"You should. But if you want to continue pursuing acting, I can have Ryland bring you in."
"That's very generous."
"I'm much more generous now than I used to be," Wallace said dryly. "I made a lot of mistakes in my younger days."
"It's never too late to make up for mistakes."
"Sometimes it is too late." Shadows filled his gaze. "Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, caught up in ourselves—in our passion, in our need—we cross a line we can't cross back." He finished his drink and set the glass down. "Thank you again."
"No problem. Good-night."
As Wallace left, he wondered again what was in the envelope that Wallace was so determined to get rid of. He'd promised not to tell anyone else about the envelope or to show it to anyone, but he hadn't promised not to look at what was inside, and he was going to do that the first chance he got.
He didn't quite know what to make of Wallace. He was a mix of contradictions. At times, he seemed sharp and cutting. At other times he seemed depressed and weary, almost a bit lost. Was he the doddering old man that he appeared to be? Wallace had said that no one saw him anymore as the man he'd once been. Who was that man? Had he had something to do with Natasha's death?
His pulse began to race, which was ridiculous, because he hadn't gotten this job to dig into the death of an old movie star. He wasn't working a cold case. He was on the trail of a possible Russian spy ring, and he needed to spend more time thinking about that than anything else, especially not the beautiful brunette with the very green eyes. She could be a huge distraction and a big complication. He needed to make sure she didn't come back to the club. Maybe he wouldn’t just drop off the envelope in her mailbox. Maybe he'd tell her that Wallace wasn't interested in helping her and she should move on.
Remembering the determination in her eyes, that might not work. But he didn't need her to quit her movie; he just needed her to take her investigation away from the Firebird Club. Hopefully, he could convince her to do that much.
"I don't know what it will take to convince you that this is a bad idea," Rex Ashton said.
Maya sighed as her father continued a rant that had already gone on for thirty minutes, ever since she'd arrived at the house and told him about the movie and her search for the truth regarding his mother's death. He'd gone from irritated silence to full-blown anger. Now, he was pacing around his study, waves of fury making his body tighten with each step.
She'd known he wouldn't like the idea of her digging into Natasha's death, but she hadn't thought he'd go quite so ballistic.
"Dad—"
"It was his idea, wasn't it?" her father interrupted. "You've been going to see your grandfather every day. I thought you were just being sweet, but you've been cooking this up together, haven't you?"
"Yes. He wants to know the truth before he's too far gone to make peace with it. And I want to help him."
"What about me?" he demanded, his gaze locking with hers.
She instinctively got to her feet. She'd always felt intimidated by her dad, who was six foot, three, and a powerfully built man, with a sharp, cutting gaze. It worked well for him in business. His firm conducted tax audits on some of the biggest companies in Los Angeles. He instinctively knew when someone was trying to hide something, which was one reason why she hadn't spent much time at the house the past few weeks. She hadn't wanted him to see through her before she was ready to tell him what she was doing.
The other reason was that they weren't that close. She was the middle child and the biggest disappointment in a family of superstars. Her mom was a history professor. Her older sister Darcy was a teacher and a married mom of an adorable baby. And her younger brother, James, was in his third year of medical school.
Her siblings had had their lives mapped out for forever. She was the only one who'd dropped out of college, who'd drifted through at least a half-dozen jobs in the past three years. She was the one who lost track of time when she was writing or filming or just scribbling