Harder than Steel Page 5

  “Why would I come to you for trade secrets and new patents when I can come to the source and get what I want right here?” He hiked a thumb up and back.

  Just over Kanevsky’s shoulder, Dirk could see another man in a dark suit and tie chatting with a young Pakistani-American kid who’d pitched software that could view bird migrations in real time to reduce engine failures in commercial jets.

  “Good luck in the future, Masterson,” said Kanevsky, and strolled over to the kid and his associate.

  Dirk wanted a drink more than ever and hoped he could down the first one without his hands shaking too badly.

  Chapter Four

  DAMMIT, DAMMIT, DAMMIT. She’d been sitting here too long. Vanessa tried to undo her legs from the mess of an origami pattern she’d somehow gotten into, and failed. Shit. He was looking right at her, too, standing in the middle of his living room calmly sipping a drink with an expression like he was watching a boring golf tournament.

  So, just a golf tournament.

  Goddammit, Vanessa, shut up.

  Her left foot and calf had gone to sleep. There was no moving now. She gave up and sort of flopped over onto her extended arm and then the side of the brick building, breathing hard. Normally she considered herself to be in good condition; she had to be. Beating the competition to the right street corner while they had cars and she had a bike, hoisting herself up onto fire escapes to take pictures of motorcades and red carpet events from above—even running from the cops that one time.

  Oh, Christ. The cops. It wasn’t the first time she half-wished she lived in Los Angeles instead of New York. It was heresy to admit it. But the guys out west swore the police there had a more understanding attitude about the relationship between celebrities and the press. They even did escorts for big caravans that were following pop singers to surprise shows—the paparazzi were going to follow celebrities no matter what the police did, so why not smooth the process and make everything safer? The west coast had so many more opportunities to make money, those lucky bastards.

  New York’s finest didn’t escort paps climbing up a fire escape, but her fellow coworkers around town were slightly saner and hadn’t gotten desperate and therefore greedy. Vanessa thought about her bank account. She was doing . . . well . . . she wasn’t in overdraft. This time. Put it that way. But it wasn’t even remotely enough to be able to afford a lawyer to beat criminal trespassing and privacy complaints from a movie star—definitely not anything more than some slimy attorney in a cheap suit whose subway ads had laser beams coming out of his eyes or something. Trevor would probably disavow any knowledge of her the second he heard about anything remotely arrest-related, and Sam was still pissed that she wouldn’t commit to anything more full-time than an FWB situation, and even that had gotten weird lately, so there’d be no bail from him, either.

  She’d be up at Bedford Hills wearing orange scrubs in no time, and—

  “Hey, hey, wait,” said Jax Butler. He had opened the window out onto the fire escape, shoved his head and shoulders out, and had turned to look at her all the way at the end of the metal balcony.

  The two of them stared at each other for a minute.

  He winced and started squirming like his foot was itching behind him, and then his hand and arm appeared out the window too, still holding the glass he’d been drinking from.

  “You’d think they could have afforded to put better windows in this place with the amount of money they spent to make it authentic-looking,” he muttered, taking one last sip before carefully setting the glass somewhere behind him without looking.

  Jax Butler squinted in the general direction of where she was crouching.

  “You still up here—there you are,” he said. “You—you okay?”

  “My leg fell asleep,” she said finally.

  “Ugh,” Jax replied, apparently unaffected by the fact that there was a person sneaking around outside his apartment. “That sucks. You ever get a charleyhorse? Those hurt like a bitch. The trick is to flex your calf muscle real hard the opposite direction you think—”

  “Okay, okay, I think I can stand up again,” she said by way of a goodbye, and tried and failed.

  “You want something to drink?”

  Vanessa leaned her head against the brick that was still warm from the day and closed her eyes. She did not want to further incriminate herself or look at him.

  “You know, while you wait?”

  “Just water,” she said, mostly to get him to go away for a second.

