Christine Rimmer - A Hero for Sophie Jones

by Christine Rimmer

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

  Epilogue

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  Chapter 1

  ^ »

  The raven-haired stranger in the fifth row had eyes as black as his hair. Eyes that mesmerized. Eyes that managed to be both lazy looking and bold at the same time. Those eyes were locked right on her as Sophie B. Jones began introducing the evening's feature presentation.

  "Welcome to the Mountain Star." Sophie smiled, a smile intended to include each and every one of the eighty-five people who sat in the ten rows of battered seats before her.

  Though most of her guests smiled back, the dark-haired stranger did not. And he certainly seemed to be making himself at home, sitting there in an idle sprawl, an elbow braced on the seat arm and one long, graceful hand across his mouth. Thoughtfully, he brushed his index finger over his lips, an action that Sophie found extremely distracting.

  Sophie made herself look past him. Smiling wider, she spread her arms in a gesture that embraced all of her guests at once. "I'm so glad you could make it, and I hope you enjoy this weekend's installment in what I like to think of as our Randi Wilding Film Retrospective."

  From overhead, in the rafters of the old stone barn that housed Sophie's makeshift movie theater, came a soft cooing sound. Sophie glanced upward, then back out over the rows of expectant faces. "Pardon that pigeon." She lifted a shoulder in a what-can-I-tell-you shrug. "I thought I shooed him out of here this afternoon."

  A low chuckle passed through the crowd. Sophie scanned the rows again, making eye contact, watching the little quirks of smiles come and go on the faces.

  But not that one face.

  Or, wait a minute—

  Maybe he had smiled. She couldn't be sure, but it had seemed for a split second as if that sinfully sexy mouth of his had lifted at one corner.

  And those bedroom eyes certainly did look interested—in a lot more than the evening's feature presentation at the Mountain Star. Those eyes seemed to speak to Sophie. They said they planned to get to know her. Intimately.

  Up in the rafters, that pesky pigeon cooed once more.

  And Sophie told herself that she'd better get real. The man had an … aura about him. He might be wearing chinos and a Polo shirt right now, but she just knew he had a closet full of Armani at home—wherever that was, some big city, she was sure.

  It took no effort to picture him cruising around in a limousine, behind windows tinted black. He was the kind of man who could cause a hush by simply entering a room. The kind of man who made women wonder: Who is he? What's he after? And is there any way I might have a chance with him?

  Tall. Dark. Delectably menacing. Lord Byron and the vampire Lestat. Definitely not someone likely to be driven mad with desire by a woman who bought her dress at a yard sale and always cut her own hair.

  Sophie ought to be suspicious of such obvious interest from a man like that, and she knew it.

  And maybe she was suspicious. A little.

  But at the same time, her hopelessly romantic soul couldn't help but respond, couldn't help feeling what those eyes said, he felt: attraction, plain and simple.

  Sophie realized right then that the barn was way too silent. How long had she been standing there, pondering the possible agendas of Tall, Dark, Et Cetera, while her audience waited to hear about the show?

  Something warm and fuzzy was making figure eights around her ankles. Grateful for an excuse to look away from all those staring eyes, she glanced down. "Eddie."

  The gray tabby lifted his head. Yellow-green kitty eyes met hers. "Rrreow?"

  She bent and scooped him up. He purred and nuzzled her neck. "You're a sweetheart, you are." Petting the cat, she dared to look out at the faces again—taking extreme care this time not to allow her gaze to linger on him.

  "Let's see. Where was I? Oh, yes. Randi Wilding. As you all probably remember, she started out as just another gorgeous blonde—on the hit TV show, 'Eden Beach.' She broke into movies a couple of years later. And now, at barely thirty years of age, she's become a megastar. Some still think of her as nothing more than a sex symbol, but those in the know are already calling her one of the great all-time actresses. She makes exciting, fast-paced movies that everyone wants to see, and she also makes each character she plays come alive on the screen.

