“No, a … friend left this here.”
“Oh, sure. Sorry.” Lana wondered which of the stunning women in the red-carpet photos was the artist.
Whoever it was, it was a timely reminder that there was only one reason she was here, and it had nothing to do with Griffin Hart lying shirtless in bed.
He set down the pad, smoothing his fingers down a fresh sheet. “I thought it might be helpful to write everything down.”
They went through what they knew, and the act of putting it on paper settled Lana’s mind—and her hormones—though the past day had raised more questions than it had answered. They knew Vivien was potentially pregnant, and was obsessed by a secret “that could blow lives apart,” details of which were probably on her missing laptop. She’d gone to the police withan apparently crazy idea but they’d dismissed it. Someone—possibly someone famous—had put a restraining order on her, and later lifted it, which might or might not be related to whatever theory she had going. She’d begged for help from the pocket-dial man, complaining that someone was after her, and then tossed her phone and vanished.
“So where does all that lead us?” Lana drew out her phone and looked at the photos she took in Vivien’s room. Was she missing something?
“That reminds me.” Griffin got up and plugged his phone into a charger on the kitchen counter.
“Do you use burners too?”
“In the sense that I switch phones every month or so? Yeah, I do. And numbers.”
“You have to give everyone you know a new number every month?”
“Everyone?”
“Family, friends…”
“Let’s see.” He leaned on the counter, scrolling through his contacts. “Dad, Darnell, my publicist, Estelle, my security detail, my agent, my personal trainer, Mom, Natasha, Sofia, a handful of others.”
“That’s it?”
“When you whittle down your contact list every month or two you soon figure out who means something to you.”
“Do you use internet messaging for the rest?”
“No messaging, no email, no social media—nothing private, anyway. My publicist manages my public pages. I’m basically living in the eighties, without a landline.” He sat back down, his leg grazing Lana’s. “A friend of mine had her supposedly secure messages hacked. It almost ended her career. Are you on social media?”
“I post about books but only my colleagues read them. And Vivien—she comments on every one. Though obviously not for a while.”
On her phone, Lana zoomed in on the newspaper photo of her parents. So young and cute. She panned across to the library book. “A window into the soul,” she said to herself.
“I’m sorry?”
“Vivien’s library reading list. She had a book out on adoption—I wonder what else. Do you have a laptop I can use?”
“My laptop’s in my trailer. I have a tablet?” He leaned across and grabbed it from under a cookbook on the counter. The back of his T-shirt rode up and she got a little thrill at the flash of skin, though she was well acquainted with his bare torso.
She logged into the library system with her staff access and opened Vivien’s account. “I could get in big trouble for this.” She sensed Griffin side-eyeing her. “Okay, sure, it’s a perspective thing.”
“Anything pop out?” he asked, reading over her shoulder.
“A book on adoption law, a guide to the L.A. film industry, a book about attachment theory, a book about DNA. The rest are novels and celebrity memoirs.” She sighed. “I don’t think this is going to crack the case wide open.” She looked out over the city. “I just can’t help thinking that she’s out there somewhere, and she needs me and…” Her voice wobbled.
Griffin put his arm around her and pulled her in, which made her yearn for him even while he was touching her. She allowed herself the comfort of resting her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes, breathed him in. They sat in silence for several minutes, and Lana’s anxiety lifted. She sensed a change in the air, and a second later, felt a light touch on her forehead. She opened her eyes. With one finger, Griffin traced her hairline across to her temple, achingly slowly, pushing her hair off her face, and toward her ear. His eyes intently tracked his finger’sprogress, his warm breath skimming her cheeks. Her own breath deepened. It might be just the tip of one finger, but the touch reverberated through her body like it was firing up several dozen meridian lines. He tucked her hair behind her ear and traced the side of her neck down to the collarbone. She shuddered. Finally, his gaze left his finger and met hers, his expression reflecting her own longing. Here was the point that this couldn’t be dismissed as something abstract. This was happening, and every part of her wanted it.
“Lana?” he said in a gravelly tone. A question. A question she answered by extending her neck to bring her lips closer to his. He moved his hand to her nape, driving strong fingers into her hair. His other arm closed around her waist.
When their lips met, she felt it in a dozen places at once—in the hollow of her collarbone where his touch still lingered, in her breasts where they pressed against his chest, in a fire between her legs, and deep, deep inside.
She moved to fully face him, drawing her leg onto the sofa, and deepened the kiss, exploring the liquid satin of his mouth. She moaned, and he pulled her into his lap. A few thin layers of fabric separated her core from him.
He broke off, panting. “You sure about this, Lana?”
