Reilly's Return

by Tami Hoag

  Reilly inched behind Jayne for protection. Wanda Styles was the closest thing to a witch he ever cared to encounter. Not that he was superstitious or anything. He was just none too keen on the idea of Wanda reading his palm or any other part of him.

  “I can’t imagine how all those people found out Mr. Reilly was here,” Cybill Huntley mused. “I only told my mother … and my husband … and my hairdresser.”

  “I only told my secretary,” Phil Potts said. “And she only told her card club.”

  So much for swearing people to secrecy, Jayne thought as she looked at her guilty cast. No matter. This had probably all been predestined anyway. It was a test, Jayne thought morosely, wondering whether she and Reilly would pass or fail.

  Arnie Von Bluecher stepped forward, looking earnest and enormous. “You vant I should go out and chase dem away from de door, Jayne?”

  “No thanks, Arnie. I think Deputy Skreawupp is out there. He can handle things.”

  On the other side of the door a voice boomed. “Break it up you people. Show’s over. Go on home, or I’ll bust you all like ripe melons, and I can do it.”

  Jayne sighed and turned her attention to work. “Okay, everybody, let’s get to it. We have just one more week of rehearsal. I want to polish up Act Three tonight, then we’ll take the weekend off because, Lord knows, we could all use a break.”

  Reilly sat alone in the wings during the first two scenes, watching Jayne work. She was good. Too good to be wasting her time reviewing other people’s work. Her directing instincts were very strong, and she had a knack for getting the most out of her actors. The cast of A Taste of Starlight were rank amateurs, yet Jayne had them relaxed and into their characters, so involved in what they were doing, they would likely forget there was an audience watching them come performance time. Even Cybill, who had been too nervous to speak at the first rehearsal, was hamming it up in her role as the nightclub singer. Jayne had managed to convey to her people that acting was more than simply reading lines and taking direction, it was becoming a whole other person with a certain way of speaking and moving and thinking.

  She had an uncanny eye for detail, for expression and vocal inflection and timing. With nothing more than a suggestion for a head movement or a pause in the middle of a sentence, she could make a scene come alive.

  Reilly wondered how she would do behind a camera. His own gut instincts told him she would be good. Heaven knew, she’d gotten more out of him in the few weeks they’d spent on this little play than most of the film directors he’d worked with during his career. She had him working through the wall of insecurity that had sprung up so suddenly in his path. She had him moving forward instead of bolting around side to side like a frightened horse. She had him focusing on positive thoughts rather than negative fears. And those massages she kept giving him weren’t hurting anything either.

  Reilly knew he had come to Anastasia in part to escape his insecurity. Instead, Jayne had helped him get on the road to defeating it. She had bolstered his confidence in himself.

  He owed her a lot, his little Jaynie, and he meant to pay her back. Pat Reilly wasn’t a man to let a good turn go unrewarded.

  Making certain Jayne was still absorbed in helping Marlene and Wanda through their big fight scene with Phil, he picked up his script and pulled another script from inside it—Everlasting by Jayne Jordan.

  “You’ll be a star, Desiree,” Reilly said, gazing lovingly into the eyes of his leading lady. He pushed his prop glasses up on his nose with his middle finger—exactly the way Bryan did it.

  Jayne giggled to herself. Reilly, who had become fast friends with Bryan, had adopted many of Bryan’s mannerisms and expressions to use in his role as Wilson Mycroft. They fit wonderfully. Wilson was serious and studious and true-hearted, like Bryan. He seemed to be forever helping friends out of tough spots, like Bryan. Always rooting for the underdog and pushing his glasses up on his nose. And he made a wonderful foil for the saucy, sassy Desiree.

  “And you’ll never have to wear another chicken suit again,” Cybill said. She looked out where the audience would be sitting and smiled. “Is that a happy ending, or what?”

  Jayne rose from her seat in the third row and clapped exuberantly. “Very good! I think we should wait about two beats after that last line for the applause, and then close the curtain on a kiss. The crowd would love it,” she said, nearly choking on her own suggestion. She didn’t much like the idea of Reilly kissing someone else, but this was for the sake of art, after all.

