A Touch of Scarlet

by Liz Talley

  “I try.”

  “I’d rather you make nice with the Texans and scoot your rather gorgeous behind over to L.A. I’ve got you a read next Thursday.”

  “With who?”

  “Sparrow.”

  “Shut up!” She sat down on the bed. Hard. “Tell me Brad Pitt is lead.”

  “Male lead hasn’t been cast. It’s a bit part, but substantial enough. You’ve built buzz with Deep Shadows. Strike while the iron is hot, love. I pulled a string or two, but the casting director thinks you’re ideal.”

  “What movie? What part?”

  “Angel Dust. And your role is a bisexual prostitute.”

  “A bisexual prostitute? Do they have those?” Yikes. Talk about a meaty role. Maybe too meaty. But working with David Sparrow would be phenomenal. His films made people sit up and take notice. In a big way. Even a small part could fling her career in a whole new direction. A direction dreamed about by nearly every actor pounding the pavement for roles or smiling winningly while scrubbing out the ring around the collar in commercials.

  “Doll, there’s a prostitute for everything. You’ll be a good fit.”

  “Gee, thanks. I’m not sure whether to thank you or break your Armani glasses with my fist.”

  She could hear his smile. “Try the former and get to L.A.”

  “I’ll head out as soon as I pay my fine tomorrow.”

  “Brilliant. I’ll let Macy Flores know. She’s pulling casting on this one. Ciao.”

  Scarlet pressed the end button and shimmied out of the North Face shorts she’d slept in last night. A chance to work with David Sparrow. Her heart beat twice as fast in her chest. It could be a dream come true. An absolute coup. But first she had to get to California. Like, fast.

  As she padded to the bathroom, a momentary pang of regret struck her. Adam had awakened something in her she thought she’d lost. He’d virtually glued a part of herself that had been broken. Tomorrow would be the last chance to double-check that stirring of desire. If he even showed up to court. She supposed he had to. After all, he was the arresting officer.

  She wondered if she could pay her fine for the broken taillight and the speeding ticket, too. Hopefully. Two birds with one stone. Or rather one check.

  It was time to dust Oak Stand from her shoes. She had two more months before she had to be back in New York for production on Deep Shadows. A month in California sounded dandy to her. Sunshine, sand and shopping on Rodeo. Plus her parents were in San Francisco. So who needed France?

  She hummed “I Love L.A.” as she adjusted the faucet in the shower.

  Maybe she’d find someone there who could finish what the straitlaced lawman had started. Someone to unzip her dress while mending her heart. Someone with golden hair and a quizzical smile. Someone who didn’t look a thing like the man in New York who had ripped her to shreds and made her doubt her ability to ever find passion again. She didn’t need love. She needed a good time.

  Yes. Exactly.

  Time to move on.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE RHYTHMIC THUNK of the glove connecting with the body bag soothed Adam. He punched the bag, rattling the chain that secured it to a beam in the garage. Right jab, right jab, block, feint left, left hook. Repeat.

  Sweat rolled down his back, coated his arms. He blinked the saltiness away, doubling his efforts as if the leather bag were the bundle of trouble that had fallen in his lap.

  It was the worst sort of trouble—one that had bee-stung lips, curvaceous hips and an inclination for drama.

  Scarlet Rose.

  This afternoon, she had received forty hours of community service for her disorderly conduct. And he was assigned as her supervising officer.

  Wasn’t going to be easy. He had to prepare himself for trouble. For three reasons.

  First, Scarlet was royally pissed. During the sentencing, everyone from one side of Oak Stand to the other had learned she “couldn’t stay in their Podunk town.” She had to audition for a role of a lifetime. In California. “For the hottest director in Hollywood.” She’d nearly been held in contempt for her dramatic, pleading performance. Hell, if he’d been an Academy voter, she would have had his vote.

  Second, Judge Sharon Kent had given an atypical sentence—a community-service project.

  And third, did he mention he’d been appointed her supervising officer? Even though he was the chief? That meant he’d be required to check on her. Which meant he’d have to see her. Which meant he’d be tempted to touch her. To kiss her. To bend her over his cruiser and run his hands over her spectacular ass.

