The Next To Die

by Kevin O'Brien

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Everyone has something to hide . . .



The virile, all-American husband. The brainy golden girl. The happily wed bi-coastal couple.



Someone is watching . . .



Someone who has uncovered their darkest secrets. Someone who is hell-bent on making them pay for their sins.



No one suspects the truth . . .



Now there is no escaping the shadowy jury that watches their every move. Infiltrates every part of their lives. Stalking. Judging. Condemning. Punishment will be swift, severe, and final.

Release date: July 16, 2014

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 436

Sample

“Stay tuned for Common Sense with Elsie and Drew Marshall!”

The tiny portable television was propped up on the desktop of a young film executive. Dennis Walsh was thirty years old, chubby but handsome with dark blond hair, dimples, and a killer smile. Despite his girth, he wore clothes well and had an Ivy League look uncommon in southern California: oxford shirts, pleated pants, and penny loafers.

At the moment, Dennis paid little attention to the TV. Instead, he was updating his Franklin Planner and getting ready to see his boss. Helena, his assistant, wandered in and tossed a fax on his desk. “God, Dennis,” she said, frowning at the TV. “How can you watch that garbage?”

“It’s time for a little Common Sense!” the TV announcer boomed, over a swelling of patriotic music. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Mrs. Richard Marshall!”

He sighed. “Well, I don’t have any passion in my life. So I have to settle for hating Elsie Marshall.”

“We need to find you a girlfriend soon.” Helena slipped out of his office.

“Hello, everybody!” chirped the woman on TV. Sixty-five years old, slim, blond, and rather pretty, she looked and dressed like a Republican First Lady. “God bless you!” she said, waving to her studio audience. Then she looked into the camera. “I’m Mrs. Richard Marshall, but you can call me Elsie.”

“Hi, Elsie!” her studio subjects chanted.

She wandered back to the set: a desk in front of a bookcase, crammed with copies of A Little More Common Sense, the second best-seller by Mrs. Richard Marshall. All the covers were turned forward, of course. On her desk sat a framed photo of her late husband, also turned forward. There were two easy chairs, one reserved for her guest—usually a politician, washed-up film star, or retired sports figure. The other easy chair belonged to Elsie’s son and cohost, Drew, the real force behind the show. Handsome and articulate, thirty-year-old Drew brought in younger viewers and seemed groomed for future presidency, a beacon for fundamentalism in the twenty-first century. Drew gave his mother the first ten minutes of every show, then strolled onto the set to claim his chair and the remainder of the program.

Presently, Elsie Marshall basked alone in the spotlight. “I almost didn’t make it out of the house this morning,” she said, sitting at her desk. “All my recycling bins are by my back door. I knocked over the cans, and, oh, what a mess! Cans everywhere! Am I the only housewife in America who’s fed up with recycling? Those bleeding-heart ecologists make you feel like Attila the Hun if you so much as toss an old newspaper in the trash. Do our forests really need saving that badly?” She frowned. “Oh, and speaking of forests, isn’t it a pity what happened to Tony Katz and that other young man?”

The studio audience murmured an affirmative.

Dennis glanced at the TV and sighed. “Oh, shit.”

“But I’ll tell you what’s even more of a pity,” Elsie went on. “And I’m sure if my Ricky were alive today, he’d tell you the same thing. The real pity is that Mr. Katz and his—you know, friend—decided to carry on the way they did in the middle of a forest preserve. Can you imagine?

“Certain segments of the population gripe that they’re victimized. But what do you expect when they’re fornicating—if you’ll pardon me—in parks, public rest rooms, and movie theaters? I think it’s sad what happened to Tony Katz and his friend, but sometimes people bring these things on themselves.. . .”

“Christ on a crutch,” Dennis grumbled, pulling away from his desk.

Clipboard in hand, he hurried out of his office, down the hallway, and out of the climate-controlled building. A gust of warm air hit him. Dennis put on his sunglasses. His boss was filming in a soundstage around the corner.

He’d be back in time to catch the end of Elsie’s show. Watching the program was a true masochistic experience. For three years, Elsie and Ricky Marshall had had a syndicated half-hour talk show, expounding their ultraconservative values. They peppered their dialogue with cutesy, domestic chatter and good-natured bickering. Their popularity grew and grew. Then Ricky dropped dead of a heart attack. Elsie carried the banner, but the show’s ratings sagged until Drew came aboard as cohost. The mother-son raillery became a crowd pleaser. America’s Most Eligible Bachelor, Best-Dressed Man, Sexiest Hunk was smart enough to know his mother still held a big influence over their audience. The sweet old widow with “common sense” could get away with those cutting remarks about a murdered homosexual actor, but Drew might not fare as well. So at times, she was his mouthpiece. Elsie attacked anything and anyone who didn’t fit in with The Marshalls’ idea of American family values. She even made a list of celebrities whose films or TV programs “ought to be missed by decent people.”

