Hot Target by Suzanne Brockmann Page B

she’d consider adding to the movie. She hadn’t even kicked off her shoes because her desk was the stupid kind with a modern, open design, and someone standing in her doorway would be able to see her bare feet.
    Such weaknesses were for mere mortals. J. Mercedes Chadwick never slipped her feet out of her expensive and trendy shoes.
    In about five minutes, someone was going to appear to tell her that most of her new security team from Troubleshooters Incorporated had gathered in her conference room and could she please come downstairs to meet them.
    God, this was
so
going to suck.
    Jane had to take Robin’s advice and turn this fiasco into free publicity for
American Hero.
And since a picture was worth a thousand words, she had to make sure there were plenty of photo ops.
    And there would be. When she arrived at the studio every morning, she’d have a hunky bodyguard on either side of her, hustling her from her car.
    Jane could practically hear the sound of the camera shutters, feel the heat from the flashbulbs.
    It was slightly less annoying to know that her movie would benefit from the inconvenience, but it didn’t mean she’d be any less exhausted when it was over and done.
    She’d had one moment of panic when Decker, the quietly nondescript team leader, had suggested they make use of her garage—have her get into her car with the garage door closed and open it only when they were ready to leave.
    There’d be no chance for pictures if they did that, at least not on this end.
    But then he’d opened the door that led into the three-bay monstrosity. The previous owners had collected such fascinating and useful items such as old newspapers and magazines and carefully cleaned-out sardine tins. They were stockpiled in the garage, along with fifty years of empty milk and orange juice containers and empty port wine bottles. The gallon size.
    Apparently one could consume quite a bit of port wine in fifty years. So much so that there was no longer room in the garage for one car, let alone three.
    Decker and Cosmo Richter, the Navy SEAL, had let her prattle on about how she’d bought this place “as is,” and how she didn’t have time to call for a Dumpster, which was, obviously, step one in the remodeling process.
    Neither of them said anything, although she was certain they both knew it was lack of funds, not time, that kept her from cleaning up the mess. Of course she hadn’t expected the SEAL to comment. He spoke in telegram—as if every word he used cost five bucks, and he only had a twenty in his wallet.
    He sure was jacked, though. Hugely, gigantically, fabulously ripped.
    Hard bodies were a dime a dozen in Hollywood, but somehow his was different. Maybe it was knowing that he was a SEAL and that his muscles weren’t grown in the air-conditioned comfort of a gym. Or maybe it was the way he moved, as if completely unaware that he was so drool-worthy.
    Most of the men Jane dealt with were hyper-self-aware. They couldn’t walk past a building without checking out their own glorious reflection in the windows. They broadcast a continuous “look at me” message. It was, quite frankly, the Hollywood way.
    But Cosmo Richter and his startlingly pale-colored eyes came from the planet Oblivious.
    She hadn’t decided yet if that was weird or refreshing.
    “They’re ready for you.” Jane looked up to see that it was neither Cosmo nor Decker who knocked on her door. It was Patty. She could have taken off her shoes after all.
    “Thanks.” Jane saved her document, closed her laptop, and headed for the stairs.
    Cosmo was waiting at the bottom, and he stepped back, politely letting her lead the way to the conference room.
    Tom Paoletti had gone, leaving Decker in charge. FBI agent Jules Cassidy had left, too. In their place at the conference table with Deck were three men and a woman. Apparently there were two other team members, too, whom she’d meet over the next few days.
    Jane stopped short in the doorway, the