Beauty and the Brain

by Duncan, Alice

  Colin didn’t like it. He rose, too. “Well . . .”

  “I promise you that we’ll endeavor to stick as much to reality as we can, but there are some elements of the story that just have to be in the picture, and that’s that.” An idea struck him and he smiled. “Tell you what: You help me in this picture, and I’ll set you to work on some more ambitious and more educational Peerless pictures after this one’s over. Will that suit you? I can almost see a sweeping saga documenting the Indians of the United States.”

  Still frowning, Colin murmured, “I suppose it will have to suit me, although how you’re going to document every single tribe, I have no idea. The picture would last hundreds of hours.”

  Martin chose to ignore his assistant’s lack of gusto and clapped him on the back. “Fine. That’s good. Well, then, I see you’re all set for dinner. I’d better go upstairs and change, too.” With another cheery pat on Colin’s back, he headed toward the door.

  Colin watched, him go, his expression dour. Brenda decided she might as well let her presence be known, although she expected Colin wouldn’t approve of having been eavesdropped upon. Not that she couldn’t soothe his nerves in a minute or two. She was an expert at manipulating the human male.

  She stood and laid the book down upon the table, making sure she made only a very small rustling noise. As she expected, the rustle attracted Colin, who swiveled his head and directed his scowl at the corner. He was surprised to see her, so she gave him one of her more softly luminous smiles

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Peters. It’s improper of me, I know, but I couldn’t help but be fascinated by the information you gave to Martin. About Indian abductions, you know.”

  He goggled at her for only a moment. Then his sour expression altered slightly, until he looked more irritated than angry. “Were you?”

  “Oh, yes.” She walked up to him, exuding charm and grace, and held out her hand, which she placed delicately on his arm. He looked down at it as if it were a rattlesnake poised to strike. Brenda thought he was cute as a bug. “And if you wouldn’t be terribly bored, I’d love to hear more about the subject.”

  “You would?” Clearly he disbelieved her.

  Little did he know. While Brenda could and did read everything she could get her hands on, she preferred hearing interesting historical facts imparted verbally. Were she a wealthy man, she’d have been a scholar, and she’d have haunted the lecture halls. Since she was a woman, and beautiful, she was limited in her options.

  This was one option she didn’t aim to let pass. “Oh, my, yes.” With a discreet flutter of her eyelashes, she added, “Would you be very bored if I were, to sit with you after dinner? In one of the smaller parlors, perhaps? I’m truly eager to learn about the Indians. For the picture.”

  He snorted and then looked embarrassed. “I beg your pardon, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  She waved his apology away and purred, “Brenda, please.”

  Was it her imagination, or did a faint blush stain his cheeks? Hmmm. Interesting.

  “Yes. Well—well, certainly. I’ll be happy to talk to you after dinner.” He bowed stiffly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Liar. He wouldn’t either be happy to talk to her. But he would be eventually. She’d see to it.

  “Thank you so much.” If the smile she gave him in parting didn’t knock him cockeyed, it sure wasn’t her fault.

  Chapter Three

  Brenda didn’t succeed in blocking Colin cockeyed. Although the information might have disappointed her for moment had she known it, she would have been pleased to learn that she was right about one thing: It wasn’t her fault.

  Because, while Brenda was extraordinarily adept in her own behavioral adaptations, so was Colin at his. Always a quiet person, even as a child, he’d had ample time to study the care and feeding of human animals, with the majority of whom he had nothing whatever in common.

  He’d long ago ceased believing that an attractive, vibrant woman, by some fluke of nature, might be so desperately attracted to him that she’d spend an entire evening—or even a meal—hanging on to his every word and gesture. He was not, however, unaccustomed to pretty women using him as bait as they trolled for more likely candidates to reel into their creels.

  By this time, in his thirty-first year, Colin could no longer be crushed by such behavior. He understood that each species exhibited its own mating customs, and he accepted this one as part of the human mating ritual. Some human females played upon the vanity and jealousy of some human males as a means of luring them into their sticky webs.

