Sweet Talk Me

by Kieran Kramer

  But not Lacey Clark. No one knew her real name because she wasn’t a memorable enough actress, was she? She wasn’t even memorable enough to get on Survivor or any B-list Hollywood reality show. She was on the F list. F for failure. And there was a much worse F word to apply to her acting career, but she was a lady, and she wouldn’t use it, much less think it.

  Which might explain why she liked fudge so much. And they made a lot of it on Indigo Beach. That was one good thing about being here.

  “You can go to hell.” Lacey angled her chin at the open door. “And lose the cigar while you’re at it.”

  His grin disappeared, and he threw the cigar outside. “Wow. You really are a buzzkill.”

  “Apparently guys like you have nothing better to do than point that out.”

  “Guys like me?”

  He might think he was one of a kind. But he wasn’t. There were plenty of spoiled, rich, handsome, charming men—many of them actors, a word she could barely say anymore without seeing red—who’d been blessed with a confidence they hadn’t earned. But she wouldn’t bother to explain. His kind was too cocky to get it.

  “Callum’s a jackass,” he said. “But I’m not Callum. So lay off the I-hate-men routine, please, until you see the guy—or guys—who’ve actually done you wrong. ’Kay?”

  “Fine.” She felt a small stab of guilt—but not on his behalf. Oh, no. He’d merely reminded her that she’d let Callum off too easy. “I’ll overlook your general lack of sensitivity and make you a cup of coffee.” Maybe she’d find out how he knew Callum. “But then you’re leaving. If you’re not sober enough to drive thirty minutes from now, I’ll call the sheriff to pick you up. Now that’s a Tweet that would trend! Why don’t you get on there right now and let everyone know you were driving under the influence?”

  The rain fell steadily but with less force. It had wimped out, something she wasn’t going to do anymore.

  “I didn’t drive,” he said, “and I’m not going anywhere. Nor do I Tweet. My assistant does.” He went to the door. “Thanks, doll,” he called to someone and blew a kiss.

  There was the honk of a horn, and then the loud, sputtering sound of a car engine starting up.

  “Wait!” Lacey pushed past him. “Was that your assistant?” From the light of the small sconce on the portico, she caught a glimpse of a silhouette of big pageant hair in the driver’s seat of a white Ford pickup truck. It spun up some sand and took off, its oversized tires and raised chassis rocking like mad over the uneven surface of the drive as it sped away. Lacey recognized monster truck rally mania when she saw it.

  Over her shoulder, Beau Wilder murmured, “You could call her that. Just for the past twenty-four hours.”

  “Ewww.”

  He shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he watched her go. “I love a woman who can drive like a bat outta hell. Cooks up a storm, too. Homemade biscuits and ham this morning, along with her mama’s own peach jam. Suh-weet.”

  And he didn’t mean about the jam, either. That much was obvious.

  Lacey had had enough. “You’ll have to walk or call your one-day assistant back for a ride. If she’s not here in half an hour, I’m calling the police.”

  He pulled out his phone. “I don’t think so. You’re trespassing. Not me.” He dialed a number and held the phone to his ear.

  “Who are you calling?” Her heart pounded.

  “Sheriff’s office.” His face was serene.

  “No.” She swiped at his phone.

  But he swiftly lifted his arm. “Why not? You’re about to call them anyway.”

  “We can solve this,” she said, realizing too late that he’d never dialed, “without contacting the authorities.”

  Dammit, she’d messed up. So she tossed her head and stared him down like a viper hypnotizing its prey.

  Mr. Wilder cocked his head. “Whoa.”

  She put her hand on her right hip and turned her left foot out to intensify the effect.

  But all he did was send her a searing look—he was good at that—and tuck the phone back in his pocket. “Were you ever an evil first-grade teacher in another life? Because I swear you’re channeling Mrs. Biddle right now. She’s why I hate naps and milk in little cartons to this day.”

  “You were the non-stop talker, weren’t you? Or the sly boy who hid on the playground at the end of recess when you had a substitute teacher?”

  “Don’t change the subject. I thought you were all about getting the police involved.”

  A flush of heat spread across her chest and up her neck. “Why should I? I’ve got a lease. You don’t. Your consolation prize is that cup of coffee, and then you’re outta here. Deal with it.”

  “Little lady”—he opened his jacket and pulled out a plastic grocery bag with an oblong square shape inside—“since I’m actually where I’m supposed to be, and you might be kinda cute when you’re not frowning—I’ll try to be patient. I’ve got a steak, and I’m about to cook it. And then I’m going to sit back and enjoy my new place, me and Jim Beam, since the liquor store was all out of Jack.” He tossed the steak on the table, pulled a silver flask out of another pocket, twisted off the cap, and took a swig. “Sorry, but you’re not invited, although I could be persuaded to change my mind.” He cocked that famous brow at her.

  Damn him for being so good at that. “Forget it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Their eyes met, and for a split second, she thought he saw everything she’d been trying to hide.

  He advanced toward her, his tread slow, careful. She wasn’t in physical danger. That she knew. His was the careful walk of a man who was either still drunk or hungover—hardly aggressive. But it was more than that. He approached her the way he’d done that horse with the broken leg in the last war movie he’d made.

  She stuck her chin up. No need to feel sorry for her. She was A-okay. She had a head on her shoulders, and she’d been through the wringer in the craziest town on the West Coast and come out the other side not totally crushed. And, man, had she seen some people out in L.A. plowed over, innocents like her who’d gone out there to find themselves and lost themselves instead.

  But Hollywood crazy had nothing on Southern crazy. Therefore, she told herself as she exhaled through her nose, I can handle anything, including this man.

