A Bad Boy is Good to Find (10 page)

“Is Conroy joining us today?”

“No, unfortunately he had to drive his car back from Arizona.”

“You couldn’t hire a driver for that?”
Sorry, couldn’t resist.

But Lizzie didn’t even cringe. “We’re penniless, Maisie, penniless! That’s why we need your show to make our wedding dreams come true.”

“Of course.” Wedding dreams! This got better every minute. She hoped they’d pick Atlantis. She’d put on a “dream wedding” there to make Hathaway eyeballs pop right out.

She looked right at Lizzie and nodded. “Lizzie darling,
Celebrity Access
will make
all
your wedding dreams come true.”

Gia the perky little production assistant stuck her head in the door. “Don’s ready!”

“Marvelous. We’ll be right in.”

Don, executive producer for the “documentary production” arm of the Celebrity Cable Network, including Maisie’s show
Celebrity Access
, was a middle-aged man with a thick head of gray hair and a deep salon tan. “Come in, Lizzie.”

“Thanks.” Lizzie felt horribly self-conscious in her ketchup colored suit now that Maisie’d compared it to something from
Dynasty
. She probably should have worn one of the outfits Con chose. He had far better taste, but none of them fit any more. She’d bought this one from a resale shop on Madison Avenue in trade for a pair of Jimmy Choo sandals she’d never wear in her newly sober state.

Maisie handed some papers to each of them. Without the soft filter of inebriation, her cousin intimidated her. When she’d been drunk it almost felt like they really were friends, but now the habitual cat-and-mouse relationship Maisie had always enjoyed with her threatened to send her scurrying again. She took a deep breath.

“So, Lizzie, Maisie tells me you’ve met the man of your dreams and you’d like our show to put on your wedding.” Don rested enormous tanned hands, fingers interlaced, on the oak conference table.

“Yes. As you’ve heard, my family has fallen on hard times.” She tossed her head like a down-but-not-out Scarlett O’Hara. “I’ve always been wealthy, but with my father under indictment and my bank accounts empty, I hardly know what to do.”

Don leaned forward. “I’ve seen a tremendous amount of press coverage about your family in the last few weeks, and you’ve attracted some attention of your own lately, mostly with party-girl Maisie here.” He shot an arch smile at Maisie. “So what can you bring us that’s
new
?”

“My love story.” She clasped her hands together. “Conroy Beale and I are meant to be together. He’s from a poor background, and my parents fiercely opposed our marriage, but—as you know, I’m sure—nothing can stand in the path of true love.”

His brow furrowed.

Had she overdone it? As a journalist of sorts he probably had a more sensitive bullshit detector than other people.

“He’s very handsome,” she quickly added. “Really, women swoon for him. He’d have been quite out of my league if I wasn’t wealthy. But even now that I’m not wealthy, he still wants to marry me.” Fake smile.

Guilt at her deception began to creep through her at the thought of taking their money, but nothing she’d said was an outright lie. Maybe he didn’t actually want to marry her anymore, but he’d offered.

Damn, she was starting to think like Con
.

“I like it.” Don’s leathery face creased into a toothy grin. “I think if we can do it quickly enough we’ll grab some midseason switch viewers. Can you begin shooting next week?”

“Absolutely.” The sooner she could get this whole charade over with, the better.

“Perhaps Maisie’s told you, but in this company we don’t waste time hemming and hawing. We get the show on the road. Location?”

“Well,” Lizzie drew in a breath. “I know you sent us a list of locales, and they are all lovely. But Con and I have our hearts set on a very special place.”

She paused, looked down at her hands, then up at him with intense faux-sincerity. “Con is from a tiny town in Louisiana, a sweet little place in the mangrove swamps, and we’d love to return to his birthplace to exchange our vows.”

“Mangrove swamps? I thought those were in Florida?” Don’s eyes narrowed.

“Cypress swamps?” Lizzie flushed. “I’m afraid I haven’t been there, but Con’s told me so much about it. It sounds charmingly rustic.”

“Humph. It could work. What’s this place called?”

Lizzie licked her lips. “It’s called, um, Mudbug Flats.” She kind of murmured it.

“What?” One of Don’s impressive gray eyebrows shot up.

“Mudbug Flats.” The name rang though the air. Suddenly this all seemed like a terrible idea.

“That sounds like hell.”

