Time Enough for Love

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Trace was in a meeting,” Hugh lied effortlessly as he tried to pull Alison even closer.

  But she’d gone as far as she was willing to go. She pinched him and he released her, giving her a look that meant … what? That she was disappointing him? Seriously?

  “See, I was in a meeting,” Trace echoed, the slightest tinge of relief making his words rush together as he looked at Hugh and realized that they had come to rescue him. Particularly after Hugh pointed surreptitiously toward Alison. “Researching my character. With Professor, um …”

  “Carter,” Hugh helpfully filled in, because the man had apparently forgotten Alison’s name. He thumbed his BlackBerry as if the star’s schedule were on his personal calendar. “It was … Yes, at seven thirty. A.M. A breakfast meeting. In Dr. Carter’s office. Which is over with the rest of the production trailers.”

  And now Eleanor was looking at Alison, sizing her up with her neon blue contact lens–enhanced eyes, her fading suspicion mingling with her hope and relief as Hugh kept spewing his bullcrap.

  “She’s tremendously busy. Dr. Carter. She needs to approve the costumes for every extra—and we’ve got a lot of them on set for the next few weeks. Plus she looks at every single script revision, every tweak in the dialogue. The only open time she had to talk to Trace was early this morning.”

  Alison stayed silent, holding her breath, praying that Eleanor didn’t ask her outright about this alleged breakfast meeting—uncertain as to whether or not she’d actually go along with Hugh’s bald-faced lie when pressed.

  Except, really, she was already going along with the lie, just by standing there as Hugh’s exhibit A.

  But Eleanor turned back to Trace to ask, “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  “I did,” he lied again, indignant now at the injustice of her accusations. What a prick. “I said, Someone must’ve been in my trailer, because it wasn’t me, but you weren’t listening. You were blah, blah, blah, bitching and moaning, ready to assume the worst the way you always fucking do—”

  “When you left for your meeting at Dr. Carter’s office,” Hugh interrupted Trace, probably because he was good at reading body language, and he knew that Alison was about to reach out and smack the actor, or denounce them all for the liars that they were, “did you lock your trailer door?”

  “I didn’t.” Trace looked properly chastised and subdued. “Did you, Skip?”

  His assistant shook his baseball cap covered head, no.

  “I didn’t think we had to,” Trace said.

  “You better lock it from now on,” Hugh advised him, making a very real-seeming note in his BlackBerry. “Someone probably invited an intern in to take a look, and got a little early payback. I’m sorry about the inconvenience, and the misunderstanding,” he added with an adorable smile at Eleanor, who was now in Trace’s arms, apologizing, which was giving Alison heartburn. “I’ll have a cleaning crew come in and … Have you checked to see if anything was stolen?”

  Trace shook his head. “I don’t think anything was.” He looked at Skip, who shook his head, too. “No.”

  “That’s good at least,” Hugh said. “I’ll make sure it gets cleaned and is ready for you by your break. But right now, Mr. Marcus, sir, I hate to do this to you after such an upsetting morning, but your makeup call is in ten minutes. You need to get to work.”

  “As do I,” Alison spoke up, because she was damned if she was going to be part of this ugly conspiracy and not gain something from it. “Although, Mr. Marcus, perhaps we can schedule another breakfast meeting for tomorrow. I know how interested you are in finding out all that you can about Silas Quinn and we’ve barely gotten started.” She turned to Hugh and gave him a tight smile. “I’ll let you check our schedules and set that up for us.” The because you owe me, you little bastard was silent.

  But understood. Hugh nodded. Message received. “Ninety-seven thousand,” he started.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said, as she turned away.

  But this charlie foxtrot wasn’t over yet.

  “Dr. Carter.”

  Yes, that was Eleanor Marcus calling her name, in that Betty Boop voice that Alison had never found particularly appealing, even when the actress was a dewy-eyed teenager.