  "Tonight, you'll be seeing Sagebrush and Desire. It was Randi's second feature film. In it, she got to wear chaps and shoot a pair of pearl-handled Colts—not to mention deal with a passel of rustlers out to steal her herd. The word is that she did her own stunts, which I think you'll all agree is pretty amazing once you see the scene where she slides off the roof of a barn, turns a somersault in midair and lands square in the saddle on the back of her mustang mare—which bolts off at a dead run.

  "Unfortunately—" Sophie smoothed Eddie's wiry fur "—that wasn't a big year for Westerns. Sagebrush and Desire remains Randi's only box-office flop. And you all know how I feel about box-office flops." Sophie paused, grinned, and scratched Eddie behind an ear. "I love them on principle. So tonight at the Mountain Star, I'm proud to present … Randi Wilding in Sagebrush and Desire."

  Friendly applause followed Sophie up the aisle. A shiver went through her as she passed the fifth row, but she didn't allow herself to turn and look into those dark eyes again.

  Sin Riker watched the Jones woman as she strolled by with the gray cat in her arms. Her waterfall of honey brown hair shone gold in the glare from the fluorescent lights that hung from the rafters overhead. She looked sweet as a milkmaid in some sentimental old print.

  He shifted a little, so he could watch her as she moved beyond him up the aisle. Beneath the hem of her worn flowered dress trailed about three inches of white cotton lace. On any other woman, it would have looked as if her slip was showing. But not on the Jones woman. On her, that border of lace looked just right.

  At the top of the aisle, she let the cat down and climbed a ladder to what once must have been a hayloft, but now clearly did duty as a projection booth. Sin watched that innocent white lace until it disappeared overhead, then he turned and faced the screen again.

  She wasn't his type at all, of course. He preferred a more complex woman, one who could hold her own in the boardroom as well as the bedroom, one with a little darkness in her soul—to match his own.

  In the rafters, the rogue pigeon fluttered his wings. The gray cat strolled down the center aisle, striped tail held high.

  "I'm so glad we came," the elderly woman to Sin's right whispered to the gray-haired gent on her other side. The man took the woman's age-spotted hand. They shared a smile. "The Mountain Star is a special place," the woman said.

  Sin had to agree. This impossible theater in a barn charmed him. He had no idea why. The awful, rickety seats must have been stolen from some condemned movie palace and the screen had a hole in the upper left-hand corner.

  He should have found the place ridiculous. Yet he didn't. Not at all. It captivated him.

  As did the Jones woman herself, with those big eyes and that sunny smile, all that bronze hair—and white lace showing beneath the hem of her skirt.

  Not that this sudden, absurd fascination mattered one bit. Sin had no intention of allowing himself to be distracted by a pair of wide brown eyes. He had other, much more crucial business to transact with Sophie B. Jones.

  The fluorescents overhead dimmed. Sin heard the rolling click of a projector starting up. He shifted in his seat again, trying to get reasonably comfortable, as the show began.

  When intermission came, Sophie set her ancient projector to rewind the
first reel. Then she climbed down the ladder to handle the concession stand.

  Though Sophie had two full-time employees and a part-time maid to help her at the Mountain Star Resort, she ran the theater herself. Her guests—both the ones who took rooms in the main house and the folks who drove in from town just to see the show—loved it that way. They bought their tickets from her, she served them their refreshments, and before they saw the show, they got to hear her opinion of it.

  That night the dark stranger bought a bowl of popcorn. Myra Bailey, the Mountain Star's cook, popped the corn up fresh before the show. Sophie served it in plastic bowls.

  The stranger also bought a bottle of spring water.

  "That's three, four, five—and five makes ten." Sophie counted change into that elegant hand. She made the mistake of glancing up, of meeting those deep dark eyes. Instantly all rational thought sailed right out of her mind. She could only stare. They just didn't make men like this anymore—if they ever really had.

