Blue concentrated on counting her breaths, hoping that would calm her, but her panic kept trying to resurface. She gave Pretty Boy a surreptitious glance. Did he honestly expect her to believe he was gay? True, there were the gay boots and those stunning good looks. But, even so, he blasted enough heterosexual mega-wattage to light up the entire female population. Which he’d undoubtedly been doing since he shot out of the birth canal, glimpsed his reflection in the obstetrician’s eyeglasses, and gave the world a high five.
Here she’d thought Monty’s betrayal was the final disaster in the rapidly unfolding catastrophe that had become her life, but now she was at the mercy of Dean Robillard. She’d never have gotten in the pro football player’s car if she hadn’t recognized him. His nearly naked, and incredibly buff, body used to be plastered on billboards everywhere advertising End Zone, a line of men’s underwear with the memorable slogan “Get your butt in the Zone.” More recently, she’d seen his photo in People’s “50 Most Beautiful” edition. He’d been walking barefoot on a beach and wearing a tux with the cuffs rolled up. Although she didn’t remember which team he played for, she did know he was the kind of man she avoided at all costs, not that men like him made a habit of popping up in her life. But now he was all that stood between her, a homeless shelter, and a sign that read WILL PAINT FOR FOOD.
Three days ago, she’d discovered that both her savings account, with its eight-thousand-dollar nest egg, and her checking account had been emptied out. Now Monty had stolen her two hundred dollars of security money. All she had left in the world was in her wallet—eighteen dollars. She didn’t even have a credit card—a huge miscalculation on her part. She’d spent her adult life making sure she would never be helpless, yet here she was. “What were you doing heading for Rawlins Creek?” She tried to sound as if she were making conversation instead of accumulating information that might help her feel her way with him.
“Following a sign to the Taco Bell,” he said, “but I’m afraid meeting your lover made me lose my appetite.”
“Ex-lover. Way ex.”
“Here’s what I don’t get. The minute I saw the guy, I knew he was a loser. Didn’t any of your Seattle friends bother to point that out?”
“I move around a lot.”
“Hell, you could have gone up to a stranger at a gas pump.”
“Hindsight.”
He gazed over at her. “You’re going to start crying any minute now, aren’t you?”
It took her a moment to figure out what he meant. “I’m being brave,” she said with only a hint of sarcasm.
“You don’t have to pretend with me. Go ahead and let it out. Fastest way to heal a broken heart.”
Monty hadn’t broken her heart. He’d made her furious. Still, he wasn’t the one who’d emptied out her bank accounts, and she knew she’d overreacted when she’d attacked him. She and Monty had barely been lovers for two weeks before she’d known she’d rather have him as a friend and she’d permanently kicked him out of her bed. They had common interests, and despite his self-centeredness, she’d generally enjoyed his company. They’d hung out together, gone to movies and galleries, supported each other’s work. She’d known he could be overly dramatic, but his frantic phone calls from Denver had alarmed her.
“I wasn’t ever in love with him,” she said. “I don’t do love. But we watched out for each other, and he sounded more upset every time he called. I started worrying that he’d really kill himself. Friends are important to me. I couldn’t turn my back on him.”
“Friends are important to me, too, but if one of mine was in trouble, I’d hop on a plane instead of packing up and moving.”
She jerked a rubber band from her pocket and snared her hair back into its disheveled ponytail. “I was planning to leave Seattle anyway. Just not for Rawlins Creek.”
They passed a sign advertising sheep for sale. She mentally sorted through her closest friends, trying to find someone she could hit up for a loan, but they all had two things in common. Warm hearts and abject poverty. Brinia’s newborn had scary medical problems, Mr. Grey could barely scrape by on his Social Security, Mai hadn’t recovered from the fire that had wiped out her studio, and Tonya was backpacking in Nepal. Which left her dependent on a stranger. It was her childhood all over again, and she hated the too-familiar fear she felt building inside her.
“So, Beav, tell me about yourself.”
“I’m Blue.”
“Sweetheart, if I had your dubious taste in men, I wouldn’t be too happy, either.”
“My name is Blue. Blue Bailey.”
“Sounds phony.”
“My mother was a little depressed the day she filled out my birth certificate. I was supposed to be Harmony, but a riot had broken out in South Africa, and Angola was a mess…” She shrugged. “Not a good day to be a Harmony.”
