Jennifer had never felt anything in the least negative about the house herself. It had been dark in what she considered an Old English sense when her mother first bought the place. But though they hadn’t touched a bit of the woodwork, there had been lots of soft beige put on the walls to highlight the art, old tapestries had been given a number of good cleanings, floors had been scrubbed and polished, and the grand old place truly had a majesty about it again. The cliffs, and the fences—not to mention her dog, Lady—kept people away. An Irish wolfhound, Lady wasn’t among the breeds usually considered good as a guard dog, such as a Doberman, German shepherd, rottweiler, or pit bull, but her size alone was impressive, and since she was known to howl at the moon occasionally, she kept up the lively speculation regarding Granger House.
“Jennifer!”
Her name was said in a strange, low whisper, and for a moment she froze. Then she felt like a fool. It was only Doug behind her.
“Is that the den door?” he said in his best Bela Lugosi voice.
She spun around. “Practicing for an audition at Disney? You’d be absolutely wonderful at the Haunted House.”
“Jennifer, that’s the den door, is it not? Feel free to enter the den.”
“Very funny, Doug.”
“I’m dying of curiosity.”
“It did kill the cat.”
“I refuse to die until I’ve met Mr. Markham.”
Jennifer pushed open the den door.
He was there, all right. Reading, just as Edgar had said. Hearing the door open, he looked up, closed his book, and stood.
Stood? Towered. Tall, dark, arresting. Yes, instantly his presence filled the room. She could feel her hackles rising. Be nice, she warned herself. He hasn’t really done anything to you. Smile. Greet him warmly.
Doug let out a very soft whistling sound behind her. “Well, we are talking true stud here. He’s better in person than he is on the screen.”
She elbowed him, hard.
“Conar!” Warm—was that warm?
“Jennifer, it’s great to see you.”
He said the words with his dusky, deep voice, then walked across the room toward her. Naturally, she walked toward him as well.
“And it’s just … great to see you, too!” If this were an audition, they would be saying “Next!” already. No, she sounded warm enough. “Great! Yes, it’s just great to see you.”
Conar Markham was six foot three, his hair was rich and dark, eyes silver-gray, sharp as tacks. His face was handsomely molded in a classical cast, but it wasn’t his features that gave him his appeal. He was rugged, yet seemed to possess a casual carelessness—take him or leave him, he didn’t give a damn.
He wrapped her into his arms with a brotherly hug. For an alarming moment, she found the heat of his touch pleasant. He smelled of a very nice aftershave, and his arms were powerful. The kind that would be easy to rest within. She was tense and tired, and suddenly, ridiculously tempted to bury her face against his broad chest and tell him, “Go ahead, take over, see if you can do any better than I can, cure my mother.”
He drew away from her, studying her. His hands still touched her. She was tempted to shake him off. Too much lightning cracking. Better to get away from him.
“You look wonderful,” he told her.
“Thank you. So do you.” She eased from his hold with all the grace she could manage. He still must have noticed. What else that was totally banal could they say?
“Jennifer—” he began, his tone serious, a frown creasing his brow. He was about to get to the nitty-gritty of why he was here, and how they had to get along.
But he didn’t get a chance.
Doug, still behind Jennifer, cleared his throat.
“Oh! I’m so sorry. Conar, this is Doug Henson. Doug is a writer on the set at Valentine Valley. I’m sure you’ll be working together in the future.”
“Hi, Doug,” Conar said, shaking Doug’s hand.
“Hi. It’s great to meet you. You’re pure legend around here, you know.”
“Well, it’s hard to live up to being a legend,” Conar said casually. “Don’t put too much pressure on me. I hope I do well for the show.”
Doug grinned. “You will. Our ratings increased significantly when it was announced that you were joining the cast.”
“Ah, the curious,” Conar said. “Well, let’s hope I can keep them happy. May I get you a drink?”
Jennifer had been about to say the same thing. She suddenly felt displaced. Irritated.
Yes, Conar Markham was already at home here. He was walking toward the handsome old English bar even as he spoke.
“Scotch on the rocks, thanks,” Doug said, following him. “So are you all set to start working with us on Tuesday?”
“Yeah. Met with Joe today; I’m ready to come in.” He fixed Doug’s drink, looked up. “Jennifer?”
“I’m not sure what I want yet. I’ll make my own, thanks.”
“Stoli, soda, and lime?” he suggested.
He had a memory, all right. How many times had they actually had drinks together? Once, twice?
“Sure. Thanks.”
He made the drinks and turned around. Silver-gray eyes pierced into hers. “Did you hear the news about Brenda Lopez?” he queried.
“Yes, it’s horrible, isn’t it?” Jennifer replied.
“You knew her?”
“Yes, I met her a few times. You?”
He nodded grimly. “I did. She was a strong woman.”
“Not strong enough, evidently,” Doug commented, taking his drink. “And the word ‘strong’ is rather kind, I think. Brenda was pushy, aggressive, and upon occasion, mean as a cobra.” He nodded his head as if he did so with deep understanding. “She went after the Hollywood bigwigs with teeth bared.”
