Someday Soon

by Janelle Taylor

  “Not all that quickly. The sheriff had to help,” Cammie said, and Ty shot her a questioning look.

  The phone rang on like a nagging shrew. Ty glared at it impatiently, undecided, then with a muffled oath, he snatched up the receiver.

  “Yeah?” was his terse response.

  Cammie could hear tinny squawking from the voice on the other end, but Ty didn’t respond to its sharp tones for a long time. However, his expression subtly changed, and when he said, “Thanks,” and softly hung up the receiver, Cammie sensed an electric change in the air, as if something monumental had happened.

  “What?” she asked.

  “My father had someone break into a friend’s apartment and get this address.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe that.”

  “Then you’re a bigger fool than I am. My father directed you here for reasons I don’t quite understand. But the fact is, you’re here,” he said, and Cammie felt the chill in his voice brush over her as if his breath were actually a stiff, frigid wind. “I wasn’t thinking before. I almost forgot that he actually burglarized someone’s home. I got all caught up in seeing someone I once considered a friend. Call me ‘alcohol impaired.’ But I’m back in my head now and I want you to leave.”

  “What?” She could scarcely believe the abrupt change in his demeanor.

  But he was pretty clear when he stated tautly, “You’re trespassing.”

  Still, Cammie hesitated. She hadn’t come all this way just to turn tail and leave. “Who was that?” she asked, glancing toward the phone. Clearly, it hadn’t been his mother.

  If she’d hoped to divert him, it didn’t work. Ty’s stern countenance didn’t alter an iota, and when he strode to the door, throwing it wide and silently gesturing for her to follow his order, she had no choice but to acquiesce.

  Except she couldn’t just go! “Ty, I’m not leaving Bayrock without talking to you.”

  “You just talked to me.”

  “You’re not listening. I—”

  “You’re right, I’m not,” he interrupted harshly. “If I wanted to be found, I’d have been found before. Now, get out of my house before I throw you out.”

  “I don’t know what that person said to you, but I never hired anyone to do anything, especially break-ing and entering! All I want to do is reconnect. That’s all. I just want to—have some family again,” she blurted honestly. “I just want to see you—again.”

  Her pathetic little speech appeared to have no effect, and Cammie could have kicked herself for sounding so lonely and needy. Of course he didn’t want to see her! He’d made a pretty serious stand on this issue ten years earlier when he’d dumped his entire life and run away. What had she expected?

  “Where are you staying?” he asked, as if the words had been dragged from some deep inner part of himself he would have liked to deny.

  “Nowhere, yet. Maybe the Goosedown Inn? That’s where I’m parked.”

  When she would have brushed past him, still doing his bidding, though reluctantly, her feet moving ultra-slowly, Ty’s hand suddenly shot out and grasped her upper arm. For a moment he didn’t speak, and she gazed at him uncertainly, afraid for what might come next.

  She could smell the alcohol on his breath, but it was a sweet, warm scent that somehow stirred her blood. Memories flitted inside her mind, brushing like butterfly wings—memories of his lips and touch and hunger.

  “You’ve turned into a beautiful woman,” he ground out, as if the words were torn from him.

  “Thank you.” She didn’t know what else to say. She was entrapped by the emotion in his eyes.

  Did he know he was rubbing her arm with his thumb, a convulsive movement that belied his granite appearance of ultimate control. She couldn’t breathe. The space was too tight, yet she wanted the moment to stretch out into infinity.

  “If I let you stay—” he started, cutting himself off instantly, as if the words were blasphemy itself.

  “I’m not going to tell anyone where you are. I have no interest in that.”

  “My father didn’t send you? Hell, he had to have!”

  “He told me where you lived. When I decided to find you, I left on my own. I didn’t tell him. If anyone followed me, they were pretty cagey about it.” A faint thought skittered across her brain, a sense of anxiety she couldn’t quite put a finger on.

  Ty shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving this place anyway.” But reluctance rang through his words. His feelings were plain.