  He’d been used as a tool for exciting jealousy before. He knew that he was good-looking enough to make it not entirely impossible for a pretty woman to want to meet him. He also knew that after the initial introduction and subsequent conversation were concluded, there wasn’t a woman in the universe, save a few too ugly to find anyone else, who wasn’t bored to tears by his interests and his enthusiasm for them.

  Therefore, when he found himself sitting next to Brenda Fitzpatrick at dinner that night—Martin had reserved a large table for the primary staff and stars of the motion picture—he was prepared to fight his personal attraction to her tooth and nail.

  It wasn’t going to be easy, however. She was even more beautiful this evening than she’d been this afternoon. Her evening gown of pink silk brought out the shell pink blush of her cheeks and, since it was high-waisted and low-necked, it revealed a tantalizing expanse of creamy skin.

  Colin steeled his nerves and vowed to keep his masculine instincts under control. It would be fatuous, and he knew it, to allow himself to develop a silly crush on her.

  Fortunately, since he lived primarily in his brain and paid little attention to the world around him, even when that world contained an object as alluring as Brenda. Fitzpatrick and it was only inches away from him, he succeeded admirably. He was unwittingly abetted in this cause by the male lead in Indian Love Song, Leroy Carruthers. Carruthers hadn’t achieved fame and fortune on the Broadway stage, but he had a tremendous appeal—according to Martin Tafft—on film This was a very good thing for Carruthers in Colin’s estimation since, while the actor was a handsome, upright, and noble-looking fellow, his voice sounded sort of like that of a toy poodle that had lived next door to Colin’s family as he grew up.

  “I love the premise of this picture, Martin,” Leroy yipped at one point.

  He had a habit of making ahs out of his rs, as if he were some kind of American aristocrat; a Boston Brahmin, perhaps. Colin had met the type before. At once he admitted to himself, since his academic integrity had bled into the rest of his life, that for all Colin knew, Leroy was an American aristocrat from Boston or somewhere else. The good Lord knew, there were lots of them running around these days. Cattle barons, land barons, railroad barons, merchandising barons, and oil barons seemed to be popping up all over the place. Maybe Leroy was a son of one of those robber barons.

  “Fancy,” Carruthers continued, squeaking away as if he figured everyone didn’t notice his voice, “a beautiful woman”—he lifted a glass to Brenda, who smiled and lifted hers in return “captured by a lovesick savage—”

  Colin snorted. Brenda turned her head quickly and peeked at him. He pretended not to notice.

  “—and then rescued by so unlikely a fellow as a college professor on holiday from Harvard.” Carruthers laughed uproariously, reminding Colin of a hyena he’d seen in a menagerie. “Not, of course, that the public won’t understand from the moment they see me in the role that the professor is an adventurous sort.” He preened himself like a parrot, running his fingers over his pencil-thin mustache and smiling a benevolent and superior smile. Colin grimaced before he could stop himself.

  He didn’t realize Brenda had leaned over to whisper in his ear until he felt her warm breath on his cheek and caught the faintest hint of her perfume, a subtle and seductive floral scent. He jumped only slightly and gripped the table, hoping she hadn’t noticed.

  “He’s really an ass,
isn’t he? But he’s kind of a nice guy, once you get to know him.” Her delicate laugh seat a ripple of hot shivers tingling up Colin’s spine.

  Because he figured he ought to say something, he gasped out, “Er, yes. I’m sure you’re right.”

  When he turned his head, he found her grinning at him as if she understood his exact state of mind. Which, dash it, she probably did. She was an expert at these sorts of petty flirtations. “About which part?”

  He blinked and pushed his glasses, which hadn’t slipped, farther back on his nose. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The ass part or the nice guy part? Which part are you sure I’m right about?”

  She’d ended her sentence with an about, which was something Colin customarily couldn’t tolerate, but her question rather amused him in spite of her grammatical construction. He smiled back at her, hoping he didn’t look like a smitten blockhead. “Both, actually.”