Dennis Walsh’s boss was on that list.

The soundstage door’s red light wasn’t on, which meant they’d taken a break in filming. Dennis stepped into the vast hall, threading around all the sound equipment, cameras, cables, and lights. “Is Dayle in her trailer?” he asked one of the camera operators.

“Yep, working on her wardrobe,” he said, between gulps from a Mountain Dew can.

Dennis thanked him and headed for the trailer in the corner of the soundstage. On the door was a plaque:—DAYLE SUTTON—ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK. Dennis knocked and entered.

Inside the dressing room trailer, Dayle Sutton stood with her arms outstretched as if crucified. Two middle-aged women were sewing a white satin evening gown on her. She felt them pinch and tug the material around her ribs. “Can’t be tight enough,” Dayle cracked. “I’m still breathing.”

She was filming a drama based on a best-seller, Waiting for the Fall. Today’s scene involved a flashback sequence, in which the thirty-nine-year-old actress had to look twenty without the benefit of extra filters on the camera lens. Dayle was up for the task. Besides, she had good lighting men.

She also had a good man in Dennis Walsh. He was a production assistant with the studio, and had worked with Dayle on her last picture. He’d become indispensable. He talked to Dayle’s agent more than she did, acted as liaison with every department in the studio, and even reviewed story ideas and screenplays for her. That was why Dennis had come to her studio trailer now. He sat on the couch by Dayle’s dressing table, and unwrapped a Tootsie Roll. “Ready for the pitch?” he asked, glancing at the clipboard in his lap.

“Fire away,” Dayle said, arms still spread out like a regal scarecrow. Along with the 1950s gown, she also wore a long blond wig.

“You’re the First Lady, and you begin to suspect the president is really an imposter, because he starts acting different with you. And the things he does are more radical and dangerous until the world is on the brink of nuclear war.”

“Sounds like Dave meets Suspicion meets Fail Safe,” Dayle said.

“Exactly. It’s a thriller.”

“I hate it.”

“So do I,” Dennis said. “But I figured you wouldn’t mind playing a First Lady who defies her husband and saves the world from nuclear destruction.”

“Next?”

“Okay, this one’s a true story,” Dennis said. “It’s about a guy who gets attacked outside a gay bar. Four college frat boys try to beat him up—”

“Don’t tell me,” Dayle said, watching the seamstresses work on her sleeves. “ ‘Ripped from today’s headlines,’ shades of Tony Katz.”

She’d met Tony only twice: first at a fund-raiser, and again when they’d been paired up as Oscar presenters last year. Dayle had found him charming and sexy. He was also extremely active in campaigns against discrimination and censorship. Everyone in Hollywood knew Tony was gay. His marriage to Linda Zane was a smoke screen. But he was so well liked, no one wanted to see his cover blown. His horrible death changed all that. Nobody talked about Tony Katz, the actor; they only talked about Tony Katz, the closet homosexual who was killed with his pants down.

Dennis snacked on his Tootsie Roll. “According to ‘Just call me Elsie,’ ” he said, between chews, “Tony and his friend brought it all on themselves. How about that? God, I would love to punch that old gasbag’s lights out.”

“Yeah, well, take a number,” Dayle said, lowering her arms a bit for circulation. “Anyway, about the movie, is there a part for me?”

“Yes, indeedee,” he said. “See, the guy kills one of his attackers—cuts a frat boy’s throat with a broken beer bottle. So believe it or not, they put him on trial for murder. He hires this lesbian attorney to defend him, and after a lot of opposition in this small, affluent college town, she gets this guy acquitted. It’s an old script that’s been floating around, but Soren Eberhart wants to direct, and Avery Cooper’s interested in playing the gay guy.”

“Philadelphia meets The Accused,” Dayle said. “And you want me to play a lesbian lawyer? Next, please.”

“Why are you passing?”

“Two words,” Dayle replied. “Survival Instincts.”