“Your mother must have quite a social conscience.”
Blue gave a rueful laugh. “You might say.” Her mother’s social conscience had led to Blue’s currently empty bank account.
He tilted his head toward the rear of the car. She noticed a tiny hole in his earlobe. “Those art supplies I put in the trunk…,” he said. “A hobby or an occupation?”
“Occupation. I do portraits of children and pets. Also some murals.”
“Isn’t it a little tough to build up a clientele moving around like you do?”
“Not really. I locate an upscale neighborhood and stuff the mailboxes with flyers that show samples of my work. It generally does the trick, although not in a town like Rawlins Creek where there isn’t an upscale neighborhood.”
“Which explains the beaver suit. How old are you, anyway?”
“Thirty. And, no, I’m not lying. I can’t help the way I look.”
“Safe Net.”
Blue jumped as a disembodied female voice invaded the interior of the car.
“Checking in to see if we can be of assistance,” the voice purred.
Dean passed a slow-moving tractor. “Elaine?”
“It’s Claire. Elaine’s off today.”
The voice was coming from the car’s speakers.
“Hey, Claire. I haven’t talked to you in a while.”
“I had to go visit my mom. So how’s the road treating you?”
“No complaints.”
“On your way to Chicago, why don’t you stop off in St. Louis? I have a couple of steaks in my freezer with your name on them.”
Dean adjusted the sun visor. “You’re too good to me, sweetheart.”
“Nothing’s too good for my favorite Safe Net customer.”
When he finally disconnected, Blue rolled her eyes. “You’ve got them lined up and taking numbers, don’t you? What a waste.”
He refused to play her game. “Don’t you ever get the urge to settle down in one place? Or does the witness protection program keep you on the move?”
“Too much world to see for me to settle down. Maybe I’ll start thinking about it when I’m forty. Your lady friend mentioned Chicago. I thought you were going to Tennessee.”
“I am. But Chicago’s home.”
Now she remembered. He played for the Chicago Stars. She gazed longingly at the sports car’s impressive instrument panel and gearshift paddles. “I’ll be happy to take over the driving.”
“It’d be too confusing for you to drive a car that doesn’t give off smoke.” He turned up the satellite radio, a combination of oldies rock and newer tunes.
For the next twenty miles, she listened to music and tried to appreciate the scenery, but she was too worried. She needed a distraction, and she considered ruffling his feathers by asking him what he found most attractive in a man, but it was to her advantage to maintain the fiction that he was gay, and she didn’t want to push him too far. Still, she couldn’t resist inquiring if he wouldn’t rather find a station that played Streisand.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” he replied with starchy dignity, “but those of us in the gay community get a little tired of the old stereotypes.”
She did her best to sound contrite. “I apologize.”
“Apology accepted.”
U2 came on the radio, then Nirvana. Blue forced herself to do a little head banging to keep him from suspecting how desperate she felt. He accompanied Nickelback with a mellow and fairly impressive baritone, then joined Coldplay in “Speed of Sound.” But when Jack Patriot launched into “Why Not Smile?” Dean switched the station.
“Put that back,” she said. “‘Why Not Smile?’ got me through my senior year of high school. I love Jack Patriot.”
“I don’t.”
“That’s like not liking…God.”
“Each to his own.” The easy charm had vanished. He looked aloof and formidable, no longer the happy-go-lucky pro football star pretending to be a gay model with dreams of movie stardom. She suspected she’d gotten her first glimpse of the real man behind the glittering facade, and she didn’t like it. She preferred thinking of him as dumb and vain, but only the last one was true.
“I’m getting hungry.” He turned a mental switch that let him revert to the person he wanted her to see. “I hope you don’t mind going through a drive-in window. Otherwise, I have to find somebody to watch my car.”
“You have to find people to watch your car?”
“The ignition key’s computer coded, so nobody can steal it, but it attracts a fair amount of attention, which makes it a big vandalism target.”
“Don’t you think life’s complicated enough without having to hire a babysitter for your car?”
“Living an elegant lifestyle’s hard work.” He hit a button on the dash and got directions to a picnic spot from someone named Missy.
“What did she call you?” Blue asked after the conversation ended.