  “You’re leaving Bayrock.”

  “I’ve got to! I feel the dogs panting at my heels. It’s only a matter of time. And now you…”

  “But you don’t want to go.” She voiced the realization.

  “I don’t know what I want!” he gritted out, clearly furious with his own indecision.

  Why did you leave? she wanted to ask him. Why for so long, so completely?

  “Go get your things,” he said suddenly, the words fast as if he knew he was making a mistake and was in danger of changing his own mind before the words were even spoken. “You can park out front. You can have my room. I’ll sleep in the loft.”

  “Ty, you don’t have to—”

  “Do it before I change my mind.” Abruptly, he released her arm. His mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “I warn you though, I’m difficult as hell.”

  Without another word, Cammie strode across the threshold, knowing a gift when she received one. She moved with all due haste, half running through the frigid night because Ty’s mercurial change of mood might last as long as his next thought, and she couldn’t risk losing this windfall of an opportunity.

  Ty slammed the door behind her, stared at it in total astonishment, then ran his fingers frustratedly through his hair. Damn, he was furious with himself! Hadn’t Bruce just told him that he suspected Sam was behind the break-in? Hadn’t someone called up and tried to access Tyler’s records at work, posing as Samuel Tyler Stovall, Jr.? Sure, it could be some independent, but only Samuel cared; Ty was certain of that. And Bruce had to agree.

  And so what if it were someone else? Sam knew enough about him to give the information to Cammie. Any way you looked at it, his cover was totally blown.

  So, why was he waiting around for the axe to fall? Why had he invited the Trojan horse into his home?

  Ty didn’t even want to consider the answer. He suspected it was something more basic than he wanted to admit. One look at Cammie, and some dormant male hormone had jumped to life as if he were an adolescent.

  It had been all he could do to try and behave normally.

  Growling beneath his breath, Ty headed for his temporarily forgotten drink. But as he raised the glass to his lips, a lustful image of Cammie naked ripped through his brain. Ty blinked in shock. Was it memory? It couldn’t be! But it was so incredibly sharp that his body reacted accordingly, and that ticked him off so badly he swallowed a burning gulp of liquor that caused him to choke and his eyes to tear.

  Good Lord. She was practically a sister to him! Well, no. That wasn’t true. She’d been a stepsister for one brief period of history in his life. He’d had other stepsisters as well, although he couldn’t even recall their names and faces right now. Cammie was the one who’d mattered. The one who’d been a part of his life. But it was all so many years in the past that it seemed odd to have such familiar power.

  “I’ve been gone too long,” he said aloud to the empty room. “I’m delusional.”

  No, you’re not, you ass, you’re just horny!

  That ticked him off anew because the truth of it was so darned obvious and so puerile. He’d had other women during his self-imposed exile. He’d had a number, as a matter of fact, Missy Grant being the one who lasted the longest, but the honest truth was, they were quick moments, transient encounters which were over even before the act of sex was completed, at least in Ty’s mind. He couldn’t connect. He couldn’t love anyone, and when he actually warmed to a woman, invariably they began talking love,
marriage, and children. It froze his blood.

  At some level he wanted the first two, though he doubted he would ever find either. Love and marriage were the ideal. But he did not, and never would, want children; Gayle’s death and his father’s indiscriminate siring of children had cured him of any small interest he might have harbored for fatherhood.

  Which didn’t explain why he’d relented when it came to Cammie. Why had he invited her to stay? Why? Some infantile desire of his own in her professed need to “reconnect,” he supposed. That was the worst of it. He was more of a sap than he’d ever believed, and it took a certain amount of serious, internal dissection of his feelings to make him recognize this aberrant new side to himself.

  What was he going to do with her?

  Setting down his drink, he walked down the short hall past the bathroom to his bedroom. Clutter reigned on the shelves. Books, mostly, and extra computer supplies that hadn’t made it upstairs to the loft. There were no pictures, nothing to remind him of the past, except a ceramic cup that read “Jerry,” a memento from his first film which was now used to store pencils.