  He tucked the change into a pocket, his mouth barely lifting at the corner the way it had earlier, in the slightest insinuation of a smile. "I suppose you're going to want this bowl back."

  She watched his lips move, and wondered vaguely what he was talking about. He prompted in a teasing whisper, "The bowl—do you want it back?"

  She had to cough to make her throat open enough for words to come out. "Oh, yes. The bowl. Yes, I would. Like it back. It's recyclable. I wash them and use them all over again."

  He waited, not smiling, just looking, a look that made her feel warm and weak and positively wonderful. She had no idea what he was waiting for, but it didn't seem to matter much.

  Then he asked, "Where should I put it?" She gestured way too wildly, almost whacking him one on his sculpted jaw. "Over there. On that little table by the double doors…"

  He nodded. "Good enough." And then he smiled. Really smiled.

  It was nine-fifteen at night and outside an August moon was shining down, but to Sophie the sun came up at that moment. Even when he turned, carrying his popcorn and water, and headed for the curtains that separated her concession area from the rest of the barn, she still felt as if she'd been blinded by the bright light of a new day.

  It was ludicrous. And she knew it. Hopeless romantic or not, she had to get a grip here.

  "How about a pear nectar?" the next fellow in line asked.

  Sophie gave him a brisk, very professional smile. "Pear nectar it is."

  Through the final reel, as Randi Wilding relentlessly hunted down and disposed of all the rustlers who'd dared to do their dirty work on her ranch, Sophie B. Jones gave herself a good talking-to.

  Life, after all, was not a movie. In real life, handing a man his change should not be a transcendent experience. And it hadn't been a transcendent experience—except in her own suddenly hyperactive imagination, which she was squelching as of now.

  By the time the final credits rolled, Sophie felt she had herself under reasonable control. She climbed down the ladder from the booth-hayloft, pulled back the curtains that masked her concession stand and opened the big barn doors wide.

  Then, by the light of that almost full August moon, with another of her cats in her arms, she stood in the open doors and said goodbye to all of her guests personally, just as she always did.

  Among those guests was Oggie Jones. At least once a month, he drove down from the tiny nearby town of North Magdalene for an evening at the movies.

  "Quite a shoot-'em-up tonight, gal," Oggie declared when his turn came to say goodbye.

  Sophie let the cat slide to the ground and held out her arms. The old sweetheart allowed her to hug him. He smelled of those awful cigars he was always smoking, but Sophie didn't really mind. She simply adored him. The first time he'd come to the Mountain Star, he'd told her to call him Uncle Oggie. And she had from then on, because it seemed so natural. Three years ago, he'd invited her to North Magdalene, a half hour's drive from the Mountain Star, northeast on old Highway Forty-Nine. She'd met his whole family, his four sons and his daughter, their spouses and their children. They'd welcomed her as if she were one of them. Since then, she'd returned to visit often.

  She wasn't sure what it was about Oggie, but whenever she saw him, she always experienced the loveliest rising of affection in her heart—as if he really were her uncle, instead of just a sweet old character who shared her last name and her fondness for offbeat movies.

  "Oh, Uncle Oggie, I hope you enjoyed yourself."

  "I always enjoy myself. It's the only way to live." He leaned in closer, lowered his raspy voice and wiggled his grizzled eyebrows in the direction of Tall, Dark and Dangerous—who just happened to be standing near the concession counter showing no inclination to leave. "Someone's watching you."

  Sophie shrugged—casually she hoped. "I haven't a clue why."

  Oggie's small wise eyes seemed to bore holes right through her. Then he grinned. "Somethin' tells me that you ain't gonna be clueless for long."

  And Oggie was right. After all the other guests had gone, Sophie's brooding stranger remained—which, Sophie told herself, didn't matter one bit.

  She had work to do. Turning to the small table in the corner, she scooped up two stacks of used popcorn bowls. Then she started toward the man at the counter, who just kept on leaning there, watching her approach.

  When she got about a foot from him, she paused. "Show's over." She tried to sound breezy and unconcerned.

