Phillip Drake walked into the room, interrupting a conversation. He hadn’t knocked, and he hadn’t asked anyone’s permission, but deliberately so—he loved what he could catch people doing when he broke the rules of morality like that. He caught the end of one sentence: “…going to do this?” then the beginning of another: “We…”

The first speaker was one Nick Sandford, the second, Alex Lasseter. Both men were actors, colleagues, and—if Phillip wasn’t mistaken—lovers. Not that he ever doubted his intuition, but he’d tailed them for weeks, his persistence finally paying off.

The hopeful, happy look fell from Nick’s face. Alex’s expression turned stony. The man was in the process of buttoning his jacket, but Phillip caught a glimpse of dark patches on his shirt. They looked like wet splashes. Two men alone in a room with no drinks around that he could see; now what kind of spillage could occur under those circumstances? Hmm…

Phillip flicked his gaze between the two men, gleaning everything he needed to know from their expressions and body language. These two were here to announce something about a new film, something to do with the fast-rising star who was the director of their latest joint project: Robert King. Phillip believed he knew what that something was, but he’d struggled to find actual proof. That wasn’t like him, and he didn’t like to be off his game. It made him bad-tempered, made him want to lash out.

“Care to make an official statement, gentlemen, or shall I just ask my questions in the midst of the conference?”

He watched for, and saw, the calculation that flitted through their eyes—whether to put on a bold front or to uphold their denials.

“No comment,” Alex said.

The expression on Nick’s face replied for him.

Although Phillip expected Alex to keep his cool demeanour, to see Nick’s mien turn to anger instead of despair was new. He was so used to Nick’s ‘trapped-in-the-headlights’ stare that, oddly, he missed it. Disappointed, he asked, “Really?”

“No comment because there’s nothing to comment about.”

“I see.” Phillip set his briefcase down on the table, opened it and reached in. Having extracted what he wanted, he flipped back the cover of an old-fashioned reporter’s notepad. He owned more up-to-date devices, but he loved the feel of real paper and a pen in his hand. The physical connection often helped him to think. He began reeling off dates, times, and places of when Nick had gone to Alex’s house, or Alex to his. For the first time, the two men displayed signs of wavering confidence. Alex’s glance at Nick spoke of concern, although clearly Alex Lasseter also felt unsettled.

An unexpected twinge gave Phillip a jolt. The thought of how he would feel if he were the one some reporter was chasing—he ignored the idea of stalking—flashed through his mind then vanished. This was his job. People wouldn’t want him to gather information if it wasn’t important to them. People needed to know because stories like Alex and Nick’s revealed things about their own lives. Some part of him honestly believed that; he just didn’t know when that idea had begun to shape his career—that and circumstances. Lost in his own thoughts, the information he rattled off from his notes came out rapid, like gunfire. Phillip barely heard the sound of his own voice until…“Hey!”

Alex was a big man. Although Phillip was tall, he was slender. Not that size and stature had much to do with fighting off Alex—the man was strong. Alex’s hands curled into his lapels, propelling Phillip across the room.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been manhandled. The memory of his first celebrity interview flashed into Phillip’s mind—some goon twisting his arm up his back, forcibly ejecting him from the property. He’d learned to twist out of many a grip, how to run, how to duck, especially since the time when a female celebrity had come after him with a frying pan. Usually these things were accompanied by expletives, so Alex’s silence made a change, disturbingly so. Still, Phillip didn’t feel as shocked as he might have. A moment passed before he registered that his beloved notebook had fallen from his hands.

The meeting rooms in this hotel had some built-in storage—cabinet space for coats and sundries. Alex dragged him to one, but by the time Phillip understood why, Alex had already shoved him inside. Phillip clung to the door frame, doing his best to resist the force that was Alex, part of his head, his hands, and feet the only things still sticking out into the room. He’d never considered himself weak, but Alex Lasseter didn’t even break into a sweat.

“What are you doing?” Phillip demanded.

“Putting you in the closet,” Alex said.