Film at Eleven. Kelsey Roberts
“We’ve got to take the next caller, John, good luck,” Chandler said, pressing one of the blinking lights on the phone in front of him. He greeted the caller by name as provided by his producer.
Chandler smiled over at the small woman with the authoritative tone. She was too damned cute to be such a tight ass. He’d actually found her book enlightening, insightful even. His producer had insisted he mention the section on sex. The plan had been to mention it once to please the higher-ups, and then move on. Then he saw Molly Jameson.
She was a prim, professional package at serious odds with the frank discussion on sexuality he’d read. This, of course, was far, far sexier. There was something incredibly appealing about this woman. He guessed she was much more than a pretty face hidden beneath a layer of navy linen.
Chandler had to struggle to look interested as the next few callers chimed in. Three women involved with losers who couldn’t or wouldn’t stop the cycle of the dead-end relationship. To her credit, Molly seemed to be taking it all in stride.
“…time for you to put a period on this relationship and move on,” Molly advised. “Don’t look at it as a failure, think of the two years you spent with Tony as a learning experience.”
“Thank you.”
Chandler listened as his producer’s voice boomed in his ear, then said, “Dr. Jameson, our first caller, John, is calling back.”
“Hello again, John,” she said.
Chandler watched as she wiped her damp palms across her lap. Odd that such a confident woman should be so uncomfortable on camera.
“I took your advice,” the caller stated.
“That’s good, John,” Molly replied, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Hey, John?” Chandler asked, “You only called a few minutes ago. How did you change your life in such a short period of time?”
“I did what she said,” John answered. “I just killed my mother.”
Chapter Two
“It worked! They bought it.” Feeling triumphant and high on success, he looked at his companion.
Approval. Admiration. Reading that in those eyes eased the rapid pounding of his heart. He felt fortified, bolstered. Because he’d done his part perfectly, the plan was in motion.
“Patience, son.”
Oh, for— He didn’t want to be patient. Not anymore. Patient sucked. It was his time, damn it! His turn. Without responding to the unnecessary caution, he rose and went into the tiny, galley-style kitchen and ran water over his hands until the stream went from red, to pink, to clear. Grabbing the vegetable brush his mother kept in a frog on the lip of the sink, he began scrubbing at his finger tips. Who knew it would be so hard to get blood out from under his nails?
How like his mother to be a pain in the ass even in death.
His companion stood, collected his briefcase and brought it over to the kitchen table. The metal locks clicked loudly as he depressed the tabs. “This should tide you over through the next phase.”
Drying his hands, he moved to ogle the tidy rows of money displayed neatly in the open leather briefcase. Wiping his palms down the leg of his pants first, he lifted one banded stack of bills. Heavier than he’d’ve thought. His heartbeat sped up as he fanned the crisp notes, enjoying the breeze created against his face. “This is great.”
His companion pulled the money from his grip and dropped it back into the case with an authoritative plop. He closed the lid and snapped the locks back in place. As if he had the right. As if he still owned the money. “This is to be used as we agreed.”
“I know.” Of course he knew. Hadn’t he gone over and over this countless times? He wasn’t a moron. Still, as much as he resented it, he craved the man’s approval.
“You must stay focused. Too much is at stake here.” His expression softened as he returned the cash. Next, he reached beneath the bills and took out a metal rod with a circular emblem welded to one end. “You know what to do?”
Once again he felt torn; irritated by the implication that he didn’t know what he was doing, and then annoyed by his need for approval. He nodded stiffly. “I rigged the propane tank out back.” Why did he always have to explain himself? Hadn’t he proven that he was loyal and capable? The right choice to lead them toward their destiny? Hadn’t he made the ultimate sacrifice?
“Can I trust you to handle the rest of the arrangements on your own?”
“Of course,” he answered, resentment building at always having his abilities questioned. “I’ve got it under control.”
His companion nodded, turned to leave, then hesitated. “There is much at stake.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. “I know that.” Feeling more in control, now that he had the money and he’d accomplished the biggest hurdle, he reined in his temper. This powerful man would see a display of temper as a sign of weakness. Just you wait, he thought, feeling smug and self-satisfied as he stood, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes downcast. Just you freaking wait. Soon he’d be the one making all the decisions. He’d be the big man in charge.
That was the goal.
That was his destiny.
He was so close to making his goal a reality.
“SPEAKING FROM EXPERIENCE, I don’t agree.”
“It was a prank, Dr. Jameson,” Chandler insisted. “Do you have any idea how many times this sort of thing has happened in the past?”
Molly squared her shoulders, feeling mildly annoyed that she had to tilt her head back in order to hold his gaze. He was the most annoying man. And the prime reason she felt that way, she had to admit, was her body’s visceral reaction to him. His insistence that the man on the phone had been pulling a prank was, in her professional judgment, a huge mistake. The caller had sounded not only completely sincere, he’d sounded triumphant.
The fact that she was both annoyed and strangely attracted to Landry bugged the hell out of her. There weren’t two more diametrically opposed people on the planet. “You have people committing and confessing to murders on air often, do you?” Molly demanded, trying to drag her libido back in line. Plenty of men had sparkling brown eyes and long dimples in their lean cheeks. Landry looked as though he had a delicious secret.
Molly didn’t care to find out what that might be.
He was good-looking. So what? Jasper had hundreds of good-looking men.
He rolled those chocolate-colored eyes at her pithy comment, and made a dismissive sound that made her want to smack his smugly handsome face. A reaction that horrified her. Not only didn’t she have a temper—under normal circumstances—but her training had taught her the pitfalls of physical violence. In under an hour this man had turned her into someone she didn’t recognize.
She took a deep, calming breath and reminded herself that Chandler was a news reader, hardly in a position to assess the seriousness of a mentally disturbed person appropriately. “He—”
Chandler cut her off. “People seek attention, Molly. It’s a risk and a reality on live TV. It was probably just some fool getting his kicks at our expense.”
“I didn’t get that sense,” she replied, keeping her voice reasonable with an effort.
“We’ve got to clear the studio,” Chandler gathered his script sheets into a pile and stood. “Let’s go back to my office. We can wait for Seth there. I’m sure it was a joke,” he assured her for the umpteenth time. Her gray-green eyes narrowed as she looked up at him, and he saw she wasn’t going for his theory one bit. He sighed inwardly. She was a shrink. Hell, she’d see mental defect in everyone as a matter of course. “Sick,” he said firmly, “but a joke nevertheless.”