Public Secrets

repeated, then moved up the steps in her patented style.

She left the door wide for him to close, then walked through the foyer without a backward glance. Angie didn’t doubt he would follow. Men always followed. After tossing her sunglasses aside she turned into what she liked to call the drawing room. She opened a Louis Quinze cabinet and removed two glasses.
“Scotch or bourbon?” She knew he was in the doorway, hesitating.
“I’m on duty,” he murmured. His eyes were drawn, and she had known they would be, to the full-length portrait over the fireplace. He’d seen it before, standing in the same spot, with Emma beside him.
“Of course. It’s comforting to know you take your duty seriously.” She turned to the bar, chose a soft drink, and poured it into a glass. “You do take your duty seriously, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Smiling, Angie held the glass up. “You’re allowed a Coke, right? I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes. Get to know you.” She took a sip from her own drink, her eyes steady over the rim. “Since you’re going to be taking care of me for a while. Come on.” She ran her tongue over her top lip. Angie considered each word, each move another strand in the web she enjoyed weaving. There was nothing more satisfying than catching a man in the soft, sticky web of sex. “I won’t bite.”
She waited until He’d accepted the glass before she spread herself on the sofa. It couldn’t be called sitting. She arched her back into the corner plumped with cushions, stretched her arm lazily over the back. The silk of her jumpsuit rustled quietly as she crossed her legs.
“Sit down.” She sipped her drink again. Beneath the practiced seductive smile an excitement was building. He was so young, and lean. His body would be hard as rock. And he’d be eager. Once she eased him over his initial shyness—that itself an attraction—he’d be beautiful. She decided he was just into his middle twenties, and able to fuck for hours. Angie wagged her fingers at the neighboring cushion. “Tell me about yourself.”
He sat, because he felt like an idiot standing in the middle of the room with a glass of Coke in his hand. He wasn’t stupid. His initial impression of her intentions had been right on the mark. The problem was, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do about it.

“Second-generation cop,” he began. “Native Californian.” He drank, telling himself he was relaxed. For Christ’s sake, he was twenty-four. If the amazing Ms. Parks wanted to flirt, he could oblige her. “And a fan.” He smiled. Angie nearly purred.
“Really?”
“I’ve seen all your movies.” Once again, his gaze was drawn to the portrait.
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah. It’s stunning.”
Her movements slow and fluid, she reached over to pluck a cigarette from a Lalique holder. She held it up, watching him until he remembered himself and reached for the matching table lighter. “Help yourself,” she told him, indicating the cigarettes.
He was already planning on what he would tell the guys in the locker room. They’d drool with envy at the thought of him sitting on Angie Parks’s sofa. “I’ve seen it before.”
“What’s that?”
“The portrait.” He drew smoke in and nearly relaxed. “It’s funny when you think of it. I was here, seven or eight years ago, I guess. With Emma.”
Angie’s gaze sharpened. “McAvoy?”
“Yeah. I ran into her on the beach one summer. We’d met a few years before that. I gave her a lift home. Well, here. I think you were in Europe filming.”
“Mmmm.” She considered the idea a moment, then smiled. It made it all the more interesting somehow. Here she was on the verge of seducing one of little Emma McAvoy’s friends—and playing Emma’s mama in what was sure to be the hottest movie of the year. And it would be all the more interesting to think of herself as Jane while they made love. “Small world.” She set her glass aside to lean forward and toy with the buttons of his shirt. “Do you see much of Emma?”
“No. Well, actually I saw her last month when she was in town.”
“Isn’t that sweet.” The first button popped open. “Are you two … involved?”
“No. That is … No. Miss Parks.”
“Angie.” She blew a light stream of smoke in his face, then crushed out her cigarette. “And what is your name, darling?”
“Michael. Michael Kesselring. I don’t—”
Her movements stopped. “Kesselring? Any relation to the investigating officer on