  He punched the bag harder, making it swing erratically.

  “Shit,” he said to the empty garage, dropping his arms to his sides. He tilted his head back and panted, taking shallow breaths that smelled like hot asphalt and burnt oil. “I mean, shoot.”

  He tried not to swear. Or drink. Or kiss sexy actresses with legs a mile long and breasts that made his mouth water. He also tried not to talk to himself.

  Battle lost on all fronts.

  He tossed the gloves on the workbench welded to the garage wall and opened the fridge he kept stocked with water and beer. He grabbed a Heineken, wrenched the top off and took three long swallows of the icy beer. His body needed water. His mind demanded the beer.

  No way he could keep his hands off her. Worse, he’d screwed up and got caught doing something highly unethical on video tape. That little tidbit hadn’t crossed his mind until he’d left Scarlet eating pizza and escaped to the outer office. The minute he’d opened the door, his gaze had landed on the locked cabinet holding the surveillance tapes they kept numbered and dated. He’d broken out in a cold sweat. He and Scarlet had been kissing right in front of the damn video camera.

  He’d felt about as stupid as a cow.

  He wiped away the sweat dripping in his eyes and stared out the open overhead door at the darkening Texas sky. Brilliant pink trimmed the rich blue that pressed upon the earth. It was a nice sky as far as skies go. And the sun was a flaming orb sitting on the horizon.

  “Got one of those for me?” his friend Rick Mendez said, strolling into the garage.

  “You don’t drink beer.”

  Rick shrugged. “I’ll settle for water.”

  Adam opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water and tossed it Rick’s way.

  Rick caught the beverage with one hand. “Wanna come out to the center and rid yourself of whatever demon’s riding your ass?”

  “Who says I have a demon?”

  His friend propped himself against the metal slide of the roll-up door and smirked. “We all got demons, man. They ride us harder sometimes more than others.”

  Adam nodded. Rick knew his story. He was the only person in Oak Stand who did. Adam had known from the very beginning he and the former gang member would hit it off. Most would have thought differently. Rick was dark, dangerous-looking, with gang ink spiraling onto his neck and an almost permanent scowl etched on his broad face. Adam was the antithesis. One of the girls on his swim team had once declared he looked like her Ken doll. Give him a pair of seersucker pants, a sweater tied round his neck, and he became as country club as Skipper Doyle, his father’s golf partner.

  But, yeah, Adam had demons.

  And a persistent one had just attached itself to him.

  Desire…for the absolute wrong kind of girl.

  “Not this evening. I’ve sweated enough beating out all the frustrations of the day.”

  “Summer, huh?”

  “Yeah, she’s going to be a problem.” Adam took the last two swallows of the beer and tossed the empty bottle toward the recycling bin.

  “Huh?”

  “She’s gonna—”

  “Oh, you mean Scarlet. Or Summer. The actress. I meant the heat, but, yeah, that one’s trouble. I told Kate to not meddle. But that’s like telling a nun not to pray.”

  Adam straightened. “This was Kate’s idea?”

  “She’s always trying to bring new things to the
guys. She hates the boxing ring. We need culture she says. Those muchachos think culture is drinking Hennesey at a strip club.”

  He tamped down the aggravation. Kate meant well, but having Scarlet teach acting classes at Phoenix, the gang-rehabilitation center that Rick operated, was a disaster waiting to happen. Mostly because if Scarlet showed up wearing a halter top without a bra around guys who hadn’t seen any action in months, an all-out riot could occur. Plus, gang members studying Shakespeare? Acting out emotions? Not going to work. And when he showed up to check up on her? Suffice it to say Adam wasn’t a crowd favorite at the center.

  “It would be easier if she had to pick up trash on the highway.” He sighed.

  “Not if you don’t want a pileup. She’d still be smoking-hot in an orange jumpsuit.”

  Like Adam didn’t know that. “Dude, you’re married.”

  “But not blind.”

  He nodded. “Scarlet is a problem, no matter which way you look at her.”

  “Yeah, but at least she’s something to look at.”

