A Bad Boy is Good to Find

by Jennifer Lewis

  Lizzie felt a nasty curl of guilt unfold in her chest.

  Don’t forget, he never loved you.

  He only wanted your money.

  Deep breath.

  Con surfaced again. “Oh, man, I was sticky and dirty. The hotel in Phoenix left me with barely enough money for gas.” He scrubbed his face. “That place was expensive.”

  She tried to ignore a twinge of guilt. “Well, don’t worry, the show will cover all our expenses. It’s negotiated into the contract.”

  “You won’t hear me complaining.”

  That’s what you think.

  She touched her belly, which was flatter than ever. Nerves and no money for food. No car to drive to the store either, lucky thing the house was close to the train. “The only problem is how we’re going to eat until we get there. My credit cards are maxed out. That’s why I had to come back to the ancestral homestead. Think you can catch a deer and skin it?”

  Con chuckled, treading water in the deep end. “I’ll think of something.”

  He went out to get dinner, wet hair slicked back, the top down on his gold convertible. He returned nearly three hours later with two large pizzas on the front seat of an elderly Corvette with a loud engine rattle.

  “What on earth…?”

  “Ham and Mushroom still your favorite?”

  “Sure, but where’s your car?”

  “Right here.” He gestured to the Corvette, dingy black with white scrape marks on the rear wing.

  “Where’s your Mercedes?”

  “Sold it.”

  Her gut tightened. “Why?”

  “Money, of course. Lemonade okay?”

  “Sure. But you loved that car.” Why was she feeling guilty? That car was a gift from his ex. Payment for services rendered. “It’s your pride and joy.”

  “Times have changed.”

  He slammed the door and scrutinized the Corvette for a moment. Nodded thoughtfully. “Wanna eat outside? This breeze is nice. We could eat by the pool.”

  “Uh, sure.” She still couldn’t believe he’d sold his car. And for this scratched-up piece of junk? Why did that make her feel uncomfortable all over?

  “How much did you get for your Mercedes?”

  “A lot.” He plunked down on the grass and offered her a slice of pizza. “More than it’s worth.”

  “Who bought it?”

  “A guy who admired it. There’s a lot of money rolling around this town. I’d be a fool not to take advantage.” He took a big bite of pizza.

  “Well, you certainly know how to do that.” she snapped, tense.

  He shrugged and took another bite.

  “So where did you buy this thing?”

  “Saw it in a driveway with a for sale sign when I was on my way to the store. It called out to me.”

  “What was it calling you—Sucker?”

  Why did she have to keep sniping? She took a sip of lemonade. Bitter, like her.

  “It’s a Corvette.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “Nah. You’re a girl. Trust me, it’s an investment.” He took another bite of pizza. Chewed it. “It’s really nice here.”

  The setting sun pierced the trees with long shards of harsh light that bounced off all the windows. An unpleasant reminder of her last visit. “Appearances can be deceptive.”

  “I wouldn’t have minded growing up here.” He stretched out on the grass.

  She looked up at the house that was so familiar she barely noticed it. A vast shingle-style “cottage,” weathered dark brown except for the white trim and the rusty new layer of cedar shingles on the arching rooftops. Too big for the puny one-acre backyard. She’d never understood why her parents didn’t buy a house right on the dunes, but they liked being in town.

  “I hate it here. We only came in the summer, but you try being the fat girl on the beach in a town like this.” She sipped her lemonade again. She had no appetite for pizza. Somehow the loss of Con’s car made her feel empty. Another beautiful thing that was gone for good.

  “Wouldn’t bother me. Not if I had my own pool.” He leaned over and dipped his fingers in the water. Circles flew out across the shimmering surface.

  “You probably would have liked it. You’re an upbeat kind of person. Guess I’m just spoiled rotten and don’t know how to be happy.” She lay back on the grass. Crabgrass prickled her neck. “Do you know why I’m looking forward to this TV show?”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s going to be perfect. The dress, the cake, the flowers, everything. And do you know why it’s going to be perfect?”

