"Nice."

"It all comes down to whether they or their agents or managers or whoever makes their decisions like the script. I'm striving for authenticity-which is why I'm coming to you."

"I guess I can help you," she ventured, remembering how much she enjoyed Sam's company. "E-mail me your questions and I'll try to answer them."

"E-mail?" he said. "I was thinking more like lunch."

She was tempted. Bobby was on the missing list. It wasn't as if they were married or anything, and she was hardly planning on jumping into bed with Sam. He was merely a friend, albeit a friend who'd always had a bit of a crush on her. Why not have lunch with him?

Glancing at the time on her phone, she noted it was past noon and she was hungry. Starving, actually.

"How about today?" she said crisply, deciding that if Bobby wanted to play games, she could too. "Does that work for you?"

"It certainly does."

"Then where?"

"I could take you somewhere fancy."

"No thanks."

"Fatburger on Santa Monica?"

"Junk food. Exactly what I feel like."

"See you in fifteen."

"You got it." She clicked off and couldn't help smiling.

Leon approached her desk as she was gathering her things.

"Where're you goin'?" he asked.

"Lunch," she said shortly.

"Want me to tag along?"

"No, thank you."

"Meetin' Bobby? Is he back?"

She felt herself blushing. "No. And it's none of your business who I'm seeing."

Leon rolled his eyes. "I didn't ask. Although the thing is-now you got me all curious."

Collecting her purse, she quickly brushed past him.

"Okay, lady, be like that," Leon said. "Only get your cute ass back here by two. We got a meetin' with the agent who's goin' in undercover on our boy."

"Alejandro Diego is not a boy," she said sternly. "He's a scumbag. And stop making sexist remarks, or I'll have to report your cute ass."

"Understood," he said, grinning.

"See you later, Leon."

She hurried to her car, got in, checked her appearance in the visor mirror, applied a dab of lip gloss, and fluffed out her hair.

Then she felt ridiculous. This was a business meeting, nothing more.

Sam was his usual somewhat scruffy self, a look that suited him. Denver was delighted to note that he had not had his teeth fixed. In fact, he hadn't changed at all, even though he was probably raking in millions. He was sitting at a table outside Fatburger, the smell of burgers wafting in the air. He jumped up as soon as he saw her approaching.

"Here she is, the DA of my dreams," he said, enveloping her in a clumsy embrace.

"Deputy DA," she corrected.

"Whatever. You're still a raving beauty. It's a real drag you're not an actress."

"I'm not, so don't start with me," she said, feeling a slight blush coming on.

"Who's starting?"

"You are."

They grinned at each other.

"Where's my favorite pooch, Amy Winehouse?" he asked. "I thought she went everywhere with you."

"Unfortunately, we lost her."

"Huh?"

"She was having seizures. We were forced to put her down."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Thanks. It was really difficult."

"Did you get another dog?"

"I want to. I will," she said fervently. "Bobby's promised we can pick out a rescue. I can't wait."

"Amy Winehouse," Sam reflected. "She's probably in heaven with the great singer herself."

Denver gave a wan smile. Sam always managed to say the right thing.

"Now," Sam said. "If I remember correctly, the lady likes a double cheeseburger fully loaded, with french fries and an extra-thick chocolate shake. You stay here. I'll go put in our order."

While Sam went inside, Denver checked her phone, which she'd set to go directly to voice mail. Bobby had a jealous streak, especially when it came to Sam, and she didn't want him calling and questioning her, because she was not the greatest liar. Besides, Bobby was on her shit list, and so far it seemed he was making no effort to get off it.

Lunch with Sam sped by. His stories about life on the set of a big Hollywood movie were hilarious. She told him a little about the Diego case, and he couldn't have been more interested. Sam was unusual because he actually listened to what she had to say, a rare quality in a man.

By the time she realized that it was past two, Sam was still plying her with questions.

"I've got to go," she said, abruptly getting up. "I'm late for a meeting."

"We're not finished," Sam said, reaching for her hand. "I need more inside info."

"I'll call you," she said quickly.

"No you won't."

"Yes, I will," she said, withdrawing her hand from his.

"Promise?"

"Yes," she said, although she was not sure it was a promise she would keep.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Slowly, Bobby opened his eyes, only to find that he was stuck in a thick swirling fog. The fog was in his ears, his nose, his mouth. The fog was suffocating him.

Fuck! What was happening?

It seemed the fog was all around, pulling him down, making him sick to his stomach. He controlled an urge to throw up.

Where the fuck was he?

Certainly not in his bed. Certainly not in a bed at all. He was slumped over the wheel of his rental car feeling as if he'd been hit over the head with a hammer.

Jesus Christ! How had this happened? What the hell ...

He pulled himself to a sitting position and glanced out the window. The car was parked on a residential street. A kid was riding his bike; a stooped old man was walking his dog. The dog stopped and took a crap, while two joggers in matching spandex outfits pounded the sidewalk next to him.

All was normal.

All was not.

Swallowing hard, he choked up a cough. The fog was slowly lifting. It was being replaced with aching limbs, more nausea, a dry throat, and a raging thirst.

Still coughing, he groped for his phone, only to discover that it was turned off. He quickly activated it and checked his messages, noting that it was eight A.M.

He had three voice mails.

Message one. Denver. I thought you were calling me back. Don't bother now. I'm going to sleep.

Message two. Lucky. I just wanted to wish you luck for tonight. I'm sure it'll be a great success. Love you.

Message three. M.J. Thanks a lot. I hope she was worth it.

M.J. and Denver both sounded pissed.

Bobby attempted to recall what had happened. The opening of their club, everything running smoothly. Then enter the seductive Latina woman in the clingy red dress.

He'd driven her back to her hotel, accompanied her upstairs.

Had he gone to her room?

He couldn't remember.

He did remember her telling him a security guard had attacked her and could he look around, and then ... yes ... he had taken her to her room.

No, not a room, a suite. She'd asked him to check out the closets and bathrooms. He'd done so, and when he was finished, she'd handed him a drink. After that it was all a total blank.

Had she drugged him? Slipped him a roofie or two?

Why would she do that?

His burning mission was to find out.

The doorman at the hotel stared at Bobby blankly.

"Were you on duty last night?" Bobby asked, hot to discover exactly what had taken place.

The man shook his head and started to turn away.

"Maybe you can tell me who was?" Bobby said, his tone aggressive although he still felt like crap.

"If you have a complaint, sir, I suggest you talk to management," the doorman said, waving down a cab for a hotel guest.

Yes. Talk to management. That was an excellent idea. Or even better, talk to Nadia and find out what kind of sick game she was playing.

Entering the hotel, he headed straight for the men's room, where he relieved himself and splashed his face with ice-cold water. He stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His eyes were bloodshot and kind of spacey. He was sweating, and his clothes were rumpled. Jesus Christ! What had happened to him? And why?

He must've spent the night in his rental car, so how come he couldn't remember getting there?

Once again-what the fuck was going on?

A quick inspection of his wallet showed that his money and credit cards were all intact, and his gold Rolex was still on his wrist.