“Boo. Short for Malibu. I grew up in Southern California and spent a lot of time at the beach. Some friends picked up on it.”
“Boo” was one of those football nicknames. That explained why People magazine had photographed him walking on the beach. She poked her thumb toward the car’s speaker. “All those smitten women…Don’t you ever feel guilty about leading them on?”
“I try to make up for it by being a good friend.”
He wasn’t giving away a thing. She turned her head and pretended to study the view. He hadn’t said anything yet about kicking her out of the car, but he would. Unless she made it worth his while to keep her around.
He paid for the fast food with a pair of twenty-dollar bills and told the kid at the window to keep the change. She could barely restrain herself from leaping across the car and snatching the money back. Having worked in the food service industry more than a few times herself, she believed in tipping well, but not that well.
They found the roadside picnic area a couple of miles down the highway, a few tables set under some cottonwood trees. The air had grown cooler, and she dug into her duffel for a sweatshirt while Dean took care of the food. She hadn’t eaten since last night, and the smell of the french fries made her mouth water.
“Chow’s on,” he said as she approached.
She’d ordered the cheapest items she could find, and she set two dollars and thirty-five cents’ worth of change in front of him. “This should cover my share.”
He gazed with open distaste at the pile of coins. “My treat.”
“I always pay my own way,” she said stubbornly.
“Not this time.” He slid the pile back at her. “You can do a sketch for me instead.”
“My sketches are worth a lot more than two dollars and thirty-five cents.”
“Don’t forget the gas.”
Maybe she could make this work after all. As the cars flew by on the highway, she savored every greasy fry and bite of hamburger. He set aside his half-eaten burger and retrieved a BlackBerry. He frowned at the small screen as he checked his e-mail.
“Old boyfriend bothering you?” she asked.
For a moment he looked blank, then he shook his head. “My new housekeeper at the Tennessee place. She sends regular e-mails with detailed updates, but no matter what time I call, all I get is voice mail. It’s been two months, and I still haven’t talked to her in person. Something’s not right.”
Blue couldn’t imagine owning a house, let alone having a housekeeper.
“My real estate agent swears Mrs. O’Hara’s great, but I’m getting tired of doing everything electronically. Just once, I wish the woman would pick up the damn phone.” He began scrolling through his messages.
Blue needed to find out more about him. “If you’re from Chicago, how did you end up buying a house in Tennessee?”
“I was down there with some friends last summer. I’d been looking for a place on the West Coast, but I saw the farm and bought it instead.” He set the BlackBerry on the table. “The place sits in the middle of the most beautiful valley you’ve ever seen. It has a pond. Lots of privacy. Room for horses, which is something I’ve always wanted. The house needed a lot of work, so my real estate agent found a contractor and hired this Mrs. O’Hara to oversee everything.”
“If I had a house, I’d want to fix it up myself.”
“I send her digital pictures, paint samples. She’s got great taste and came up with her own ideas. It works out.”
“Still…That’s not the same as being there.”
“Exactly why I’ve decided to surprise her with a visit.” He opened another e-mail, frowned, and whipped out his cell. A few moments later, he had his quarry on the line. “Heathcliff, I got your e-mail, and I’m not crazy about this cologne endorsement. After End Zone, I was hoping to get away from that kind of thing.” He rose from the bench and walked a few steps away from the table. “I was thinking maybe a sports drink or—” He broke off. Seconds later, his mouth curled in a slow smile. “That much? Damn. My pretty face is as good as an open cash register.”
Whatever the other person said in response made Dean laugh, a big, thoroughly masculine sound. He propped his boot on a tree stump. “Got to go. My hairdresser hates it when I’m late, and we’re doin’ highlights. Give the rug rats my best. And tell your wife she’s invited to a sleepover at my place as soon as I get back to town. Just Annabelle and me.” With a crafty laugh, he flipped his phone shut and shoved it back in his pocket. “My agent.”
“I wish I had an agent,” Blue said. “Just so I could drop the word into a conversation. But I guess I’m not an agent sort of person.”
“I’m sure you have other good qualities.”
“Tons,” she said glumly.
Dean headed for the interstate as soon as they got back on the road. Blue realized she was chewing on her thumbnail and quickly folded her hands in her lap. He drove fast, but he kept a steady hand on the wheel, exactly the way she liked to drive. “So where do you want me to drop you off?” he asked.