  “Why?”

  She’d closed her eyes, shutting out the sunset.

  “Because it’s fake. An illusion.”

  “The cake is going to be fake?” She heard the grass next to her crinkle.

  She laughed. “You know? It probably will be. A real cake would melt under the lights. The icing would slide right off. They’ll have to spray it with all kinds of gunk to hold it together. Maybe they’ll just make it out of cardboard and spackle. Oh Con, why is illusion so much better than reality?” She opened her eyes, and he was right there beside her on the grass.

  “Maybe reality is better.” His dark eyes looked serious and good humored at the same time.

  “Nope. I’ve been up to my neck in reality lately and it stinks. Do you know I called three of my so-called friends to ask if I could come stay with them and not one called me back? My mom is AWOL. My father is under house arrest in their Manhattan brownstone. I couldn’t go there.” She shuddered. Not sure if it was the memory of her last encounter with her father or the image of him in an ankle bracelet. “My old apartment is gone too. Repossessed by the co-op for fees owed, or something. I found out from the doorman who wouldn’t let me in. Like I said, reality stinks.”

  “Look on the bright side. It’s a beautiful night, nice and warm, you’ve got this great pizza to eat and a friend to share it with.” His eyes glittered with the last of the sunset he squinted against.

  She picked a fleck of dried grass off his collar, trying to ignore the funny feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Yeah, a guy who drives a ratty old used car. What a catch. I liked you better when you were a French aristocrat with a gold Mercedes.”

  “Me too.” He smiled ruefully. “But I guess it’s time I grew up.”

  “Not so fast. I’m just warming up to this illusion thing. I need to pick up some tricks of the trade.”

  “Yeah? Well…” He looked at her, a half smile lifting his lips. “The first rule is to live in the moment. Don’t fret about where you’ve been or where you’re going, just love the summer breeze when it’s on your skin.”

  “It does feel nice.” She closed her eyes, blocking out his smile.

  “The second rule is to appreciate the people you’re with. Enjoy the good things about them and forget the bad.”

  Her eyes snapped open. “So instead of focusing on the fact that you are a deceitful con-artist, I should concentrate on how you’re actually a pretty caring person and give a great massage, that kind of thing?”

  “Exactly.” His eyes sparkled. “And don’t forget my well-toned physique.”

  “How could I? You put it on display with such casual ease. I bet there are women all around us with binoculars trained over the hedges hoping you’ll skinny-dip again.”

  “Only if you’ll come too.”

  “Oh, they’d love that. Maybe a journalist will get a picture of my fat white ass for the local paper.”

  “What did I say about focusing on the positive?”

  “I guess it’s going to take some practice.”

  “Kind of like kissing me?” A smile tugged at his lips and a shimmer of unwelcome heat stirred in her belly.

  She scrambled to her feet. “I think I’ve had enough practice there, thanks. I’ll wait until I’m getting paid before I do that again.”

  Chapter 9

  They shared the damp-smelling mattress in the po
ol house because it was the only one that hadn’t been carted away. Lizzie spent the night with her face to the wall, hating that she slept so much better with Con snoring softly into her neck.

  In the morning she gulped down some leftover pizza and took the train into the city to organize more details of her Dream Wedding.

  Gia had found a pre-Civil War plantation house with beautifully landscaped grounds in Terrebonne Parish, not far from the apparently miniscule hamlet of Mudbug Flats. At least in the pictures the house was stunning, Greek revival columns supported deep verandas and gnarled live oaks dripped with Spanish moss. Con would love it. Why did that give her a tickle of pleasure? Wasn’t this supposed to be about punishing him?

  Luckily there wasn’t too much time to think about Con. It was “accessory day” and by noon her mind boggled with taffeta trains and hand-netted demi-veils, freshwater-pearl-drop earrings, embroidered garters and hand-dyed satin sling-backs with intricate beading. The office bustled with assistants from designers all over the city bearing a train of extravagance.