  Ty picked up a pair of jeans from the floor and carried them to the kitchen where, behind louvered doors, stood a tiny, stacked set of washer and dryer. He suddenly felt invaded, and he silently cursed the impulse that had caused him to invite a guest into his space.

  But what a guest she was!

  Picturing her wide-set blue eyes and lush auburn hair waving to her shoulders crowded out every other thought inside his head. He shook his head in disbelief, staggered a bit and realized he’d had way too much to drink. But was it really alcohol that was impairing his judgment and his reactions, or was it something far more treacherous?

  With an effort, he headed back to the couch and collapsed into the cushions. Boxes lined the edge of the room, a reminder that he did have to leave. Putting off the inevitable was dangerous; if Cammie were already here, there was sure to be others, no matter what she said.

  Still…

  His head swam when he closed his eyes, so he snapped them open, staring up at the beamed ceiling. He was a master at holding his liquor, yet there was always that point of no return. Had he reached it yet? He hoped not. He so seldom drank hard alcohol anymore, for it reminded him of those terrible days just before he left Los Angeles for good.

  He suddenly wanted to be stone-cold sober when Cammie reappeared.

  What have I gotten myself into? he thought with an inward shudder, sensing in himself a susceptibility he’d hoped with all his heart had been killed when he’d learned of Gayle’s duplicity and death.

  Cammie dragged her overnight bag from the trunk of her rental. She was parked in Ty’s driveway, directly behind the closed door to his two-car garage. The stiff breeze kept up a constant whoosh around the buildings which guarded this edge of the lake, and she could smell the dank scent of water and wet foliage.

  Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath, hiked up the overnight bag, then headed for the gate that led to the front door. She hoped he hadn’t changed his mind. She hoped this was the beginning to something new and wonderful.

  She hoped for a miracle.

  Across the way and down the street, parked in the shelter of a couple of giant firs, Orren Wesson lowered his binoculars. She’d done it. She’d gained entry. And though he hadn’t seen Mr. Tyler Stovall in person yet, the address was right and Cammie had found a way to gain his trust.

  Twisting the ignition, Orren eased his car down the street and slipped into a space outside the brick brewery near the Goosedown Inn. The place wasn’t exactly hopping, but there were enough people at the cluster of tables inside to toss him a few uninterested glances before returning to their ales and hefeweizens and microbrews.

  Orren popped a quarter into the pay phone and dialed a credit card calling number, followed by the now memorized number of his current employer: Samuel Stovall.

  “The fat lady’s been singing for a while, just like I told you,” he said.

  “She found him?” The eagerness in the other man’s tone caused Orren to smile faintly.

  “Found him and talked him into letting her stay. She took her overnight bag inside and parked the rental in front.”

  A snort of amusement, or possibly admiration, followed. “Come on back and collect your money.”

  Orren grunted a happy agreement. This trip hadn’t been necessary in the first place, but if someone else was paying, why not? Still, he could use a little warmer weather. Hell, it was still winter up here!

  Los Angeles was only a day away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Samuel Stovall walked with the natural urgency of a man who can’t bear to get behind, in time or in life. He strode forcefully, and though he was nearing sixty, he looked ten years younger and sometimes even managed to fool some into believing he was in his early forties. Of course, those were the people who remembered his son, Tyler, as he’d been when he left town: twenty-six years old and a spittin’ image of the old man at the same age.

  Only close friends and those who’d known Ty well realized the passing of the years; most of the public seemed to be content to expect time to have stopped, and Sam was in no hurry to argue with them, nosirree! If they wanted to believe the myth of everlasting youth, so be it. The value to him as a man was uncountable. His power at the box office had not diminished because of it, and if it weren’t for a series of avaricious ex-wives, he’d be rolling in cold hard cash.

  Still, he wasn’t bitter. He could get things done. And when he wanted his way, he generally got it. It was just a matter of time.

