It was almost as if he were telepathic. Sherry scraped around in the nooks and crannies of what was left of her mind for something neutral to say. She needn’t have bothered. They had been surrounded by a cluster of grinning people.
“Oh, Mr. Hewlett, we’re so honored to have such a distinguished playwright here for our little festival,” said one woman in a chipboard dress.
Sherry couldn’t ignore the regret crossing Carston’s face.
“And we’ve decided to take advantage of your talent. Perhaps you could give us a few tips for this year’s children’s performance.”
A man with many teeth grinned rakishly. “We’re hoping to use the fifty Easter bunny costumes left over from the parade.”
Was it a joke? Probably. But Carston’s expression had changed again, become desperate. Sherry bit her lip so she wouldn’t burst into laughter. So this was what being an intellectual playwright was all about? She leaned in closer, said, sotto voce, “Want some lyrics for those fluffy bunny songs?”
His shout of laughter sent thrills down her spine. But the woman in the chipboard dress had overheard, and she looked less than amenable. “Our performances provoke intellectual reflection, Ms. Valentine. They’re not light entertainment.”
Now it was Carston’s turn to grin wickedly, but Sherry didn’t mind. His mouth was so wonderfully nice when it quirked upward. But why think about his mouth? What was she doing? Drooling over him just like all the other women on the planet. She had to nip this in the bud if she intended to save her skin. She did want to, didn’t she? Except…she wasn’t quite so sure about that just now.
Saving her skin, staying cool, uninvolved, well, that didn’t sound very exciting. But was a quick, temporary fling worth the heartache and the ultimate disillusion that galloped in on its heels? No. It wasn’t. Scowling, Sherry half-turned, took a few steps away from Carston and his admirers.
“Someone cart your pet poodle off to the bottling plant?” Charlie Bacon had appeared at her side, surging up from nowhere, handing her another glass of fake champagne.
“Phooey. I’m having a great time, really I am.” Sherry shrugged. “I never knew it would be so much fun meeting people I’ll never see again in my life.”
“What’s the matter now? Why the sour grapes? Mr. Ivy League Playwright getting too much attention from the crowd? Your intimate moment gate-crashed?”
“Mr. Ivy League Playwright? Intimate moment?” She was furious—or maybe embarrassed at being caught out. “Wrong, Charlie-boy. Mr. Ivy League Playwright and I have exchanged very few words and much less than a paragraph.”
Charlie laughed, a raw, carnivorous sound. “You don’t need words, chicken.” His eyes shifted into Carston’s direction. “What’s up? Love knocking at the door? Finally?”
“Love?” Sherry glared. “You’ve lost your mind, Charlie-boy. Love and show business? The words don’t even sound nice when they’re together in the same sentence. I know what I’m talking about, and you do too. I’m too old to believe in fairy tales. Been there, done that.” And those experiences—two divorces, several other failed relationships—had taught her love was an illusion. A word. Temporary madness. Something that wouldn’t last in the real world.
These days, she was too wary and too independent to get emotionally involved with anyone—especially someone also in the public eye. Her reaction to Carston Hewlett had been pure lust, not love. At least, that’s what she’d keep telling herself.
“Yup.” Charlie looked smug. “Love. It’s about time.”
“Charlie, cut that out right now.” She had to get his snuffling bloodhound’s nose off the trail.
“No way. You always tell me to mind my own business, keep my nose out of your affairs, and get on with the job of keeping you rich and famous. Well, that’s exactly what I am doing.”
“Oh?” She knew Charlie so well. Squatting and ready to pounce in every square inch of his being were sordid ideas about dollars and cents. He’d exploit a fruit fly if he could make that obnoxious insect’s career profitable.
“You want to be an actress, right? That’s what you hammer into my head every day of the week. You want to go to Hollywood, act in films. You’re the one who reads plays all the time; you’re the one who pushed me into making contact with Prima Productions.”
“And?” She felt her insides squeeze with dread. But first, let Charlie implicate himself. Then she’d counter attack, smash his proposal to smithereens. She knew it had to do with Carston. It had to.