  Her smile broadened, and she winked at him. “Good answer. You’re a real smoothie, Colin.”

  He was a real what? Too astonished to think for a moment, Colin dipped his spoon into his consommé bowl and only then remembered the bowl was empty. Dash it, he was allowing this woman to disconcert him, and he didn’t approve. He knew better than this. While he understood very little about women as people, he was wise to one or two of their wiles, and he recognized this one. She must have her eye on Martin or one of the members of the cast, and she was using him to promote jealousy in the object of her desire. Could it be Leroy Carruthers?

  Colin eyed Carruthers from across the table. At present, Carruthers was simpering and gesturing and carrying on in his high, squeaky voice like a caricature out of a Dickens novel. Colin glanced again at Brenda, who was occupied in gazing demurely at her empty soup bowl and pressing a crease into her napkin.

  No. Colin couldn’t believe that Brenda Fitzpatrick, who must have her choice of any man in the universe, would use him, Colin, as a tool to attract Leroy Carruthers. She was probably after Martin.

  Anyway, unless Colin missed his guess, Carruthers was most likely after Martin, too. As Colin wasn’t one to make caustic conjectures about his fellow human beings, having been victimized in that regard himself, he recognized this one as another effect of Brenda Fitzpatrick’s influence. He really needed to guard himself better.

  He started contemplating his impending study of the Gabrielino Indians of Southern California’s San Gabriel Valley, and managed to distract himself until the fish course arrived. When the white-sleeved waiter gently slid his plate onto the table, Colin stared at the defunct piscine creature laid in front of him, and his brain didn’t immediately recognize it as his own personal dinner. “My goodness, I had no idea their culinary skills had progressed to such an extent,” he murmured, thinking of the Gabrielinos.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Startled out of his fishy concentration, Colin realized what he’d done and felt his neck warming. It seldom annoyed him when things like this happened, but in this case he wished he’d kept his mind focused more on dinner and less on the Gabrielinos. He turned and offered Brenda a small smile. “I’m sorry, Miss Fitzpatrick—”

  “I thought we’d agreed to call each other Brenda and Colin,” she said in a soft, silky voice that still held a trace of New York, although it was less noticeable this evening. Apparently, she’d studied voice and could be New Yorky or not, depending upon her whim at any given moment.

  “Had we?” Colin took a deep breath, wondering if it would be stupid to fight with her over the question of names. Probably. He allowed his smile to get a tiny bit bigger. “I believe you’re right. I’m sorry, Brenda, but my mind had wandered to a research project I’ll be starting in the fall.”

  Her eyes opened wide. My goodness, they were blue. As blue as the sky on a clear day. As blue as the Pacific Ocean in the fall, when the sun shone full upon it. As blue as—good God, whatever was he thinking? “Er, yes, actually. Really. That’s what I was thinking about.”

  “You’re doing a research project on cooking?” She looked puzzled.

  Colin was puzzled, too. “Cooking?”

  She wrinkled her brow in confusion. It was a lovely brow. White, smooth, sort of glowy in the soft light of the lodge’s magnificent dining room chandeliers. Mentally, Colin shook himself

  “I guess I misunderstood you. I thought you said something about culinary development.”

  He understood now. She wasn’t stupid after all. Rather, her stupidity couldn’t be proven by this particular conversational lapse, since it was his. “Oh.” He forced a small chuckle. “I see what you mean. No. That was a slip of the tongue. My tongue. That is to say—”

  She was staring at him as if he were a rare and interesting life form. Colin couldn’t recall the last time he’d been this embarrassed.

  “I mean,” he floundered on, “I was thinking about the Gabrielino Indians, who did a lot of fishing, and, er, thinking about some of their skills in preparing fish.”

  “Oh.” Her brow unwrinkled, but she still looked confused. Colin didn’t blame her. “I see, I think.”

  They both turned to their plates, and Colin shoveled in a piece of fish much less politely than his mother had taught him to do. Brenda, he noticed as he chewed, was as dainty with her silverware as she seemed to be with everything else. She cut a very small bite of fish and gracefully lifted it to her beautiful lips. Dash it, he wished he hadn’t thought about her lips as being beautiful. She chewed like a lady.

