A Bad Boy is Good to Find (12 page)

“Con, where are you?” She stepped over a socket wrench. How did she know the name of it? The front door was ajar.

“Con?” She called up the winding staircase, her voice echoing off all the bare wood and uncovered walls.

“Hello.” A woman emerged in the upstairs hallway and Lizzie jumped.

“Who…? What…?” Words sputtered and died in her mouth. Blood whirred in her ears as the woman descended the stairs, hand on the railing. An elegant woman of forty or fifty with a smart yellow suit and glossy hair. “Lizzie?” She held out her hand to shake.

Lizzie stood there open mouthed as flames of white hot rage snapped through her. It wasn’t Frankie. This woman was a brunette and she remembered Frances Allen as a pale blonde, so it must be another one of Con’s “friends.”

The woman drew back her hand and tucked her shiny hair behind an expensive earring. Offered a lipsticked smile. “Conroy is getting dressed.”

“Get out of my house!” An undignified high-pitched shriek.

“I’m sorry?” The woman didn’t seem all that flustered by her outburst. She looked at Lizzie rather curiously.

“Lizzie, hey, this is Amanda.” Con appeared at the top of the stairs, immaculate as usual, wet hair combed back.

“I don’t care who the hell she is! Get her out of my house right now. And throw your own sorry ass out after her.” Her heart pounded. She was so angry she could barely see.

“She’s the Realtor.” Con bounded down the stairs. “She stopped by to see why my car was in the driveway.”

Lizzie froze. She looked at the woman, who was now staring at Con with a secretive smile.

The brunette lifted her chin. “I’m sorry I complained. It’s just that first impressions are so important to a buyer. It’s called curb appeal.”

“I told her I’ll put my car in the garage, so it doesn’t lower the tone of the neighborhood.” He winked at Lizzie.

Lizzie stood very still as a crimson tide of humiliation washed over her.

“Mr. Beale explained that the car is a hobby project of his, and I quite understand. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.” The Realtor looked like she was trying hard not to laugh. Lizzie felt like slapping her.

“It is a shame that your family removed all the furniture already. Houses show so much better when they’re occupied, but I know the family has been in a rather difficult situation. It would be advantageous to turn the electric back on and get the landscape service to do more than mow. I’m doing my best to sell it, but the market is rather slow now that we’re into the off-season—”

“I need to use the bathroom, excuse me.” Lizzie pushed past the woman and heading for the stairs.

“Isn’t the electricity turned off?” the reedy voice called after her.

“It flushes just fine with a bucket of pool water,” hissed Lizzie, her face still burning.

“Anyway, thanks for stopping by,” said Con. “I’ll make sure the place looks neat.”

“So sorry to make a fuss, but obviously this property is rather a challenge anyway, what with the notoriety…”

Lizzie slammed the bathroom door, blocking out the noise. There was no bucket of pool water because they always used the downstairs bathroom. Just a window to stare out at the tree-fuzzed horizon.
Make it all go away
.

“Lizzie.” She heard Con coming up the stairs. She rubbed her face in her hands, then remembered her makeup. She was wiping smudged eyeliner off with a fingertip when he flung the bathroom door open.

“Do you mind? I’m in the bathroom.”

“I know you aren’t really using it. What did you make all that fuss for? Did you think I was…” He stopped and let a smile creep across his mouth.

“What was I supposed to think? You’re here alone, and a woman comes out of the bedroom?” Irritation pricked at her.

“I couldn’t get rid of her. She kept saying she needed to check on stuff. I was just getting cleaned up when she showed up.”

“You were in the pool?”

“No, I’d gotten out, thank God,” he grinned. “I had a towel on, but I had to come up here to get my clothes. She followed me. Came in to check out the bedroom after I got dressed.”

“Probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to her all year.” Lizzie couldn’t help smiling. She didn’t mind that snotty Realtor thinking she and Con were an item. He was impressively gorgeous. Let her go back to her cronies at the agency and blab about the hunk in the towel at the Hathaway place.

That line of thought stopped her in her tracks. She and Con were not an item. Not any more. He was only here at because she’d roped him into her TV-show scheme. Was she doing this whole phony wedding thing because she wanted the world to see her with Con? To admire and envy her because he was, well, hot?