The question she’d been dreading. She pretended to think it over. “Unfortunately, there aren’t any really big cities between Denver and Kansas City. I guess Kansas City would be fine.”
He shot her a who-do-you-think-you’re-kidding look. “I was thinking more along the lines of the next decent-size truck stop.”
She swallowed hard. “Except you’re obviously a people person, and you’ll be bored without company. I’ll keep you entertained.”
His eyes flicked to her breasts. “Exactly how do you intend to do that?”
“Car games,” she said quickly. “I know dozens.” He snorted, and she hurried on. “I’m also an excellent conversationalist, and I can run interference with your fans. I’ll keep all those yucky women from throwing themselves at you.”
His blue-gray eyes flickered, but whether from irritation or amusement, she didn’t know. “I’ll think about it,” he said.
Somewhat to Dean’s surprise, the Beav was still in his car that night as he exited the interstate somewhere in west Kansas and drove toward a sign for the Merry Time Inn. She stirred as he pulled into the parking lot. While she’d slept, he’d had more than ample time to study the rise and fall of her breasts underneath her muscle shirt. Most of the women he spent time with had pumped themselves up to four times their normal size, but not the Beav. He knew some guys liked overinflated breasts—hell, he used to like them—but Annabelle Granger Champion had long ago spoiled his fun.
“Every time a man like you ogles a woman with artificial E cups, you encourage some innocent girl with perfectly nice breasts to go under the knife. Women should concentrate on expanding their horizons, not their busts.”
She’d made him feel personally responsible for the evils of breast enlargement, but Annabelle was like that. She had a lot of strong opinions, and she didn’t pull her punches. Annabelle was his one true female friend, but between her marriage to Heath Champion, his bloodsucker of an agent, and the birth of her second child, she didn’t have much time to hang out anymore.
He’d been thinking about Annabelle a lot today, maybe because the Beav had strong opinions, too, and she also didn’t seem interested in impressing him. It was odd being with a woman who wasn’t coming on to him. Of course, he had told her he was gay, but she’d figured out that was bullshit at least a hundred miles ago. Still, she’d kept trying to play him. But Little Bo Peep was way out of her league.
Her mouth froze in midyawn as she spotted the well-lit three-story hotel. As many times as she’d aggravated him today, he still wasn’t quite ready to hand her a couple hundred bucks and throw her out. For one thing, he wanted her to ask him for the money. For another, she’d been good company today. And then there was the hard-on that had been plaguing him for the past two hundred miles.
He turned in to the parking lot. “These places will take most any credit card.” He should have felt like a bully, but she was so full of tough talk and swagger that he didn’t.
Her lips compressed. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a credit card.”
No big surprise there.
“I abused the privilege a few years ago,” she went on, “and haven’t trusted myself since.” She studied the Merry Time Inn sign. “What are you going to do about your car?”
“Tip the security guy to watch it.”
“How much?”
“Why do you care?”
“I’m an artist. I’m interested in human behavior.”
He pulled into a parking space. “Fifty dollars now, I guess. Another fifty in the morning.”
“Excellent.” She held out her hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“You’re not watching my car tonight.”
The muscles in her throat worked as she swallowed. “Sure I am. Don’t worry. I’m a light sleeper. I’ll wake up the minute anybody gets too close.”
“You’re not sleeping in it, either.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those sexist jerks who thinks a woman can’t do a job as well as a man.”
“What I think is that you can’t afford a room.” He got out of the car. “I’ll sport you.”
She shot her sharp little nose up in the air and followed him. “I don’t need anybody ‘sporting’ me.”
“Really?”
“What I need is for you to let me guard your car.”
“Not going to happen.”
He could see her trying to find a way around him, and he wasn’t completely surprised when she began reeling off the price list for her portraits. “Even taking out the cost of a hotel room and a few meals,” she said when she finished, “you’ll have to agree that you’re getting the best end of the deal. I’ll start sketching you tomorrow over breakfast.”
The last thing he needed was another portrait of himself. What he really needed was…“You can start tonight.” He opened the trunk.
“Tonight? It’s…awfully late.”
“Barely nine o’clock.” This team could only have one quarterback, and he was it.
