Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,45

lines in Dominic’s face ease into the barest hint of a smile. “Green’s one hell of a color on you, rook.”

“Fuck you,” I hiss. “I’m not jealous.” I am so jealous. “I’m invested. The conversation was about me, was it not?”

His smile fades, and he releases me to massage his thumb against his temple. “You’re throwing a party.”

“I’m what?”

“Michaela is the public relations director for the Romanov estate,” he explains, like I give a shit anymore. That train left the station thirty seconds ago.

“So?”

His hand stills, and he stares up at me through his spread fingers. “So, apparently a big party celebrating your return to Hollywood was a stipulation attached to the reward.”

“Why did you seem so angry about it?”

“I’m not angry about the party. I’m angry about—” He never finishes his thought because as usual, the doorbell rings. And if it’s not the doorbell, it’s a telephone call, or a text chime, or a camera flash. It’s a never-ending communications shit parade stomping all over our privacy.

I sigh. “It’s probably another reporter. Maybe People magazine? Time?” Spinning around, I toss him an exaggerated smirk. “Oh, how about Maxim? That might be fun.”

Dominic pins me with a fiery glare, growling as he reaches for the doorknob. “Over my dead body.”

I’m too tired to decode what that means, so I tuck it away for later and turn to head down the hallway when I hear an unfamiliar baritone voice filtering through the living room.

“Mr. McCallum?”

“Who wants to know?”

Something in Dominic’s voice stops me cold, but it’s the man’s response that paralyzes me.

“I’m Detective Javier Rubio with the LAPD. Is Miss Romanov here?”

Chapter Nineteen

Dominic

Plan for rain and you’ll get a storm. Isn’t that something people say? If not, it should be. Because a storm is exactly what’s standing at my front door flashing a badge in my face like an all access pass.

Detective Rubio is intimidating enough. Tall, lean, well-dressed in a dark blue suit and matching attitude. Hell, I’d have an attitude too if I had a haircut like that. It’s like Elvis Presley fucked Bruno Mars and had a bastard kid who got screwed over at Great Clips.

You’re welcome for that image. Pleasant dreams.

I know Angel is behind me, so I step forward, blocking his path and his view. “What makes you think she’d be here?”

Rubio leans a shoulder against the doorframe, so I move with him. He knows I’m full of shit. The smug smile on his face confirms it. “Because I saw her standing at the window five minutes ago.”

Now he has my interest. He’s not much older than me. I’d put him about thirty-five, maybe thirty-eight with a double shot of California collagen. Well, except for those frown lines he’s got going on. The ones I hate to tell him aren’t hidden by that patchy ass beard.

I cock an eyebrow. “Then why bother asking?”

“To see if you’d lie. Thanks for confirming what I already suspected, McCallum.” He slaps my shoulder like we’re best buds. If he didn’t have a badge and a gun, I’d punch him in the face and clear that up.

I knock his hand off my shoulder. “And what’s that?”

He smiles. “That I can wipe my ass with ninety percent of what comes out of your mouth.”

“And the other ten percent?”

“Post-jerk-off clean-up.”

Great. The detective’s got jokes.

I hear soft footsteps behind me, and I barely have time to react before Angel pushes that peach of an ass in front of me. “Detective Rubio, what can I do for you?”

Rubio looks her up and down. “Alexandra Romanov, I presume?”

“You presume correctly.”

He’s still staring at her, and I swear, if he doesn’t put his eyes back in his head, I’m going to shove them back in there for him.

With a goddamn fork.

“Forgive me for staring, but in my line of work, missing persons cases are either never solved or end with a dead body. It’s not often I come face to face with a happy ending.”

I snort. “I have ten percent that begs to differ.”

Angel whips around and smacks me across the chest. “Dominic!”

“It’s fine, Miss Romanov,” he says with a curt nod. “May I come in?”

Angel and I answer simultaneously.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Rubio doesn’t flinch. “It’s for your protection. The hills have eyes and ears.” He nods over his shoulder where paparazzi cameras flash, and news anchors grip microphones like samurai warriors. “I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

“Fine.” Reluctantly, I step aside, opening the door just enough to let him in. I’m happy to make