“Anyone in Corporate.” He frowns. “Anyone who has Bobby’s permission.”
A chill travels along my neck as if a breeze has just ruffled my hair. “Where is it kept?”
“There’s one at every center. Every comp is supposed to be logged, but they get pretty careless. Why would they comp Lisa?”
We reach my car in only a few steps, but I feel I’ve run a mile.
“That’s what I want to find out. Can you check at the center?”
“Okay. I’ll call later on, see what I can find out.” I realize I’m starting to trust him in spite of myself, maybe even kind of like him.
He looks better outdoors than in. That’s why the suits, the glasses, appear to trap him. He makes eye contact, and without a word, lets me know that he’s aware I’m admiring his appearance.
I speak more harshly than before. “What kind of people are usually comped?”
“People Bobby Warren wants to impress. Old friends of his, public figures. They do it all the time for the media.” Never ceasing eye contact, he waits a beat, then adds, “Bobby loves the media.”
I groan. “You know what I need to do, don’t you?”
His sigh is audible, even on this noisy strip of concrete. “You want to interview my boss.”
“I really have to,” I tell him.
He reaches in his suit jacket, toys with his dark glasses. “You know what I wish, Rikki? I wish you liked us better.”
“Usbeing the royal us or the collective us?”
“Collective, I guess. Bobby. Hell,me.I wish, right now, that you liked me better than you do, okay?”
“I do like you.” Damn, maybe Lucas Morrison really is as vulnerable as he appears right now. Not all beautiful women are stupid. Nor do all handsome men have to be liars, do they?
“But you don’t trust me. Or Bobby, either, for that matter.”
“I don’t know, Lucas.”
I find my keys, jiggle them, as he is jiggling his sunglasses. Two different escape routes. Will I drive away before he puts on the shades?
“Neither do I, Rikki.” He gives me a look that brings new meaning to the wordguileless.“I love the old man. My job, one of them, at least, is to publicize Killer Body. Still, I can’t let you do a number on him.”
“I don’t want to do a number on him. I just want to know the truth about Julie Larimore.”
“And your cousin.”
It isn’t a question.
“And my cousin.”
I reach for the car door, insert the key. “You going to be at the TV interview?”
“If I can get in.”
“Meet me there. I’ll get you in.”
My key still in the lock, I look up at him. He reaches for the glasses. His dark eyes spark out more light than this weary Southern California sky has for many years.
“I feel as if we’re pulling on opposite ends of the same rope,” he says.
“Me, too.”
