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He took my hand and kissed it. No one snickered. Amazing what the British can get away with.
"Jaime, please, and the pleasure's mine. At the risk of gushing, I'm such a fan. I bought your first season on DVD just last week, when it finally came stateside."
Actually, I'd ordered all three seasons from the U.K. when I realized I'd be working with him. Can't pull a convincing fan-girl if you haven't studied the material.
Claudia appeared from nowhere. "Mr. Grady, Dr. Robson wanted to speak to--"
He cut her off with a "go away" flutter of his fingers. Claudia glared at me.
"She's right," I said. "You have people to meet and I don't want to monopolize you. What do you say we do the rounds together, save everyone from having to introduce themselves twice?"
He gave me his arm and let Claudia escort us over to Dr. Robson, a parapsychologist the show had hired as an expert. As I asked about Dr. Robson's studies in electronic voice phenomena--more homework--Grady's hand slid to my lower back then began inching down. When Bruce Wang, a specialist in ghost photography, approached, I used the excuse to slide from Grady's grasp and shake Wang's hand. It's a balancing act--being flirtatious enough to flatter without arousing expectations.
As we chatted, talk turned to speculation over Starr Phillips's mystery replacement. Robson had heard a rumor that it was Buck Locke. I prayed he was wrong. Last time I'd met the abrasive TV spiritualist, he'd offered to teach me the secret of tantric magic--sex magic--to enhance my link with the afterlife, and I'd made the unfortunate mistake of laughing. Worse yet, I'd done so as he'd stood in my hotel room doorway, wearing only a robe, which he'd let hang open to display the full "extent" of his offer.
We were still naming names when a murmur rippled through the room. I followed it to the door. In walked two men in shades, like FBI agents from a B movie. Between them stood a tiny, ephemerally beautiful girl in a silver dress. She had long blond hair, perfect porcelain skin and blue saucer eyes--far bluer than anything nature could produce.
Her gaze went straight to me, and she clapped her hands together, giving a kittenish mew of delight. She floated over, chiffon scarf streaming behind.
"Jaime Vegas. Oh, my sweet Lord, it is you!" She took both my hands and clasped them as she gazed up in limpid adoration. "You're my idol. I've been following your career since I was--" a girlish laugh, "--knee-high to a grasshopper, as my daddy would say."
A cameraman and a journalist appeared behind her, recording every frame and word. I tilted my head to my best angle and swept my hair back so it wouldn't block my profile. The lens inched my way.
"That's so sweet of you," I said. "And you must be...?"
"Angelique...but my friends call me Angel. The Angel of the South."
"Oh, of course. Let me guess, you're the third spiritualist."
"I am. Can you believe that?" An earsplitting squeal of a giggle. "My big chance to work with Jaime Vegas. I was so afraid you'd retire before I got the chance."
I gave a throaty laugh. "Don't worry, I'm not retiring for a while."
Around us, the party had stopped, everyone watching the drama unfold.
"So, do you have any theories on Marilyn's death?" I asked.
"Oh, it was such a tragedy," she said. "Someone so young and beautiful, called to heaven too soon. My daddy--he's a minister, you know--always says--"
"I meant theories on how she died."
A wave of titters.
"Oh, yes, of course. Well, er, that's what we're here to learn, isn't it? To free her from the limbo of a tragic passing, to discover who wronged so innocent a soul."
"So you think she was murdered? Are you leaning toward the Kennedys or the Mafia?"
"Oh, my Lord, that is such a beautiful dress. So daring. My daddy would die if I wore something like that. You're so brave!" She waved to the cameraman. "Doug, you have to get a shot of the two of us, for my press release."
I pictured that shot and realized how I'd look towering over the fresh-faced, virginal blond.
"Unless you don't want to..." she said, her eyes wide with innocence.
"And miss the chance to get my picture taken with a rising star? Never. Doug, hon, can you make sure I get a copy of it?"
"Absolutely. Is there a mailing address?"
"Just bring it up to my room. Top of the stairs."