  He noticed her hands, too. They were small and smooth and porcelain-white. Her fingernails, although not long, were shaped and buffed and very, very pretty. She must take awfully good, care of them. And that, he snarled internally at himself, was a stupid thing to think. Of course she took good care of her skin and hands—and every other part of her delectable body. Her looks were her livelihood, for heaven’s sake.

  All at once, he stopped chewing.

  Her looks were her livelihood. He peered at her, hoping she wouldn’t catch him staring. Fortunately, her attention had been caught by her right-hand neighbor, and she didn’t notice his glance.

  He’d never considered what a burden it must be to have to pamper and protect and cultivate the package one presented to society, and to know that it was your only means of income—and that, with the inevitability of the years, it would fade, and you’d be without the means to earn your living. He hoped very hard that Brenda was saving her money during these years of her success.

  All he had to do to earn a living was be himself—with the occasionally forced social grace tossed in for a bonus—and he was set for life. When he got old and gray, he wouldn’t be out of a job; rather, he’d probably have solidified his academic reputation, and students would be flocking in droves to take his classes.

  It was something to think about. And it was a lot safer than thinking about the Gabrielinos’ penchant for fish. He ate another bite of his present fish and enjoyed its savory flavor. They’d used a mighty tasty sauce on it.

  “I do like fish, don’t you, Colin? When it’s prepared as well as this one is.”

  All his nerves seemed to jangle at once, and he cursed himself for being so sensitive to her voice, which wasn’t all that great. All right, she had a nicely modulated tone, neither too high nor too low, and not breathy. He couldn’t stand breathy female voices. But she couldn’t seem to rid herself of traces of that ghastly New York accent. Whatever the quality of her voice, there was no reason for him to react to it like this. He gave himself a hard mental shake.

  “Yes, it’s very good.”

  “Do you know what kind it is?”

  “Trout,” Colin said immediately. While he’d never made a study of fish, he’d been on enough nature expeditions in the course of his education to be able to recognize a trout when he ate one.

  “Really? We don’t have trout back east. I like it a lot.”

  Colin cleared his throat and made a determined effort to play the role of socially adept gentleman. “Er
, one time when I was in Iceland—”

  “Iceland,” she exclaimed. “How fascinating.”

  She sounded sincere. Colin decided not to dip into that pool at the moment. “Er, yes, it was rather fascinating. Anyhow, we were served a fish that tasted exactly like salmon—”

  “Oh, what’s salmon? I’ve never even heard of it.”

  Peering at her, Colin could determine no reason she should appear so avidly interested in salmon, but she did. Nevertheless, he answered her politely. “It’s a fish native to the northwestern territories. Delicious. It swims upriver every year to spawn. Sometimes bears will wait on the banks of the river and scoop the fish right out of the water, they’re so numerous.” He wondered if he should have used the word spawn in Brenda’s presence, but it was too late now.

  “Oh.” Her expression conveyed distress for a second. “Poor fish.”

  She probably didn’t know what spawn meant. “Er, yes. Well, at any rate, this fish we ate in Iceland tasted like salmon to me. Salmon has a red flesh, and this fish didn’t, but the taste was remarkably similar.”

  “Was it salmon?”

  “No.” He grinned. “It was an ocean trout. I was very much surprised to learn that.”

  She contemplated this information for a moment. Just as Colin was beginning to feel monumentally stupid for having told such an insignificant and ridiculous story to so beautiful and sophisticated a woman, she said, “How strange. You wouldn’t expect an ocean trout to taste like a freshwater salmon, would you? I mean, it is odd. I don’t blame you for remembering the experience because it’s intriguing.”

  Actually, she was right. Surprised, Colin said, “Yes. Yes, it was intriguing.”

  Her face held a world of fascination. “But, do those poor fish really have to swim upstream to lay their eggs? Isn’t that very difficult for them, even without the bears?”