“I killed my father and sister.” Pagan’s voice was flat. “So the last thing I could ever feel is that I’m better than anyone. Even you.”
Miss Edwards’s frown deepened. Effort flickered between her painted eyebrows as she tried to figure out how a statement of such humility could come out sounding like an insult. Pagan was good at ambiguity; it was part of what had made her such a good actress. In the past nine months, that skill had proven vital. That and Mercedes’s friendship.
Miss Edwards turned the knob. Pagan squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, the way she always had before auditions, trips down the red carpet, or courtroom entrances. Her mother would have approved. Even if facing your own execution, best to meet it with a serene smile and excellent posture.
The doorknob under Miss Edwards’s hand jerked back. She lost her grip and grabbed the door frame to stop herself from falling. A fresh cloud of gray-blue cigarette smoke wafted over them from the room beyond.
“Do come in.” The low, masculine voice was not one Pagan recognized. A shaft of sunlight filtered through the smoke, blinding her, until a slender young man in an exquisitely cut black suit and narrow tie moved forward. He was tall and wore no hat, his dark hair slicked back, one unruly lock spiking over his forehead. He stood with one hand on the door, as relaxed as if he were welcoming them into his own home.
Only his eyes were turbulent, a dark blue. They swept over Pagan with speculative calculation and something darker she couldn’t identify. Goose bumps ran up her arms.
She was staring at his mouth and pulled her gaze up, shaking off a sudden blankness in her thoughts. It had been nine months since she’d seen a man other than the gatehouse guard, but she couldn’t let that distract her. The crews on her movie sets had called her One-Take Jones in the early days because of her composure and professionalism. That was before she’d started drinking. Now that she was sober, that girl was still inside her, somewhere.
“The notorious Pagan Jones.” The dark-haired young man held out his hand. “My name is Devin Black.”
She slid her hand into his. It was warm, the grip firm. “I’d say it was a pleasure, Mister Black, but I don’t like lying to strangers.”
Amusement curved one corner of his mouth. He kept hold of her and leaned in, his voice soft. “Lies are best saved for those we love.”
Her heart hammered once, twice. At this range his eyes glittered like shards of stained glass shaded from indigo to azure. They locked on to her, taking her in.
He pulled away. The moment might never have happened but for the electricity still prickling over her skin.
He cast his indifferent gaze at Miss Edwards, who was hovering like a storm cloud. “That will be all. Thank you.”
Dismissed from her own office, Miss Edwards puffed out her narrow chest as if about to spew fire. But Devin Black was already ushering Pagan inside. The door clicked shut behind them.
“Here’s a familiar face.” Devin Black pulled out a seat for Pagan facing the small well-dressed man with gray, thinning hair who occupied Miss Edwards’s imposing black leather chair. He was the one generating all the smoke, puffing nervously on a cigarette and tapping the ash into a coffee cup.
Pagan stared and didn’t sit. This was no hearing. She had no idea what this was. “Jerry?”
Jerry Allenberg stood, which didn’t add much to his height, and stubbed out the cigarette with agitated little shoves. “Pagan. It’s been a long time. Please, have a seat. I’ve got something important to talk to you about.”
Pagan lifted her chin to stand taller. “So you’ve come to visit me after all. Tell Satan it’s time to put on the cashmere coat and mittens.”
Jerry stroked his fedora, which sat soft and gray as a cat on the desk. “You’re my client.”
“Former client.” Anger surged as Pagan narrowed her eyes at him. “I got the notice of termination from the agency, Jerry. That was one piece of mail they made sure I received while in custody.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for your trial.” Jerry took another cigarette out of a gold case and tapped it on the desk, feeling his pocket for a lighter. “And I’m sorry about that notice. It wasn’t kind.”
“No, but it’s what big Hollywood agents do when their clients kill people, right?” Pagan watched as Devin Black leaned in with a silver lighter to ignite Jerry’s cigarette. He flicked the lid shut on the flame, and Pagan caught a glimpse of red on one side. As he pocketed it, the design became clear—a silver Zippo lighter with the Ace of Hearts engraved in red.
He couldn’t possibly have the same exact lighter as Miss Edwards. Which meant…
Her gaze flew to his face. He caught the movement and locked eyes with her. That corner of his mouth was curving up again, only now he looked like a mischievous boy who’d gotten away with something.
Who was this guy? Pagan hadn’t even seen him come close to Miss Edwards, so how the hell had he gotten ahold of the lighter Pagan had seen her deposit in her skirt pocket just moments before?
“I never meant to hurt you, Pagan,” Jerry was saying. His lips trembled slightly as he drew on the cigarette. “It was the shareholders who insisted on letting you go. Not me.”
Pagan forced herself to look back at her former agent. He was a part of this, too. But somehow she thought he didn’t quite know who he was dealing with in Devin Black. Either way, something about the situation was making him sweat. “You look nervous, Jerry. Don’t worry. I didn’t bring my shiv.”
Jerry exhaled a short laugh in a gust of smoke. “I see they haven’t ironed the smart aleck out of you yet, kid.”
Pagan’s legs were wobblier than they should have been. Something beneath her feet was shifting. She didn’t know what it was yet, but it was big. She slid down into the hard chair facing Jerry. “I’m the bad influence here. The others are just thieves and truants, not killers.”
“What happened to you was an accident.” Jerry took the cigarette out of his mouth with his index finger and thumb, smoke trickling from his nose. “You were a child, a girl who lost her mother in an unimaginable way. We all should have seen it coming a lot sooner.”
Pagan had heard those words before. “Instead you gave me a brand-new Corvette for my sixteenth birthday, and I used it to drive Daddy and Ava off a cliff. Thanks a lot, Jerry.”
Jerry looked up sharply, the veneer of concern falling away. “You can’t blame me for what happened. I didn’t stick the bottle of vodka in your hand–”
“Jerry.” Devin’s low voice was a warning.
Jerry shut his mouth, lips tight. He stubbed out the second cigarette next to the first one like he was smashing a cockroach.
Pagan looked back and forth between the two men. Jerry was one of the most powerful men in Hollywood. Nobody talked to him that way, yet Devin Black had just gotten away with it.
Pagan cocked her head toward Devin. “Who is this character, Jerry? His suit’s nicer than yours, so he can’t be your new assistant.”
Jerry cast a sideways look at Devin and felt for his cigarette case again. “He works for the studio.”
“Nobody