  Vanessa reflected on how the evening had gone so far. It had been one thing to get the same penny-ante shot that every other guy in town had when Jax had gone home to his building, but Dominic Thompson was in town to see the big Monroe/Madison opening, and they’d all taken off to get pictures of him backstage with the cast. She’d been standing around going through her viewfinder when it had occurred to her that Jax was home now, right up there, right upstairs with those huge windows.

  One of the first things Sam had ever taught her on the job was the absolute fact that paparazzi didn’t take pictures through people’s windows. Well, they did, but they didn’t sell them, because that would be evidence that they had violated the Fourth Amendment, which guaranteed a right to privacy in a place where privacy was reasonably expected. Like the inside of someone’s luxurious converted-warehouse home.

  A fire escape balcony was, however, a public location. According to Sam. Whose cousin was one of those laser-eye subway lawyers, apparently.

  Vanessa knew firsthand how noisy fire escapes were, and took a chance climbing up them anyway. She had paused, waiting, on the darkened catwalk next to the floor below Butler’s apartment, and waited for the lights to come on overhead. Maybe he’d step outside, light up a joint. Claudia claimed he didn’t smoke, but she’d also never spent time around celebrities when they thought they were alone. Anything was possible.

  While waiting, Vanessa had mused that maybe he was busy redoing his hair. It never looked bad. Some stylist always did it with a huge wave in the front—she couldn’t explain it, but it looked . . . the only word was squishable. Vanessa wondered if it was crunchy or felt like gel. It had been a long time, sitting there thinking about Jax Butler’s luscious hair, her legs cramping up, and she’d halfway stood up to text Claudia a bit smugly about what she was up to when the lights had flooded the window she was leaning against.

  Fast forward to now, when Jax Butler himself was sticking his head back through the same window, having completely and immediately caught her. God, she was full of good life choices.

  “Are you going to have me arrested?” she asked, before he could start talking.

  “What? No. Your drink’s in here, I’m not gonna pass it through this damn window. You can come in, if you want to see what I’m doing so badly.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you do,” she said, piqued.

  He stared at her for several seconds before squinting.

  “Okay, obviously impossible, but okay,” he said, and disappeared.

  Vanessa hesitated. She could leave, go home and get into it with Claudia over something stupid like the dishes, and then again in the morning with Trevor, who’d gotten particularly shitty lately with his tantrum over wanting nothing from her except Jax Butler photos, or she could see what the inside of Butler’s private home looked like. She’d never actually had a civil conversation with him, let alone anyone she photographed. Maybe she’d caught him at a particularly good moment.

  Maybe she’d be arrested, maybe she’d get some insight into his life, his routine, figure out an edge that no one else would have from looking through his apartment. His really, really ridiculously amazing apartment, she thought, as she managed to make it over the sash without dropping her camera. A rush of validation came over her as she realized she did kind of hate him.

  It was open, to start. Exposed beams, brick walls, and archway windows, not to mention the floor-to-ceiling picture exposures. There were no rooms; the only thing remotely
close was a thick panel of acacia wood, suspended by wires from the vaulted ceiling. She could see the corner of an unmade bed behind it. It was as though the designer had decided that things like enclosure or privacy or dedicated usage were mediocre.

  Lamps hanging above looked like soap bubbles, the coils in the clear bulbs visibly glowing, and she could see an actual velvet Chesterfield couch—modern manufacture and therefore automatically overpriced—by the bar. There was a tree planted in a gap between rustic floorboards next to a dining table, which was piled high with a suitcase that had recently exploded outward. A floating staircase led up into a glass box patio with plants, and continued up onto the roof, open to the hazy gray of night.

  Vanessa took several steps farther into what seemed to be a living room area, and stopped. There was a beige metal shelf stocked with condoms sitting there, not close to the bed or any bathrooms she could see. It didn’t exactly belong, but then again, it was Jax Butler.

  There was a pause while they both stared at it.

  “Well! Let it never be said you aren’t prepared.”

  “Not a fan of modern art, I see.” He handed her a glass and crossed his arms archly. “Some critics are saying we’re in an age of neo-Dadaism.”

  She raised an eyebrow, and Jax shrugged.

