He's So Shy

by Linda Cajio

  “Dow Corning owns a piece of the studio,” Richard said.

  “Then that’s probably the one.” Pen leaned back against her door and closed her eyes, exhausted. Wanting nothing more than a shower and bed, she swallowed against the lump of tears clogging her throat, knowing she might unconsciously follow habit and flip on a light switch, thereby alerting the hounds outside that she was in. “I can’t use my phone, so Libby says. I can’t take a shower. I can’t sleep. I can’t leave my house. I can’t live like this! How long is this going to go on?”

  “I’m sorry, Pen,” Richard said, settling down next to her. He put his arm around her, and to her own surprise, she didn’t push him away.

  She felt grungy and wished she were at her best rather than like this, but he didn’t seem to mind or even notice. She leaned against his chest, needing the comfort and warmth of another human being, this human being, above all else.

  “Is there any way to get rid of them?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” He was silent for a long moment. “I do know you’re right, though. You can’t live like this.”

  She managed a chuckle. “They would kill to know you were in here with me.”

  He laughed. “Shall I go open the front door and say hi?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Then after that we can run naked through the streets.”

  “Works for me.”

  Lolita mewed plaintively and crawled up onto their legs. Now that she was fed, she clearly wanted affection.

  “Maybe we ought to send the cat out there,” Richard said. “She’d give Socks a run for his money.”

  Pen straightened as an idea hit her smack between the eyes. “Brutus! Why didn’t I think of him earlier?”

  “Who’s Brutus?” Richard asked.

  “A lovely big monster of a dog who lives two doors down. Brutus doesn’t like strangers. He doesn’t bite them, he just doesn’t like them. I think the reporters would love to meet him, don’t you?”

  Richard laughed. “I’m sure it will be a spectacular interview. Did anyone ever tell you you’re a wicked person, Pen?”

  “My class, every time I assign homework for the weekend.” She grinned. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  “But—”

  “But what?” she interrupted. “You can’t go out with me. Brutus will alert five counties that you’re here.”

  “So he was the one who was barking when I came through the back,” Richard said. “He only barked once, though.”

  Pen smiled. She slipped out the back door, her heart stopping for an instant when the men in front laughed at some joke. Brutus barked a couple of times when she neared his doghouse, but, recognizing her voice, quieted when she called softly to him.

  Despite his name, Brutus wasn’t a vicious dog, only a big, dumb, happy, half Irish wolfhound, half Saint Bernard who loved to chase anything that moved, then tree it. He got loose sometimes from his chain, mostly because none lasted long against his strength, and usually proceeded to corner a local cat or the mailman. And he would keep them there forever if he could. Even the mailman’s Mace never stopped him. Brutus had the patience and determination of Joan of Arc. Pen grinned, knowing she could depend on Brutus.

  As soon as she got within doggy reach, Brutus knocked her on her back and licked her face, his heavy body pinning her on the ground and nearly killing her in the process. The tail and hindquarters swished madly from side to side in his joy. It was like being under an enormous car wash. Pen finally managed to push the dog off her, rubbing at her now-wet face. Kisses sweeter than wine were not Brutus’s forte. She got the chain unhooked, grabbed onto the leather collar, and led him in the direction of her house. Rather, Brutus bounded, dragging her along. At least he was going the right way. But the moment they crossed the yard in between, the large square head came up at the sound of strange voices and the smell of new scents. Pen snatched her fingers out from under the collar in the split second before Brutus bayed and zoomed down the small grass alley between the houses, dead on his target.

