by Pennza, Amy
The sliver of hope in her voice made him wish he could tell her he had. The best he could do was blunt the edge of his answer. “I don’t watch much television.”
She looked thoughtful. “No, you don’t seem like someone who would. Anyway, it was a modest success. But that was two years ago, and I’ve done very little since. Then my agent dropped me.” She threw up her hands, and Deuce tilted his head. “With no warning! I helped launch his career, and he just dumped me. It’s really expensive to live out there. I figured if I came home, I could save on living expenses. Give myself a little more of a cushion before I go back. The last thing I expected was to find out my mom sold the house.”
He knew exactly zero about acting, but one part of her story stuck out. “You said the show ran for six years. It’s really none of my business, but didn’t you save money while you were working?”
She gave him a tight smile. “I tried. In those early days, I had no idea how to negotiate a contract. My agent handled everything. After he took his cut, I made enough to live comfortably, but not enough to really save anything. By the time I got older and realized I should have been putting money aside, it was too little too late.” She let out a humorless laugh. “And my little nest egg has been sucked up by things like headshots and audition fees.”
“Audition fees?”
“Yep. It’s technically illegal to charge for auditions, but everyone does it. You can’t really get in front of a casting director these days unless you pay to attend one of their—” She made air quotes “—workshops.”
It sounded like a world apart from Prattsville. It also sounded like her agent had taken advantage of her. He didn’t need to be a Hollywood insider to recognize a bad deal when he heard one.
She sighed. “So, here I am. Like I told you upstairs, I used the spare key to let myself in. When I saw the empty fridge and the missing dining set, I called my mom’s cell phone. She told me about you buying this house and the one next door. Did you fix it up yourself? It’s beautiful.”
Pride flared in his chest. He’d hired craftsmen from San Antonio to patch the gingerbread and replace the cedar plank siding, but he’d done the interior work himself. Because almost all of his work had taken place indoors, few people knew how long he’d labored on the old house. It had been a lot of hard work, but he’d loved every minute of it. “Yes. The inside, anyway.”
“You’ve done a great job restoring it. Are you planning on doing this one, too?”
Actually, he’d been itching to get started. With his job, he could really only tackle renovations on the weekend. He inclined his head. “Eventually.”
“To sell it?”
“I don’t know. Probably.” Where was she going with this?
Her face lit up, and a deep dimple appeared in her cheek as she smiled. “Then you’ll need to stage it.”
He tried and failed to look away from her mouth. How had he missed that dimple before? It gave her a mischievous look, like she was up to no good, but he might end up enjoying it. He realized he was staring and forced his gaze to hers. “What…uh, what do you mean?”
“Staging. Houses sell better if buyers can imagine themselves living there.” She pushed away from the counter. “That’s where I can help.”
Alarms sounded in his head. “I don’t see how—”
“One of the ways I’ve supported myself over the past couple of years is by refinishing old furniture.” She pointed to the ceiling. “The attic is filled with quality pieces. If you let me stay, I can refinish whatever you need. I’ve gotten really good at it. Most of the stuff I repurpose sells for a few hundred dollars, sometimes up to a thousand. I can pay rent, too, of course.”
In a blink, he realized the mischief in her gaze was real. She’d set a trap, and he’d just stumbled into it. He folded his arms. “Miss Scobel, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Call me Ashley.” She stepped toward him, her small form vibrating with what could have been excitement or nervous energy. Deuce stood and shook himself, his collar tinkling like a bell.
Smith drew in a long breath. He had to stop this conversation before it got out of control. “Listen, Miss—”
“Ashley. Please, Officer Salvatierra, just hear me out.” She moved forward until she was directly under the light. On anyone else, the fluorescent glow would have highlighted flaws and amplified imperfections. On her, it turned the lighter streaks in her hair a shimmering gold and put a twinkle in her deep-blue eyes.
“Chief,” he said softly, unable to stop himself from drowning in her gaze. It was as if time had slowed. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded far away.
A little frown appeared between her eyes. “What?” Her voice was soft, too.
“It’s Chief Salvatierra. I’m the police chief.” As soon as he said it, he wanted to snatch the words out of the air. Now she’d think he was a typical small-town cop puffed up on his own importance. He waited for her frown to deepen, or for a look of disgust to cross her face.
But she smiled, and that dimple flashed again. “Then you’re probably too busy to bother with all the old furniture in this house.” He started to interrupt, but she put a hand on his arm. “I only need to stay for a month or so. I can work fast.”
The warmth of her skin penetrated the thick cloth of his work shirt. Lust stirred like a waiting dragon.
Danger.
He clicked his fingers, and Deuce trotted over. Smith leaned down and patted him, dislodging her hand from his sleeve. When he looked up, she’d retreated to the counter and out of the light. All the light in her eyes had gone, too. She gave a little shrug. “It was probably a silly plan.”
Dammit, he hadn’t meant to stomp out her fire—just his own. He straightened. “How would you make money? You said you needed to save.”
Her eyebrows rose, as if she hadn’t expected that response. “Uh…well, I was hoping you’d be okay with me selling a few pieces for profit. Grandma Winnie was a bit of a hoarder. It drove my mother crazy.” She laughed—a low, husky sound that shot a bolt of desire straight to his cock.
