Secondhand Bride (The Almost Wives Club Book 2)

by Nancy Warren

“What friend of the Carnarvons’ would stay in a pool house?” Whitney asked. The Carnarvons’ friends tended to rent yachts or other mansions if they needed temporary shelter.

  They were going to find out anyway, since he’d be at the party, so she said as casually as she could, “Bennett Saegar. The screenwriter.”

  Sienna forgot about three o’clock guy and stared. “Bennett Saegar that you were in love with and never shut up about all summer back when we were, what, seventeen?”

  “Fifteen. I was a kid. I had a little crush.”

  “Oh, my God. Is he still gorgeous?” She turned to Whitney. “Remember how hot he was? Isn’t he a screenwriter now?”

  “He was totally hot.” She pulled out her tablet once more and did a Google search for him. She laughed out loud. “Check this out. He’s in a hottest young male writers list.”

  She passed the tablet to Ashley who nodded. “Yep, that’s him.”

  “How could you not tell us that the love of your life is living in the pool house?”

  Yeah, why hadn’t she? Probably because it was so insignificant. She shrugged. “He’s there to write. I barely see him.” Except every single morning when she went for her swim. He was usually at work already, and he’d wave. She’d wave back. No biggie.

  Chapter Five

  ASHLEY WAS HEADING HOME after the girls night out. Bradley had come by the club to drive Whitney home and they’d given her a lift. She let herself in through the man door in the big gates and trod softly down the path that led by the pool house. A few decorative lights lit her path, which she knew so well she could navigate her way home in complete darkness.

  If the pool house wasn’t occupied she’d be tempted to strip down and jump into the cool water. She’d skinny dipped a million times in this pool after hours. Uncle Duncan would freak if he knew. But no one knew. It was her little secret. However, now that Ben was in the pool house the skinny-dipping wasn’t going to happen. She’d take a quick shower before bed.

  But, as she walked by the pool house, she heard low, sinister words that had the hair standing up on her neck. “Why don’t you tell me everything you know, and die easy?”

  Probably Ben had the TV on. Still, she crept around to peek into the window. Holy Crap. There was a man standing in the main area. And he was holding a Beretta 38 caliber pistol. He was pointing it at someone who was out of her range of sight from where she stood in the shadow of the bushes.

  Shit. She’d learned how to shoot when Ted had expressed an interest and she’d been invited along to the gun range. She’d turned out to be a good shot and to everyone’s surprise, shooting had become a hobby. She knew enough about guns to be very nervous about what was going on in the pool house.

  She fumbled in her bag, call 9-1-1 pounding through her brain, but her phone was dead. Why was her phone always dead when she needed it?

  “Go ahead and kill me. Won’t get you what you want.” Oh, no. That was Ben’s voice. Didn’t he know the first thing about survival? Hadn’t he lived in LA? Don’t piss off the guy with the gun.

  Gun. Right. She sprinted to the cottage, grabbed her Walther PPK. Bullets. She fumbled in bullets so fast that more fell on the floor than made it into the magazine.

  She raced back to the pool house, heart pounding, half terrified she’d hear the thud of a shot. She slowed to peek into the front window. Good. No one was dead or bleeding. The dude with the gun said something in a low voice. Taunting.

  She had no idea whether the pool house door was locked, but she knew where the spare key was kept. She eased the key out from under the flower urn, its hiding place for as long as she could remember. Her hands were shaking but she managed to unlock the pool house door. Then she reminded herself of every gun lesson she’d ever attended. Breathe deep. Hold still. Then fire. She breathed deep. Nerves were her enemy. Of course, it was one thing to be calm on the practice range. Quite another when someone’s life was in danger.

  “I swear to God, if you don’t tell me where you stashed it, I’ll kill you.”

  She had her back to the wall as she eased herself close to the main room. She couldn’t see Ben but she could see the guy with the gun.

  She aimed first, from the doorway, before he saw her, and then ordered, “Drop the gun.”

  The guy turned to her, shock in his face, his eyes opening wide and his jaw going slack. But he didn’t drop the gun.