  He opened his mouth, but Rick held up a hand. “I know, I know, I’m married. But Kate’s driving me nuts. I’m on an ice-cream run. Rocky Road. Not the store brand. But Ben & Jerry’s. And I can’t forget a bag of pretzels. She crushes those and sprinkles them on top.”

  Adam smiled. If there was a man in love with a woman, it was Rick Mendez. “How much longer?”

  “Less than two months till the baby comes. Then I will be at the beck and call of two forces of nature.” Rick pulled keys from his front pocket. “I better run before she starts calling me. Just saw the garage door up and thought I’d make sure no one was stealing the ’Vette.”

  Adam walked to the other bay in the garage and patted the muscle car beneath the padded cloth. “If anyone touches Farrah, I’ll rip his face off.”

  Rick’s bark of laughter followed him toward his own fine piece of machinery—another passion that drew them together. Rick’s cherry-red ’66 Mustang made the driveway look classier. “See you tomorrow, gringo.”

  Adam held up a hand in a farewell gesture. Rick always called him gringo, which might seem derogatory, but Adam knew it wasn’t meant to be. Yet, he didn’t dare call Rick anything slightly offensive. He’d been raised to mind his tongue. Having a family in the spotlight made a person cautious with his words, but not necessarily with his morals. His father had proven that, serving on the church building committee while screwing a member of the altar guild. Morals? What morals?

  He pulled the door down and secured it with the padlock before entering the small house he rented. The place had been built in the twenties, and though it could use a fresh coat of paint and new doorknobs, it radiated charm. Age sat upon it well, giving it the faint odor of mothballs, lemon furniture polish and years of home cooking. It was normal. Regular. Nothing special. And it suited Adam fine.

  That was all he’d ever wanted in life.

  To be normal.

  Not be Hal Hinton’s kid.

  Not be Daphne’s boy.

  Just be plain ol’ Adam Hinton. Small-town police chief living on Hickory Street. In a plain white house with black trim and a green lawn.

  Because the first half of his thirty-one years had been a torture to be endured. Huge brick mansion. Mercedes Benz. East Coast boarding school. And lots and lots of time alone. Sitting alone in his childhood suite of rooms—called the nursery by his mother, which annoyed him to no end—he’d been surrounded by the latest and greatest toys, video games and gadgets while dreaming of eating fried baloney and fishing in a creek with a bunch of siblings. Adam didn’t want to be a wealthy, influential Hinton. He wanted to be a struggling, happy Hinton. A regular kid on a normal street with a simple, salt-of-the-earth mom and pop. Mayberry. Mayfield. Pleasantville. Anywhere but River Oaks in Houston.

  His wish had not been granted. He was a Hinton. His great-grandfather had dabbled in real estate, buying, selling and building a huge financial empire. His family owned chains of furniture stores, a handful of shopping complexes and fifty gas stations. He had millions languishing in a trust fund. His family owned a jet, a yacht, a villa in Italy and more land per square foot than in all of Howard County. Adam wasn’t only rich, he was loaded.

  He switched on the light in the kitchen and set about making a sandwich for his dinner. Plain ol’ baloney.

  SCARLET STUBBED HER TOE on a root that peeked through the grass at the side of the Hamilton house. “Ouch!”

  It was insult added to injury.

  She was grounded in Oak Stand for the next three weeks. She wouldn’t be able to make the audition. How would she tell Bert? He’d be annoyed. Maybe furious. Probably would out-diva her in his temper tantrum. The only thing that had saved her was the possibility of sending in a tape as her audition. She’d phoned the casting director earlier and was awaiting the return call. Thank goodness, Rayne had a production company at her beck and call.

  So much for making contacts in L.A. For soaking up sun. For catching a wave.

  Scarlet’s toe started throbbing.

  “Yeah, I’ve hit my toe on that root before. It hurts,” Henry said, tossing the ball to her despite the fact she hopped on one foot.

  “Well, thank you, Mr. King of Obvious.”

  Henry smiled, the two big teeth that had recently grown in making him look like a miniature beaver. “You say that a lot. That’s sarcasm.”

  “Again, I crown you King of Obvious,” Scarlet said, hopping to where the uncaught ball had rolled.

  Henry laughed. “You’re funny.”

