Page 4 of Where There's Smoke

And as Roger gave me that bill-just-passed grin, I wondered what the fuck I’d gotten myself into.

Ah, Malibu. Home of the rich, the privileged, and the has-no-business-in-politics. Myfavoriteplace on the fucking planet.

I drove past huge houses and immaculate yards. Not a leaf or a roof tile out of place in this area. After all, everyone paid—if one could call it that—Mexican immigrants to do all their dirty grunt work. Landscaping, housekeeping, raising the kids they’d produced for Christmas card photos.

That thought twisted the knots in my gut a little tighter. Every person on Jesse’s payroll damn well better have a green card and an I-9, or he was on his own. I wasn’t going to be at the helm of a campaign that sank over an illegal immigrant scandal, and I sure as fuck wasn’t busting my ass to get a man elected if he exploited the poor.

I reached the end of the driveway with the address that matched the one on the card Roger had given me. He’d also given me a five-digit code, so I punched it into the keypad and the black metal gate groaned into motion, sliding out of the way so I could continue up the driveway.

The house wasn’t one of the gargantuan, palatial homes I was accustomed to in this area. It wasn’t exactly small, but it was closer to the modest end of the spectrum than I’d anticipated. Stucco, of course, though it had been painted an unusual brown with rust-colored trim. Hardy desert-dwelling plants lined the curving driveway and surrounded the pale stone fountain at the center of the roundabout in front of the house.

Several cars and a white van were parked along one side of the roundabout. Producers and crew forSoCal Tonight, I guessed. Any vehicles belonging to Jesse or his wife were undoubtedly behind the four doors covering the garage. I couldn’t imagine someone of his stature owning anything as proletariat as the everyday cars and plain van lining the driveway.

I parked behind a lackluster blue sedan. Then I followed the stone walkway that wound through a cactus garden to the front door.

I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

Well, here goes nothing.

Sharp, solid footsteps approached on what must have been hard floors, and when the door opened a beautiful black-haired, brown-skinned womangreeted me. East Indian, I guessed from her features. She was dressed casually but carried herself like she wore a power suit, and she made the kind of unflinching eye contact that I usually scared out of people.

“You must be Anthony.” She extended her hand, a couple of silver bracelets jingling in the otherwise quiet doorway. “Jesse’s uncle said you’d be coming.”

I cleared my throat and shook her hand, noting she had quite the firm grip. “Yeah, Anthony Hunter. And you are…?”

“Ranya. Jesse’s assistant.”

“Ranya. Do you have a last name?”

“I do.” She released my hand and gestured for me to come in. “Most people pull a muscle or three trying to pronounce it, though, so just call me Ranya.”

I laughed and followed her inside. “And you’re his assistant, so I can count on you to keep him in line?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” she said with a hint of a conspiratorial giggle in her voice. “But I do make sure he gets wherever he needs to be on time.”

I chuckled. “You and I will get alongjustfine, then.”

Ranya closed the door behind us. “For the sake of Jesse’s sanity, let’s hope so.” Her bracelets jingled again as she gestured down the hall. “This way. They’re out on the back deck.”

She started walking, and I followed. Her high heels cracked emphatically on the floor with every step, the sound echoing boldly through the cavernous hall. She was no church mouse, this woman, and right off the bat, I liked her. She radiated confidence, like she had it together and wouldn’t take crap from anyone. Not me, not Jesse, notanyone. Out on the campaign trail, a personal assistant like her was a godsend.

On the way down the hall, I asked, “Has he been interviewed yet?”

“Not yet.” She glanced over her shoulder. “The photo shoot should be wrapping up soon, and then they’ll be doing the interview in the living room.”

“Good.” At least then I’d have a chance to talk to him before the interviewer.

Ranya led me through the living room, which was already full of people and equipment, and to the glass doors leading out to the expansive deck. She reached for the door but halted. She pulled a softly chirping cell phone out of her pocket and threw me an apologetic glance. “I need to take this. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

She smiled and stepped away, discreetly answering the phone as I showed myself out onto the deck.

Lights, camera equipment, and about half a dozen people surrounded the patio furniture on which the Jesse sat with his wife on his lap.

I’d been wound up since yesterday’s conversation with Roger, but now that I was in Jesse’s presence, reality was sinking in fast. I was going to campaignhim? The washed-up actor-turned-wannabe-lawyer cuddling his trophy wife for the cameras behind a house in fucking Malibu?

I ground my teeth but forced my expression to remain neutral. No sense making him nervous and screwing up the whole “look how happy my wife and I are” atmosphere. Jesse’s rival candidate was notorious for his womanizing and a string of broken marriages. Every candidate who’d ever run against him made sure to capitalize on that, and I had no doubt Roger had advised Jesse to use this article to do the same.

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