  Most of the crowd had dispersed, which was good. Still, she turned back, trying to unclench her teeth enough to give the poor deceived woman a smile rather than a grimace. “Mrs. Marcus,” she said, bracing herself. Trace had gone into his trailer, but Skip was still out there, watching them from behind his mirrored sunglasses.

  “I’m not acting anymore,” Eleanor said. “It’s a choice. My choice.”

  It seemed like a non sequitur, a change of subject, which was a relief, but she appeared to want a response, so Alison nodded. “I’d heard that,” she said. “It’s a tough business.”

  “I hurt my back,” Eleanor said, indulging in a little lying herself. Apparently it was a hobby for these people. In truth, the actress had stopped appearing in movies because, at the ancient and gnarly age of twenty-nine, she’d refused to let go of her youth—and the doctors who’d tried to make her look eighteen again had somehow botched the procedure, damaging the muscles in her face. She was still beautiful, but she now had only one expression. She’d had additional surgeries over the past five years—or so the tabloids reported—trying, and failing, to make it right.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Alison said as gently as she could. She backed away, gesturing back the way she and Hugh had come. “I’m melting out here. And I really need to—”

  “I’ve seen pictures of Melody Quinn,” Eleanor said. “She always looked so sad, so haunted—as if she knew what was coming. She was so young when she died.”

  Melody Quinn had always stared soberly into the camera, as did everyone who had tintypes taken at that time. Say Cheese! wasn’t a photographer’s battle cry until well after the turn of the century. Until long after Melody Quinn had met her tragic end.

  “I would’ve loved to play her,” Eleanor continued. “Not now,” she added with the slight movement of her lips that was now her smile. “But back when I was her age. She was only twenty-one, right?”

  “She was,” Alison said. “And yes, ma’am. You would’ve been great.”

  It wasn’t a lie, but Eleanor rolled her eyes as if it were. “Whatever,” she said, turning to go into the trailer where her skunk of a husband was showering in preparation for stepping into Silas Quinn’s giant, honorable shoes.

  Hugh was trying to slip away, unnoticed, but Alison quickly caught up.

  “Don’t you ever,” she all but spat at him, her voice low but deadly, as she hurried along beside him, down the dusty street, “ever do that to me again.”

  “Ninety-seven—” he started, but she skidded to a halt, catching his arm and spinning him toward her.

  “Whoa!” One of the extras, a tall, lean cowboy type, had been following them so closely, he nearly crashed into them.

  But Alison ignored him as she jabbed one finger into Hugh’s face, all but sticking it up his perfect nose. “Don’t. Start. I signed a contract with Logan Productions, not with the devil. That poor girl—”

  “That poor girl,” Hugh interrupted her, “was banging one of last season’s American Idols, just last week, in Vegas. She knows exactly what Trace does on set without her. She just needed a plausible excuse to keep from looking too foolish. That’s what we gave her.”

  “We? Thanks so much, but next time leave me out of it. Because I will not do that again. And if I were you, I wouldn’t—”

  “Believe it or not,” Hugh said, “it’s part of my job. I handle the talent.”

  “Well …” Alison sputtered. “Ew. Big honking ew. It’s not part of my job and …” The cowboy was hovering. He’d backed off a bit in a show of giving them privacy, but he was clearly waiting to talk to her. She spun toward him, her voice more impatient than she’d intended. “Can I help you?”

  “Um,” he said.

  “You were told
to find me for costume approval,” she guessed as she scanned his clothes, adding, “Oh, no. No. Nope. The jeans are too modern—they’re your own, right? They must’ve run out of your size.”

  He was tall—quite a few inches over six feet—with long legs. And while the faded jeans he was wearing looked good on him—extremely good—they wouldn’t do.

