He's So Shy

by Linda Cajio

  Have you ever wondered what happened to that little ugly duckling after he became a beautiful swan? I have. (Yes, I know there are more important things in life to ponder, like the new world order, reducing the deficit, and whether we really can get a perfect cup of coffee each time, every time. But let’s face it, that swan had to have had some rebound problems.)

  Did he really live happily ever after? Did the other swans now laugh because he once thought he was a duck? Did he feel the need to swim past Ducktown every so often, just to prove he wasn’t a geek to the bully duckies? Or is it “ducky bullies”? But most of all, did he still feel like that ugly duckling inside, no matter how good the outside now looked?

  We all know the package has nothing to do with the gift inside, where it really counts toward a person of worth. But no matter what our inside/outside packaging, all of us have felt like ugly ducklings upon occasion, and for some, no matter how much one grows as a person, those feelings are never quite resolved. Unless there’s love. With a little love, self-esteem can get that final push over the hill to the “I’m Okay, You’re Okay” valley of contentment. And maybe we still haven’t seen in ourselves what someone who loves us has seen all along: a beautiful swan.

  So that’s why I’ve always wondered about that swan. Was he getting enough vitamins and did he know how beautiful he was on the inside from the moment he hatched from the egg? I hope you enjoy He’s So Shy.

  He’s So Shy is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Loveswept eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1993 by Linda Cajio

  Excerpt from Along Came Trouble by Ruthie Knox copyright © 2013 by Ruth Homrighaus.

  Excerpt from The Notorious Lady Anne by Sharon Cullen copyright © 2013 by Sharon Cullen.

  Excerpt from Unforgettable by Linda Cajio copyright © 1989 by Linda Cajio.

  All Rights Reserved.

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

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.

  He’s So Shy was originally published in paperback by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. in 1993.

  Cover Design: Caroline Teagle

  Cover photograph © McPHOTO/age fotostock

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79905-0

  www.ReadLoveSwept.com

  v3.1

  Many thanks to JFC and DDL for the inspiration

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s Along Came Trouble

  Excerpt from Sharon Cullen’s The Notorious Lady Anne

  Excerpt from Linda Cajio’s Unforgettable

  PROLOGUE

  1964

  “Hey, Cretin!”

  Richard Creighton froze. The voice could have belonged to any one of a hundred kids in the Penns Grove, New Jersey, Elementary School or, for that matter, it could have belonged to any of the kids in any of the five other schools he’d attended since kindergarten. It was the same everywhere. Everyone hated him. A few more steps up into the school building and he would have been safe, with teachers to protect him. He wished he could fly across space and into that safety zone. He wished his name were anything but Creighton. Somehow, even though he never said a word, the kids always tagged him Cretin—or worse. Why couldn’t he have been named James Garner or Bret Maverick? Now those were names to be proud of.

  “It’s the Cretin!” Billy Prescott said, coming into view. A bunch of boys gathered around behind him. Billy’s toadies. “And he’s wearing white socks today! White socks! White socks!”

  Richard groaned. Billy was the worst bully he’d encountered yet. He wanted to run, but knew that if he did they’d beat him up. If he stood still and didn’t lip off, he might get away with only giving up his lunch money. Kids passed him and went into school, some giggling at his latest humiliation, some pretending not to see what was happening. No one helped. It was up to him, and that meant he was dead meat.

  He pushed his glasses back up his nose and gave the only acceptable excuse he could think of. “I … my mom made me wear them.”

  The boys hooted with laughter.

  “Mommy made Dickie wear his white socks!” Billy pursed his lips, making kissy noises.

  Richard fought back the twin urges to hit and to cry. The first would get him killed, for sure, and the other would make things worse than ever. He wished he were like one of the Monkees on TV. Those guys could say anything and do anything, and be cool. Or he’d like to be one of the Beatles. Or Steve McQueen, jumping over them on his motorcycle in a great escape. Yeah, McQueen was the coolest guy ever. He bet if Steve wore white socks, no one would say a word. Movies and TV were his friends, a place to hide and be somebody else.

  But he knew he wouldn’t turn into a miracle of coolness. He’d always be skinny and weak with glasses, big clunky teeth, and super-wavy hair that had to be plastered down or it looked as if he’d stuck his finger in an electric socket. He didn’t know why he never said the right things; he just never did. And his face turned beet red every time he opened his mouth.

  He’d told his mother he couldn’t wear white socks, but she had only laughed. She never understood about clothes. He bet that his brother’s hand-me-down plaid flannel shirt was next on Billy’s lists of torments. It wasn’t. Instead, Billy reached out and snatched his glasses off his nose. Richard yelped and grabbed for them, knowing his parents would murder him if anything happened to the glasses. His stomach clenched with fear as Billy threw them to one of his friends. A game of catch began. The world now a fuzzy blur, Richard didn’t have a hope of catching those glasses.

  “Give ’em back!” he shouted, sniffling back tears of frustration.

  “Okay,” Billy said, and threw the glasses directly at him.

  To Richard’s horror, they bounced off his chest and sailed over the heads of the boys surrounding him. His only thought was to catch them before they hit concrete, so be broke through the ranks of boys and ran down the steps.