  Pen watched him go. Sure enough, the massive body of Saint Bernard ancestry and the wiry gray coat of the wolfhound had its usual Hound-from-Hell effect. The intrepid reporters scattered in panic as Brutus broke into the open. They ran as one for their cars, making it inside the vehicles with nanoseconds to spare. All but one. The poor soul banged on the window, but the comrade inside refused to take a chance and unlock the car door for him. He spun around several times, then leaped onto the roof of the car. Brutus, not being the brightest of God’s good creatures, tried to jump straight up from the side of the car, rather than go up the easy way over the hood or trunk. He missed by inches, falling back to the ground. But there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he’d eventually figure the puzzle out, one way or another, and, if not, that he’d become a canine battering ram. Engines started, and cars, one by one, like beads on a chain, pulled out from the curb and roared down the street, the driver of the one with the reporter still clinging to the roof going more slowly than his fellows. Baying loudly the entire time, Brutus raced after them, determined as always to catch his new toys.

  “Ahh,” Pen sighed. “Life is good.”

  She hurried the last few feet to her house as lights came on and doors opened, people curious about the sudden noises. Richard already had the door open, and she collapsed over the threshold, laughing. Richard pulled her into his arms, hugging her in delight.

  “Did you see?” she asked, wiping at tears. “They couldn’t get in their cars fast enough.”

  “I saw,” he said, amused. “There are a lot of people in Hollywood who would have loved to have seen it too. I wish I’d videotaped it.”

  “Too bad Libby wasn’t here,” Pen said. “She would have called for a second take.”

  “Now that would have been something to see.” He sniffed at the air. “You smell peculiar.”

  “It’s eau de Brutus.” She sniffed herself. “And lack of a shower.”

  “I told you you should have taken one this morning.”

  She disentangled herself from his arms, remembering full well why she hadn’t. “You were right.”

  “At last.” He didn’t seem at all to feel her pulling away was a rejection of him. She was glad, because it hadn’t been.

  Richard’s demeanor got serious. “Pen, you can’t stay here. The dog won’t keep them away forever. They’ll be back, and they’ll be pounding down your doors. You have to go now while you can.”

  “But I can’t!” she exclaimed. “This is my house. Besides, who would feed Lolita?”

  “We’ll take her with us.”

  “We?” Pen echoed.

  “We,” Richard said firmly. “You’ll go with me now, tonight. Then we’ll figure out what to do with you tomorrow.”

  “I can’t go with you! They’ll be expecting us to be together.”

  “But they don’t know where I am, remember?” He scooped up Lolita, then said, “Get some clothes. Now.”

  “Richard,” Pen began, although she was leery of the stern tone in his voice. Richard had never been stern.

  “Dammit, Pen!” He towered over her, glaring. “I’m not arguing with you. You either get your clothes or we go now without them. Use your brain. You know you can’t stay here. This is your one chance to go, and you’re going.”

  She knew he was right. But to go with him was to risk everything. Yet to not go was to ensure they’d have a printable picture of her before two days were out.

  She went and got her clothes.

  As he lay back in his bed, fully dressed, Richard tried to ignore the woman in his shower. His nice, big shower with room for two.

  They had gotten to his new hideaway without incident. No cars had followed and none were near the property or road. So far this hadn’t leaked, he thought. So far. He hoped that they’d decide there was no truth to the rumor and give up, or that another, far more juicy rumor would require their follow-up.

  If ever there was a man who stu
mbled through relationships, it was he. This time he’d hit a doozy. How could Pen want him after this? She couldn’t—and he couldn’t blame her, either. The morning after should bring two people even closer together, not create disaster.

  Lolita snuggled up against his side, purring loudly, clearly happy in her new home. He sighed and put his arm around her.

  “Wrong female, sweetheart,” he murmured. “But I love you too.”

  It was the “too” that made him pause. He knew Pen had gotten under his skin, right from the beginning. But love …

  He heard the fan light click off and the bathroom door open, and he immediately leaped from the bed, sending poor Lolita yowling and scrambling away in fright. He’d been very careful earlier not to make any overtly sexual moves, unsure of his reception, and he didn’t want to start now.

  Pen emerged. Her hair was damp and she was dressed in a thin cotton nightgown and robe. “Oh!” she said, startled.

  “You can have this room,” Richard said, not able to lift his gaze from her slender curves. “I … I wanted to tell you that.”