“Don,” Maisie leaned forward and cleared her throat. “You have a glamorous New York City heiress, traveling to a Louisiana bayou town called Mudbug Flats. It has a charming fish-out-of-water quality.”

“Humph. You know, she just might be right.” He looked at Lizzie. “I hired your cousin because she knows the right people. Goes to the right places. She’s got class, so I’ll defer to her on this one if that’s what she wants. If Lizzie Hathaway wants to get married in Mudbug Flats, Louisiana, then
Celebrity Access
will make it happen.”

He reached a hand across the table. Lizzie suppressed a nervous giggle and shook it
. It was going to happen
. Exhilaration and terror surged in her veins.

“Gia, can you track down the nearest big, fancy hotel. Maybe an old plantation or something? I want to move on this fast. The guest list is your job, Maisie. I’d like a truckload of New York high society, all the Hathaways’ old cronies and those people you hobnob with.”

Maisie blanched. “Um, I’m not sure that…”

Lizzie cut in, terror streaking along her nerves. “Con and I would prefer an intimate wedding. Just the two of us and a witness or two.”

“Humph.” Don’s face wrinkled up. “I do think a Rockefeller or two would add class. Maybe Donald Trump?”

“Maybe Donald Trump,” said Maisie with a poker face.

Lizzie struggled to keep a beatific smile in place. Somehow an anonymous television audience didn’t seem nearly as frightening as the possibility of a crowd of former “friends,” who were quite capable of flocking down to enjoy the spectacle. Maisie didn’t seem to like the idea either. She was probably describing her “journalism” career rather creatively at cocktail parties.

“That’s settled then. I’ll leave all the details to Maisie.
Sitcom Stars of the Nineties
is tanking on Tuesdays, and Ty’s looking for something to fill the slot. Let’s move on this while the story’s hot.” He stood and extended his hand to Lizzie. “I’m glad you came to us. We’ll put on a wedding you’ll never forget.”

As Lizzie tried not to wince at his hearty grip, his words echoed in her mind with grim foreboding.

Don left the room and Gia scurried after him.

“Good save,” said Maisie with a swift exhale. “I suspect you don’t want your Spence classmates there any more than I do.”

Her penetrating gaze made Lizzie wonder if her cousin suspected she wasn’t entirely on the up and up. Maisie might be a heartless bitch, but she wasn’t stupid.

“I prefer to keep things simple. If we had to invite several hundred people it might postpone our wedding for weeks, even months, and Con and I just can’t wait that long.” Another fake smile. Maybe she could paint one on with lipstick and save her facial muscles the trouble?

“Well,” Maisie rubbed her hands together. “I must say, I’m looking forward to it. I hope Gia can find a nice place to put us all up. I’d better talk to her and make sure she’s not calling the local Holiday Inns. Let me tell you, they
need
me around here.”

“I’ll bet they do.”

“And since I’ve been planning my own wedding to Dwight for two years, I have contacts at all the finest bridal suppliers. We’ll give you a wedding fit for a queen.” Smug smile. “I do hope Conroy won’t feel too out of place.”

“I’m sure he’ll feel quite comfortable in the familiar surroundings of his hometown.” She sipped her cappuccino. Hoped her forked tongue didn’t show.

“I admit I’m rather curious to see picturesque Mudbug Flats. Gia will be doing all the advance scouting, though. I’ve got this
Princess Anastasia Rediscovered
mess to clean up. It airs next week, and the voiceover isn’t even recorded yet. Don did it himself, and now I’ve finally convinced him it’s not working, I have to find someone else to record right over the edited film. Can you imagine?”

“I can imagine almost anything. My imagination has quite taken flight lately. I do have to ask, though…” Lizzie leaned forward and narrowed her eyes. “What on earth convinced you to take a job here?”

Maisie leapt from her chair and gathered her papers. “Even Christiane Amanpour had to start somewhere, darling.”

“Where are you?” Relief warred with anger at the sound of his murmured hello. She’d begun to think she’d seen the last of him.

“South Jersey. Coming up the ’pike. How’re you doing?” Con’s voice cut in and out like they were about to lose the cell connection.

“Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

“I’ve been driving. Had the phone turned off to save the battery.”

“What’s taking you so long?” She paced back and forth in the cavernous empty living room of her parents Southampton house.

“It’s a long drive. I’ll be up there in a couple of hours. I’m going to stay with a friend.”

