"No. He passed away, too. My younger brother and I stayed with different relatives after that. Eventually, it was just us." He paused at the sound of another phone ringing, a phone that appeared to be in the tote bag on the counter. "Do you want to get that one?"
She hesitated. That phone was the one her mother would call her on, and if she didn't answer, her mom might just show up at her door, and she didn't want that.
She got up and retrieved her phone from the bag. She didn't recognize the number, so she gave a wary, "Hello?"
"Piper?"
"Yes. Who's this?"
"It's Lindsay—Lindsay Brixton."
Her stomach flipped over. "Lindsay, I'm so sorry about your dad."
"I heard you were the last one to see him."
"I think so. I can't believe this has happened."
"Me either. It's a horrible nightmare. I need to talk to you, Piper, about my dad, about his last minutes. Will you meet me tomorrow?"
"There isn't a lot to say, Lindsay."
"Please. I need to speak to you in person. I don't want to do this over the phone. And I don't want to read about your conversation with my dad online or in the newspapers. I need to hear it from you."
She really didn't want to talk to Lindsay, but she felt like she owed it to her. "All right. Where do you want to meet?"
"Maverick's in Santa Monica," she said. "Around eleven?"
"Okay. I can do that. I really am so sorry. How is your mom?"
"She's not well. She's destroyed. She built her whole life around my dad. I need to get back to her. We'll talk tomorrow."
"See you then." She set down the phone and faced Beck's questioning gaze. "Lindsay Brixton. She wants to meet me tomorrow to find out what Larry and I spoke about. I just wish I had something to tell her that would make her feel better." She paused, thinking back to her conversation. "Although Larry spoke highly of her and Joel. Maybe that would give her some closure." She paused. "I really want this to be over. That's not going to happen any time soon, is it?"
"Doubtful. You may need to put someone else in charge of the bakery for a few days. You'll have to be careful where you go and who you talk to. Someone is after you. And at some point, they're going to figure out you're still alive."
The grim tone of his voice made her shiver. "I was trying to forget what happened tonight."
"You can't forget it. It would be dangerous to do that, Piper."
"I know. I get it."
"I'm going to come with you tomorrow."
"I don't think Lindsay will want you there."
"I'll be in the background, watching over you. I'll make sure you're safe. Think of me as your bodyguard."
She was beginning to think of him in a lot of ways, but bodyguard wasn't one of them.
"As long as you and I stay on the same page," he continued, "I can protect you. But as soon as you don't tell me something, or sneak off on your own, that's when the worst could happen." He leaned forward. "You need to trust me, Piper. I get that's difficult for you. But you have to try. Your life could depend on it."
"I understand."
"On that note, why do you have two phones, Piper?"
She let out a weary sigh. "I told you yesterday—one is for business, and the other is just for friends. It's not a big deal."
"It's interesting because we checked and only one number comes up for you. It's almost as if the second phone is a burner phone. In fact, that's exactly what the one in your pocket looks like."
She gave him a long look, then said, "You're right. It's a prepaid phone. My friends and I started using these phones a long time ago, after our other phones got hacked and personal information and photos were released. It started out like a game to stay in the shadows, and we just kept it going."
"It always feels like ninety percent of what you're telling me is the truth, but it's the other ten percent that makes me curious."
"I think you're just an overcurious FBI agent. We have enough actual problems. Do you need to make up more?"
"Nice deflection. But I still don't think you're telling me the whole truth."
"Think whatever you want, but can you do that while you're cooking? Because I'm getting hungry."
"Fine. I'll drop it—for now."
Chapter Eleven
Piper was relieved when Beck let the subject of phones go. She knew it was probably only a temporary reprieve, but she was grateful for the break. She sat back down at the table, sipping her sparkling water, and hoping the bubbles would settle her nervous stomach. A lot had happened in the last forty-eight hours, most of which she didn't understand, and that confusion included Agent Beck Murray.
She'd probably told him too much about herself and about Juliette, but he'd been so determinedly focused on the fire seven years ago that she'd thought it was easier just to tell him the truth about that rather than have him dig into it on his own. His angry reaction toward the police department and his former supervisor, had put a healing balm on an old wound. He'd believed her story, and that was more important to her than he could imagine.
But what now?