  “But this is the master bedroom,” she protested. “It was enough that I used the shower, which you really didn’t have to insist on.”

  “Its windows face the back of the property. The other ones face the road. Just a precaution.” He wondered how to overcome this awkwardness between them. Granted, the events of the day would put a dent in even the strongest relationship, but it didn’t even allow a chance for theirs.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she conceded.

  “Well … good night.” He wished he could become somebody, grab up a character’s veneer for a moment, but nothing came to mind. He had to be honestly himself.

  He turned away.

  “Richard?”

  He turned back. “Yes?”

  “Stay with me.”

  He gaped at her, shocked that she still wanted him. Then he realized that being honestly himself was enough. More than enough.

  He stopped gaping and went to her.

  EIGHT

  The solution to her problem, when it arrived, was an easy one. But it wasn’t the one she wanted.

  “There,” Libby said, with a satisfied finality. “All settled in my guest room. What’s more natural than two cousins sharing a house?”

  “Pigs flying?” Pen asked. She stuffed some of her clothes in the drawer. Lolita was sprawled on the bed in feline splendor.

  “It works,” Richard said. “Who’s looking at what Libby’s doing?”

  “The finance men,” Libby muttered. “But we won’t get into that.”

  Pen smiled ruefully at Richard. He and Libby had cooked this up between them on the set, the only two who knew where she was. He had brought her under the cover of night, after she had spent the day chafing in the chairman of the board’s house. The place had been a sterile museum, with not one expensive collector’s item out of place. It all made her itch to get away from it. But leaving Richard behind was torture. He was the only reason to stay. A very powerful one, she admitted.

  She was thoroughly hooked. The moment he’d turned to leave that perfect bedroom last night, she had collapsed emotionally, knowing if he were down the hallway all night long, it would be impossible. She’d wanted him, wanted the comfort and the passion he offered. She knew the opportunity would be gone with the morning.

  And morning had come, a different one from the day before. Instead of being strained with each other, they had made a complete commitment to working together to get out of the tangle they were in. She might not be as sure that Libby was the ultimate solution to throwing reporters off the trail, but no one had come up with a better one. All she knew was that she wanted to be with Richard.

  “At least he can visit,” Libby said, as if reading her thoughts.

  “You only want to keep your star happy until the movie’s done,” Pen retorted with a grin.

  “Well, I’m no saint.” Libby turned to Richard. “I’ll leave you alone with the prisoner for a few minutes, and then you better get going. Damn, what those clowns would pay me to know you two were here.”

  She left the room, chuckling. Richard pulled Pen into his embrace. She put her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest.

  “I do feel like a prisoner,” she admitted, then shuddered. “With Libby as a jailer, Lord help me.”

  “It’s a natural.”

  “What would be more natural would be Libby living at my house, not my living on the other side of town,” Pen said.

  “Libby’s Hollywood; Libby’s eccentric,” Richard countered. “Libby has meetings and work that she can’t very well impose on you, so she’s rented her own home. But the two of you are family, so you move in here so you can visit until the filming’s over. No one will think it odd, because Libby is odd. No one on the set knows you’re here, so our leak can’t give over that information to the media. And if they do, what will it prove? Nothing.”

  “We hope.”

  His arms tightened around her. “It’s either this or be spread all over the front pages. Or leave town altogether.”

  “I don’t want to do that.” She lifted her face for his kiss.

  When he left finally, Pen sat down on the bed, feeling as if she’d been in a tornado. Two days ago life had been normal. And now …

  Libby came into her bedroom.

  “He left,” she said, smiling. “It’s not so bad.”

  Pen eyed her sourly. “It’s not so good.”

  “You make me sound like Jabba the Hutt.”

  Pen refrained from telling her cousin she looked like Jabba the Hutt, all big and smug. Libby wouldn’t appreciate it.

  “You’ve got it bad for him, don’t you?” Libby asked, sitting down next to her.

