Throwing her apron on the counter, she turned the store over to Marta, and stalked into the back room to wash. She refused to call it primping. This wasn't a date. She didn't date. This was tricking sheep testicles down a Yankee's throat and watching him gag after she told him what he was eating. A day at the amusement park.
But she didn't want to look a complete redneck in a fancy place with linen tablecloths. So she scrubbed the dirt smudge from her cheek, stabbed a lipstick tube at her mouth, and ran her fingers through her hair to give it some life. Squinting in the semi-lit mirror, she decided maybe she'd let the brown dye fade out. It was a nuisance to mess with and didn't disguise the red enough to matter.
Grabbing the knitted sack she called a purse, she sauntered back to the front as if she "did lunch" every day with rich New York artists. She wouldn't even ask if they were going dutch. For the first time in her life she had a credit card and knew how to use it.
"Ready, lover-boy," she stated boldly. "Can I choose your last meal?"
Jared winked over Cleo's head at her clerk. "That's what I love about her—always ready, willing, and able."
"Don't let her feed you lamb fries!" Marta called as they headed out the door.
Damn interfering woman. Cleo smiled sweetly at Jared's questioning look. "Don't ask."
"Okay, but if they're anything like prairie oysters, I like 'em." He blithely steered her down the street with a firm grip on her elbow.
Cleo rolled her eyes and went along for the ride. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't despise this obtuse, genial idiot. His possessive hand on her arm was another matter entirely. He had to quit touching her, or she had to quit shaking when he did.
"Hey, Cleo, where you goin'?" As they turned the corner to the harbor, a waitress sneaking a smoke in the garden of the local B&B waved them over.
Katy, the proprietor of Blackbeard's B&B, was one of the major promoters of the pirate film idea. Cleo supposed if she ever bothered attending a Jaycee's meeting, she might point out all the pitfalls of bringing L.A. types in here, but she was more comfortable with waitresses than high-falutin' proprietors seeking yuppiedom.
"Hey, Stella, seen Ed lately? We need to get back to work on that clock." Jerking her elbow free of Jared's grasp, Cleo crossed in the middle of the shady street.
"Imagine he's down at the Blue Monkey as always, lifting his elbow and seeing German spies on every corner."
Cleo sighed in exasperation at Ed's habits. If the old man was back on his spy kick, then he'd be up on the courthouse roof with his binoculars, looking for U-boats again. The sheriff hated it when he did that. "If any spies ever landed here, they'd probably be down at the Monkey with the other old fogies."
Stella shrugged. "Then Katy would want a World War II movie and we'd be called the Third Reich Inn. Keeps me employed." She batted her eyelashes in Jared's direction. "Thought you'd keep that one from us, did you?"
"He said he'd feed me, so he gets to choose his own poison." As Jared came up and rested his hand on her shoulder, Cleo gestured at the tall, henna-haired waitress. "Stella, Jared McCloud. If I talk him into feeding me here, you could dump soup in his lap."
"I think my mama lied about Southern hospitality," he murmured near her ear before shaking Stella's hand.
All right, maybe she liked his touches, but they were a damned irritation, sort of like being taught to appreciate caviar, then told it cost too much.
"That's a cute TV show you had," Stella all but simpered. "What brings you to these parts?"
"The lovely ladies, of course." Jared made no effort to retrieve his hand from hers. "Has anyone told you that you ought to be in movies?"
Stella's eyes widened, and she grinned in appreciation. "Damn, you're good. Don't suppose you know that film director Katy's so hot to get here, do you?"
Cleo'd had just about enough of this. Before she could break up their Mutual Admiration Society, Jared startled her with his reply.
"Shelton? Nah, he's the top mucky-muck. But one of his writers on the pirate script worked with me on the show, and he recommended this place."
Cleo's jaw dropped too far to close before Stella jumped on his revelation.
"You know the writers? Did they tell you they're filming here?"
Jared shrugged. "Nobody in the business knows what they're doing from one minute to the next. Sorry. I just know they've scouted here."
