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Chapter One
Stacy Roberts tucked a condom into the cleavage-boosting bustier she wore beneath her wispy, white angel costume, and eyed her reflection in her vanity mirror. Nice. The Lycra miracle pushed her breasts together and created the kind of view that guaranteed no man would have the first clue what color her eyes were tonight, and—bonus points—not a trace of the little foil square showed through. She considered adding a wingman to the other side when a voice interrupted her musings.
“‘I’m out of patience, Stacy,’” Kylie read. “‘Resign from Vegas Vixens and leave Hollywood, or you will be sorry. This is your last chance to exit gracefully. Do as you’re told, your show’s producers, sponsors, and fans will learn you’re nothing but a delinquent from Two Trout, Tennessee? A slutty ex-stripper who worked her way from pole dancing at Deuces to a starring role on America’s favorite guilty pleasure? It’s going to get ugly. Sincerely, Your Worst Nightmare.’ What the hell, Stace? Please tell me you’ve shown this to someone?”
Stacy winced inwardly and turned from the mirror. Her twin sister stood in the bedroom doorway wearing a low-cut, skintight red catsuit, lace-up red leather boots, and an anxious expression. She held a devil-horn headband in one hand and a nondescript piece of notebook paper in the other.
Angel or not, Stacy didn’t need divine omniscience to know how Kylie had found the latest letter from her Worst Nightmare. Her assistant, Mandy, must have left it on the desk in the guest room/office where Kylie had gotten dressed for tonight’s party. What Ky didn’t know, thank God, was that Stacy had received a dozen others along the same theme, though progressively more threatening. All were presumably from the same not-so-big fan who always signed off as “Your Worst Nightmare.”
“It’s nothing, Ky, just the price of starring in a hit TV show. Along with all the fan mail, I have to expect a few nasty-grams.” She turned back to the mirror and forced an unconcerned shrug—she was an actress, for Christ’s sake, and a decent one for a girl whose only prior Hollywood credits consisted of stripping at Deuces. An eyeliner sat on the vanity top. She grabbed it and leaned toward the mirror. Distract and divert. “The she-devil look totally works for you, by the way. Aren’t you glad you let me pick our costumes?” She drew a smoky line across her upper eyelid. “No way would Trevor be content to sit home tonight and skip Deuces’ Halloween Hedonism party if he could see you now.”
There. That ought to do the trick. The mere mention of hot, handsome, and adorably whipped Trevor McCade typically sent Kylie into an excited monologue about the latest development in Big-White-Weddingville. Too bad the mere mention of Trevor made her think of Ian—
Kylie ignored her diversion tactics. “This isn’t a nasty-gram.”
Stacy silently thanked her sister for unknowingly forcing her thoughts off the dead-end path of Trevor’s aggravatingly arrogant partner, and onto the comparatively safer path of her mail-stalker.
“Well, it sure as hell isn’t a love note. Are you going to wear your hair down?”
“It’s a threat.” Her twin frowned at the letter and came into the room.
Epic fail on switching topics, Stacy thought, and applied eyeliner to her lower lash line with an expert hand.
Kylie stopped beside Stacy’s chair and pinned troubled blue eyes on her sister. “Whoever this is, this so-called ‘Worst Nightmare,’ he’s collected information about you. He knows where you’re from. He knows you used to dance at Deuces, and he knows how to get a letter to you. He could be someone with access. He could be dangerous.”
Stacy focused on her reflection in the mirror and lined her other eye. “Lots of people know I used to work at Deuces, including the producers and my agent. That fascinating fact isn’t exactly classified information. And contrary to what this guy seems to think, breaking the news wouldn’t get me fired. My publicist already has a plan in place. On top of that, thousands of people know where I’m from and how to send me a letter. It’s right there on my website, and on the show’s fan site, for that matter.” No need to mention that the letters had come to her house, and not to her agent. That little detail would only worry her sister, and Kylie was a first-class worrier.
As the mature, responsible twin, Kylie tended to take everything a bit more seriously. As the wild, carefree twin, Stacy prided herself on never letting worry stand in the way of a good time. Unfortunately, she hadn’t felt particularly wild or carefree lately. More like tired, depressed, and—God, how pathetic was she?—lonely. That’s where working fifteen-hour days and ending a long-term relationship she never should have started
in the first place landed a girl. She deliberately rolled her shoulders, easing the tension that wanted to settle at the base of her neck, and silently vowed to reconnect with the old Stacy tonight—the fun, unpredictable, live-for-the-moment Stacy.