  “Paula!” Alison shouted. She’d spotted the intern across the street over by the Feed and Grain Store, talking with the second-unit director, Frank or Fred or whatever his name was. And damnit, Hugh had taken the opportunity to escape. He’d vanished completely, so Alison turned back to tell the extra, “Even looser-fitting jeans are still too snug in the crotch. Plus, I can tell you’re wearing briefs, which weren’t available until 1935. The things you learn from being on a movie set are amazing, aren’t they? The boots are good, but you’re going to have to lose the watch and that shirt isn’t …”

  She reached out to touch the fabric of his pale blue workshirt. It was a soft cotton, but it had been stone-washed, and the pre-fade was too uniform. No cowboy in his right mind in 1898 would’ve bought a shirt that was already worn out.

  “No,” Alison said again, asking, “Who dressed you? It’s all wrong. Except for the boots. And the hat. You can keep the hat.” That was one very authentic-looking off-white cowboy hat he was holding loosely in his big hands. She raised her voice again. “Paula!”

  “I think maybe you’ve mistaken me for someone else, ma’am,” the man finally said in a soft voice that had a hint of a western drawl. “I’m not an extra for this movie.”

  And Alison stopped examining his jeans and his shirt and looked up—he was so tall she actually had to tilt her head, which was rare—and into a face that she’d known for years.

  Her mouth dropped open as she stared at him.

  Wide cheekbones, narrow chin, big straight nose, elegant lips, blue, blue eyes …

  With the exception of his hair, which was golden blond, he looked remarkably, eerily like the few rare pictures she’d studied of Jamie “the Kid” Gallagher.

  And if he wasn’t an extra …

  That meant he was the actor they’d found to play Gallagher.

  Oh, big, wonderful hip-hip-hooray. This was too good. Casting had way outdone themselves this time.

  And sure, he wasn’t perfect. He was quite a bit taller than she believed Kid Gallagher had been. But he had the same slender build, with those long legs that she’d already noticed leading to narrow hips which angled upward to broad, broad shoulders.

  He was older than Gallagher, too, by a good fifteen years, but that was okay. The makeup team could take some years off the actor’s face, no problem, the same way they could darken his thick hair and make it wavier.

  Alison laughed. He was perfect.

  He was gazing back at her, one eyebrow slightly raised at her intense scrutiny of his face.

  “Sorry for staring, but …” She held out her hand to him, laughing again. “I’m … so impressed. I’m Alison Carter. And you’re our Gallagher. Congratulations and welcome to the set.”

  His hand felt cool against hers, despite the day’s heat. He had big fingers that were rough with calluses and a palm that engulfed hers. Like many actors, this man no doubt had been forced to support himself between jobs by doing manual labor. Although after Quinn, that was going to change. There would be no more ditch digging, landscaping, or carpentry in this man’s bright and shiny future.

  “Thank you,” he said. “But, um, I’m not sure—”

  “Have you got a minute to come to my trailer?” she interrupted him. He’d have plenty of time to be humble later. “I’ve got tons of information to give you before someone else grabs you.”

  Before the actor could answer her, Paula jogged over, calling, “I’m sorry, Dr. Carter. How can I help you?”

  “Coffee,” Alison said. “Two cups—in my office, bless you, and …” She looked at their lovely Gallagher. “You must’ve just arrived on set. Have you had breakfast?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Bring over a breakfast tray, too. Thank you, Paula.”

  He looked surprised and a little uncomfortable as the intern hurried away. “That’s really not necessary.”

  “Get used to it,” she told him, walking backward so that she could look at him as she led the way to the row of production trailers, one of which was her office. The resemblance was really remarkable. “It comes with the territory. Where on earth did they find you?”

  “Find me?” he echoed.

  Time Enough for Love is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  2010 Bantam Books Mass Market Edition

  Copyright © 1997 by Suzanne Brockmann

  Excerpt from Infamous copyright © 2010 by Suzanne Brockmann

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BANTAM BOOKS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Originally published in mass market in the United States by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc., in 1997.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming mass market edition of Infamous by Suzanne Brockmann. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eISBN: 978-0-553-90792-6

  www.bantamdell.com

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