  “Do it!” she yelled, clicking off the safety and advancing into the room.

  She had never shot anything more alive than skeet, but in that moment, when someone she cared about was in danger for their life, she knew she could do it.

  The guy must have read her deadly earnest for he dropped the gun. It made a thud when it hit the ground. Even though she hadn’t asked him to, he held up his hands in surrender. “What the f—“

  Ben stepped forward. “It’s okay, officer,” he said to her in a calm tone. “You can stand down.”

  But she hadn’t been born yesterday. She did a visual search of the room. Still holding the gun trained on the guy with his hands in the air, she backed toward the closed bedroom door, opened it fast and glanced inside. Only when she was certain that there was no one else in the pool house did she click the safety back on and lower her weapon.

  Ben had never taken his eyes off her. Neither had the perp. “Is that gun loaded?” he asked.

  “What could I do with an empty gun? Throw it at him?” Her tone was scornful, mostly because adrenalin was kicking in.

  “You know how to shoot that thing?”

  Oh, how she wished they were at the shooting range so she could show him. She gave him a withering stare instead. Because Ben wasn’t rushing to dial 9-1-1, or thanking her for saving his life, she had to accept that she’d gate crashed something that she had no business being part of.

  “Who’s the bitch?” the third guy asked, dropping his hands now she’d lowered her gun.

  “Ashley Carnarvon, meet Mike Konister. Mike’s an actor. We were working on a scene.”

  “Working on a scene?” Her voice rose, mostly because she was angry and embarrassed in equal measure. “You use a Beretta to play a scene? Couldn’t you fake it with a banana or something?” Now that her legs were starting to shake, she needed to sit down, and the fact that the two of them had put her in this awkward situation pissed her off even more. “I could have killed you.”

  Ben spoke again. “He’s very method.”

  “Method almost ended up dead on the floor.”

  Ben seemed genuinely interested. He said, “Couldn’t you shoot him in the leg or the shoulder or something?”

  Gun guy said, “Do you mind? I’m standing here and this bitch still has the gun.”

  She shook her head. “Way harder than you think. He moves, I move, the gun shoots a little to the left, there is no way to be that accurate. The rule is, if you aim to hit someone you aim center body.”

  “I gotta go.” Mike Konister said. He started to reach down and then glanced at her warily. “You going to blow my head off if I pick this up?”

  She didn’t like him and she thought he was an ass to wave a gun around while shouting threats even if he was running lines.

  “Let me see it,” she said, walking over and picking up the Beretta before he could. She removed the clip. It was empty. Good. She handed back the two pieces. “Playing with guns can get you killed,” she informed him, sounding like a schoolteacher.

  “I’m outta here,” he said.

  “Thanks Mike, I’ll call you.”

  “You want to run lines again? We do it at my place.” And then he left, banging the door behind him.

  There was complete silence for a moment. Now she saw the scattered manuscript pages, with lines crossed out and scribbled over. Being a Good Samaritan was one thing, crashing a script reading with a loaded weapon was in another category. “I should go, too.”

  “Wait,” Ben said. “I‘m pretty sure I locked the door. How did you get in?”

  She con
templated telling him he was mistaken but somehow she knew he wouldn’t believe her. She pulled the key from her pocket where she’d shoved it when she let herself in and handed it over.

  He looked at the key in his palm. “Where is this kept?”

  “Under the planter pot. Third from the left. Always has been.”

  He nodded, squinting his eyes half shut. She guessed he hadn’t known about the hidden key. He bounced it on his palm a few times. “You know I’m a screenwriter, right?”

  “Your job description kind of slipped my mind when I saw a guy waving a gun and threatening you.” She thought back to her responses, realizing how much of her reaction had been instinctive, but honesty compelled her to say, “My mind did flash to that scene in Home Alone where the kid plays bits of an old gangster movie to scare the bumbling thieves, but when I peeked through the window I saw a real gun.”

  “So you broke in here believing my life was in danger?” He didn’t sound grateful or impressed, just sort of surprised.