  Pen sighed. “That’s the understatement of the year, Lib. The worst part is, I’m his filming fling and I know it and I don’t care. He’s … different.”

  “Richard in Hollywood is like a lamb wandering around in a den of lions. He’s all naiveté, and they’ll slaughter him for it. There are some actors who are great because they don’t know all the facets of humanity; they discover them on camera. Richard’s one of those. He needs someone like you, Pen, to keep him safe.”

  “I don’t think I can,” she said. “I’m not cut out for the fishbowl existence.”

  “I don’t know.” Libby chuckled. “You handled those reporters very well, letting that dog out after them. I wish I’d seen it.”

  Pen grinned. “It was beautiful.”

  “See? You can handle this. Piece of cake for you.” Libby put her arm around her, giving her a fortifying hug. “Give it a week and they’ll be gone. I promise.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.”

  And Pen meant it.

  As Richard climbed the back stairs of Libby’s veranda, he couldn’t believe the media people were still hanging around after a week. Not as many, but clearly the most tenacious stringers. Not even a rumor that Julia Roberts was coming out of seclusion had moved them. Five or six of them were always at the set in the morning, then following him home. Or trying to. Libby had set up several decoys for the ride back to his place, or he had been stored in the back of her trunk. But the maneuvering was getting more and more elaborate. And Pen was still cooped up at Libby’s.

  Why would they hang around still? Richard had a feeling the answer was that someone was telling them to. But who? If he had that answer, he’d have this problem all but solved.

  Libby flung open the back door when he knocked on it. “What are you doing here? Did anyone see you? Are you crazy? I’ve got half the cast and crew coming over for a meeting! In fifteen minutes!”

  “Why didn’t I know about it?” he demanded, striding over the threshold and slamming the door shut behind him. “And are you crazy? Pen’s here.”

  “I know Pen’s here,” Libby snapped, glaring at him. “She’s staying in her room like a little mouse. And the reason you don’t know about the meeting is because it’s o
ver Mary Jane’s wardrobe. She hates it. Claudia, the wardrobe mistress, agrees. Claudia would.”

  Richard looked heavenward, grateful Libby hadn’t told him. He wanted no part of it. “The producers got Jerry Osborne to design the costumes. He took great pains to use fabrics and styles that are historically accurate. She’s already got the biggest and best American designer on the job, so what the hell does she want?”

  “Dangerous Liaisons on the Frontier.” Libby waved her hands. “Will you get out of here!”

  Suddenly he’d had enough of all the nonsense. He’d come to visit Pen, and he was damned well going to do that, meeting or no meeting.

  “Okay.” He headed directly for her inside stairs.

  “What are you doing?” Libby squawked.

  He smiled. “I’ll hide with Pen until they’re gone.”

  “You really are crazy!”

  “We’ll be quiet as church mice. I promise.”

  Libby’s front doorbell rang, forestalling any further argument. Richard raced up the staircase and down the hall to Pen’s room. He flung open the door.

  “Wha …?” She gaped at him, half rising from the bed. Dressed in shorts and top, she had dropped a book in her panic. Obviously she’d been settled in for a good read … until he’d shown up.

  He put his finger to his lips while pointing toward the floor. Voices greeting each other drifted into the room. Pen’s eyes widened. Richard smiled and shut the door, turning the lock behind him. He went over to her, then leaned down and kissed her still-open mouth.

  That seemed to galvanize her to action. She whispered fiercely, “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to visit,” he whispered back.

  “But Libby’s having a meeting! You can’t be here!”

  “Well, I am. Scoot over.” He nudged her over on the bed, then stretched out on the mattress. “Not bad. I think we’ll survive.”

  “Who are we this time?” Pen asked.

  “That was a very good play. Off-Broadway, I believe.” He grinned. “I’m just me, tired of being always unsure of myself and away from you.” And he was, he thought. Damn tired of the whole thing and refusing to let it run his life anymore. “I missed you.”