“Doug!” Jennifer said.
“Well, it’s true,” he said defensively.
“Oh, really. Because it’s Brenda, she was pushy and mean as a cobra. When one of our male counterparts goes after the bigwigs in such a manner, it’s all hail the fellow with the courage.”
“Jen,” Doug protested, hurt, “I just meant that she wasn’t like any little Miss Innocence and Virginity. She might have walked into something …”
“Asked for it?” Jennifer demanded indignantly.
“No, no, of course not.” Doug looked at Conar. “Help me out here.”
Conar was studying Jennifer. “I think he means that Brenda made enemies, that’s all.”
“Right—exactly. And you’re turning this entire discussion into a protest for suffragette city,” Doug said, shaking his head at her unreasonable treatment.
“But—” Jennifer began.
Edgar entered the room. “Mr. Henson, excuse me, but I think that something leaked in your bag, and I thought that you might want to know right away. May I escort you to your room so you might assess the situation?”
“Of course, of course, excuse me, will you?”
“Doug, it’s probably nothing,” she protested.
“I’ll just check.”
In a second, he was gone with Edgar.
And she was alone in the room with Conar.
The sudden silence between them seemed staggering. The tension between them was palpable.
He spoke first. “I’m sorry that you’re upset that I’m here.”
“Why should I be upset?”
She was terribly afraid that she sounded like a child.
He raised his hands in a shrug. “You must feel I’m stepping on your toes.”
“You’re an actor who has accepted a job. What does that have to do with me?”
“It’s your soap.”
“It most certainly isn’t. I act on it. It’s a job.”
“A drone rather than a queen bee?” he inquired lightly.
“The point is that you’re more than welcome to work anywhere you choose.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. Your
soap—and your house. And you don’t mind a bit.”
“It isn’t my house. It’s my mother’s.”
“She has always told me that any home she has belongs to you,” he told her, lifting his glass to her. It was a nice thing to say. So nice that she felt a slight thawing. But then he went and ruined it all. “Always, even when you were acting like a true horse’s ass to her.”
Her fingers tightened around her cocktail glass. “Thanks so much. And that from the original bad boy himself.”
“Um,” he murmured dryly. “Yeah, the bad boy invited here by your mother, and making a mint, and pissing off everyone in the place. Well, I don’t know if I’m worth it or not, but it’s what they’ve offered, and I’m not giving it back. And I owe your mother.”
“You don’t owe my mother. She does what she chooses to do for people because she wants to. She doesn’t want anyone in debt to her, or feeling as if they’re in debt to her—ever.”
“All right, then. I love your mother.”
“Do you really?” She hoped the question was casual, voiced with no more than polite interest.
“Yes, I do. Really. Do you love her, really?”
Jennifer could hear the phone ringing, but she didn’t really notice. Edgar would answer it. She felt as if she were engaged in a very strange battle. His eyes on hers, hers on his—and the room crackling and sizzling with tension. What was she hoping to win? It was like a staring contest.
“She is my mother, not a woman who was once my stepmother. And, as I said, it’s Abby’s house, and it’s not my personal soap opera. I’m glad that my mother considers her home my home, and naturally …” Just then she realized she hadn’t seen Abby yet this evening. She threw up her hands. “I’m sitting here arguing with you—about what, I don’t even know.” She needed to get away from him. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have to—”
“No, I won’t excuse you. Not for a moment, Jennifer. Let’s get this out. Now.”
“I haven’t seen my mother yet, Markham. You can wait.”
“No, you can wait just one more minute, Miss Connolly, until I’ve had my say.”
“It had better be quick.”
“Fine, then, understand this. Abby has asked me here.”
“Yes, she has.”
“And I’m here for her.”
“Good for you.”
“Whether you like it or not. And I’m here to stay.”
She lifted her hands, staring at him, feeling as if she were hot enough to explode. Somehow, she remained still. “Like I said, hey, good for you.”
“I plan to be cordial and polite while I’m here,” he told her, taking a step closer. She was about to step away, but she refused to be intimidated. Even if she was furious—and her knees felt like water at the same time. Why does he always have this effect on me?
“Well,” she said smoothly, “I’ll try my best for courtesy as well.”
“Good. You try.”
“Now, excuse me, I do have to see my mother.”
“Go on, then. I’m glad to hear that my being here isn’t a problem to you at all.”
“Not at all. I will certainly try to be civil.”
“Oh, yeah. You’re civil.”
She turned, setting her Stoli and soda on an end table. But then she walked fast out the doorway, and before she knew it, she was running down the hall.
Really, it was totally legitimate. The first thing she always did when she returned home was check on Abby. Of course, she didn’t usually have to escape unwelcome visitors.
Sometimes when she came home, her mother was sleeping, having been heavily medicated. If so, she tiptoed away. Sometimes Abby had done well during the day, and was awake and wanting to talk. And sometimes her medication had affected her so that she was convinced that they were joined in the room by a group of strange people who lived in the walls. It was difficult to be with Abby then. They had to include the wall people in their conversations.