"Oh, fine!" Cleo finally exploded. "I'm harboring a damned Hollywood spy. That's just what I needed to hear. You get your privacy, then leave us overrun with Hollywood prima donnas. How swell of you."
"I don't have a thing to do with what Shelton does," Jared protested. "Give the town credit. This place has atmosphere." He gestured at the moss-draped trees in front of faded mansions and the sailing yachts bobbing in the harbor. "It's perfect for a pirate movie. And Shelton's crew would add to the town's economy, help fix up the schools, maybe."
"Swell, now I'm aiding and abetting the corruption of the last untouched piece of the coast. You get your privacy for two months, then pass on the information to your Hollywood friends so we're flooded with gawkers into eternity. I really need that." Cleo started off down the street without him. "Come along, McCloud," she shouted back. "The tables fill up fast and you promised to feed me. Stella, let him go and I won't tell him what color you painted your boyfriend's car."
Stella waved them off as Jared hurried in Cleo's wake. "I get off at two, Jared," she called after him. "You just stop on by!"
"What color?" he asked in a whisper as he caught up with her.
"Pink. With purple polka dots. It was a Vette," she said with satisfaction, still steaming over his betrayal. "I helped her choose the enamel."
Jared drew a few succinct words from his extensive vocabulary before eyeing her warily. "Okay, I'll bite. What did her boyfriend do to deserve that fate?"
"Now that, I won't tell. Suffice it to say that he'd had it coming, and I would have painted his appropriate body parts to match. He got off easy."
"I think you're finally scaring me," he mused while pushing her up the stairs of the antebellum mansion converted to local restaurant.
"Took you long enough. Mention me to your director friends, tell them I don't welcome their L.A. crap down here."
"What in hell did L.A. ever do to you?" he asked, opening the door for her.
Cleo tried not to be intimidated as a gracious silver-haired matron greeted them, but she held her tongue while the hostess led them to a table in the bay window overlooking the harbor. More silver and glassware than she owned decorated the linen. One thing they didn't teach you in jail was proper table etiquette.
Somewhere in her wasted youth someone had attempted to teach her manners. She knew enough not to tuck her napkin into her shirt. And this was a sailing town. All the boats at the dock weren't yachts. Out of the corner of her eye she could see tourists in plaid shorts and bronzed crew members in cut-offs. No matter how the blue-haired ladies tried, this wasn't the Old South any longer. She could manage. She shrugged out of her flannel shirt, stripping down to a tank top. Air-conditioning didn't come with antebellum mansions.
"L.A. is where I grew up," she whispered back as the hostess left them with the menus.
"L.A. is a big city," he muttered in return, eyeing her vivid pink top with appreciation. "You can't write off the whole town." She raised her eyebrows and he grimaced. "Okay, Hollywood isn't big, but a film could bring in big bucks here, and they'd be gone in a year."
"Right." Rather than argue over the dubious possibility of a nonexistent film, she examined her menu.
"Fried okra, fried tomatoes, batter-fried broccoli and cauliflower—is there any vegetable they don't fry?" he asked in fascination, apparently sensing when her attention strayed.
"Corn?" Cleo scanned the menu, noting prices and debating whether to stiff him with the expensive check. A lifetime of pinching pennies didn't allow the freedom of considering food first and cost later. "If you're not in the mood for lamb f
ries, you can always have fried fish, fried chicken, fried pork, or chicken-fried steak."
She thought he laughed softly. She shouldn't be trying to make him laugh, or getting pleasure out of it. She ought to be finding out what he wanted. She didn't have any illusions that he'd come all the way into town to treat her to lunch or argue over L.A. She couldn't believe he had connections to that damned film.
"I think I love this place already." With a sigh of happiness, Jared slid back in his seat and sprawled his long legs under the table until his foot brushed hers. "Did anyone ever tell you how cute you are when you scowl?"
She didn't know whether to laugh out loud or bean him with the fresh flower arrangement. A grin curled unwillingly at one corner of her mouth. "What's the male word for slut?"
