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railing. “This is all my fault. Maybe I should fall on my sword.”
    â€œLike hell.” Reed put steel in his tone. “I’ll let you know when your career’s over, Christine. In the meantime, I’m not telling Emma Case I stood back while her daughter took the fall for some overeager editor trying to make a name for himself.”
    That only made her sadder. “Thanks, Reed, but don’t worry about Mom. She wouldn’t know what you were talking about.”
    â€œ I’d know. Now grab your passport and get on a plane. Call me in a week. This whole thing might blow over by then, but if not, make damn sure your wedding exclusive is juicy enough to convince Owen you’re indispensable.”
    â€œNo problem there. I got Dakota’s toast word for word. Met his mother. Lots of good stuff.” Enough to impress Owen, especially with the potential after-­party scoop.
    â€œGood,” Reed said. “Now turn off your phone until you call me next week. When I tell Owen you’re incommunicado, I don’t want my eye to twitch.”
    â€œBut Seacrest”—­Emma’s facility—­“won’t be able to reach me.”
    â€œI’m second on their call list. If something comes up, I’ll handle it. Now pack your bags and get the hell out of Dodge.”
    Five minutes later Chris was rocketing down the mountain, suitcase in the trunk, passport in her purse, guilty conscience riding shotgun.
    M EN IN BLACK ringed Dakota Rain’s Beverly Hills mansion, a formidable perimeter even the brashest paparazzi didn’t have the balls to breach.
    Standing in the circular driveway—­barely inside that perimeter—­Chris chewed a Tums while the goon who’d all but cavity-­searched her gave the same top-­to-­bottom treatment to her VW.
    â€œYou’d think POTUS was on site,” she muttered under her breath.
    Hell, maybe he was. The Rains were Hollywood royalty. Why wouldn’t the president slobber all over them like everybody else did?
    She handed off her keys to a steely-­eyed SEAL type standing in as valet, then passed under a temporary portico meant to guard against eyes-­in-­the-­sky. Making for the wide double doors, she froze when a whip-­thin woman braced her, armed with an iPad and, possibly, a Glock.
    â€œName,” the woman stated.
    â€œChristy Gray.”
    Flat pewter eyes studied Chris down to her pores, then lowered to the iPad. She scrolled, while ice water trickled down Chris’s spine. This woman could eat the tough guys outside for breakfast. If she discovered Chris’s double identity, her body would never be found.
    A long moment stretched as the hangman knotted the noose, then those unnerving eyes rose again. Another ice-­cold inspection and a terse “You’re good to go.”
    Chris managed a nothing-­to-­hide stroll across the arena-­sized foyer, then ducked through the first open doorway, finding herself in a game room tricked out with every diversion from vintage pinball to top-­of-­the-­line gaming chairs. The current focal point was a pool table overhung by a Tiffany lamp and surrounded by a rowdy crowd.
    Ignoring the hooting and hollering, Chris snagged a champagne flute from a passing tray, downed the bubbly like water, then blotted her neck with the tiny bar napkin.
    Her nerves were jangling, and for good reason. She was running from the law. Worrying about her father, her mother, and her job.
    And now she was undercover behind enemy lines.
    â€œHi, Christy.”
    â€œAgh!” She fumbled her glass, catching it before it hit the floor.
    â€œSorry.” Em touched her arm. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
    Funny how she’d been hearing that all day.
    â€œNot your fault,” Chris said. “I’m a little jumpy. Nurse Ratched freaked me out.”
    Em made a face; half smile, half apology. “Believe it