  She wouldn’t have batted an eye at all this stuff back when she was wealthy. Couldn’t have cared less. Now the pretty trinkets mocked her. More beautiful because they were unattainable, except on temporary loan.

  She could say a lot of bad things about Maisie, but the girl worked like a galley slave. Lizzie was honestly impressed with how she juggled details and handled multiple phone calls without breaking a sweat. But one thing puzzled her.

  “Maisie,” she said, between bites of Cobb salad. “Why are you and Dwight having such a long engagement? Why don’t you just tie the knot?”

  “It takes time to plan the perfect wedding.” Maisie sorted through a box of Calvin Klein dinnerware samples. “Dwight knows that a society wedding is an occasion to be taken seriously. It shouldn’t be rushed. You only get married once in a lifetime.”

  Lizzie almost choked on a crouton as a stab of raw pain shot through her. She’d been so excited to marry Con and spend the rest of her life with him.

  Or with the person he’d tricked her into thinking he was. How could she have been so blind? So naïve?

  Because she’d wanted so badly to be loved. Loved for who she really was, not the thinner, hipper, more witty version of herself her parents always seemed to hope for.

  To be able to give love to someone who loves you in return was the best feeling she’d ever known. She’d never imagined she could be so very, very happy.

  A strange sound emerged from her throat and she covered it with a cough. She realized she was gripping her napkin in a clenched fist, and she made a show of fluffing it out and spreading it on her knee.

  Conroy Beale hadn’t loved her. He’d loved her money.

  Raw agony flickered into quiet fury as Maisie held a dish up to the light. Lizzie sat up and cleared her throat. “Those ones with the fleur-de-lis pattern—they’re perfect. Definitely use those.” She forked some salad into her mouth, shoved her hurt feelings back down where they belonged and wrapped them in barbed wire.

  “You like them? I was thinking they were a bit subtle. Almost too European. I want a Grand Old South feel.”

  “Trust me on this. They look just like the tattoo on Con’s butt. We’ll have to make sure he bares it on screen some time.”

  Maisie’s shocked stare made her worry that she’d overplayed her hand.

  But, as her cousin’s mouth quirked into a sly smile, another thought dawned on her: an image of Maisie enjoying a one-on-one viewing of Con’s well-formed backside.

  Lizzie had kept Con away from the offices so he wouldn’t get wind of her plan, so he and Maisie still hadn’t met, but she strongly suspected Maisie would simply have to try screwing her fiancé. It wasn’t in her nature to pass up a challenge like that.

  She had that thought firmly in mind as she walked the short distance from the train station to the house that evening. The beat-up Corvette was still in the driveway. The hood was propped open and some tools lay on the gravel, but Con was nowhere in sight.

  “Con,” she called out as she approached the door. She was hungry. She’d forgotten to borrow money from him to buy lunch so she’d had to make do with salad.

  I need Con for his money. The thought made her want to laugh or cry, she wasn’t sure which.

  “Con, where are you?” She stepped over a socket wrench. How did she know the name of it? The front door was ajar.

  “Con?” She called up the winding staircase, her voice echoing off all the bare wood and uncovered walls.

  “Hello.” A woman emerged in the upstairs hallway and Lizzie jumped.

  “Who…? What…?” Words sputtered and died in her mouth. Blood whirred in her ears as the woman descended the stairs, hand on the railing. An elegant woman of forty or fifty with a smart yellow suit and glossy hair. “Lizzie?” She held out her hand to shake.

  Lizzie stood there open mouthed as flames of white hot rage snapped through her. It wasn’t Frankie. This woman was a brunette and she remembered Frances Allen as a pale blonde, so it must be another one of Con’s “friends.”

  The woman drew back her hand and tucked her shiny hair behind an expensive earring. Offered a lipsticked smile. “Conroy is getting dressed.”

  “Get out of my house!” An undignified high-pitched shriek.

  “I’m sorry?” The woman didn’t seem all that flustered by her outburst. She looked at Lizzie rather curiously.

  “Lizzie, hey, this is Amanda.” Con appeared at the top of the stairs, immaculate as usual, wet hair combed back.