  With a grunt of satisfaction, Sam pushed open the door to William Renquist’s office. As Sam’s personal assistant, William had been asked to perform many a duty outside the “normal” expectations of a general dogsbody. And though Sam had seen some anxious expressions cross William’s face from time to time, his man Friday seemed to manage—and quite nicely, too. William was worth the extra money Sam paid him and then some.

  “So?” Sam barked by way of greeting.

  “You were right. Wesson followed her, though she was a bit faster than he expected. Took a flight to Seattle the very next morning after you gave her the address. Rented a car from there.”

  Sam chuckled and rubbed his palms together. “She’s staying with him!”

  “Will she call, do you think?”

  “Me?” Sam snorted. “Hell, no. The girl thinks I killed her mother. She’s as distrustful as a wild colt.”

  William nodded. He was thin, and sharp as a steel point. He’d been with Sam through the last two wives, and he knew more about Samuel Stovall than any man, or woman, alive. His loyalty was based on more than money; Sam Stovall had paid off a debt William’s sister had owed to some unsavory characters who’d threatened her with bodily harm. He’d done it to win William’s unswerving devotion, and he’d succeeded.

  But William thought Sam’s use of Camilla Merrill was totally unnecessary, and he hadn’t been exactly silent about his feelings. Samuel Stovall was thoroughly enjoying being right. “Are you going to Bayrock?”

  “Good God, no!” Sam blasted. William was smart as a whip, but he knew next to nothing about Tyler. “Believe me, we need a woman’s soft touch. That’s Camilla’s job.”

  “Your son isn’t known for falling for women’s charms unless it suits him,” William pointed out.

  “Not most women. But there have been a notable few.”

  “Who?”

  Sam, however, wasn’t willing to share a story that could only make him look the villain. There were still a few details of life that even William Renquist wasn’t privy to. “Never mind. Camilla’s a great shot for this. It’s brilliant. She’s got a reason to want him back, and when he reads Rock Bottom, he’ll be back in a heartbeat. He’s not a fool. The role’s perfect for him.”

  “And for you.” William smiled.

  “Well…it’s more for Tyler.” Sam pretended not to care, but his altruism was a sham and they both kne
w it. Though his box office appeal was still awesome, Samuel Stovall, and his audience, were aging. This meant less dollars spent by the average moviegoer, and therefore less total money earned by the film. But adding Ty to the roster was a guaranteed hit, no matter what the script! It was a stroke of genius on Sam’s part, one he was certain he would have concocted without the help of Camilla’s smarmy ex-husband, given the time.

  “I hope you’re right, and he jumps at the chance,” William said, throwing in a little bit of negativism that Samuel did not need.

  “Are you kidding? He’ll lap it up. He’s no idealist, no matter what the public thinks.” Samuel shook his head and sighed with delight. How could it fail? The behind-thescenes tale was a marketing man’s dream: popular actor, rocketing to fame, disappears for ten years without an explanation and then suddenly reappears to take the lead in a small dramatic role. It was a sure win even without Rock Bottom’s fabulous script! And the public would flock to the box office in droves. Sam couldn’t imagine a soul wanting to miss out on Tyler’s comeback.

  And Sam didn’t want to miss the windfall that would pour down on the studio, production company and actors et al. when that happened! He planned to be first in line, standing at the front door, both hands outstretched and ready for every, and all, profit that would rain down in buckets.

  “You’re certain Ms. Merrill will be able to persuade him.”

  Sam winked at William. “I’m a gambler. She’s a tough girl, our Camilla. I saw that when she was a kid. And I’m telling you, she made me feel like a criminal, when I wasn’t doing a damn thing wrong.” He smoothed his hair, an automatic gesture from years of unconsciously checking his appearance. “And I helped things along a bit by making certain she was Nora and Jim’s first choice. Oh, I know that hustler ex-husband of hers thinks he got her the role, but believe me, he doesn’t have the clout.”

  William nodded in agreement.