His mouth stretched into an even wider smile. "Am not. I just like women. And food. Can't get enough of either, although if you're willing..." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
He was too outrageous to take seriously, and Cleo relaxed a fraction. Overgrown schoolboys were well within her capacity to handle. Sophisticated city men might make her wary, and Jared possessed all the outward attributes of sophistication—expensive sunglasses, blow-dried hair-styling, manicured nails, and designer shirts. But she knew a thing or two about outer appearances and inner realities.
"In your dreams, McCloud. What brings you to town? Gene plant snakes in your filing cabinet?"
The waitress arrived to take their drink order and present a wine list. Jared waved it away and ordered bottled water.
"Not on my account," Cleo objected. "Get beer, if you want. I happen to like sweet tea."
He shook his head and dismissed the waitress. "And I happen to like water. Believe it or not, I have a few friends in AA. It's not a problem, so knock the chip off."
Cleo sank back in her chair and considered sulking, but Jared's dismissive attitude made it impossible. One of the reasons she avoided social situations was the awkwardness others felt around her if they knew she couldn't drink.
Another reason was the temptation to test her willpower against a glass of chilled Chardonnay or a finger of Jack Daniels.
As if he had no sensitivity whatsoever, Jared flipped the menu to the back page and pointed out the list of nonalcoholic concoctions. "Or we could indulge in Merry Mary Margaritas or some of these Yummy Tummy Strawberry Dairy-kiris. Makes the mouth water, doesn't it?"
No, actually, it revolted her as she remembered the sickeningly sweet drinks she'd first started out on as a teenager. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she gave up any interest in sulking. "I never even liked beer. I just drank it to be sociable."
"Yeah. Friend of mine did the same. He was hospitalized for binge drinking for being sociable. Graduated to wine and became a connoisseur to impress us in college and stuck with it for a while after that, then sampled martinis to impress his colleagues over business lunches. By the time he was thirty, I never saw him without a glass in his hand like a crutch."
"Does this story have a happy ending?" she asked dryly.
He lifted a careless shoulder. "He's dry, for now. His wife agreed to give him a second chance. But he could have taken out an entire busload of innocent teenagers when he drove home drunk on the wrong side of the turnpike one night. Fortunately for everyone, he swerved at the last minute and only lost a kidney in the wreck."
"That was lucky. The drunk is usually the only one who walks away unharmed. I might start believing in the Almighty if the drunk got creamed more often." Uncomfortable again, Cleo stared at her menu. Wasn't he supposed to avoid those kinds of subjects?
"I'm not totally shallow," he said, out of the blue.
Cleo made the mistake of looking up and really seeing Jared. Eyes so dark they almost appeared black stared back at her, and for a moment, she could almost feel him reaching out to her, for the connection that shimmered in the air between them—a connection that whispered temptingly of trust and understanding and something far more elusive.
She wasn't that big a jerk. She slapped the menu closed. "That's what I'm afraid of."
Chapter 17
She was afraid he wasn't shallow? Jared tried not to feel disappointment at Cleo's reply.
It didn't take much to know when a woman simply wanted his influence, his prestige, his name on her bedpost, or just the jollies of good sex or laughter or even a shoulder to cry on, and he'd never exerted the effort to understand more—until Cleo. He'd thought with Cleo, he could really connect on a deeper level. Stupid of him.
She thought all he wanted was sex.
Until now, she'd probably been right.
Whoa, one step back, boy. Maybe he really was starting to lose it. First the TV flop, then the writer's block, and now, he was looking at an ex-con addict as a soul mate? Worse yet, a narrow-minded zealot who hated Hollywood and probably screenwriters as well. Had he turned into Tim when he wasn't looking?
The waitress arriving to take their orders relieved him of any responsibility to respond. Cleo ordered a salad with fried chicken nuggets on top for her cholesterol of the day. With his eye on the enormous dessert menu, Jared stuck to the basic food groups of fried chicken and mashed sweet potatoes.
Once the waitress took their menus away, Cleo nailed him with that steely glare of hers. "All right, McCloud, tell me what this is really about. You didn't come all the way into town to tell me you're not a jerk."
"I might have been looking for a little positive reinforcement," he said in a tone of aggrievement. "But then, I really would have to be a jerk to look for it from you."