She felt a blush creeping back.

“What?” Con lifted an eyebrow.

“Nothing. I’m starving, do you have money?”

Gee, that sounded great
.

Con smiled. “Yup. Car’s not running though, I’m in
media res
with the transmission.”

“You are the only person in the known world who would speak Latin while referring to engine repair.”

“I’m a one-off.”

“Thank God for that. We can walk to Main Street and get something to eat there.”

“Sure, I just need to get the car in neutral and push it into the garage. Don’t want the place looking scruffy.”

“Screw her. Leave it right where it is.”

“Okay.”

An extended massage by Con had her feeling almost relaxed the next morning. Her shoulders kinked right up again when Maisie charged at her as she entered the
Celebrity Access
offices.

“Cajun or Creole?” Maise fired the question at her then looked down at her clipboard, pencil poised as if ready to grade the answer.

“What?”

“Con’s heritage, I know it’s French, but is he Cajun, or Creole? It matters, you know. The food. We’re choosing the menu today.”

“What’s the difference?”

Maisie glanced down at her clipboard. “One is based on French cuisine, and the other is…based on French cuisine.” She raised an eyebrow. “But they’re different.”

“Hmm. How about a bit of both?”

“Why don’t I call Conroy and ask?” Maisie raised an eyebrow.

Lizzie’s pulse jumped. “Cajun. Mudbug Flats is the heart of Cajun country.” Wasn’t that what he said?

“Good. We’re going to bring the chef with us from New York, and I had three lined up to choose from—all native Louisianans—until I found out about this Cajun and Creole thing. This narrows it down to one.”

“Does
Celebrity Access
really care about making sure all the details are fully authentic?” Lizzie was ready to laugh.

Maisie blinked. “I’m here now, so we care,” she said stiffly. “My reputation is on the line.”

Lizzie kept a straight face. “I’m sure Con will be touched by all the trouble you’ve gone to. But why bring a chef from New York? Don’t they have plenty of them down there?”

“Quality control, darling. Once you leave Manhattan you just never know what you’re going to get.”

By the time she returned home she was bloated with delicious samples from the West Village restaurant where the Cajun chef worked. She’d tried to think about her waistline, especially in front of Maisie, who didn’t seem to eat at all, ever, but the food was just too good. At least she wouldn’t have to beg Con for dinner.

Con was nowhere to be seen as she walked up the driveway, but she could see light coming through the garage window.

She went in through the side door. Con, dressed in only a pair of athletic shorts, was applying newspaper and masking tape to the windshield.

“Why did you put it in here? I told you to leave it outside. And how come the lights are working?”

“Hey, nice to see you too.” He winked. She made sure not to look at his bare chest.

He pulled another piece of tape from a huge roll with a loud rasp. “Brought the car in to keep dust off while it’s painted. I called the electric company and got the lights turned on.”

“How did you do that? You’re not a Hathaway.”

“I didn’t tell them that.”
Rasp
. “You’re a spray gun artist, right?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I did some work with spray guns in college.”

“Still got the equipment?”

“It’s in the basement.”

“Good. Let’s go get it.”

“Why? Are you going to use my spray gun to paint a
car
?”

“No. You are.”

“I am not.”

“Let’s go look at your tools anyway, okay?”

She wasn’t sure quite how it happened, but at 1:00 a.m. she was standing in the garage, wielding a spray-gun loaded with #522 Black Ice. Con had the nerve to go yawning off to bed after patting her butt in the most infuriating way and telling her he was sure she’d do a great job.

She’d do a great job alright.

Even the respirator couldn’t dull the invigorating scent of enamel that always made her want to paint the town red. Or black or whatever else was in there. She couldn’t think why she hadn’t painted in so long.

Con had made a big deal about how with Corvettes you had to maintain the integrity of the original. Respray the exact original paint color, keep everything just the way it was.

Come on! This car was from the 1980s. Hardly a priceless antique.

And she wanted to see Con’s jaw drop.