“Well, chicken, listen to this.” Charlie pulled the habitual, wet cigar out of his mouth—something he only did when about to say something of the greatest importance. “What’s better for an actress’s reputation than a personal connection with a big shot playwright? What’s sweeter than publicity? A few magazine articles linking your names, a few intimate dinners, and there you are. People are talking about you and connecting you with the theater world.” His face was sausage red. “Wonderful!”
“Charlie, if you dare, just dare, I’ll strangle you. But very slowly and painfully.”
“What’s wrong with my plan?” He wasn’t in the least discouraged.
“What’s wrong? A million things. Number one: I want to be an actress on my own merit, and that’s easy enough. I have a name, don’t forget. That’s already publicity.”
“Sure you do. You have a name as a country music singer but not as an actress. You won’t get exciting roles because of that.”
“Two: I don’t know Carston Hewlett at all, but I can assure you he comes from another world. Not from ours. The cheap publicity you’re thinking about would render him hostile, and the plan would backfire. I know it.”
“You finished?”
“Not until I’ve made myself clear: back off, Charlie Bacon.”
Because…what if something, something soft, something delicate…something intense…was about to flower? What if? But when Charlie started his meddling, it would be destroyed. Mercilessly. Show business gossip, show business publicity, those things wreaked hell on personal relationships. She’d seen it happen too many times.
Charlie shrugged, his face expressionless. Sherry watched him with growing anguish. Charlie with a plan was a man obsessed, and neither snow, nor rain, nor gloom of night would stay him from his appointed goal. Perhaps pretending indifference was the best tactic? Or a silly diversion of some kind?
“Guess what, Charlie? Inside information has it there’s a surplus of Easter bunny costumes here in Midville. How about a concert in drag?” Had she been a little heavy on the champagne?
Charlie snorted but didn’t bat an eyelid. “All depends on the color. The boys look like hell in pink. Find horse costumes and you’re on.”
“Horses? Did I hear you talking about horses?” A tall and lusty-looking rancher had moved in. Towering over Sherry, his hot eyes traveled, with precision, over her figure in the tight jeans and fringed shirt. He licked his lips in an equine way.
Two seconds later, an older state senator had also appeared and was soon trying to convince Sherry that connecting up would be an excellent idea: just think of the publicity it would generate. Right now, though, he seemed particularly interested in a connection with her left ear lobe.
“We’ll spend the day out at my place tomorrow,” the rancher insisted. “I’ll pick you up at two. Dress for riding, and you’ll see the finest countryside this area has to offer. And I own all of it.” His leer left little doubt about what he hoped the day’s activities really would be.
“I’m terrified of horses,” said Sherry. At least that was true enough.
“If we just slip away,” the senator whispered. He was standing so close, if she turned, they’d do mouth-to-mouth respiration. “I know just the place for a very intimate dinner.”
“Sounds great, Senator. Charlie Bacon and my boys will be thrilled to bits. They love eating, and they’re heavily into intimacy.”
“No one could be afraid of horses.” The rancher chuckled.
> Sherry shook her head with mock sorrow. “Childhood trauma. My uncle once called my aunt an old nag, and she broke his leg with one swing of her left hoof, size ten.”
The senator pushed another glass into her hand. “Sexy ears. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Only male rabbits.”
“I raise the best beef cattle this side of the country,” the rancher cut in. “Wait until you see the size and quality of the steak I’m going to feed you.”
“Sorry. Steak’s out. I’m a vegetarian.”
The rancher stopped, thrown off his stride for a minute. “You must be joking.”
“Absolutely not,” Sherry answered soberly. “I believe in animal rights.”
“But animals hunt other animals down.” The rancher guffawed triumphantly.
“Show me a cow that hunts and I’ll eat my hat. Or a steak, if it comes down to it.”
“Miss Valentine prefers chewing hay. She confided that to me yesterday evening.” The voice, deep and lazy, sliced into the conversation. Carston.
Sherry turned. How long had he been standing there? Those remarkable gray eyes were dancing. So he’d been watching her and her predicament with open, raw amusement. She felt absolutely blissful.