  "I know." He didn't move. He looked completely relaxed, as if he hung around after the show all the time—waiting for her.

  "Everyone's gone," she said, trying again. "Except you."

  "I noticed."

  She decided she was going to have to be more direct. "Now you have to go—and I have to clean up."

  He only went on looking at her, an assessing kind of look, a look that made her skin feel warm and her heart beat way too fast.

  She told her heart to settle down—and held out the used popcorn bowls. "Well, fine. If you're going to hang around, you might as well make yourself useful."

  He gave her another of those almost smiles of his. Then he shrugged and accepted the bowls.

  She pointed at the curtain behind the counter. "Take those right through there."

  Her stranger was standing by the double metal sink, still holding his share of the bowls, when she joined him in the small alcove behind the curtain.

  "Just drop them in the sink."

  He did as she instructed, then stood out of the way as she piled the rest of the bowls on top, squirted in a stream of dish soap and started the water running. With a swiftness born of long practice, she began washing bowls and dropping them into the empty half of the sink.

  Her stranger caught on fast. He flipped the faucet to the right, turned on the water and reached for a soapy bowl. When he had it rinsed, he held it up and quirked an eyebrow.

  "Just set them right there. They'll dry by themselves."

  He put the bowl on the grooved steel drainboard and picked up the next one, and then the next. From the corner of her eye, she could see those beautiful hands, working as efficiently as her own. The Prince of Darkness does the dishes, she thought, and had to stifle a burst of foolish laughter. His watch winked at her, platinum and gold, a watch that must have cost more than the Dodge Caravan she was still making payments on.

  A few minutes later, Sophie dried her hands and then passed him the towel.

  "What else?" He hung the towel back on its peg.

  "Sweeping the aisles and taking out the trash."

  "Hand me the broom."

  She leaned back against the sink and slid him a sideways glance. "You really would, wouldn't you?"

  "Sweep the floor? Why not?" He waited. When she didn't move, he added, "But I'll need a broom to do it."

  She shuffled her feet and crossed her arms. "Well, I guess I just can't."

  "Can't what?"

  "Ask a total stranger to do my scut work."

  He looked am
used. "You didn't ask, I volunteered."

  "No. I handed you those bowls. I told you to make yourself useful."

  He laughed. It was a deep, very masculine sound.

  It sent lovely warm shivers racing right beneath the surface of her skin.

  She said, "Look. Never mind. I can do it in the morning."

  He shrugged, leaned on the other side of the sink and crossed his arms over his chest in a mirror of her own pose.

  She looked down at her sandaled feet. When she dared to glance his way again, those dark eyes were waiting for her.

  She had to know. "All right. Who are you?"

  He answered without hesitation. "My name is Sinclair. Sinclair Riker."

  It took Sophie a minute to believe what she'd heard. Then she barely managed to stifle a gasp.

  The man beside her chuckled. "From the look on your face, I'd say the locals have been filling your ears with old gossip."

  Sophie struggled to compose herself. "I … of course, I've heard of you—that is, if you're the same Sinclair Riker whose family once owned this ranch."

  "That's me."

  Sophie looked down at her sandals again. The old story was such a sad one. And from the way she'd heard it, he had been a vulnerable child of six when the grim events took place.

  Not sure if he'd welcome a direct mention of the tragedy, Sophie ventured, "I think I heard that your mother took you away from here—to Southern California, wasn't it?"

  "That's right, but my mother's been dead for a few years now."

  Sophie murmured an expression of sympathy.

  He shrugged. "It was all a long time ago."

  What did he mean by that? A long time since his mother had died? A long time since his father had lost the ranch—and then hung himself in despair? His eyes told her nothing, though she wanted to know everything.

  He turned away and stared off toward the curtain that led back to the main part of the barn.

  Sophie reminded herself—again—that they'd only just met. She had no right at all to expect him to tell her things he probably didn't even like thinking about.