She burst out laughing, turning all heads in the dining room to the delicious sound. Jared grinned in approval at how her whole appearance changed in a moment of unselfconscious enjoyment. The sunlight from the window caught in the red highlights of her hair, her hauntingly beautiful eyes lost their shadowed cynicism to crinkle in wide-eyed pleasure, and her mouth...
That mouth was straight out of heaven's pleasure book. He could watch the way it curved seductively or scowled ferociously or trembled uncertainly for the rest of his life, but parted in laughter, it was a joy to behold. All right, he was truly smitten. He could handle that for a few months.
"You won this round," she agreed, visibly smothering her laughter into a smile as the waitress brought her tea. "You're not shallow."
The sparkling water could have been champagne bouncing effervescent bubbles through his brain as Cleo actually relaxed in his presence. For some reason he wanted this wacky, hard-nosed female to see him as something besides a free ride. "Convince my family of that."
She lifted a lovely tanned shoulder in a shrug. "Why bother? You're the one who has to live inside your skin, not them."
"How simple you make that sound," he said dryly. "My father is an eminent authority on pre-Elizabethan literature. My mother is on the board of half a dozen well-endowed charitable trusts. My older brother has degrees in more obscure sciences than I can remember, and even my baby brother has copyrighted enough software to make Bill Gates green. I took folklore and basket-weaving in college and was too busy drawing cartoons for syndication by my senior year to remember to graduate."
Instead of shaking her head in disapproval, Cleo grinned in appreciation. "Making people laugh at their own foibles is not something everyone can do. Science degrees and software come a dime a dozen."
"Yeah, well you try being court jester in a castle of knights sometime," he grumbled testily. "And I'll really have them rolling on the floor when they learn I probably lost everything in the market today. They told me to put it into bonds."
She shook her head with no sympathy. "Easy come, easy go. Are you trying to tell me you can't pay for lunch? Want my credit card?"
Something tight in Jared's chest suddenly loosened, and he regarded her with more than his usual admiration. "Damn, you're tough. You don't flinch an inch. If I could bottle your attitude, we could make a fortune."
It was her turn to squirm. "I am not tough. You saw plenty of evidence o
f that the other day, and I'll thank you not to mention it. Now quit diverting the subject. What is it you want, McCloud?"
"I talked to my friend the psychologist. She says if Kismet tells a counselor of anything that smacks of criminal abuse, the counselor is legally liable to report it or they can get sued." There, he'd said it. He still thought reporting the abuse the best for everyone concerned.
Cleo grimaced. "Yeah, I got the same answer. If I'd had a crystal ball years ago so I could see the result of my stupidity... There isn't any way I can persuade the court to let me take them. I am officially labeled a poor risk, the next best thing to incompetent."
Jared breathed easier. He'd thought she might storm out in fury over the bad news. "All right, so you're incompetent and I'm a failure. That doesn't help the kids."
A large group of laughing, office-dressed women entered and headed for a meeting room in the rear. The noise effectively cut off her reply, and the familiar figure swerving from the group at sight of them shut Cleo's expression into its usual closed mask.
"Jared! Cleo! Just the people I need to see." As the laughing group proceeded on without her, Liz Brooks stopped by the table. "I've been trying for days to reach Kismet's mother but no one ever answers. I'm concerned. One of the teachers reported Kismet slapped another student today. The child is troubled and is desperately crying out for help."
Cleo sank deeper into her chair and didn't say a thing. Jared kicked her shoe but she only scowled at him.
"Gene told me his mother is out of town this week," he lied. "But we've talked to Linda. She says she can't afford counseling." There, that ought to start a discussion.
"The county provides services for those who can't pay," Liz said primly. "That's no excuse. We'll be fortunate if a parent doesn't call the sheriff and complain. I don't want to see the child expelled, but we are responsible for the well-being of all our students."
That was guaranteed to put Cleo in a receptive mood. Jared didn't even have to look at her to feel the steam rising. "I really don't think Kismet could hurt a fly, so you might investigate the allegation a little more thoroughly, Liz. But we're on this. We'll keep trying."
Imperfect Rebel Page 14