That was the title of her ill-fated action-thriller. Dayle had played the leader of an environmentalist group, stalked in the wilderness by a team of crazed hunters. As the lean, mean, no-nonsense heroine, Dayle had given her sexually ambiguous character some lesbian undertones. She’d been a bit too convincing. It set people wondering about the lack of chemistry between Dayle Sutton and her last few leading men. Despite good reviews, the film came and went, but the wild rumors about Dayle’s private life prevailed.

“Survival Instincts was a couple of years ago,” Dennis said. “Middle America just wasn’t ready for you as a butch-female action hero—”

“Huh, Rambimbo,” Dayle muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Attitudes have changed. It’s not so taboo to play a lesbian anymore. And this is a primo part for you—”

“Next, Dennis,” she said, an edginess in her voice.

Dennis sighed, then tossed what was left of his Tootsie Roll in the wastebasket. “Okay. Not your cup of Liptons.” He checked his clipboard. “Last but certainly least is a zany comedy. You and another star—Bette Midler, if somebody puts a gun to her head—are mothers, each with teenage daughters giving you loads of trouble. Turns out the gals were switched at birth.”

“Imagine that,” Dayle said.

“There’s madcap high jinks galore as you adjust to your real daughter and some heart-tugging moments as you miss that little hellion you’ve come to love now that she isn’t yours anymore.”

“Stop before I throw up. It’ll probably rake in a fortune. You may shoot me if I ever show interest in a project like that. Anything else?”

Dennis consulted his clipboard again. “Messages worth mentioning—you had a call from Leigh Simone this morning.”

Dayle turned to glance at him. “Really?”

A call from Leigh Simone was pretty heady stuff. The vibrant, black rock artist was the kind of superstar even other stars admired. Already a legend, she’d been dubbed The High Priestess of Rock.

“We’re almost done here, Ms. Sutton,” one of the wardrobe women said. “You can lower your arms now.”

“Thanks, Pam,” Dayle let her tired arms drop to her sides. She gave Dennis a nonchalant look. “So—did the call come from Leigh herself?”

“No. From her personal assistant, Estelle. She wants to know if you’re available next Thursday night. I checked, and you are. Leigh has a concert in Portland. She’s donating the profits—speak of the devil—to one of Tony Katz’s favorite charities. Leigh wants you to read a tribute to him.”

Dayle frowned. “Why me? I met Tony only a couple of times. That hardly qualifies me to give his eulogy at some benefit.”

“In Hollywood it does. Besides, this is a worthwhile cause, and publicitywise, it wouldn’t hurt to share a stage with rock’s high priestess.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” Dayle said. “Listen, I could use some time alone here. Are we almost finished, Pam?”

“All done, Miss Sutton.”

“Hallelujah.” She smiled at the seamstresses, then turned to Dennis. Her smile slipped away. “Knock when they need me on the set, okay?”

“Will do.” He and the two wardrobe women headed out the trailer door.

“Damn,” Dayle muttered, now alone. She felt as if she were suffocating. She wanted to strip off the tight gown and yank the blond wig from her head. Maybe then she’d breathe easier.

She hated feeling so afraid. It clashed with the image she’d built up for herself: Dayle Sutton, the strong, sexy, intelligent actress. Sixteen years ago, when she’d first started making movies, Dayle had fought against playing glamour girl roles. She had to prove that she was more than a pretty girl with a head of long, wavy auburn hair and the body of a centerfold. An Academy Award helped earn her respect—and superstardom. Playboy labeled her “The Thinking Man’s Sex Symbol.” Back in the late eighties, she’d refused an offer to appear on their cover in a skimpy bunny suit.

But a year ago, Vanity Fair seemed to fulfill Dayle’s longtime wish by calling her “Down to Earth Actress, Dayle Sutton.” The epithet was emblazoned at the bottom of an Annie Leibovitz cover photo of Dayle up to her shoulders in a mud bath. It was a provocative pose, sexy and smart.

That had been before the tepid box office of Survival Instincts—and all those rumors that she was gay. Not only had Dayle’s career suffered, but she’d also incurred the wrath of several anti-gay groups. Plus the film’s depiction of hunters had outraged the gun advocates. Dayle had received stacks of venomous hate mail—and dozens of death threats. She’d made a great show of nonchalance, but it had been a scary time.

In a way, the short life of Survival Instincts in the theaters and video stores was a blessing. The gun lovers and the gay haters quickly found other targets for their animosity, and Dayle was able to breathe easier.