  A little girl was standing on the grass, shyly holding something out to him. Richard squinted as he neared and saw his glasses in her hand. By some miracle they weren’t broken, not even a lens cracked. They must have landed on the grass … or the phantom of Steve McQueen had caught them in his famous baseball glove.

  “Thanks,” he said gratefully, taking the glasses from her and putting them on.

  An older girl came up, looked at him as if he’d grown a horn in the middle of his head, then pushed the younger one away. “Come on, Penny! Geez, you dumb kid, do I have to tell you everything?”

  Now that he could see, he found that the rescuer of his glasses was chubby and small enough to be a kindergartner. She had a shock of red hair that tangled wildly about her head and a face covered with freckles. She was even uglier than he. Recognition rose up inside him, and he felt sorry for her. The kid was just starting out, and she probably had no idea what was in store for her.

  He wasn’t about to tell her.

  ONE

  “Miss? Are you lost?”

  Pen Marsh turned at the sudden sound of the man’s voice behind her in the woods. Her
heart thumped painfully with fear, then with something else entirely as she got a glimpse of the magically appearing vision. Magic it was, because he hadn’t been there a second before—and no modern man looked like he did.

  She gaped like a teenager. He was tall and lithe, with long arms and legs, and the compact and defined muscles of an Olympic diver. His face could have been carved in stone for all the expression it gave off, including the little half-smile hovering around his lips. But his eyes … it was as if all his emotions were stored in them. Keen intelligence and humor gleamed out of the leaf-green depths. She knew women who would kill for that color—and for his hair. Really, she thought, nothing was more depressing than to see a man with thick, wavy, luxurious locks hanging to his shoulder blades. The front was pulled back off his face, but Pen had no doubt that let loose, his hair would frame his face naturally in a way that women spent hundreds of dollars to have a man named Mr. Raoul achieve for them. His forearms were corded like a ball player’s, and tattooed with dots in intricate and intriguing patterns. Sure, quiet confidence shone out of him.

  But his clothes marked him as coming from another time entirely. He wore a loose linen shirt held together by a beaded belt. Below were buckskin leggings that didn’t quite reach the shirt, leaving a gap at his hips. Modesty prevailed with a loincloth. Pen couldn’t help wondering if it hurt not to wear jockey shorts.

  She dragged her gaze from that particular part of his anatomy and focused instead on the long rifle he cradled in his arms like a baby. In that instant the man glanced up sharply to his right, his rifle coming into his hands immediately. Pen turned, too, and saw an Indian standing on the ridge above. The top front of his head was shaved; the sides and back grew long and hung to his shoulders. No jeans and T-shirt for him either; this man wore only a loincloth and held a lethal-looking tomahawk in his hand.

  “Hey, Creighton! Libby says haul your butt up here. It’s time.”

  The man named Creighton waved in acknowledgment, then turned back to her. “Are you lost from your camp, miss?” he asked again. “These woods aren’t safe for a woman alone.”

  Everything came together in that moment for Pen. Of course she knew who the man was and what he was doing here. She ought to. Her cousin, Libby Marsh, was directing a movie here at the Delaware Water Gap in New Jersey. It was about the colonial frontier, a “politically correct” movie, according to Libby, covering the founding of Fort Nashborough. Titled American Saga, the film starred Richard Creighton.

  Richard Creighton had become a big star when he burst on the scene several years back, with a brilliant performance as an innocent pulled down by the big city before redeeming himself. But Pen knew this man from further back than the movies. This was the Cretin? Libby had said he’d changed, but she hadn’t said how much.

  “You’re a mute, aren’t you?” he asked gently, taking her elbow. “Come. Allow me to escort you to our camp until we can find your folks.”

  His hand was a sensual heat on her skin, bringing her awareness into suddenly sharper focus.

  “Ahhh …” she said as her brain went instantly dead. It was the only part of her that wasn’t working. Her senses were acute; her body was on fire.

  He smiled at her. “Ezekiel Freemont, at your service. I assure you you’re very safe with me. I’m known throughout the frontier for not hurting any creatures except redcoats, French and Spanish, and the occasional Chickasaw, enemies to my brothers, the Cherokee.”

  “Ahhh …” A fistlike pressure contracted her diaphragm, and she couldn’t get air to her voice to speak.

  “Don’t strain yourself, miss,” he said, nudging her into walking up the steep pathway. “Talking hurts the jaws at the best of times and the ears most of the rest.”

  Pen silently cursed herself. Why the hell wouldn’t her voice work? All she had to say was “I’m Penelope Marsh, Pen’s my nickname. I’m Libby Marsh’s cousin, and I’ve been invited to the set to watch the filming.” Simple words, not a one over three syllables. Instead, she sounded like a drooling idiot. She touched her chin just to be sure. It was dry. Taking heart, she finally managed to get some coherent words out.

  “Omigod! You’re Richard Creighton!”

  He laughed, transforming the stony features into handsome warmth. “Never heard of the man, but lucky him if he knows a pretty woman like you.”