  “So they tell me.” She pitched the ball toward her nephew. He caught it easily and threw it back.

  “Are you mad you have to stay here?” Henry asked, his brow wrinkling, making him look like a small thunder cloud. “I heard you talking to Stefan.”

  Her roommate had encouraged her to leave Oak Stand and pay the consequences later. The man thought a big check fixed everything. Sometimes it did, but she doubted the judge would look favorably on bribery. Stefan didn’t get small-town values. He’d grown up in Miami and it showed. His tastes were sophisticated, expensive and sometimes vulgar. “He’s outraged for me, but I’m not skipping out or breaking the law. I did something wrong and I have to pay for it.”

  Scarlet gave herself an invisible pat on the back for being Aunt of the Year. She might be good enough to be a mother someday. Maybe.

  “Well, I think it’s cool you’re staying for a while. I’ll go to Phoenix with you if you want. I’ve been there before. They have a dog named Banjo. Dad says he’s the ugliest dog he’s ever seen, but I think he’s kinda cute.”

  Dad? So Henry had taken to calling Brent his father. Weird. But maybe not. She’d watched the two of them eat ice cream and watch the Rangers play on TV last night. They were pea podish. Brent seemed to love the boy, and the feeling was returned. A flash of shame flickered in her subconscious a moment before she dashed it away. She had apologized to Brent.

  “Hmm, maybe you can go with me once or twice. If your mom says it’s okay.” She wasn’t sure if an eight-year-old belonged at a gang rehabilitation center. She was a little uneasy herself. She had experience teaching acting classes. But that had been to Jewish grandmothers with unnatural hair colors at a Brooklyn YWCA. Come to think of it, those women were tough. They could probably reduce Hispanic gang members to a passel of kittens in ten seconds flat. She might be A-OK.

  She pushed her bangs out of her eyes and caught sight of someone lurking behind the sweet olive bushes lining the side yard. Reporter? Likely.

  She sidled closer. She tired of flashbulbs and microphones. Sure, she knew it was her fault. She’d brought all of their attention upon herself when she’d picked up the picket sign and joined the protest. But, still, she needed a bit of peace.

  She purposely overthrew the ball. It sailed over Henry’s head and smacked the siding of his new grandparent’s house.

  “Jeez, Aunt Scarlet. You suck.”

  She clamped down the stra
nge impulse to fuss at him for his colorful language and darted toward the shrub.

  “Get out of there!” she hollered, tugging the arm of the Peeping Tom.

  It was Harvey Primm.

  “You!”

  He glowered at her but said nothing.

  “What do you think you’re doing sneaking around, spying on me?” Scarlet felt her limbs shake with adrenaline. The good deacon was beyond creepy. Most thought him harmless, but there was something a little unhinged about the man. Something about the passion he brought to unearthing dirt on the people who lived in this sleepy community.

  “You think you can turn people against me? You can’t, missy. What you’ve done is a mortal sin. You oppose God. You support the devil’s work.”

  “You have a lot of nerve coming on my family’s property, lurking in bushes and throwing accusations at me. Accusations you know nothing about. For the second time, this is not about religion. This is about taking away people’s right to decide for themselves. Stop judging me. It’s hypocritical.”

  Scarlet crossed her arms and glared at the stooped older man. She might have felt sorry for him if he had not been so bitter.

  “I’m no hypocrite. I stand on my principles and oppose presenting innocent children with filth.”

  He held up a newspaper. Looked like a Dallas one. The Local/State section showed a picture of the protest. “You’re trying to make me look crazy. Trying to turn people against me, using your fame. Well, it won’t work. God is on my side.”

  “I doubt it,” she said.

  Harvey lurched toward her. “You better think twice about who you go up against, girl. You may have the liberal media on your side, but good people know what is right.”

  “What is right? Trespassing? Harrassment? Bullying? Is that what you preach? Is that your example of good living?” Scarlet stepped closer. She could smell his breath, see the spidering of red veins rimming his cold eyes. “I’m not scared of you, Mr. Primm. I know plenty of good people who don’t agree with you. Isn’t there a saying about throwing stones when you live in a glass house?”