He ignored it.
She gestured around the kitchen. “I would save the best pieces for the house, of course. But if I could sell the smaller ones, I could save enough to go back to L.A.”
“And you think a month will be enough time?” He knew how long it took to sand down and stain woodwork. Projects like that never seemed to go according to plan.
“Like I said, I work fast.” She smiled. “And it’s not like I have anything else to do right now.”
Deuce leaned against his leg, his head tilted up toward Smith. The amber eyes seemed imploring, like he wanted Smith to say yes. By the sink, Ashley watched him, a hesitant smile on her face.
Outnumbered. Damn.
There were a dozen reasons why this was a bad idea. He couldn’t tell her the most pressing ones without sharing things he’d rather not discuss. Fortunately, the house itself was a compelling enough reason. “This place is in no shape for a tenant.”
Her dimple deepened. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I grew up here, and I promise I’m no stranger to leaky pipes and drafty bedrooms. One Christmas, the temperature dropped below freezing. Cheryl and I built a fire in the middle of the front parlor.”
She called her mother by her first name? His interactions with Cheryl Thompson had been limited to signing the sale and transfer papers for the house. She’d seemed nice enough, if somewhat distant. He probably should have figured out the family connection when he’d seen Thompson on the Buick’s car registration, but the home’s previous owner bore little resemblance to her daughter.
No, the charming blonde creature watching him with hope-filled eyes was unlike anyone he’d ever seen. It was easy to understand how she’d become an actress. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was a walking distraction.
And that was exactly why he should say no.
Deuce whimpered and pressed against his leg. Smith gave him another pat and walked to the
door.
“Wait,” Ashley said. She moved back under the kitchen light. “Does that mean I can stay? Do we have a deal?”
He hesitated on the threshold. “I… Let me think about it.”
An argument leaped into her eyes. He could almost see her wrestle it back down. Some part of him wanted her to fight—to unleash the energy and passion that seemed to course under her skin. But she just nodded and said, “Okay.”
He was not disappointed. He wasn’t. “You’ll be okay here for tonight?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Well, good night.”
“Good night.”
He turned and pushed the kitchen door open. Deuce bumped past him and trotted outside.
“Smith?”
He pivoted, one hand holding the door. “Yes?”
Her gaze was steady. Resolute. The bulbs overhead turned her hair to sunlight. “You won’t regret letting me stay.”
A heartbeat passed. Two. Then he nodded and stepped through the door. The old metal frame creaked as it shut behind him. Deuce bounded toward home, his paws kicking up grass. As Smith crossed the lawn, Ashley’s words repeated in his mind. You won’t regret letting me stay.
He wasn’t so much worried about that. He was familiar with regret—knew it intimately. So the question wasn’t whether he would regret it.
The question was, would she?
6
Ashley waited until the sound of Smith’s footfalls faded, then faced the counter under the sink and rested her weight on her forearms. Talk about an intense conversation! She let her head drop, relishing the stretch in her spine. The grandfather clock hadn’t yet struck ten, which meant they’d talked for less than an hour. Her flight from L.A. felt like it had happened a hundred years ago.
She lifted her head and looked out the kitchen window. Across the lawn, Smith reached his house and stopped in front of a side door. The handcuffs at his back flashed in the moonlight as he opened the door and let Deuce precede him. She waited for him to look over his shoulder—or give any sign that he was thinking about her request. But he followed Deuce without a backward glance.
When he’d said he needed more time to think about letting her stay, a dozen questions had sprung into her head. How much time did he need? Was he leaning toward yes? Was there anything she could do to make up his mind?
Her cheeks heated. Thank goodness she hadn’t asked the last one. He might have taken it the wrong way. Rowen had always complained about her unwillingness to flirt during auditions. “Honestly, Ashley, you’re such a prude. This business is built on looks. If you’re too proud to use yours, I can’t help you.”
On the few occasions she’d pushed back, claiming the industry was built on talent, he’d rolled his eyes and mumbled something about “difficult actresses.” Despite Rowen’s attitude, she’d never tried to use her physical attributes to further her career. Although, look where that had gotten her. If she’d sacrificed her morals, maybe she wouldn’t be standing in the middle of a crumbling Victorian in Prattsville.
Not that it would have gotten her anywhere with Prattsville’s chief of police. Smith hadn’t so much as cracked a smile as they’d talked. He’d been the picture of a calm and collected law enforcement professional. The word “unflappable” had never had a more appropriate example.
That is, until she’d grabbed his arm. Then he’d recoiled as if she’d burned him.
Had he thought she was flirting? She groaned and lowered her head all the way to the counter. The ancient Formica was cool on her forehead.
Her whole working life, she’d been taught not to stifle her feelings. Emotions were an actor’s bread and butter. Over the years, she’d developed something of a sixth sense for discerning emotions in others. Most people telegraphed their thoughts before they spoke. Facial expressions, little tics…even the subtle angle of someone’s head could say a lot about the direction of their thinking. When she’d faced off with Smith just now, she’d sensed he was looking for a reason—any reason—to say no.