  “I have a deeply sarcastic interpersonal relationship with my assistant.”

  “That sounds healthy and normal.”

  “She’s very concerned about health, thank you.”

  There was something fun about his banter that Vanessa had found lacking in both Claudia and the men she worked beside. Jax Butler’s quips came with layers.

  “What’s your name again? I feel like people who are in my house owe me that much at least.” He snapped his fingers. “And I saved your life, so definitely you owe me.”

  “Vanessa,” she said reluctantly. She still wasn’t totally sure he hadn’t called building security.

  “Vanessa.” He enunciated each syllable. “Vanessa Reyes. Reyes,” he muttered, like a chant that would help him remember. “So! Clearly alive and kicking. And on a fishing expedition, huh? Your boss pissed off, gave you the old tomato, something like that?” He grinned. “Privacy laws aside, you can always try booking through my publicist, you know. I’ve heard rumors that I’ll be available in a few years.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” Vanessa replied shortly. She waved the lens of the short- and-flash strung around her neck at him and took a sip of the drink. “This is definitely alcohol. Do you even have running water in this place?”

  “No, I usually stand on the roof naked and let a passing thunderstorm cleanse me, it’s very refreshing. How did you join the Fourth Estate Reich? Not many women in it, seems like.”

  Vanessa shrugged and looked around. “Money.”

  “Ah. Is that what you always wanted to do?”

  “Make more money? Sure, we all do.”

  She couldn’t quite tell if he was squinting or glaring at her now, and Vanessa took another sip of her drink to hide the grin.

  “I want to say you’re not old enough for that—”

  “It’s weird just hanging out like this, isn’t it?” she asked. “Like one of those videos of a cheetah and a dog being best friends.”

  Jax looked alarmed. “What?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What are you—what?”

  “Wait, seriously?” said Vanessa. “You’ve never seen those before?”

  Twenty minutes later they were shoulder-to-shoulder on the stupidly comfortable and stupidly overpriced Chesterfield, which had real velvet on it and probably cost more than . . . anything she could think of at the moment. Oh, not a Maserati. God, being rich was probably amazing. Jax closed the lid to his laptop, looking thoughtful.

  “Told you.” She was twisting a cherry stem between her fingers.

  “Huh, that . . . actually is a thing,” said Jax. “An entire genre, even.” He slouched back. “The human condition is weird.”

  “Sure is. I just found out what kind of idiots Design Within Reach targets with their pricing.” Vanessa patted the dark green fabric. Jax rolled his eyes with a smile.

  “The angry short girl routine is super hot, by the way,” he said, elbowing her gently.

  “Hey, I’m just saying, I’m not the one dropping fifty grand on pieces of particle board and glued-on laminate,” replied Vanessa, crossing one leg over the other and shrugging airily. She was warm. Even with the window open, it was warm in here.

  “Vanessa Reyes has secret furniture knowledge,” he said, apparently filing that fact away for later. “I have absolutely no idea where half this stuff comes from,” he said, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head. His cologne wafted toward her subtly, and Vanessa’s shoulders started to tingle. “One time I walked in and didn’t even recognize my own house. I thought I was gonna get arrested.”

  “Wow, your assistant redecorates that much?”

  Jax gave a short laugh.

  “I was in the wrong house. It was mine, I just forgot which coast I was on.” He grinned a bit sheepishly and ran his hand through his hair, which moved so forgivingly, bouncing slightly at his touch, that Vanessa thought—oh no, he’s hot.

  “How did you know I was home?” Jax asked, looking at her sidelong. “Not tonight—I get that part, but you, the other day. No one saw me at the airport. I came home through the garage in an unspectacular car. I mean, you ride a bicycle—how much can you honestly know?”

  Vanessa slowly lifted her head from where it was resting on the back of the couch. She felt spectacularly heavy, like she was meant to stay there next to him all night.

  “Okay, I showed you an apex predator nuzzling a Labrador. And a monkey that rode a Goldendoodle with a handmade saddle.”

  “And I acknowledge and appreciate that.”