“No, you’re not!” she shrieked.
Get a grip, Lizzie
. She’d been panicked for the last day and a half that he’d done a runner. Now she had him on the phone there was no way she’d let him get into the clutches of a “friend.” “You’ll come stay here. I’m at my parents’ house. You know where it is.”

He’d been there once. On the ill-fated meet-the-parents visit.

“Yeah, I can find it. You sure?”

“Why not. There’s no one here but me. The place is up for sale.” She glanced at the bare walls, the curtainless windows. “Plenty of rooms, we’ll barely see each other.”

“Alright. I’ll see you soon.”

The hollow sensation in her gut crept back when she hung up. Her footsteps rang out on the bare wood, the rugs long gone. No furniture. The door had been unlocked, left forgotten by a real estate agent. The house looked strangely smaller with no furniture, more generic, not a real place at all but a kind of stage set for a play that had folded.

It was nearly four hours before she heard the scrunch of tires on the gravel. She’d spent the last one pacing back and forth, mind revving with doubts.
He won’t show up. He’ll leave you high and dry and lying to Maisie about why your wedding is canceled. You’ve been a fool to trust him or anyone else.

She stormed out the front door and stood with her hands on her hips as the familiar gold Mercedes convertible, top down, rolled to a stop on the rather weedy driveway. Glare on the windshield hid Con from view and an unwelcome surge of exhilaration made her hold her breath as the door opened.

He emerged, hair uncombed and pants wrinkled. No shoes, either.

“You look terrible. Isn’t it illegal to drive barefoot?” She hoped her snippy words concealed her excitement.

“Nice to see you too.” He shot her a smile, then leaned in to retrieve his bag from the back seat. “I’m exhausted.”

“I can tell from looking at you.”

“I’d kill for a shower.”

“Good luck. The power’s turned off so there’s no water.”
Why did she have a sudden irrational urge to hug him?
Relief he hadn’t ditched her, that’s all.

“The pool got water in it?” He walked toward her.

“I guess so. I haven’t looked.”

“That’ll do. Can I come in?”

He tilted his head, and she realized she was still barricading the doorway, arms akimbo.

“Um, sure.” She turned and walked into the house, a mass of odd sensations roiling in her stomach. Why had she thought this would be a good idea?

Oh, yes, to stop him from hooking back up with Frankie or whoever. She couldn’t trust him.

“Jesus. What happened to the furniture?”

“I think it all got auctioned off. The only stuff left is junk no one wanted. Most of my junk is piled up down in the basement.”

“Where’s your mother staying?”

“She’s gone to an ashram in India. To find herself.” Her voice sounded flat.

Con stared at her in amazement. “Your mom, in India?”

“It’s a popular vacation destination, you know.” She shrugged. She didn’t understand it any better than he did, but she didn’t need to let him know that. “Put your bag down anywhere you like. It doesn’t matter.”

He dropped it on the floor right where he stood. That lopsided grin creased his tanned face.

“What are you smiling at?”

“You. It’s good to see you.”

“I can’t imagine why.” She fought the warm sensation his smile churned up in her stomach. “I only want you here because I don’t trust you.”

“Can’t blame you. Mind if I take a dip right now? I haven’t washed in three days.”

“I can tell. I can smell you from here,” she lied, trying not to smile. “Did you sleep in your car?”

“Yup. Not too comfy.” He lifted up his arms and stretched. “I’m kinked up like a pretzel.”

“The pool’s out back,” she said, unnecessarily. Where else would it be? She was trying to distract herself from the spectacle of his tanned chest and bulging biceps as he stripped off his shirt. “I’ve got an extra towel.”

“’S okay. I’ve got one.” He bent over and fished a white towel out of his bag, and she followed him out the French doors. The hot sun of the Indian summer beat down on the browning, unwatered grass. Crabgrass had made inroads into the lawn in the month since the gardener was let go and maintenance reduced to a weekly mowing.

“It’s all set, you know, the show. I’ve even chosen the dress. It’s worth fifteen thousand dollars.” Her voice still sounded flat, like a recording. Maybe she was trying too hard to keep emotion out of it. To keep emotion out of anything.

“Fifteen thousand? Is it woven out of solid gold?” Con dropped his towel on the slate terrace surrounding the pool. They’d even taken the cedar Lutyens-style benches. Uneven blades of grass crept over the edges of the patio.