Borderline (The Arcadia Project, #1)(33)

“Yes, ma’am.”

I’m not sure what I was expecting to see inside the room, but it certainly wasn’t our quarry relaxing in a lounge chair with a plate of strawberries in her hand and her stiletto-clad feet up on the edge of the bed. There was an open bottle of champagne and an empty glass on a table nearby.

“Caryl, you brought company!” she said in a breezy Holly-wood voice that didn’t match her severe looks in the slightest. “Champagne?”

“Don’t tell her your name,” Caryl said to me quietly. “Don’t touch her, don’t look directly into her eyes, and don’t take anything she offers you.”

“Is that what passes for a greeting these days?” the woman said lightly.

Caryl reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, dialing without taking her eyes off the woman. “Forrest Cloven’s room, please,” she said into it.

“I’m Vivian Chandler,” the woman said, smiling at me. “And you are?”

My polite Southern upbringing chose that moment to kick in, and I almost answered her. The only reason I hesitated was that her name sounded vaguely familiar, and I was trying to place it before I decided how to introduce myself.

Luckily, the ringing of the phone on the bedside table -startled me out of my train of thought. I was confused until Caryl ended her call and the ringing on the table stopped.

“Why are you in Rivenholt’s room?” Caryl said. “And where is Rivenholt?”





16


“Oh, Caryl,” said Vivian, plucking a strawberry from the plate, “I do hate to disappoint you, because I know how desperately you want to catch me being naughty, but I haven’t harmed the boy. I haven’t even seen him in weeks.” She sank her teeth into the strawberry and gave me a little wink.

“Then why are you in this room under his name?” said Caryl.

“You would have to ask him for the full story. He sent me an e-mail offering me a spa package he couldn’t use, so I decided to take a few days off. Work has been so stressful lately. Far be it from me to say no to a deep-tissue massage and a facial.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Caryl said to me. “Vivian is exiled Unseelie nobility; there is absolutely no reason why a Seelie viscount would—”

“I’m sitting right here, darling,” said Vivian, a hard edge creeping into her voice. “And you know I can’t lie.”

“No,” said Caryl, “but you have a history of presenting the facts in a way that suits your purposes.”

“Oh, and what are my purposes, aside from a bit of relaxa-tion, which you have rudely interrupted with your breaking and entering? I would absolutely love to hear your theory.” She carefully selected another strawberry.

My brain finally clicked the name Vivian Chandler into place. She was an actors’ agent. A good one, with a sharkish reputation and an A-list roster. I tried to remember whether she represented Inaya West, hoping for at least two pieces in this puzzle to fit together. But last I’d heard, Inaya was with ICM.

“I am currently without a theory,” Caryl admitted. “But if you haven’t done something to Rivenholt, then I am sure you would not object to helping us locate him before the Los Angeles Police Department does.”

At this, Vivian straightened, a strawberry poised in her finger-tips. Slowly it browned and shriveled in her grasp. “I don’t understand,” she said, her tone as brittle as glass. “What’s he done? Am I an accessory to something?”

Caryl looked childishly pleased by Vivian’s discomfort. “We don’t know,” she said. “But local law enforcement was looking for him in West Hollywood near the Seelie bar, and he has broken contact with his Echo.”

Vivian set aside the spoiled strawberry and rubbed at her chin, her expression guarded. “Interesting,” she said. I tried to see behind her mask, but whatever she had once been, she was now Hollywood to the core, glossy and impenetrable.

“Do you think Rivenholt is trying to set you up for something?” I asked her.

“It talks!” she squealed, making Caryl wince. “And what an interesting look you have, sweetheart. I don’t suppose you’re looking for representation?”

“Leave her alone,” said Caryl.

Vivian looked delighted. “Awwwww, little Caryl has found a new mommy. I do hope this one’s better to you.”

To my utter shock, tears filled Caryl’s eyes. Before I could say anything, Vivian turned her savage smile on me. “It’s so nice meeting you,” she said. “Let’s play a game, shall we? You be the fox, and resort security will be the hounds.” With that, she plucked a mobile phone from the table and tapped it to her lips, eyeing me up and down. “You don’t look very agile, sweetheart, so I’ll be sporting and give you a head start.”

? ? ?

Security did catch up to us—it wasn’t hard—but since we looked harmless and were on our way out anyhow, they sent us off with a warning.

Removing the charm from Caryl’s car was a complicated -matter, though, now that there was traffic. First we had to get inside the vehicle, which is harder than it sounds when your every -neuron is thoroughly convinced that there is nothing there at all. Then we had to wait for what felt like hours for a lull in traffic so that no one would see an SUV materialize out of thin air. Even as rapidly as Caryl worked, we still got honked at furiously when we were caught driving over the curb back onto the road.