  “And then you turn around and insult me.”

  “Insult you how?!”

  “My bicycle. I don’t drive a car because I can do just as well without one, but everybody gives me shit about it. Hell, I’ve taken the subway to some pretty good shots that are still paying off. Granted, it was off-peak hours, but still.”

  “But how did you know?”

  “I work hard. I’ve got tip-offs all over the city. You make it impossible for me to get my assignments by being out of town all the time, thank you for that.” Vanessa waved a hand, but Jax didn’t laugh. “Gotta make it up somehow.”

  “The guys in LA make up for it.” He swished the ice slurry around his glass.

  “Sure, but I don’t get paid for their shots.” He didn’t respond to that. “It’s business, you know how it works.” She elbowed him gently, and he seemed to kick back on.

  “Tip-offs all over the city,” Jax mused. “It’s hard to picture you with a team of Baker Street Irregulars, like, scrappy orphan kids running all over town being paid to watch doors or something.”

  “For someone whose Twitter account cranks out non sequiturs like Orange Julius Caesar, you have a shocking incomprehension of the industrial entertainment complex.”

  “I know stuff, I know it involves putting me in one of those guess-who things—”

  “Blind items,” she said, crunching on the ice in her glass.

  “You said you aren’t a reporter, yet you have a deep knowledge of how the gossip titles work.”

  “Research for work,” she said, setting the glass on the table. “Publicists put all kinds of crap out there, and if I find out you’re hitting up a new gym, it’s a given I’ll be waiting for you there. After I’ve checked your doorstep earlier in the morning.” Vanessa put one foot up.

  “So you spend all your downtime on your phone waiting for Twitter rumors?”

  “My sister kicks me a few good ones if she’s feeling cooperative.”

  “Your sister is your tip source?”

  Vanessa froze, then shrugged. She’d never mentioned her sister to anyone involved in entertainment. Her reasons for earning money were, like everyone else’
s reasons, personal and irrelevant to the day-to-day business.

  “One of them. She spends a lot of time at home.”

  Jax was waiting and staring at her; she could see him out of the corner of her eye but didn’t go on. The ice in the glass on the table clinked faintly.

  “Aren’t you gonna take a picture of me? You came all the way up here.”

  She reached for the short-and-flash, pointed it at him without looking, and hit the shutter.

  “Holy shit,” said Vanessa, looking through at the image preview and dissolving into giggles, “you have a double triple chin when you tuck your head into your chest like that.” They leaned in together, and she was hit with a wave of—it wasn’t cologne, he just had a ridiculously sexy scent. Her entire lower half felt warm. Jax reached for the camera, but she held it at arm’s length away from him. “Get some better posture! Don’t your people tell you about these things?”

  “Lemme see!” He grabbed and hauled it over.

  “I lied. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever taken a bad photo of you, and I will take full credit for that.” They both slouched back into the tufted couch again as he clicked through the images.

  “Nah I just don’t have bad angles.” He paused, still looking into the viewfinder. “You think I’m handsome?”

  “Ehhh,” said Vanessa, crinkling up her nose dubiously to tease him.

  “You’re right, I am beautiful and perfect forever,” Jax said cheerfully, flicking his dark eyes up and over her before going back to peering into her camera viewfinder.

  Vanessa clicked her tongue. “Yes, we know, you’re all gorgeous, like an alien race that descended to distract us from the fact that we’re all dying.”

  “Ease off the gas, Sartre. Wow, you got pictures of Joanna Hart? God, that woman is an enigma. I didn’t know she ever left her house.”

  Vanessa felt a bloom of satisfaction at his assessment and leaned in close over his shoulder. Maybe she had an exclusive on her card. “You’ll get to know her soon enough, Protectorate.”

  She thought maybe he’d comment on his co-star for the next film, but Jax just kept flipping through the photos. Vanessa made a note to ask Claudia about Hart. Maybe the starlet spent more time in LA than in New York, which would make it an even bigger deal that she was in town. Maybe papping in New York did have its advantages.