She wasn’t ready to set herself up as a target again by playing this lesbian lawyer character. Social conscience be damned. What happened to Tony Katz was a startling reminder of how far some people could go with their intolerance. The same fate might have befallen her when Survival Instincts had opened. In an ironic way, old Elsie Marshall was right. Perhaps Tony had bought his death upon himself. Though married, he refused to change his lifestyle or avoid controversy. He wasn’t afraid of pissing people off.

And he should have been. What was the old saying? The braver the bird, the fatter the cat. She had good reason to be scared.

Still, Dayle didn’t like herself very much right now. She remembered back when she was a child, all those times making believe she was somebody else. It was one reason she became an actress—to escape from that scared, lonely little girl inside her.

There was a knock on her trailer door, followed by Dennis calling that she was due on the set.

“Thank you, Dennis!” she called, her eyes closed. Dayle emerged from the trailer. Stepping over cables, she strolled onto the set: a hotel veranda, overlooking a seascape—to be provided later with back projection. For now, Dayle’s stand-in, Bonny McKenna, waited on the fake balcony in front of a blue screen. Dressed in a white gown and donning a blond wig, she drank a Diet Coke. She grinned at Dayle, and offered her the can of pop.

“You’re a lifesaver.” Dayle took a sip from Bonny’s straw.

Four years younger, Bonny was Dayle’s mirror image—only not quite as beautiful, like the kid sister who didn’t quite match up to her gorgeous sibling. Bonny had been a policewoman for several years, and was married to a cop. The star and her stand-in were best friends on the set. Bonny stepped behind Dayle and massaged her shoulders. “God, you feel tense,” she whispered. “You okay?”

“Just peachy.” Dayle sighed, “Oh, that feels like heaven. Don’t stop.”

“Quiet on the set!” someone yelled. “Places!”

“So much for not stopping,” Bonny said, pulling away.

Dayle handed her the Diet Coke. “Thanks anyway.” Stepping on her mark, she took a deep breath. The man with the clapboard announced the scene and take. The cameras began to roll. Then Dayle Sutton became someone else.

Dayle chose her black silk pantsuit with the big rhinestone buttons for the Screen Legends Salute tomorrow night. She would be a presenter. People magazine ran a photo of her last year in this suit when they put her on their Best Dressed list. Understated elegance.

She hung the pantsuit, still in its dry cleaning bag, on her closet door for tomorrow morning. She’d change at the studio, have her hair and makeup done there, then go to the event. A long day ahead.

Dayle took another sip of Cabernet, finishing off the glass. “Let’s go, Fred,” she told the short-hair gray tabby lying at the foot of her bed. He was named after Federico Fellini. She didn’t trust him alone around the silk suit. He’d start clawing at that plastic bag the minute her back was turned. “C’mon, babe,” she called, strolling toward the kitchen with her empty glass.

Sometimes late at night when she couldn’t sleep, she’d pour a verboten brandy, then wander around her beautiful penthouse and admire what she’d done with the place. The apartment had been featured in Architectural Digest a few years ago: her spacious living room had a fireplace and a panoramic view of Los Angeles; in the dining room, an ornate inlaid cherry-wood table seated twenty; her study held a large antique desk and volumes of books, which The Thinking Man’s Sex Symbol had read. She’d carefully chosen the artwork for these rooms, including two original Hopper paintings, a small Monet, and a Jackson Pollock. The art piece that most fascinated the Architectural Digest people was a glass-top pedestal in her living room. It held her Academy Award. The base and stem of the pedestal had been forged from several pairs of broken and tattered high heels wired together to create a swirling funnel effect. Dayle had worn out all those shoes walking from auditions to agencies during her struggling starlet days. “I saved them, knowing I’d do something with them one day,” she told the interviewer.

The magazine layout also included photos of her private exercise room and the modern kitchen. But they weren’t allowed to take any pictures of the large, informal pantry and TV room area off the kitchen. This was where Dayle let herself relax, where she snuggled up with Fred in her lap to study a film script, or indulge in some low-fat microwave popcorn and a good video. Of the four fireplaces, the one in this room was used most. The best view came from this picture window: a sweeping vista of the Hollywood hills. The walls were decorated with framed photos of herself with other celebrities and a few of her better magazine covers. It was the only room in the place where she felt comfortable putting her feet up on the furniture. The other rooms were for entertaining. This one was for friends and family. But Dayle had spent the majority of her time in this cozy room alone with Fred. Thank God for the cat.