Taking her elbow, he masterfully led her away from her “fans.” There was something so definite in his manner, it stopped the other males from following. Pure charisma, intellectual cave man style. Sherry tried to repress a giggle. She had to stop drinking the bubbly stuff.
“Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk to creatures with horns and pointy teeth?”
She looked up at him and grinned wholeheartedly. He grinned back just as openly. Her heart did a flip-flop.
“Why, land sakes alive. If it isn’t the man who writes bunny plays.”
“Are you drunk?” He was laughing at her.
“Passably.” The effect of the alcohol she’d consumed was nothing compared to the head-spinning power of his hand on her elbow.
“You need dinner.” He led her deftly in the direction of the door, just as if they’d known each other for the last comfortable million years or so. “We’re all meeting up at the restaurant.”
“Fine. Who’s ‘we all’? You, me, and those lusty devils back there?”
“Devils don’t meet the dress code. Just you, me, Charlie, and your musicians. Charlie said he’s reserved a table for us at a place with the unlikely name of The Blue Lagoon.”
“Sounds murky,” said Sherry, cautiously. It was difficult to quell the niggling little suspicion growing in the back of her mind. Charlie had arranged this? If Charlie so much as arranged a lady’s doily crocheting party, it would be suspect.
“He gave me the address and told me to take you there in my car.”
“I see.” She looked around quickly. Charlie was nowhere in sight. Nor were the boys. “And just where is darling Charlie right now?”
“He said he was taking your musicians back to the hotel in the bus. He wanted to meet a journalist; they all wanted to make a few phone calls.”
“Uh-huh.” Her suspicion grew stronger. “All of a sudden, just like that, all the guys got homesick and had to make calls from the hotel? Because their cell phone batteries went dead? Cute.”
His eyes searched hers. “Something wrong?”
“No.” She shrugged. “Nothing’s wrong. Just sounds a little fake, that’s all.” Actually, it sounded completely fake, but she wasn’t going to refuse to go with Carston. No way she’d refuse.
“What sounds fake?”
She shrugged helplessly. “Don’t confuse Charlie with the rest of the human race. He’s 100% bionic.”
Chapter Three
They stepped out into the calm night and Carston led her to a slightly battered, fairly dusty, two-seater sports car, one antiquated enough to be an authentic old-timer.
“I’ve never been in one of these before,” Sherry said as she tried to make herself comfortable. The choice of car didn’t really surprise her; it looked like the right one for a writer—even if it was cramped and felt like the ancient springs were trying to work their way up through the seat underneath her.
“No surprise. Cars like this are fairly rare these days. This baby was born in 1960, but I’ve added a few improvements.” He turned, reached across her, and grabbed a seatbelt. At which point she stopped breathing altogether. His mouth was so close to hers. She saw his arm stop in mid-movement. Hesitate. Was he about to kiss her? Her eyelids felt heavy, and her lips swelled. He was so near, and his fragrant warmth surrounded her. A kiss: she knew it would be wonderful.
But he pulled back. The moment was over. She heard the seat belt click into place. His fingers turned the key in the ignition. Her scattered thoughts collided. What had happened? Why had he stopped? She was so certain he’d wanted to kiss her but hadn’t let himself. Why?
“Charlie said something about the first intersection, then turn north.” Carston sounded perfectly normal as he drove along the road. “Wherever the intersection is...”
“I suppose we could ask one of the locals,” she suggested. Her own voice sounded scratchy. Had he noticed? Peering out the car window she saw the streets were deserted.
He shook his head dolefully. “If there were any locals out there they might even be more confused than we are. Everything looks the same. The community center resembles the public swimming pool and the supermarket and the shopping center.”
Sherry laughed. “I suppose that’s what vernacular architecture is all about.”
He laughed too, turned left, turned again. “If only there weren’t so many one way streets. How can you go north if you’re only allowed east?”
“We could arrive via China.” Which sounded not bad as far as the evening’s entertainment went. She wasn’t feeling in the least hungry. And this was fun.