And some instinct told her he was a man who always stuck to his word.
She’d grabbed him without thinking. Clearly, he hadn’t liked it. Oh, he’d been gentleman enough to disguise his distaste by summoning Deuce to his side, but his message had been clear.
I don’t want you here.
She lifted her head from the counter and gazed at the house across the lawn. A light from the second floor glowed in the darkness. His bedroom?
She gnawed her lower lip. Stay away from thoughts like that. The man didn’t want a tenant, let alone a romance. Not that she was any kind of expert on the latter. Her dating history could fit on a Post-it note.
As for the tenant part, she had to make it work. He’d sounded skeptical when he asked if a month was enough time to complete the refinishing work she needed to rebuild her savings.
And wasn’t skepticism just another word for doubt?
She knew doubt. The past two years had made her doubt just about everything—her talent, her appearance, her intelligence. Working on furniture had given her something to do when she’d felt helpless. Discovering that people liked her work—and were willing to pay a premium for it—had restored her self-confidence.
Deep in the house, the grandfather clock began to toll the hour. She walked slowly into the darkened dining room. Moonlight streamed through the windows and threw a silver sheen over the hardwood floors. Standing in the middle of the rambling house, she felt a connection to her surroundings. A profound calm settled over her. On its heels came determination.
She put her hands on her hips and looked up at the ceiling. In her mind’s eye, she saw the crowded attic overflowing with aging and damaged furniture. If her reluctant landlord doubted she was capable of turning a profit, she’d just have to show him.
She narrowed her gaze. “Smith Salvatierra, you don’t even know what just hit you.”
* * *
Smith sank down on his bed and rested his elbows on his forearms, his conversation with Ashley still buzzing in his brain. A second later, the door flew open and banged against the wall as Deuce burst in. Smith shook his head. Note to self: Buy some doorstops. A smile tugged at his mouth as the big dog went straight to his bed in front of the fireplace and plopped in it. The quilted monstrosity had cost a fortune, but it was worth it. Smith usually worked ten-hour days, and Deuce was forever by his side. Prattsville might be a boring town as far as crime went, but they were both bone-tired by the end of a shift.
Although, tonight had been anything but boring.
Courtesy of one Ashley Ann Scobel.
He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder, where two large windows faced the house next door. What was she doing right now? Probably getting ready for bed. He should have checked the taps, made sure the pipes were okay. The temperature rarely dipped below freezing in Texas, even in January, but they’d had a few chilly nights lately. Speaking of temperature, he’d have to take a look at the furnace in the old house, too…
A frustrated sigh tore from his chest. This was exactly why he should have told her no the minute she suggested staying in the house. Now he was caught up in another person’s life—hell, he was partly responsible for her well-being.
Put her out of your mind. That’s what he needed to do. As soon as the thought formed, her image rose in his brain. She’d looked like a determined angel standing in that kitchen, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders.
Of course, angels weren’t supposed to have bodies made for sin.
Blood pounded in his cock, and he huffed out a breath that was equal parts frustration and exhaustion. The lazy dragon of lust he’d felt in the kitchen stirred again and slit open one eye. He could almost hear it say, “That one isn’t for the likes of you, Salvatierra.”
She wasn’t. She really wasn’t. Everything about her screamed bad idea.
But then the dragon chuckled and said, “Just the way you like it.”
Smith stood. “Shit.”
> Deuce lifted his head, but Smith waved him down on his way to the door. “Stay here, boy. I’ll be right back.” Deuce seemed to hesitate, then let his head drop back to his paws. He knew Smith’s routine, and he’d apparently decided this deviation wasn’t worth investigating.
Smith left the bedroom and walked the short hallway to his office, where his laptop monitor glowed a soft blue in the darkness. Forgoing the light switch, he dropped into the chair in front of his desk and opened the laptop screen. He logged in and pulled up a web browser, then hesitated with his fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Get up, go next door, and tell her she has to leave in the morning. That’s what he should do.
Even as he started typing, he knew he wouldn’t. He hit “enter” and then clicked on “images.” Dozens of thumbnails of Ashley filled his screen, including several of her in a black judge’s robe with a bright-green logo on the breast pocket. He clicked on one and read the description underneath it aloud. “Ashley Ann Scobel in her third season as Bewitching University’s Bella Abernathy.”
Not a judge’s robe…a witch costume. That explained her tattoo. So she really was an actress, and a successful one, as far as he could see.
Other photos showed her in formal gowns with her hair up. In a few, she was arm in arm with a tall, willowy brunette. Although the taller woman was stunning, and Smith supposed she checked all the boxes for what Hollywood considered an optimal combination of looks and body type, Ashley was actually the more striking of the two. Her deep-blue gaze seemed to pull him toward the screen. Even through time and pixels, something about her tugged at him from the other side of the monitor.
As he clicked through image after image, he noticed the most recent photos dated from over two years ago. It supported her claim that her career had nosedived after her show was canceled.
He closed the window and sat back in his chair. What a nerve-racking industry to be in—where success wasn’t any guarantee of continued success. She’d gone from red carpets and photo ops to a broken down house on the edge of town. Prattsville didn’t even have a movie theater.