  She didn’t feel like explaining herself or defending her behavior. Now that the fight-or-flight reaction was passing she knew humiliation would soon follow. “Looks like it.”

  He regarded her for a moment. “So, I guess you’ve still got a monster crush on me, huh?”

  She was so surprised at his words that she felt her jaw go slack. Then she saw the wicked glint in his eyes and realized he was teasing. Maybe she still had a ton of adrenalin to get rid of, but this seemed like the funniest line in the world. She felt a snort of laughter rise up and didn’t bother trying to suppress it. It felt good to laugh. To her surprise, he joined in. And she realized he’d said exactly the right thing to break the strange tension that had gripped the pair of them since he’d first turned up here.

  When her last giggle subsided, she said, “I did have a horrible crush on you. Thanks for reminding me of how I humiliated myself right after I tried to save your life.”

  “You were a nice kid. But I was too old for you.”

  Since she really didn’t want to delve into the details of a period in her life she preferred to forget, she changed the subject to something that would interest him.

  “So, you’re writing some kind of murder mystery?”

  “More a dark vision of justice, and where does the line between right and wrong blur. Good cops, bad cops, drug wars, turf wars. You like that kind of movie?”

  “I like movies that have women in them.”

  He blinked at her. “There are women in my movie.”

  “Correction, I like movies where women aren’t either victims or bimbos.”

  “Why do you think I’d write women that way?” He sounded aggravated.

  “Because it’s what men do when they write movies like the one you’re describing.”

  He turned back to his computer and started banging keys. “Here, come. Grab a seat.” He pulled out the wicker chair and snugged it up beside his, then centered his computer between the two chairs.

  “What are you doing?” She stayed where she was.

  “I’m pulling up a scene with my main female character.” He was scrolling and she felt him change as soon as his focus was on the words on his screen, as though he became Bennett Saegar the screenwriter and not Ben, the guy who was hanging out at her uncle’s pool house. “You can read it and tell me if you think the female character sounds real to you.”

  “Really?” she felt honored that he’d want to share this with her. A little nervous that she’d blurted out something she was going to regret.

  The chairs were stupid big; she felt like she was on a bamboo throne when she wedged herself into the seat. The one good thing was that the wide chair arms put her and Ben at a distance. Still, that only meant that she had to lean in, and he had to lean in, so they could both see the screen.

  Her mind flashed back to the results of Whitney’s Internet search earlier and how Ben was one of the hottest young male writers in the country. She had no idea who invented lists like that but she had to agree. Especially when he had this intense vibe going, his eyes keen with intelligence and his hair tangled where she suspected he’d been running his hands through it.

  He pushed the laptop over to her and said, “Read this scene. Tell me what you think.”

  “I don’t know anything about your movie.”

  “She’s the wife of the police chief and she’s sleeping with the head of the drug gang he’s trying to crack.”

  “Nice girl.” But she read the scene. Then she went back and read it again. Even though she was extremely conscious of Ben’s intent gaze she refused to rush or let herself get rattled. He’d asked for her help and she wanted to give it. Besides, if she had a chance to influence even one male-oriented Hollywood movie in favor of women, she wasn’t going to blow her chance.

  “Well?” he asked when it was pretty clear she’d finished reading through the scene a second time. She liked that he was anxious for her opinion, as though her thoughts mattered.

  “How old is this woman?”

  “Late thirties.”

  “And why is she sleeping with the drug guy?”

  He leaned in, all intent and sexy. He wore a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing powerful forearms that he hadn’t developed from typing. “It started out as revenge sex because her husband had an affair and she wanted to hit him, and hit him hard. But now she’s developed feelings for the drug lord.”

  She nodded. “She dies, right?”

  He jerked in his chair. “Probably. Yeah.”

  “Of course she dies. Women like her always die in movies. First, she’s a bimbo for sleeping with a dangerous man who could not only wreck her marriage, but kill her or her husband or probably both. Then, she becomes a victim.” She pushed his laptop back without bothering to say, ‘Told you so.’ She felt it was implied in the heavy silence between them.