  When he was a mere foot away, he stopped.

  “If you’re hoping Callum’s gonna show,” he said in that velvety-rough voice that had melted millions of women’s hearts, “I hate to tell you this—he’s not coming. But you can keep me company for a couple hours instead. If your heart’s broken, that is.” He chucked her chin softly. “Maybe that accounts for your ornery attitude.”

  She pushed past him, her hands trembling, and straightened the placemats on one side of the table. Dancing blue crab and shrimp. Henry loved them. “I’m not heartbroken.” She looked up. “And you’re obviously a womanizer, a trait I find a complete turn-off. How do you know Callum anyway?”

  “We go way back.”

  “Why’d he give you a key to this place?”

  “I’m doing the movie. And seeing as he jumped ship with Monica, he handed over his key.”

  “His?” She gave a short laugh. “It wasn’t his to give.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t yours to take. Why are you in Monica’s rental?”

  He had her there. “She owes me.”

  “A likely story.”

  “You know what?” She sent him her best withering look. “I really don’t need any actors around here.”

  Understatement of the century.

  She needed sleep, salt air, wind, and Henry. She needed a job, too.

  “It’s a moot point,” he replied. “You’re not staying.”

  “Yes, I am.” Her words might as well have been hammered into rock by a big, sweaty hand gripping a chisel, they were so solid. “You may be a big star, but I got here first. That counts for something under the law. You’ll have to pry me outt
a here by my fingernails, you hear? Or spend weeks trying to evict me. Your publicist won’t appreciate the news stories that’ll come out of that.”

  The corner of his mouth crooked. “Here’s your problem, Greta. You overact. All Southerners do. It’s in our blood to live larger than life. Doesn’t matter if we come from a trailer park or a mansion. It’s our thing. But here’s a secret: if you want to make it big in Hollywood, you gotta bury your own heart. It’s easy for me. I don’t have one.”

  “Talk about overacting.” She almost rolled her eyes but then decided to show him she could do restrained and mature with the best of them. “What’d you do? Sell it to the devil? Or did some woman rip it out?”

  He sent her a look, stood still and tall. Dignified. She felt vaguely embarrassed, but then she remembered she’d seen that same look on him on the big screen when he’d played a hero attorney who sued a big, bad company on behalf of an entire town of poor coal miners.

  “All I’m saying,” she said, “is that you’re throwing drama right back at me. Of course you have a heart. You couldn’t have played all those roles without one.”

  “You saying I’m good?”

  “No.” She gave another short laugh. Was he kidding? She wasn’t going to say that, not when he was trying to throw her out on her ear! “I’m just saying I see why maybe you make the big bucks. Maybe.”

  She winced. It was not intended to be a smile in any way, shape, or form, so it annoyed her when he chuckled.

  He pulled down a frying pan hanging over the sink, released it with a quick twirling motion through the air, then caught it right above the stovetop, and set it down on a burner. “I’m not used to sharing, Miz Greta.”

  Big baby. Which didn’t jibe with his knowing his way around a kitchen, but that was probably a fluke.

  He flicked on the gas, and a bright blue flame appeared beneath the pan. Over his shoulder, he said, “This lighthouse is out of the way, and it’s big enough for just one person—me. Now in Casa Wilder, I fry up a steak the night before I start work on a movie set. I also give damsels in distress breaks if they cooperate, at least until morning. You’ll be packed and ready to go.”

  He sprinkled salt in the pan. Then he unwrapped the steak—just held one end of the paper and let it roll out into the pan. It was probably the way women unwrapped themselves for him all the time.

  The sizzling smell made Lacey hungry. She’d been going light lately to save her food money for Henry. Tonight she’d made him scrambled eggs, but there were only two left, so she’d saved them for tomorrow and had eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich instead.

  “Well,” she huffed. “I can tell you think the sun comes up just to hear you crow, Mr. Wilder. But I’ve had enough of your talk. If you insist on staying, I’m going up. But don’t you dare smoke inside, leave the stovetop on, abandon dirty dishes in the sink, or walk around naked. I’m armed with a Colt .45, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

  She turned on her heel, hoping he believed her lie about the gun. She wouldn’t tell him about the Heinz 57 sauce she’d found in the cupboard yesterday, either. He could eat his dad-blasted steak without it.

  ALSO BY KIERAN KRAMER

  THE HOUSE OF BRADY SERIES

  Loving Lady Marcia

  The Earl Is Mine

  Say Yes to the Duke

  THE IMPOSSIBLE BACHELOR SERIES

  When Harry Met Molly

  Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

  Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

  If You Give a Girl a Viscount

  KIERAN KRAMER’S NOVELS ARE:

  “Delectable!”

  —Julia Quinn, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “Funny, sweet, sexy, smart … a delight.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Clever and engaging.”

  —Library Journal

  “Incandescently witty [and] completely captivating.”

  —Booklist

  “Delightful.”

  —Julia London, New York Times bestselling author

  “A wickedly witty treat!”

  —Kathryn Caskie, New York Times bestselling author

  “Utterly charming.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  USA Today bestselling author Kieran Kramer currently writes fun contemporary romance for St. Martin’s Press. A former CIA employee, journalist, and English teacher, Kieran’s also a game show veteran, karaoke enthusiast, and general adventurer. She lives where she grew up—in the Lowcountry of South Carolina—with her family. Find her on Facebook, Pinterest, Twitter, and at www.kierankramerbooks.com.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  SWEET TALK ME

  Copyright © 2014 by Kieran Kramer.

  Excerpt from He’s So Fine copyright © 2014 by Kieran Kramer.

  All rights reserved.

  For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  eISBN: 9781466805545

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / April 2014

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.