“I’m worried.”
Shit. So much for my Academy Award. She mustered up her trademark don’t-eff-with-me smile. “No need. I know exactly how I want to handle this, and my publicist cleared the plan with my agent and the show’s producers. Several reporters will be in front of Deuces tonight. I’ll stop to chat with them on the way into the party, and mention how I got my start in Hollywood dancing at Deuces. Dropping the news myself will take the wind right out of this guy’s ratty little sails. Without the big threat to lord over me, he’ll crawl back into whatever sick, sad cave he crawled out of…”
She trailed off and straightened when she noticed Mandy hovering at the bedroom door. How long had she been there? Her quiet, unassuming assistant personified detail-oriented efficiency, but her dull brown hair, drab clothes, and aversion to makeup made her easy to overlook. Pretty enough, Stacy always found herself thinking, but in dire need of a makeover. One of these days… “Yes, Mandy?”
“I just wanted to let you know the limo is waiting out front.”
Her usual shy smile was missing tonight. Then again, it was Friday—and Halloween. Mandy might have some plans of her own she wanted to get to, but was too timid to speak up and say so. Stacy had no problem cutting her loose a little early.
“Thanks. If you’re done for the day, go ahead and get your Halloween started. Just do me a favor and let the driver know we’ll be down on your way out.”
“Okay, but first, I’ve got a few things that need your signature.” She held up a stack of paper.
Oh yeah, signatures. Her life was full of stuff to sign these days. Contracts, correspondence…paychecks. “Want to come in the limo with us? I’ll sign everything on the way to Deuces, and then the driver can drop you wherever you want to go afterward.”
Ah, there came the shy smile. And a blush. Mandy mumbled, “That’d be awesome. I’ll get my stuff and meet you down there.” She hurried away like Cinderella late to the ball.
“Oh, my! Did you get a load of those beet-red cheeks? Bet she’s got a hot date tonight.”
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
Stacy rolled her eyes. Kylie could be like a dog after a bone sometimes. “We’ve exhausted the subject. I told you, I’ve got this guy handled. After tonight, he’ll go away.”
“Or he’ll get really mad, and escalate from writing letters to…God only knows. You should show this to Ian first, and see how he thinks you should proceed.”
Her idiotic heart stalled at the mention of his name. She put the eyeliner down, picked up her powder brush, and started dusting her face with more energy and attention than the chore really required. “We broke up six weeks ago. Why would I speak to him about anything?”
Kylie just looked at her for a long minute, and Stacy fought the urge to fidget in her four-inch, crystal-studded Louboutins. Finally, Kylie tossed the letter onto the vanity and said softly, “How about, because he’s a trained detective, and he cares about you as much as I do?”
Frustration got the better of her. She balled up the stupid letter and threw it in the wastebasket under her vanity. “He’s a homicide detective, Ky, not a mail investigator. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not dead.” Yes, she sounded bitchy, but talking about the man she’d been trying unsuccessfully to banish from her brain for weeks didn’t put her in a warm, fuzzy mood. Then another thought struck and her mood sank to a subbasement of foul. She pointed at Kylie.
“And don’t you dare tell Trevor about the letter!” It didn’t take a genius to see where that particular game of telephone ended.
“Too late.” Her sister shrugged, not the least bit repentant. “I called him as soon as I saw it.”
“Fabulous. Now call him back and tell him to forget about the damn letter. I’ve got the situation handled. There’s no need for him to give it another thought.”
Her sister turned and strolled toward the door. “Tell him yourself. He’s meeting us at the party.”
Stacy grabbed her feather-covered white wings and followed hot on her heels. She cut Kylie off at the head of the stairs. “But he’s not bringing Ian, right?”
Kylie shrugged. “No clue. Trevor didn’t say. For all I know, Ian has plans tonight.”
Plans like a date? A vision of him smiling across a candlelit table at some faceless bimbo sent a nauseating blend of pain and jealously through her. Stop it. Shake that shit off, right now. You don’t know what he’s doing tonight, and you don’t care.
She followed Kylie downstairs and out the door, locking it behind her. What she did know for damn sure was that she didn’t want to see him. Perfect. Now she’d be all distracted until she knew whether he was at the party. She muttered “Thanks” to the driver holding the of the limo door open and ducked inside.