  As if he had read her mind, Reilly winked at her. Jayne felt warmed from the inside out. Out of habit, she hooked two fingers through her bracelet, but she refused to wonder why it wasn’t giving her any feelings. Maybe she had a feeling overload or a temporary feeling block, or the powers had somehow worn off or something, she rationalized. She told herself she wasn’t worried about it … not much anyway.

  She had plenty of other things to worry about. Getting home in one piece, for instance.

  “Who wants to run interference?” she asked as the group prepared to disband for the weekend.

  “Arnie and I will take the front door,” Marlene volunteered. As the two moved shoulder to shoulder toward the main entrance, the only way to tell them apart was by Marlene’s long silver-blond braid swaying across her broad back.

  “Come on, Timothy.” Candi tugged on young Fieldman’s shirt sleeve. “Well go out the back and occupy the tabloid reporters. We can tell them I’m having Bigfoot’s baby.”

  “Oh, gosh, Candi.” Timothy gulped nervously, his Adam’s apple bounding up and down in his throat. “I don’t know. I didn’t much like it that night you told them I’d been abducted and held prisoner by space aliens who performed bizarre sexual experiments on me.”

  Candi scowled at him. “What are you complaining about? You made the cover of the Weekly Globe Report, didn’t you?”

  Chuckling, Reilly helped Jayne with her coat and pulled her into his arms for a quick kiss. “I think Candi is enjoyin’ all this.”

  “And you’re not?” Jayne asked with false surprise.

  “I’ll tell you what I’d enjoy,” he murmured, rubbing his nose against hers. “I’d enjoy havin’ you all to myself for the weekend.”

  “I’d like that, too.” Jayne sighed.

  There might have been a thread of desperation in her voice. She wouldn’t have denied it. She was feeling nervous. The world and all its craziness was closing in on her. She longed to recapture some of the peace she’d had just a month before and share it with the man she loved. She longed to have some kind of reassurance from Reilly that what they had begun to build had a chance to survive over the long haul.

  Reilly studied the vulnerable lights in Jayne’s jet eyes. He knew how she was feeling—wary, uncertain of this fragile love that was in danger of being trampled by his notoriety. His biggest fear was that she would stand back and watch it happen rather than plunge in and try to take charge of the situation, that she would play the critic rather than the director.

  “Well, I dare you to make it happen,” he challenged, a truculent gleam in his eyes. He set his chin at an angle that emphasized the sexy cleft in it.

  “What? How?” Jayne sputtered.

  “You’re the director,” he said with an arrogant lift of his broad shoulders. “Direct us an uninterrupted weekend.”

  “This ain’t quite what I had in mind, Jaynie,” Reilly said through his teeth as they claimed a small corner table.

  The bar was crowded shoulder to massive shoulder with fishermen and loggers and their ladies out for a rip-roaring Friday night. The smoke that hung in the air was no thinner than the fog that had descended outside. Loud conversation and the clink of glasses nearly drowned out the Judds wailing from the jukebox.

  Jayne’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like the disguise I picked for you, Aunt Patty?”

  Reilly grumbled and snarled as he plunked his big pink handbag down on the table top. “
Your aunt Patty,” he said on a growl, everything about his tone and his demeanor suggesting utter disgust.

  Jayne had cheerfully raided the prop and costume room backstage at the theater. In short order Pat Reilly had been transformed. He was not, however, pleased with the results.

  “I think it’s the perfect outfit.” Jayne beamed with pride. “You look very striking in periwinkle; it brings out your eyes.”

  “My eyes,” he snarled, hooking a big blunt-tipped finger inside the high lace-trimmed collar that was nearly strangling him.

  “It’s the perfect ruse,” Jayne said, leaning close so only Reilly could hear her. “Hiding in plain sight. The Indians used to do it all the time. Of course, they relied more heavily on a psychic wall, you know, a metaphysical defense shield. You could try that. Concentrate on making yourself invisible—”

  “Jayne …”

  She smiled innocently and dropped the mystical talk without missing a beat. “No one would expect you to be sitting in Dylan’s Bar dressed as an old lady.”

