Page 8 of One Filthy Kiss

“Did a young woman with a little girl hand in their passes when they left?”

The guard checks the screen in front of him. “Yes, sir. They left at eight-fifteen.”

It’s only eight-fifteen? It’s been a long day already. “Can you tell me their names?”

His nose wrinkles momentarily. He shouldn’t divulge their names because of data protection, but I can see him internally weighing up his options. Refuse politely or keep me happy.

Eventually, he goes with the latter.

“Megan Walsh and Amber Walsh.”

“Did they leave a contact telephone number?”

“Sir, I’m not sure if I should give you that information.” Heat travels up his neck and into his face, making him look as if he spent too long in the sun without any sunblock.

“What about an address?” I’m pushing my luck, and I know it.

“Sir, I don’t think I?—”

I’m Giovanni Sabatelli, and I’m used to getting what I want, but I wanted to stick to the shadows here at the film studio, at least while I’m learning the ropes. The guy doesn’t know that I pay his wages; he’s only doing his job. I’ll find her, one way or another.

Ric steps into the security post’s doorway, filling the gap with his shoulders.

“It’s not my place,” the guard continues, trying to block the screen from Ric’s view. His gaze settles on a written message on the notepad in front of him, and he latches onto it like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline. “There’s a message for you, Mr. Sabatelli. Someone wants you to meet them at the Venice Whaler Bar for breakfast.”

“Someone?” I wait for him to elaborate.

“I didn’t take the call, sir, but they left their cell number.”

I take the number and head straight to my car. By the time Ric pulls onto the freeway toward Venice Beach, I’ve already tried calling and got the user’s voicemail. I don’t leave a message. Instead, I type a text and hit send.

Who is this?

A reply comes straight back:Meet me at the Whaler and you’ll find out.

I stare out of the tinted window of the car.

The text is from a woman. This isn’t my enemies’ style; they don’t like to play games. If they wanted to find me, I wouldn’t be sitting here now cruising along Venice Beach, I’d be shark-food somewhere deep in the ocean. Unfortunately for me, the woman I kissed was too angry to arrange a rendezvous in a popular bar on one of LA’s most prominent promenades. The way she left, I got the impression she’d be happy if she never saw me again.

I ball my hands into fists.

Who left the message?

I type a response.I don’t like games.

You’ll like this one.

I think I’ll pass.

Then I sit back and wait. My phone remains quiet. She doesn’t bite, which means she’s either certain that I’ll show, or she can take it or leave it.

Both options have intrigued me.

When I arrive, Ric follows me to the outside bar where I instantly recognize a woman in a mint-green pantsuit and wide-brimmed sunhat, dark sunglasses covering her eyes. She’s sipping iced coffee through a straw so as not to spoil her glossy red lipstick and staring out across the turquoise ocean. To an outsider, she appears calm, at peace with the world, a woman with time on her hands.

But the primly crossed legs and the casual stance are well-practiced. A façade.

Ric assumes his post in a discreet corner of the seating area, and I slide onto the bar stool beside my sister.