“We’ll find the restaurant eventually, because sooner or later we’ll run out of streets. Or roads. Or land.”
“Or gas.” Which didn’t sound like such a bad idea either.
Just so long as they eventually got around to kissing.
****
They finally located The Blue Lagoon on a country lane just outside the town limits. Elegant, dimly lit enough to invite intimacy, it was the sort of place lovers search out when wanting to avoid impertinent stares.
Looks good, thought Carston. How had Charlie managed to come up with an address like this at such short notice? The guy must have feelers stretching all around the country. Still, he couldn’t help noticing how wary Sherry looked.
“The rat I thought I smelt earlier stinks to high heaven now,” she said grimly.
“Sounds bad as far as dinner goes,” he answered lightly.
She stopped looking wary again and, thank goodness, smiled. “I’m only saying this is not the sort of place Charlie Bacon usually drags me and the boys to. Charlie’s into cheap eats in huge quantities. Flower arrangements, linen table cloths, pseudo Louis XIV chairs, and lit candles only interest him if they’re easy to digest.”
“And?”
“I don’t think he has the slightest intention of joining us tonight. The whole thing’s a plot.”
“What sort of plot?”
She didn’t answer, but Carston soon saw she’d correctly analyzed the situation. Catching sight of them, the manager bustled over, informed them that Mr. Bacon had left a message: he and the boys couldn’t make it for dinner. There had been complications. Carston couldn’t be bothered looking disappointed.
Possibly acting on Charlie’s orders, they were led to a table that just happened to be in a dark and private corner—but not quite private enough. The busboy took one look at Sherry and flushed a deep, strawberry pink.
“You’re Sherry Valentine!” He wriggled like an over-excited puppy. “I’d recognize you anywhere. I collect all your CDs. I’m a big fan of yours.”
“Thank you.” There wasn’t a great amount of enthusiasm in her voice.
Carston cut in deftly. “Cocktail, Sherry?�
�� He’d seen how uncomfortable she was. She hadn’t liked being on the receiving end of adulation, and that surprised him. Gave him the feeling that Ms. Valentine would make him re-think a few ideas on light entertainment.
“No more cocktails.” Sherry wrinkled her nose. “And never again fake champagne. Some wine would be lovely, though.”
When the busboy had taken their wine order, lit the candle on the table, and departed, Sherry shook her head mournfully. “I was sure he’d ask me for my autograph.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Carston really did want to know.
“It would be nice, just once in a while, to forget the public and become Sherry Human Being. Sherry Human Being going out for an uncomplicated dinner. Of course, according to Charlie, I’m not supposed to think that way.”
“Charlie thinks you have to be on stage all the time?” His eyes found her lips again. Again he wondered what they’d taste like. He’d wanted to kiss her in the car. He almost had. Then he’d stopped himself. Pulled back. The movement had cost him quite an effort, but he wanted—needed—to work out what was going on here. Pure desire? Only that? Even so, he wanted to go slowly. Why resemble all those drooling carnosaurs back at the cocktail party?
“I think I have to explain the situation,” Sherry was saying. “I want to warn you, because the last thing you need is to get enmeshed in an evil Charlie-Bacon-generated scheme.”
“I see,” he said. And tried hard not to smile. She wanted him to take her seriously, but who did she think he was? Some kid still wet behind the ears? An innocent who could be tricked into anything?
“Look, Charlie isn’t what he seems to be.” Her hand flipped backwards, a fine gesture.
The way she moved reminded him of a dancer. Delicate, light. Her fingers were long, her wrists, fragile. He forced his thoughts back to the conversation. “I understand perfectly. He’s not your road manager, his name isn’t Charlie Bacon, and every full moon, he mutates into something fuzzy?”
Sherry sighed. “Nothing so innocuous, I’m afraid. The fact is, good old nice-guy Charlie isn’t so nice. He’s the biggest manipulator I’ve ever met. He treads the narrow line between honesty and dishonesty. He’s calculating, and he’s a total bully, a steamroller. And fending him off is like trying to convince a dog to share his juicy bone with you.”
A Swan's Sweet Song Page 3