  Pen blinked. What did he mean he’d never heard of himself? And what did he mean that she was pretty? She was too tall—she was five feet nine in her stocking feet—wore a size ten on her fattest days, and had features that were nondescript even with full makeup. She saw herself in the mirror every day, so she ought to know. Worse, she saw herself against all the sweet young upscale things who attended Blair Academy. They’d make a Miss America look ugly. Good thing the college was out for the summer, otherwise there would be big trouble. Movie crews and college girls didn’t mix.

  “I’m confused,” she said finally, bringing herself back to the current crisis: her own stage fright.

  “Ah, she speaks!” His smile turned into a grin. “Don’t worry, we’ll find your folks.”

  “But I’m not lost.…”

  Her voice trailed away as they crested the hill. A meadow spread out before them. Trailers, lighting stands, cameras, microphone booms, and cables covered the ground. People milled around, half of them dressed in costumes of a time more than two hundred years in America’s past. Several Indians in loincloths, bows slung across their backs, wicked-looking spears at their sides, were playing with portable video games near a wooden fort that had only two walls.

  “Richard! Oh, good, you brought Pen up with you. I don’t know if you remember Pen from grade school or not, but she probably remembers you.” A woman, as short as Pen was tall and on the dieter’s side of near plump, got out of a nearby director’s chair. Libby Marsh, hurrying toward them, looked about as tough a Hollywood director as a Cabbage Patch doll, complete with curly red hair and freckles.

  Pen hugged her cousin, grateful to find one piece of sanity in the insanity.

  “Okay!” she yelled, clapping her hands for attention. “Those of you about to get killed, get into position. Indians, I want good war whoops this time. You all sounded like wounded ducks in that camp scene yesterday. These people are taking your land, remember? Be angry and exuberant, for heaven’s sake! Richard, you go right through the center of them to Robertson. Remember, you’re trying to save the man even though you’re in love with his wife. Colonials, you’re fighting for your lives and your settlements, so be determined and fierce. Conflict, conflict, conflict. And someone get the damn dogs ready behind the fort gates! I want this authentic. I only hope they know which Indians they’re supposed to go after. Okay! Pen, take a seat and don’t trip over anything. Everyone, just the way we rehearsed it. I want this in one take, otherwise we’ll have to set up all over again. So no one screw up!”

  Pen turned to thank Richard Creighton, determined to behave like the mature twenty-nine-year-old teacher of gifted students that she was. But what she found when she faced him had her gaping again.

  His expression was closed and his eyes were cold as he stared at her. She felt his aloofness coming at her in waves, as if she’d offended or insulted him beyond forgiveness. She had no idea what she’d done or said to cause this reaction.

  He inclined his head. “Miss.”

  Mystified, her heart sinking, Pen watched him go to play colonial cowboys and Indians.

  Richard leaped over two men falling to their “deaths.” He wondered if Pen Marsh remembered him from grade school. He “hit” an Indian with the stock of his rifle and ran full-tilt through the turmoil of fighting bodies. She must remember. He elbowed several people out of the way of his mad dash. Hadn’t he been the butt of the school jokes back then? Who could forget Richard “Cretin”? An enemy rose up suddenly in front of him, screaming fiercely, his tomahawk raised. Richard blocked it with his forearm and “plunged” his knife into the man’s stomach. He didn’t wait for the
man to cry out again and collapse into the dirt, but kept running. Even if she didn’t remember, he thought, Libby had reminded her. That turned him cold. Robertson was just ahead of him, fighting off five Indians, using his Kentucky flintlock as a club since he didn’t have time to reload. But the man was losing ground fast. In moments he’d be dead if he wasn’t reached in time. Richard ran on while wondering why he should be so bothered by the question of whether or not Pen remembered him. He shoved several final men out of his way. She had been a surprise to him, he admitted it—

  “Cut!”

  A groan went up from the sweating men, who immediately broke from their fighting stances. The “dead” ones rose like a troop of Lazaruses. Richard stopped mid-stride, bewildered out of his trance. He wondered who screwed up the scene.

  Libby got out of her director’s chair and came over. To him. “Richard. Angel. The moves look good, but you don’t seem to be with the program.…”

  Richard could feel his face heating up as Libby ticked off everything that had been off in his performance in the scene. He glanced over at Pen. She was staring at him. He cursed himself for even looking at her, let alone checking her reaction. She had attracted him from his first sight of her in the forest, and he had tracked her through the woods like a schoolboy. Then he’d hidden behind the facade of the character he was playing in this film. It had seemed easier. It always did. Besides, he had been in the midst of preparing himself for the scene, and it was a way to keep in character, or so he’d rationalized. Silly. And worse, he was being dressed down in front of her.

  He didn’t intend to tolerate it any longer.

  “Look, Libby,” he interrupted, “I did the scene as choreographed, directed, and rehearsed. Don’t tell me I didn’t.”

  Libby eyed him. The silence on the set was deafening as the star disagreed with the director. Everyone waited with bated breath to see who would win control. The first week always set the tone for the rest of the shoot, and Richard knew he had put his director in an untenable position. He respected his directors, and he respected Libby more than most. She didn’t shred an actor’s ego; she coaxed a performance out of him or her.