  Reilly scowled at her. He supposed he’d asked for this, but it was bloody humiliating. If anyone did recognize him, he’d never live it down. He could just imagine the ribbing he’d get back home if his mates ever found out he’d gone into a bar wearing a dress and pink pumps.

  “Candi did a wonderful job with the makeup and wig,” Jayne said, reaching out to pat the silver curls coiffed around Reilly’s less-than-feminine features. He may have been one heck of a handsome man, but he made one ugly woman, she thought, biting back a grimace. “I can hardly even make out your five o’clock shadow.”

  Reilly refused to comment. His attention had drifted to the low-scoop neckline of Jayne’s dress. When she leaned across the table, it gaped away just enough to give him a glimpse of the tops of her breasts.

  “Reilly …,” she said between her teeth. She sat back and discreetly tugged up her bodice. “For Pete’s sake! My aunt Patty never looked at me like that!”

  His eyes glowed with a sensual heat designed to ignite fires in a woman. “You can bet she never thought what I’m thinkin’, either.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jayne said, suddenly contemplative. She tore her gaze away from Reilly’s and fanned herself with a cocktail napkin. It would probably give their game away if she leaped across the table and attacked him. She turned her thoughts toward her family back in Kentucky and away from the seductive messages Reilly’s male aura was sending her way. “Uncle Duke always had a smile on his face.”

  “Good evening, Jayne,” Dylan Harrison said in cordial welcome as he set down a basket of pretzels. “Who’s your lady frie—”

  He broke off in midword, his expression going through a comical metamorphosis. Friendliness gave way to shock, which gave way to a kind of stunned confusion.

  “It’s Reilly,” Jayne whispered to Alaina’s husband. The look Reilly gave her could have melted stone. She ignored him and said loudly to Dylan, “Dylan, meet my aunt Patty.”

  Dylan pressed his lips together in an effort to dam up the laughter that was obviously threatening. Successfully mastering a deadpan expression, he looked at Reilly and said, “What a lovely dress. It makes a statement without being ostentatious.”

  Dylan Harrison was a good man with a wicked sense of humor—something Reilly was finding hard to appreciate at the moment. He wouldn’t have put it past Alaina’s husband to try kissing the back of his hand. Fuming, he sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his padded bosom, tucking his knuckles safely out of harm’s way. He squared one long leg over the other and scowled.

  Dylan raised an eyebrow at the show of skin. “Time to break out the depilatory, Aunt Patty,” he said dryly.

  Reilly growled a stream of profanity under his breath as he uncrossed his hairy legs, pressed his knees together, and tugged down the hem of his dress.

  “This isn’t your usual crowd,” Jayne commented, looking around at the rough and rowdy types bellying up to the bar and occupying the tables around them. She recognized a number of the reporters and fans scattered throughout who had been dogging Reilly’s heels.

  “Well, you know, the Loggerhead is temporarily closed due to a severe banana slug infestation, so we’re catching the overflow.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  Dylan winced at the sound of raised voices and glasses breaking. “That remains to be seen.” He started backing toward the bar. “Catch you later, Jayne.” He grinned at Reilly. “Nice meeting you, Aunt Patty.”

  “Smart aleck,” Reilly said with a snarl.

  “You know,” Jayne said, leaning closer to Reilly once more, “this is really an excellent opportunity for us. We can have a nice evening together without sexual overtones clouding our attempts to get to know each other better.”

  “What a lota rubbish,” Reilly grumbled. “It seems to me we were doing just fine with the overtones. In fact, I rather enjoyed the overtones.”

  “Me, too,” Jayne admitted. “It’s just that everything’s happening so fast—”

  “This has been brewin’ for some time, Jaynie, and you damn well know it.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But, what?” he questioned sharply. “I thought we agreed—no regrets.”

  Jayne squirmed a little in her chair. “I’m not having regrets—”

  “You’re having second thoughts.”

  “I’m having a heck of time finishing a sentence,” she said, glaring at him.