  “Okay, smartass. How would you do it?” he sounded kind of pissed.

  “I’d never write a movie like this, how do I know?” Then she relented. “But I can tell you she would never say that line.” She leaned over him and pointed at the line on the screen, then read it aloud: “You make me feel young again.”

  “Why not? He does make her feel young.” He sounded genuinely interested in her opinion.

  He might be one of the hottest young male writers in the country, but he did not know women. “My mom is forty-seven, a decade older than your heroine, but she’s a good example. Your unfaithful wife is just entering that stage in her life when age is starting to catch up with her.” She put her hands out. “You’ve met my mom. Can you imagine her saying to a guy she was sleeping with that he made her feel young again? She might feel it, in fact she probably would, but she’d chew her own head off before she’d put the age thing out there. Women like my mom, and, I think, like the woman here, hate getting older. They hate losing their looks. So they spend a lot of money on facial treatments and join gyms and work on a fantasy that they aren’t getting any older.”

  She put her head to one side, thinking. “She might talk about aging with the women in her beauty treatment place, but she’d never say it to a guy she wanted.”

  “So, what would she say?”

  She felt a grin pulling at her mouth. “I don’t know. You should ask my mom.”

  “Funny.” But he didn’t look very amused.

  “I’m sorry, did I wreck your scene?”

  “No. You probably saved it, but I hate that I was so blind.” He sat back. And in that chair it was a long way back. “I think I’ve been really stupid.”

  “Hey, it’s one line of dialogue. You’re overreacting.”

  He shook his head. “Not about that line. I think you’re right. I put women in categories. God, I never realized I do that. Could have saved myself a hell of a lot of hassle if I’d noticed that before Ravensong.”

  He shifted as though a dozen bamboo rods were poking into his back, which was possible, but she suspected something else was making him uncomforta
ble. “Does this have something to do with why you’re here?”

  “You seriously don’t know why I’m here?”

  She snorted. “You think they send bulletins down from the big house to our shack telling us what’s going on? I never knew you were coming until I saw you in the pool that day.”

  There was bitterness in her tone, which she usually tried to control, but with Ben she couldn’t be bothered. He’d seen her at fifteen making a total fool of herself over him. Did she really care if he thought she wasn’t pathetically grateful that Uncle Duncan had put a roof over her and her mother’s heads? It wasn’t like that didn’t come at a price.

  “I wrote a part for a certain star. Not even a big star. Kind of an up-and-comer. And all I mean by that is that when I’m writing, I cast parts in my head. It helps me solidify a character. So, I wrote this part thinking of a young actress named Vanessa Moore. Then, I stupidly told the casting director that’s who I saw in the role. When he cast her in the part, he must have told her I’d written the role specifically for her.” He rolled his shoulders as though trying to push two boulders off the top of them. “Maybe I’m wrong and he didn’t tell her. Doesn’t matter. She went nuts, decided I could see into her deepest being and must be her soul mate. It was mildly creepy at first. She followed me everywhere and kept trying to get me alone. She told people on the set that we were an item. In the end I had to stay away from the shoot. Even though I was doing revisions, I stayed far away. But then she decided I had used her and spurned her. I swear to God she used those words. And she broke into my house and faked a suicide. In my bed.”

  “Oh, my God. Really?”

  “Do you have to sound happy about it?”

  She bit her lip. “Sorry, but look at this from my point of view. Makes my teenage crush seem pretty insignificant.”

  “Also, you were never batshit crazy.”

  “And that.” She thought. “She didn’t die, did she?”

  “No, but she didn’t keep quiet, either. She’s still ranting to every fool who follows gossip blogs. Honestly, you’d think people had better things to do, but these crackpots started showing up at my house, and then there are those pond scum who write trash about movie stars. I needed a place to escape.” He put up a hand and gestured to the pool house. “My folks are in Europe and I wouldn’t go to them anyway. Too obvious. But mom remembered Duncan’s pool house and she checked to see whether it was empty, and he immediately invited me to come and stay as long as I like.”