  “I don’t care who the hell she is! Get her out of my house right now. And throw your own sorry ass out after her.” Her heart pounded. She was so angry she could barely see.

  “She’s the Realtor.” Con bounded down the stairs. “She stopped by to see why my car was in the driveway.”

  Lizzie froze. She looked at the woman, who was now staring at Con with a secretive smile.

  The brunette lifted her chin. “I’m sorry I complained. It’s just that first impressions are so important to a buyer. It’s called curb appeal.”

  “I told her I’ll put my car in the garage, so it doesn’t lower the tone of the neighborhood.” He winked at Lizzie.

  Lizzie stood very still as a crimson tide of humiliation washed over her.

  “Mr. Beale explained that the car is a hobby project of his, and I quite understand. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.” The Realtor looked like she was trying hard not to laugh. Lizzie felt like slapping her.

  “It is a shame that your family removed all the furniture already. Houses show so much better when they’re occupied, but I know the family has been in a rather difficult situation. It would be advantageous to turn the electric back on and get the landscape service to do more than mow. I’m doing my best to sell it, but the market is rather slow now that we’re into the off-season—”

  “I need to use the bathroom, excuse me.” Lizzie pushed past the woman and heading for the stairs.

  “Isn’t the electricity turned off?” the reedy voice called after her.

  “It flushes just fine with a bucket of pool water,” hissed Lizzie, her face still burning.

  “Anyway, thanks for stopping by,” said Con. “I’ll make sure the place looks neat.”

  “So sorry to make a fuss, but obviously this property is rather a challenge anyway, what with the notoriety…”

  Lizzie slammed the bathroom door, blocking out the noise. There was no bucket of pool water because they always used the downstairs bathroom. Just a window to stare out at the tree-fuzzed horizon. Make it all go away.

  “Lizzie.” She heard Con coming up the stairs. She rubbed her face in her hands, then remembered her makeup. She was wiping smudged eyeliner off with a fingertip when he flung the bathroom door open.

  “Do you mind? I’m in the bathroom.”

  “I know you aren’t really using it. What did you make all that fuss for? Did you think I was…” He stopped and let a smile creep across his
mouth.

  “What was I supposed to think? You’re here alone, and a woman comes out of the bedroom?” Irritation pricked at her.

  “I couldn’t get rid of her. She kept saying she needed to check on stuff. I was just getting cleaned up when she showed up.”

  “You were in the pool?”

  “No, I’d gotten out, thank God,” he grinned. “I had a towel on, but I had to come up here to get my clothes. She followed me. Came in to check out the bedroom after I got dressed.”

  “Probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to her all year.” Lizzie couldn’t help smiling. She didn’t mind that snotty Realtor thinking she and Con were an item. He was impressively gorgeous. Let her go back to her cronies at the agency and blab about the hunk in the towel at the Hathaway place.

  That line of thought stopped her in her tracks. She and Con were not an item. Not any more. He was only here at because she’d roped him into her TV-show scheme. Was she doing this whole phony wedding thing because she wanted the world to see her with Con? To admire and envy her because he was, well, hot?

  She felt a blush creeping back.

  “What?” Con lifted an eyebrow.

  “Nothing. I’m starving, do you have money?”

  Gee, that sounded great.

  Con smiled. “Yup. Car’s not running though, I’m in media res with the transmission.”

  “You are the only person in the known world who would speak Latin while referring to engine repair.”

  “I’m a one-off.”

  “Thank God for that. We can walk to Main Street and get something to eat there.”

  “Sure, I just need to get the car in neutral and push it into the garage. Don’t want the place looking scruffy.”

  “Screw her. Leave it right where it is.”

  “Okay.”

  An extended massage by Con had her feeling almost relaxed the next morning. Her shoulders kinked right up again when Maisie charged at her as she entered the Celebrity Access offices.

  “Cajun or Creole?” Maise fired the question at her then looked down at her clipboard, pencil poised as if ready to grade the answer.