She didn't know what to think about him. He had a lot of sides, and she'd seen several of them, from the young cop who had pulled her out of the water to the sharp-edged, ruthless FBI agent who had questioned her after the bombing. She'd seen suspicion in his gaze when he looked at her, but also compassion. Now he was cooking her dinner, and that was probably the most mind-boggling fact of all.
She couldn't remember the last time a man had cooked her dinner. Actually, she couldn't remember the last time she'd had a man in her house. Or even the last time she'd been on a date. That had to have been at least a year ago.
Not that this was a date, she told herself forcefully. The man had saved her life. He was looking out for her because he was worried about her. He was going above and beyond the call of duty, but she couldn’t let herself think it was anything more than duty. Clearly, Beck took his job seriously. And right now, she was his job. It wasn't personal.
But it felt kind of personal. When their gazes met, it felt like they were just a man and a woman, with sparks between them.
No. She needed to get that thought out of her head immediately. A man in her life would only make things more complicated.
But as she watched Beck move with efficient grace around her kitchen, she couldn't help thinking that complicated could also be hot, sexy, and fun.
Inwardly, she groaned. What was wrong with her? Someone had tried to kill her tonight, and she should think about that, not wonder about how Beck might kiss or how he might look without any clothes on. He had to have a killer body. She'd felt his hard muscles when he'd pinned her to the ground. She wouldn't mind being under that body again, maybe on a nice comfortable bed.
A wave of heat ran through her, and she quickly took another sip of water. "Do you want help?" she asked, thinking she desperately needed a distraction.
"I'm good. Just relax."
"I'm trying, but it's not that easy. I feel exhausted but also wired."
"That's the adrenaline. Let's talk about something else."
"Like what?"
"Tell me about the baking business. How did you get into it?" he asked.
"Well, baking is the only thing I ever did for fun. My mom hated when I'd bake because she didn't want me to overeat. She wanted me to stay thin. But when I baked, I didn't really overeat. It was the process that was the most satisfying thing for me. I usually gave my cookies and cakes away. I'd take them to the set whenever I could."
"I find cooking satisfying as well, making something out of nothing."
"It's a good feeling," she agreed. "But I prefer baking to cooking. Baking is exact. With cooking, you can throw in whatever is in the fridge. You can taste your way to the perfect dish, but baking is precise. It's a science. If I mess up the measurements, everything will end in disaster, and I won't know until it's way too late to fix it. It's a challenge, and I like that it has to be done the right way. There's creativity, but it comes from within the structure, and that feels…safe."
"I prefer unpredictable and exciting to safe," he said with a small smile.
"That doesn't surprise me," she said dryly.
"It surprises me that you want safe. I thought you were the wild child."
"I was that at one time. I had a chaotic childhood. Actually, I didn't really have a childhood. That was the problem."
"You said you were raised by your mom. Where was your dad?"
"He died in a plane crash when I was three. I wish I remembered him, but I don't. The only images I have in my head are the ones that match the photos my mom had on her dresser and on the wall. Sometimes, I think about how our lives would have been different if he'd lived. My mom said he was away on a business trip the first time she took me to an audition, and he was furious when he heard about it. He said they would talk about it when he got home, but he never got home, and they never talked about it."
Beck brought the salad to the table, giving her a compassionate look. "Sorry."
"Thanks. I don't even really know why I feel sad because I didn't know him."
"You lost your dad. You lost that figure in your life. Of course, there would be a hole."
"That's true." She frowned as he brought plates and silverware to the table. "I really think I should be helping you."
"I don't need help."
"Do you ever need help?" she asked curiously.
"Rarely," he returned, with a smile that was both cocky and sexy. "And never in the kitchen."
"Okay." She sat back in her seat as he set the table and then placed a delicious-looking chicken, rice, and vegetable dish in front of her. "Wow, that looks good."
"It looks like a messy casserole, but it rarely lets me down for taste."
She spooned the food onto her plate and took a bite. It was exactly as promised, hot and tasty. "This is good. If you ever decide you don't want to be an FBI agent, you could be a chef."
He laughed and his entire face transformed in such a sexy, handsome way that she felt a tingle run down her spine.
"I know my limitations," he said. "I can make things taste good, but plating is not my strength. Frankly, the people I've cooked for have not had high expectations."
