Page 81 of Full House

“You have news?” Victoria questioned, wanting to get the show on the road.

Smith nodded, leaning forward to set his mug on the coffee table. He sat back, pulling a notebook from an inside jacket pocket, flipping through the pages. “Do you know a Chrissy Summerset?” He looked up from his notebook. “She worked on your latest film.”

Victoria turned confused eyes to Nate. “Chrissy, the set assistant?”

A frown marred his brow, but he gave her a curt nod. “We know her,” Nate said before asking, “What does she have to do with this?”

“It seems she’s the one who’s been sending the packages.”

“What!” Victoria couldn’t hide her shock.

Smith nodded. “We found a fingerprint on the envelope enclosed with the last box. Because Starlight Studios has such high security from dealing with so many high-profile celebrities,” he acknowledged Nate with a look, “anyone wanting to work in their facility is required to be fingerprinted. Knowing the perp had access to your trailer and the soundstage, we ran the print against the studio’s database and got a hit. Chrissy Summerset.

“Now, just to be sure we really had the right person before we picked her up, we took another look at the surveillance tapes to see if we could spot her or her car, and sure enough, it was seen entering this community at eight forty-seven p.m. on Tuesday, August fourteenth.”

“The day the last package was delivered,” Victoria mused aloud.

“Precisely. We missed it on the first search because we’d assumed whoever was behind the packages wouldn’t have access to your home. Her license plate number was on security’s master list. Can you explain that, Mr. Reed?”

Victoria’s eyes shot to Nate. He had a scowl on his face and was shaking his head until he suddenly snapped his fingers, turning to her. “Remember when we hosted that cast party—when was that? About three months ago. The caterers needed access to set up early. We were in the middle of a shoot, so I sent Chrissy over to take care of it. I took back my key, but I never removed her name from the visitor’s list.”

Smith piped in. “You should consider getting your locks changed. She might have made a copy. And even though she’s in custody, I’m not sure how long we can hold her.”

“You’re letting her go?” Victoria asked more than a little worried.

“Unless we can link her to the accidents, we’ll have to. We’d like a confession, but if not, we’re waiting on a warrant to search her premises. I’m hoping to find a match for the shoe print we found. The email you received came from a dummy account on the studio’s server. The tech guys are trying to trace who sent it, but that takes time.”

Victoria had hoped Chrissy sending them the packages would be enough to hold her, but she guessed that wasn’t really a crime unless Chrissy acted on her threats. “Is there a chance she didn’t do it?”

“Not likely. It would be too much of a coincidence and coincidences don’t sit well with me.” He stood from his seat.

Victoria rose quickly. “So that’s it? It’s over?”

Smith tucked his notebook back in his pocket. “For now. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“I’ll show you to the door,” Nate said, rounding the coffee table.

Victoria was lost in thought when Nate returned a few minutes later. He stopped in front of her, cradling her face, and tilting it to look at him. “You know, this doesn’t change anything, right?”

She furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he took an impossible step closer, “by this time next week, you will be Mrs. Reed.” His lips found hers, not giving her a chance to argue.

As if she would.

A few hours later, Victoria stood in the closet, debating what to wear. It had to be businessy but at the same time, light enough for the hundred-and-five-degree weather. She selected a pair of white, linen slacks, pulling them off the hanger. Stepping into them and slipping them up her legs, she gave a dramatic sigh when she couldn’t close the button.

“Problem?”

She turned to find Nate in the open closet doorway. He leaned, shoulder against the jamb with his arms crossed over his chest, causing his muscles to flex and pull his t-shirt taut. Her eyes dipped lower, taking in the fit of his jeans, the worn denim ridding low on his hips and hugging his thighs. His feet were bare, crossed at the ankles, and she found even that sexy. She heard a throat clear and her eyes shot back to his face. He was smirking at her, the arrogant man.

Remembering her predicament, she muttered, “I can’t get my pants buttoned.”

Nate closed the distance between them and tilted her chin up. “You’re pouting.”

“I’m getting fat.” Her voice even sounded pouty.

“No, you’re growing our baby.”

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