Abby’s room was down the full length of the hallway, far from the den, but it was purposely on the first floor. The room had once belonged to Granger himself. He’d suffered with arthritis later in life and had found stairways difficult. Abby hadn’t always been in this room, but it was difficult for her sometimes to maneuver, and she abhorred the idea of a moving chair. She had easy access to the rest of the house, and to the pool area. There were French doors with wide beautiful windows that led out to the pool area from her room. They were carefully locked once the evening had come and she’d been given her medication. Jennifer had experienced nightmares about her mother drifting into a fantasy world, wandering out to the pool—and diving in.
Edgar had seen to the locks.
She stepped into her mother’s room. Abby was lying on her bed. Jennifer tiptoed silently over to the bed. Music played softly from a central system. Abby often watched television, but the set was off. Jennifer was glad to find her mother sound asleep. Or maybe worn out, Jennifer thought resentfully. She had probably spent the day trying to assure the wonderful Mr. Conar Markham that Jennifer wouldn’t be too miserable to him.
There was nothing to do here. She never woke her mother when she was in a peaceful sleep. Tears stung her eyes. She really did love her. Maybe she had rebelled, as Conar had pointed out, but that had been long ago. She and Abby had been a team for years now.
And where had Conar been all that time?
With a new rise of anger spurring her on, Jennifer headed back to the den. He was reading again, as if he’d never been interrupted. Maybe she hadn’t been an interruption before. Just an annoyance. Now she meant to interrupt, big time.
“Let’s have a few ground rules. I will be civil, totally civil. And honest. My mother wants you here. Fine. I will try.”
He looked up politely. “Jennifer, of course you will try. You really have no other choice.”
He was laughing, she thought. Speaking in a deep, level tone, but there was laughter beneath it.
“I have no choice?”
“None whatsoever. But I’m glad you’re out-and-out hostile. I do like honesty.”
She hesitated, trying to control her temper. She didn’t seem able to win. She was furious, he was amused. He was so casual. Sorry, but hell, this was just the way things were.
And he was right.
She smiled, walking toward him, picking up the drink she had left behind, her fingers tightly vised around the glass. “All right. You like honesty. Let me give you deep-down truth. Do people mind that you’re here? Hell, yes! The rest of us have worked our asses off for years—and they bring you in at double our salaries. As to my mother … well, I’ve been struggling with a massive downhill slide in the degeneration of her disease here for almost a year. It would have been longer, but she hid her illness from everyone, including me, for so very long. You—”
“Jennifer, wait—” he interrupted.
But she wasn’t waiting. He’d pushed it. She was going to have her say. “No, you wanted this discussion—you listen, then I’ll wait. You insisted on knowing if I was upset. Upset isn’t the word. You see, I’ve watched her suffer, I’ve been to the doctors, we’ve tried one medication and then another, and different doses. We’ve dealt with tremors, choking, violent shaking, the medications, the delusions caused by the medications—and so on. Now, pay attention here. You’ve been … away from Abby. I’ve—”
“Jennifer,” he interrupted again. His voice had a warning tone she had no intention of heeding. They were going to have this all in the open.
“Conar! I’ve not finished. Through all this I’ve protected her, I’ve talked for her, I’ve done everything I can possibly imagine. Because I do love her. There have been times when I’ve thought she was dying, times when I’ve thought that she’s totally lost her mind. Times when I’ve just held her hand because she’s been shaking so badly that she’s called my name just for a safe anchor to cling to! But here you are … riding in like the Lone Ranger. Yes, quite frankly, I wish you’d taken a wrong tu
rn somewhere and fallen right into the La Brea tar pits. There, you’ve got it. I don’t think I can be any more honest. Are you happy now?”
He had arched a brow to her, looking not in the least dismayed by her tirade. A slight nod of his head indicated the doorway behind her. She spun around.
Edgar was there, as was Doug, as was a tall, well-built man of about forty in a polo shirt and Dockers.
She felt a flame of crimson burn through to her cheeks. She realized that he’d tried to stop her. It didn’t help. She felt ashamed and humiliated—and all the more furious with him. That it wasn’t his fault didn’t help. It just made him all the more the golden child.
The dead silence seemed to stretch and stretch. She wanted to talk. Sound didn’t come to her lips. Thank God. If it had, it wouldn’t have created intelligible words.
Golden boy saved the day.
“Liam,” he said with sincere pleasure. He walked past her to greet the stranger standing in the doorway—witness to her tirade—along with Edgar and Doug. “Hey, how’d you know I was here? I would have called you—”
“I know you would have. And naturally, I damned well knew you were here. It’s all over the media, every rag in the state of California is carrying your picture.”
The stranger had a voice nearly as deep as Conar’s. There was a slight twang to it, as if he might have originally hailed from Texas or Oklahoma. His eyes were dark, his skin was bronzed, and his hair was nearly black. Jennifer wondered if he was an actor. She didn’t recognize him if he was, but he had the rugged type of good looks that would have served him well if he was.
Long, Lean, and Lethal Page 6