She poured a half glass of wine, sank back on the sofa, and let Fred curl up in her lap. Dayle reached for the remote and switched on the TV. The news came on. The anchorwoman was talking about a Fullerton couple who had died in a boating accident. Then the picture switched to what looked like a protest demonstration.

“Two weeks after the deaths of Tony Katz and James Gelder, a special memorial service was held in Seattle, Washington, for Gelder, the thirty-two-year-old ‘other victim’ in the still-unsolved double murder,” the newscaster announced.

Dayle stared at the TV, and a line of demonstrators marching in front of a church. There were about a dozen of them, and they held anti-gay signs, the same FAGS BURN IN HELL slogans brandished for Tony Katz’s funeral. In fact, according to the anchorwoman, this demonstration had been organized by the same minister who had masterminded the protest at Tony’s memorial.

“Assholes,” Dayle muttered, shaking her head at the TV.

“I’m grieving my brother’s death right now, and I don’t need to see this,” James Gelder’s older brother told a reporter outside the church. He was a handsome man in his mid-thirties, impeccably dressed in a dark suit. Behind him, the demonstrators waved their signs. “It’s wrong,” the surviving brother went on. “Jimmy was happily married. He wasn’t gay. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“Oh, so if he was gay, he’d deserve it?” Dayle growled at the TV. She wasn’t mad at him—really. All of it was so wrong. Frowning, she grabbed the remote, switched off the TV, and got ready for bed.

While brushing her teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, she glared at her reflection. “Gutless,” she said to herself. Was she going to let malignant morons like that minister and those idiot protesters scare her? How could she allow them to influence her career choices? If anything, she wanted to defy them.

Dayle rinsed out her mouth, marched down the hall to her study, and switched on her computer. The film star was dressed for bed in a very unglamourous, extra-large man’s T-shirt. She clicked on to e-mail and sent the following message to Dennis Walsh:


Dayle bit her lip, and quickly typed the next part and sent it before she had time to change her mind:


Dayle Sutton didn’t know that she’d just written her own death warrant.

“I’m definitely interested if Dayle Sutton’s interested,” Avery Cooper grunted between push-ups on the floor of his trailer. He was talking on the speaker phone to his agent, Louise.

“The script’s a little dog-eared, but they’re rewriting it. With Soren Eberhart at the helm and Dayle Sutton starring, you’re in great company.” Louise paused. “By the way, what’s with all the huffing and puffing? What are you doing? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“I’m doing my crunches,” Avery said, sitting for a moment to catch his breath. The shirtless thirty-four-year-old actor worked hard on his taut physique. Yet fans considered Avery Cooper more “cute” than “hunky.” The handsome, blue-eyed former TV star never made anyone’s Sexiest Man Alive list. Still, he possessed a sweet, beguiling, nice-guy appeal that made him enormously popular during the five-year run of his hit TV sitcom. Those same qualities had landed him a role as the hapless hero who comes to the aid of a hooker in danger, played by America’s new sweetheart superstar, Traci Haydn. The film was called Expiration Date, and he had one more week shooting here in Vancouver, British Columbia (doubling for Seattle), before they returned to the Hollywood studios for interior shots. Avery couldn’t wait to get home.

“Devil’s advocate time,” Louise announced. “You ought to consider the possible backlash to playing this gay man. You just had a controversial role. Maybe you should play it safe for a while.”

“Do you mean that, Louise?”

“Not a syllable, but I had to say it for the record.”

Avery smiled. He loved Louise. She’d been his agent for nine years. She understood him. “This is a good part, Avery,” she said. “But you can make some enemies. The network says you’re still receiving poison-pen letters for the TV movie last month.”

The film, called Intent to Kill, tapped into Avery’s nice-guy image. He played a doctor, paralyzed after being gunned down by protesters outside an abortion clinic. The controversial “network event” won him critical raves—along with piles of hate mail, even some death threats.

Avery got to his feet and grabbed a couple of thirty-pound dumbbell weights. “A lot of the letters were very supportive,” he pointed out.

“And a lot of them were damn scary,” Louise said.

Someone knocked on the trailer door. “C’mon in,” Avery called.

Bob, a studio gofer, stepped into the trailer, and set a package on the sofa. “This arrived for you special delivery a little while ago, Avery. Looks kind of personal. I don’t know.”

Avery put down the weights. “Great. Thanks, Bob.”

Bob ducked out of the trailer, not closing the door entirely.

“What did you get?” Louise asked over the speaker phone.

“I don’t know yet,” Avery said, reaching for the box. He tore off the brown wrapping. “There’s no return address.”