She muttered to herself and started rooting around in the trunk. He pulled out his suitcase and her navy duffel. She reached past him to snatch up one of the toolboxes that contained her art supplies and, still muttering, followed him to the entrance. He negotiated with the inn’s sole bellman to watch his car and headed for the reception desk. The Beav stayed at his side. Judging by the live music coming from the bar and the locals spilling out into the lobby, the Merry Time was the small town’s Saturday night hot spot. He noted the heads turning in his direction. Sometimes he could go for a couple of days without being recognized, but not tonight. A few people in the crowd openly stared. Those damn End Zone commercials. He set down the suitcases at the front desk.
The clerk, a studious-looking Middle Eastern guy in his twenties, greeted him politely, but without recognition. The Beav jabbed him in the ribs and cocked her head toward the bar. “Your fans,” she said, as if he hadn’t already noticed the two guys who’d detached themselves from the crowd and were heading his way. Both were middle-aged and overweight. One wore a Hawaiian shirt that bunched over his belly. The other had a handlebar mustache and cowboy boots.
“Time for me to start work,” the Beav said loftily. “I’ll take care of this.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll—”
“Hey, there,” Hawaiian shirt said. “Hope you don’t mind the interruption, but me and my buddy Bowman have a bet you’re Dean Robillard.” He stuck out his hand.
Before Dean could respond, the Beav blocked the man’s arm with her small body, and the next thing he knew, she was addressing him in a foreign accent that sounded like a cross between Serbo-Croatian and Yiddish. “Acht, this Dean Roam-a-lot, he is very famous man in America, yes? My poor husband”—she curled her fingers around Dean’s arm—“his Eeenglish is veddy, veddy bad, and he does not understand this. But my Eeenglish is veddy, veddy good, yes? And everywhere we go, these pipples—pipples like you—they come up to him and say they think he is this man, this Dean Roam-a-lot. But I say, no, my husband is not famous in America, but veddy famous in our country. He is a veddy famous—how you say?—por-nog-ra-pher.”
He just about choked on his spit.
She furrowed her brow. “Yes? Did I say this with rightness? He makes the dirty moo-vees.”
Dean was changing identities so fast even he was losing track. Still, the Beav deserved his support for all her hard work—however misguided—so he pulled in his grin and tried to look like he didn’t speak English.
She’d thrown the ol’ boys for a loss, and they didn’t know how to handle it. “We’re, uh…Well…Sorry, there. We thought…”
“Is all right,” she said firmly. “Happens all the time.”
Stumbling over their feet, they made their getaway.
The Beav regarded him smugly. “I’m awfully young to be so gifted. Now aren’t you glad I decided to tag along today?”
He gave her high marks for creativity, but since he was in the process of passing over his Visa card to the clerk, her efforts to keep his identity secret were pretty much wasted. “I’ll take your best suite,” he said. “And a small room by the elevator for my insane companion. If that’s a problem, put her next to any old ice machine.”
The Merry Time Inn had done a great job training its people, and the desk clerk barely blinked. “Unfortunately, we’re very full tonight, sir, and our suite is already occupied.”
“No suite?” the Beav drawled. “Will the horror never end?”
The clerk studied his computer screen unhappily. “I’m afraid we only have two rooms left. One, I believe you’ll find quite satisfactory, but the other is slated for renovation.”
“Aw, hell, the little woman won’t mind staying there. I’m sure you got all the bloodstains out of the carpet. Plus, porn stars can sleep just about anywhere. And I do mean anywhere.”
He was having one heck of a good time, but the clerk was too well trained to smile. “We will, of course, give you a reduced rate.”
Blue leaned on the counter. “Charge him double. Otherwise, he’ll be offended.”
Once he’d countered that piece of nonsense, they headed for the elevator. As the doors closed, the Beav gazed up at him, her grape lollipop eyes round with innocence. “Those guys who came up to you knew your real name. I had no idea there were so many gay men in the world.”
He punched the elevator button. “The honest truth is, I play a little professional football under my real name. Only part-time, though, until my movie career takes off.”
The Beav faked looking impressed. “Wow. I didn’t realize you could play football part-time.”
“No offense, but you don’t seem to know much about sports.”