At first she thought she’d do something funny like paint cheesy flames all over it. But the base coat spraying had reinvigorated her muse and she figured she might as well get creative. She’d found quite a few cans of the automotive enamel she used to use, lids tightly sealed and the remaining paint fresh. Spent the last forty-five minutes cutting templates out of bits of leftover cardboard moving boxes. Then mixing colors with a drill mounted paint stirrer to create a palette of metallic off-blacks.

As her design took shape, her guilty glee at messing with the vintage-car integrity of Con’s “investment” mutated into the sheer joy of creation. Her fingertips tingled with the thrill of making images, and her mind buzzed with ideas, urging her to try new things, push the envelope of possibilities.

It was almost dawn when she was finally satisfied. The car’s panels shimmered with overlapping shapes in various shades of silvery black, almost seeming to ripple as her eyes scanned over them. The effect was subtle but powerful, transforming the car into a living thing rather than a hunk of metal. She lowered her respirator and pushed the button on the garage door opener, ready to let some air in now the paint was pretty much dry.

At that moment, Con appeared in the doorway leading from the house, light shining behind him. “How come you’re up so… Holy shit.”

He came down the stairs, eyes riveted to the car. A nasty sting of fear raced through her. Would he be mad? Really, really upset? He had sold his beloved Mercedes to buy this thing, after all. His money was tied up in it.

Hell, he asked her to do it. She didn’t volunteer. Still, she stiffened, searching his face for signs.

He looked up at her, eyes wide. “You’re a bad girl.”

She raised an eyebrow, swallowed hard.

“But you’re very, very, good.” His eyes wandered back to the car, and he walked around it. He stopped and put his hands on his hips, surveying the pattern of interlocking shapes snaking around the rear. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He stood there silent, still wearing nothing but shorts. Her pulse threatened to break speed records.

At last he looked up at her. “Did you spray the clearcoat yet?”

“No, so I guess I can re-spray it all black.” She spoke between gritted teeth.

“Are you kidding? I just think you should sign it first. Maybe right here, on the rear bumper.”

Was he poking fun at her?

“A Lizzie Hathaway original? No, thanks. I’ll be anonymous.”

“If it was mine, I’d sign it.” He walked around to the other side. Let out a low whistle.

He wasn’t kidding. He was genuinely impressed. The realization gave her a warm thrill of pride.

“I can’t believe you’ve been hiding all this talent under a bushel.”

“Creative spray painting is not a highly valued skill in this society.”

“Maybe not in your kind of society, but there are plenty of people out there who will appreciate this, believe me.” He walked around the far side, peered at the lowest part of the car, checking out the details.

Did he think she’d skimped on the corners, done a sloppy job? She bristled. “I did all the edges, didn’t leave anything out.”

“I can see that. You’ve sprayed a car before, haven’t you?”

“Never, only did it on canvas. The finish is a lot more beautiful on metal.”

“I’ll say. I want to see some of these canvases of yours. Do you still have any?”

“Sure. They’re down in the basement under a tarp.” She’d noticed them lurking in a corner. A little surprised her parents hadn’t disposed of them.

“Can we go see them?”

“I guess so.”

Con insisted on bringing them all upstairs out of the basement gloom. He hung the huge canvases—some of them six feet across—on the nails left vacant by the Degas sketch, the Corot landscape and all the other vanished beauties. The rising sun illuminated the overlapping, interlocking shapes and colors, sparkled off the metal-flecked highlights.

“I haven’t seen these in years. Not since I graduated from college.” They brought back memories. Happy memories of being alone in her college studio cubicle, painting into the night, with music blasting in her headphones. Back when she was going to be an artist.

That was before she came home to her parents’ laughter and the offer of a boring but respectable job in the family firm.

Con wasn’t saying anything. He just kept walking around, hanging the pictures. Annoyingly he was still wearing only his shorts, so it was hard to avoid the bulge and flex of gym-toned muscles as he hefted the big canvases into position.

There were eight of the large ones and about twelve smaller ones. The sun beamed across the wood floors by the time they were all hung. “The place looks like a gallery,” she murmured. Embarrassed to see her hopes and dreams shimmering on the wall.

“Sure does. We should get some people in here. Would you mind selling them?”