  Reilly refused to apologize. “I know you’re ticked off because of the reporters and all that, but it’s not my fault—”

  “Not your fault?” she asked with an incredulous snort. “They didn’t come here for the beaches and the fresh sea air.”

  “No, they didn’t,” he admitted, frustration goading him close to the edge of prudence. “They came here because I’m a star, and you can’t handle that, can you, Jaynie?”

  Jayne stared at him, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  Reilly cursed himself. He’d really put his foot in it now, but there was no going back. They were going to have to have this conversation sooner or later. “I mean, when you were with Mac, his world revolved around you. There were no interruptions. I’ve got other people to answer to, and you don’t like it.”

  “You’re saying I’m jealous?” she asked in disbelief.

  “I’m saying you’re scared,” Reilly corrected her. He would be lucky if she didn’t punch him in the nose for this, but it needed saying, and he believed in speaking the truth whenever it was possible. “The minute you start feeling overwhelmed, you back away and become a little mouse in the corner, watching instead of doing.”

  Jayne sat back in her chair and stared at him, unconsciously lending credence to Reilly’s impulsively spoken words.

  “That’s probably why you’re wasting your time being a critic instead of directing—”

  “Now, wait just a darn minute—” Jayne began, only to be interrupted by the waitress, who plunked a tall drink down in front of her. She touched the little paper parasol sticking up out of the thing with a hesitant finger, then looked up at the waitress. “I didn’t order this.”

  “Courtesy of the—er—gentleman at the end of the bar.”

  Wide-eyed, Jayne followed the waitress’s nod. At the end of the bar sat a man who looked big enough to fell sequoias with his bare hands. She could only imagine how many yards of wool flannel it had taken to fashion the shirt he wore; enough to clothe a family of four, she guessed. His face could have fit in with the stone masks of Mount Rushmore, except that his was smiling with blatant male interest. He winked at her, and she jumped as if she’d been pinched.

  “How sweet,” she murmured weakly, sending him a tepid smile of thanks.

  “Sweet?” Reilly said in a choked voice. Every jealous molecule in him snapped to attention and focused on the bugger who had dared send Jayne a drink. Beneath his pancake makeup, Reilly flushed ruby red, the color creeping up from beneath his lace collar to his face and sp
reading clear to his ears. He sat up straighter in his chair, his left hand unconsciously squeezing his pink purse.

  Jayne’s attention was on the large logger who had pushed away from the bar and was swaggering toward their table. With a twist of his hairy wrist he turned the empty chair around and straddled it. Crossing his arms over the back of it, he lowered his head and spoke to Jayne in a voice that rumbled like an earthquake.

  “Hi there, little lady. Mind if I sit down?” Jayne gulped.

  “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  His expression went blank for a second, then he dismissed her query and stuck out a hand the size of Montana. “Lloyd LaCroix.”

  Ingrained Southern manners made Jayne’s response automatic. She gave two of his fingers a vigorous shake. “I’m Jayne Jordan and this is my Aunt Patty.”

  The lumberjack’s gaze strayed absently toward Reilly. It was clearly his intention to simply nod a greeting and turn back to Jayne, but he did a double take instead. Looking startled, he said to Jayne, “Not much of a family resemblance, is there?”

  “Oh, Aunt Patty is my mother’s adopted sister,” Jayne improvised. “Her folks were real poor and just couldn’t feed all the kids, so one Sunday in church they asked other members of the congregation to take them in. Isn’t that the saddest thing you ever heard?”

  Lloyd LaCroix merely stared at her as if he hadn’t counted on her being able to speak. On her other side, Jayne could feel the fury rolling off Reilly in waves of steam.

  “And the strangest thing is,” she went on, hoping Lloyd would get bored and wander off before things turned ugly, “Aunt Patty ended up marrying my daddy’s Uncle Duke from Knob Lick. He ran a filling station down there and once sheared off his left pinky changing a fan belt on a pickup truck.”

  “That’s real interesting,” Lloyd said impatiently. “What do you say we talk about it some more later on? At my place.”