“Well, wait a minute!” Louise barked. “What if it’s a letter bomb or something? You already have all these nuts wanting you dead. Wait—”

“Too late, Louise,” Avery said. The box bore a Ralph Lauren polo insignia. He set the top aside, parted the folds of tissue paper, and found a card resting on a gray hand-knit sweater.

“What it is?” Louise asked.

“It’s a sweater that must have cost a few hundred bucks.” Frowning, Avery read the card insert. “Here’s what the enclosure says: I bet it’s cold up there in Canada. Thought you’d need this. Love, Libby. P.S. Did you like the tie? Why haven’t I heard from you?”

“My Lord,” Louise muttered. “She just won’t give up, will she? You’re too nice. You should let me or someone from the studio write and tell her in a polite way to piss off.”

The sweater was the most recent in a long line of gifts Avery had received from an obsessive woman named Libby Stoddard, who claimed to be his biggest fan. She’d sent the first present a year ago, a book on Bob Hope, because Avery had said in an interview that he was a sucker for old Bob Hope movies. He thanked Libby in a letter and included an autographed glossy. She thanked him right back with a video of Son of Paleface. After that, her presents became more extravagant. Avery started sending them back. He stopped enclosing “No Thank You,” notes with the return packages, figuring they fed something in her. Shortly before Avery had left for Vancouver, he got a call at home, and was stunned to hear a woman on the other end of the line say, “I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you! This is Libby.”

He probably should have hung up on her right away, but he was stupid enough to think he could talk sense to her. “Um, hello,” he managed to say. “How did you get my home number?”

She laughed. “I hired someone to find out for me, that’s all. I have a lot of money, you ought to know that from the presents I send. This is so neat! How are you, Avery?”

“Well, ah, Libby, I’m—not too happy about this call. I know you’re probably a really nice person, but this is an invasion of my privacy. The gifts you’ve sent are very generous, but—”

“I thought for sure you’d keep the aviator jacket. It cost a lot.”

“I’m sure it did. That’s why I sent it back to you. This has to stop. I can’t have you buying me all these clothes—”

“But I want to. . . .”

“Well, what you’re doing borders on harassment. And I don’t think that’s your intention.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, in a hurt little-girl voice. “Is your wife there? Is that why you’re saying these things? Should I call back later?”

Avery took a deep breath. “I’m asking you not to call me or send me any more gifts. I’m sure your intentions are good, but—”

“I can’t believe you’d be this ungrateful,” she said. “I must have caught you at a bad time. Listen, it’s okay. I’ll call back later—”

“No—”

“Don’t worry, I still love you, Avery.” Then she hung up.

Avery had left for Vancouver two days later. There had been several hang-ups on his answering machine during those forty-eight hours. His caller ID showed seven of those calls were from “L. B. Stoddard: 555-1939.”

Now she’d discovered the film location address here in Vancouver. Avery stared at the sweater. “Christ,” he muttered. “Think she’ll ever give up?”

“Highly doubtful,” Louise said. “I told you last year when you left the show—you need someone to run fan interference. The network did it for you for five years. You can’t be Mr. Nice Guy all the time, Avery. Let me handle this Libby character, okay? I’ll have my assistant, Nola, send her a very officious letter telling her to knock it off.”

“I guess you better.” Avery set the Ralph Lauren box on the sofa.

At that moment, someone stepped into the trailer. “Hey, nice . . .”

Avery looked up and caught Traci Haydn leering at him. The twenty-seven-year-old ash blonde with an angel’s face was smoking a cigarette. Her breasts stretched her blue T-shirt to its fiber limit. The shirt barely came down over her rib cage, exposing her toned belly and a gold ring piercing her navel.

“Traci, hi,” was all Avery could say.

“Where have you been hiding that bod, Avery?”

She tossed her cigarette outside, then shut the door. “Is there a no-shirts policy in this trailer?” she asked. Then with a giggle, she shucked the tiny T-shirt over her head.

Avery backed into his dressing table. “Jesus, Traci . . .”

A bobby pin must have come out when she tossed off the shirt, because some of the blond hair fell over her eyes, and Traci looked damn sexy. But he loved his wife, and this woman was trouble.

“Traci, put your clothes back on. There are people outside—”

Sauntering toward him, Traci grinned. “If the trailer’s rockin’, they won’t come knockin’.”

“Lord, did I hear her right?” Louise asked over the speaker phone. “Did she really just say that??