“Still…A gay man playing football. Hard to imagine.”
“Oh, there’re a whole bunch of us. Probably a good one-third of the NFL.” He waited to see if she’d finally call him on his bullshit, but she wasn’t in a hurry to end the game.
“And people think jocks aren’t sensitive,” she said.
“Just goes to show.”
“I noticed your ears are pierced.”
“I was young.”
“And you wanted to flash your cash, right?”
“Two carats in each ear.”
“Tell me you don’t still wear them.”
“Only if I’m having a fat day.” The elevator doors slid open. They headed down the hallway to their rooms. The Beav had a long stride for someone so petite. He wasn’t used to pugnacious women, but then she was barely female, despite those curvy little breasts and his stubborn hard-on.
The rooms were adjoining. He opened the first door. Clean, but a little smoky, definitely inferior.
She brushed past him. “Ordinarily, I’d suggest we toss a coin, but since you’re paying the bill, that doesn’t seem fair.”
“Well, if you insist.”
She took her duffel and once again tried to hold him off. “I do my best work in natural light. We’ll wait till tomorrow.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were afraid to be alone with me.”
“Okay, you’ve got me. What if I inadvertently step between you and a mirror? You might turn violent.”
He grinned. “See you in half an hour.”
When he got to his room, he flipped on the last half of the Bulls game, pulled off his boots, and unpacked his things. He already had more drawings, paintings, and photos of himself than he knew what to do with, but that wasn’t the point. He grabbed a beer from the minibar, along with a can of peanuts. Annabelle had once suggested he send some of the glamour shots people had done of him over the years to his mother, but he’d told her to mind her own damned business. He didn’t let anybody poke around in that twisted relationship.
He stretched out on the bed in his jeans and the white-on-white button-down Marc Jacobs shirt the designer’s PR people had sent him a couple of weeks ago. The Bulls called a time-out. Another night, another hotel room. He owned two condos in Chicago, one not far from the lake and another in the western ’burbs close to Stars headquarters in case he didn’t feel like fighting the traffic back into the city. But since he’d grown up in boarding school dorm rooms, no place really felt like home. Thanks, Mom.
The Tennessee farm had history and roots that grew deep, everything he lacked. Still, he wasn’t usually so impulsive, and he was having second thoughts about buying a place without an ocean nearby. A house with a hundred acres of land around it signaled a permanence he’d never experienced and might not be ready for. Still, it was only a vacation home. If he didn’t like it, he could always sell it.
He heard water running next door. A promotion came on for an upcoming story about the drowning death of country western singer Marli Moffatt. They flashed twelve-year-old news footage of Marli and Jack Patriot coming out of a Reno wedding chapel. He hit the mute button.
He was looking forward to getting the Beav naked tonight. The fact that he’d never had anybody like her made the prospect all the more interesting. He tipped a handful of peanuts into his mouth and reminded himself he’d stopped doing one-night stands years ago. The idea that he might be turning into his mother—a woman who’d been so busy snorting coke and giving head that she’d forgotten she had a son—had gotten too depressing, so he limited himself to short-term girlfriends, relationships lasting anywhere from a few weeks to a couple of months. Yet here he was about to violate a decade-long policy against casual hookups and not feeling one bit bad about it. The Beav was hardly a giggling football groupie. Even though they’d only been together for a day—and despite all the ways she raised his hackles—they had a real relationship, one forged by interesting conversation, shared meals, and similar taste in music. Most important, the Beav had proved herself a match for his BS.
The final quarter of the Bulls game had just begun when a knock sounded on the adjoining door. He needed to start the night out right by letting her know who was in the driver’s seat. “I’m naked,” he called out.
“That’s great. I haven’t done an adult nude in ages. I need the practice.”
She wasn’t biting. He smiled to himself and palmed the remote. “Don’t take this personally, but the idea of being naked in front of a woman is just plain repulsive.”
“I’m a professional. Just like a doctor. You can drape your privates if you’re uncomfortable.”
He grinned. His privates?
“Better yet, we’ll wait until tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to adjust to the idea.”
Game over. He took a swig of beer. “That’s okay. I’ll pull on some clothes.” He unfastened the top buttons of his shirt and watched the Bulls’ new guard miss a foul shot before he switched off the TV and crossed the room to open the door.