Chapter 16

 

Jared swung his mouse, and red fire breathed from the dragon's nostrils. Kismet's dragon, to be exact. What in hell was he doing drawing dragons?

Maybe he could use it in the Sunday strip. Could stealing from unpublished work be plagiarism? So, okay, he'd pay her.

With what, might be the next question.

Caleb had tried to talk him into selling the New York apartment instead of his stocks. It would only take a phone call, and he'd have a bank loan on it. He supposed he wouldn't need the place if he was going to L.A. Money was easy.

Failure wasn't.

We won't go there, McCloud. Easing back in his chair, Jared stared at the screen. It was a pretty darned good dragon if he did say so himself. It could work. If Cleo wanted depth, he could have the characters delve into the monsters in their souls—although the main monster in an adolescent soul was hormones. Minor matter.

He certainly couldn't put Kismet's real dragons in a comic strip.

Shit. He stared at the fire-breathing screen, then glanced at the telephone. The kid needed help. Cleo had asked him to get it for her. Cleo never asked for anything.

Not that Cleo's problems were any of his business.

His business was drawing next week's strips and producing a screen script. And salvaging his investments—what was left of them.

Saving the computer dragon with a button stroke, he reached for his planner. It wouldn't take a minute to call Holly. She could find out about privacy laws and give him some names of local counselors. Then he could write off any further responsibility to the mixed up mess of his neighbors.

He pulled a face at that thought. Maybe Cleo and the kids were mixed up, but they were real. Some days, he thought he belonged in the comic strip with his characters.

That kind of stupid psychobabble was what he got from hanging around women. He preferred action. He hit the telephone buttons.

Ten minutes later he had the information he needed and that Cleo wouldn't like. He also had the germ of a real idea for the film script, and not that mindless trash he'd been scribbling.

He glanced guiltily at the computer screen, then at the phone numbers in his hand. Cleo was at work. He couldn't just run over to the house and give these to her. He could call her, but the whole point of this exercise was to see her. Maybe Tim was right and he needed a challenge and Cleo was it. He just needed to see her, to hear her commonsensical approach, to have her put his world into perspective.

Getting her into his bed would certainly do that. Talk about your marginal chances... He'd have better luck in the stock market.

He needed a break, and there wasn't anything worth eating in the house. He could run into town, see if she wanted lunch. He didn't think even his best smile could persuade Cleo to do what needed doing with the kids, but he could try. Then he could go back to work with a clear conscience and a clearer head.

He'd call the apartment manager in New York first. They usually had a waiting list of eager buyers. And the bank, for a quick equity loan until he had it sold. He'd worry about moving all his stuff some other time.

He wouldn't even think about what he would do if the script he had in mind didn't fly. Bankruptcy didn't become him.

* * *

"No. No, I'm not talking about Matty, but a friend. Good grief, what kind of monster do you think I am?" Cleo glared at the phone, wishing she hadn't got daring and called her stupid counselor. Counselors always thought the worst of everyone, especially clients with criminal records.

She lifted her gaze and grimaced as Marta rolled her eyes in sympathy, then grinned as her clerk spun her index finger at her temple to give her opinion of all counselors everywhere. Marta understood.

"Look, all I wanted was some advice, all right? If you can't tell me what I need to know, that's fine. I have other sources. Give the feds my love when you snitch to them." Cleo very carefully, very politely, lowered the receiver to its cradle. Then she slammed her fist into the counter.

"Effing morons! Blunderheads! Bean-brained bastards of bloated banality—"

"You're beginning to sound like your sister," Marta said calmly, dusting off a line of paint cans. "Call the shitheads what they are. They don't live in our world. They've got desks and cubicles and brick walls and layers of regulations insulating them. They'd hyperventilate and asphyxiate if they ever wandered out and saw the real world."

Cleo snorted at the idea of sounding like Maya, but Marta was right about the rest. "Hyperventilate! You been taking vocabulary lessons or dating a teacher?" she asked to divert the discussion. Marta had the reassuring habit of not asking questions, but she knew her clerk was curious.

"Taking courses in first aid over at the clinic. Lots of times I saw accidents on the job I could have helped if I'd known how. Fat lot of good it does me now, but I feel better learning. You're never too old, you know." She watched Cleo with curiosity and a good dose of compassion. "Anything I can help with?"

No one in town knew Cleo's past, and she'd like to keep it that way. Marta knew she saw a counselor because someone had to cover for her when she drove into the city. Lots of people got counseling. She just didn't have to explain why.

As much as she would have liked to talk about her problems and as much as she trusted Marta, she simply couldn't risk her store and Matty's happiness by letting anyone know she was an ex-con. She'd seen firsthand how small town gossip could affect business and personal lives. All the good people would drift away, and her store would turn to dust.

"Nah, just a problem with the neighbor's kids." Cleo returned to filling out her hardware order.

Short, fiftyish, and as well-muscled as any man, Marta used her fireplug body as expressively as a ballet dancer. Cleo read curiosity and concern in the way she leaned forward across the counter, and saw understanding in her flip arm gesture.

"You know I'm here if you need me," was all her clerk said before the bell over the door rang, and she turned a smile of greeting on their next customer.

"Got any witches or skeletons in stock?" a husky male voice inquired—Jared.

Just his voice warmed places that had been shivering a second ago. Cleo resented his effect on her. She contemplated retreating to the stockroom for her inventory sheets, except she refused to let him drive her out of her own shop. "What do you want, McCloud? We're fresh out of cartoon characters today."

"McCloud?" Marta kicked in cheerfully, diluting Cleo's acidity with eagerness. "The comic artist everyone's talking about? My niece adores your stuff. I'm Marta."

Jared stuck out his hand. "Happy to meet you, Marta. Do you think you could push old Gloomy Gus over there out the door for some lunch? I had in mind feeding her in hopes of sweetening her disposition."

Marta giggled like a teenager and Cleo scowled harder. "Every Peter Pan needs a Captain Hook," Cleo reminded him.

"Well, Wendy was always a little saccharine for my tastes." He shrugged, shoved his hands into the spacious pockets of his camp shorts, and gave her an admiring once-over. "I prefer Tinkerbelle 's attitude, although I figure someone will end up swatting her one day."

Cleo bit her cheek to fight back a smile. The man simply didn't take "no" in any fashion, and his humor softened his perversity. "I'm not hungry," she lied, just to assert her independence.

"Neither am I, but we have to eat for our health. I heard there was a great place down on the bay where they serve their grease fried. Maybe you can kill me with cholesterol."

How could she refuse an offer like that? She was starving, the restaurant in question packed maximum calories into scrumptious mouthfuls, and she could make the Yankee eat the old-fashioned traditional Southern dish of lamb fries. Worked for her.

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 fries, 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."