Attitude (12 page)

She'd become entwined in his life, in his decision making.

He wanted to offer her more than the chance to follow an unenthusiastic actor make the rounds of casting offices. There had to be a way.

He went to his bedroom, started to pace. After he'd trampled a major rut into his carpet, his brain finally offered up the germ of an idea.

Ten minutes later, overnighter in hand, he headed for his car.

Chapter 6

Two days later, Ginger raced into the house, hit her bedroom running, flung herself on the bed, and let loose enough tears to irrigate Nevada. When the flood abated, she sat up, grabbed a wad of tissue, and pulled her knees to her heaving chest. After some ugly gasping gulps for air, she settled herself down.

Sto-o-pid!! Thy name is Ginger.
It was made plain
again
, her having sex with a guy was the equivalent of giving him an exit pass. And she'd thought Cal was different.

Sto-o-pid...

There'd been no walk on the beach, no flowers, no calls, not even a damn text. Cal was
so
gone it was as if he'd never existed. And a half hour ago, things got worse. She'd talked to Ellie and found out that he was selling Cinema Neo—that he was in L.A. talking to the buyer. Obviously the man had never intended to stay in Waveside, proving a change in wardrobe did nothing to fire up the neurons necessary for reliable character judgment.

She blew her nose, got off the bed, and stripped off her dress to replace it with a ratty old tee and cotton shorts. In the mirror over the bathroom sink, she stared at the mess her tears had made, felt her skin tighten where the salt had dried on her cheeks. She splashed some water on her face, drank some to stave off dehydration, and headed back to her bedroom.

Cal might make her laugh in bed—among a lot of other wondrous things he did there—but it didn't change the fact she'd made the same tired mistake.

So... what now, Ginger Cameron?

Run away. Get her act together. Get a grip on a life without Cal Beaumann in it. Figure out what to do next.

Those ideas firmly in mind, she went to her closet, and opened it—to a sea of beige. She frowned. What had she been thinking? She was not a beige person, never was, never would be.

She went into the kitchen, grabbed a couple of lawn trash bags. In less than half an hour the offending clothes, ranging from vanilla to dark tan, were ready for Goodwill.

It was time for a new Ginger—and past time for some overdue vacation. A road trip. Yes! Exactly what she needed. Some shopping in Seattle, then north to Canada. A few hours and she'd be in another country. Perfect.

No way was she going to hang around doing the pathetic woman-scorned routine, getting all pasty white and tear-streaked. She was leaving, and there was no time like the present.

She leaped to her feet just as Tracy came in bearing a pack of Girl Scout cookies—one cookie held between her teeth.

Ginger rummaged around in her closet.

"What are you doing?" Tracy asked.

"Getting dressed."

"You are dressed."

"So?"

Tracy looked at the bulging garbage bags. "And what are those?"

"Old clothes."

Tracy donned what Ginger could only describe as her resigned -to-anything look and plopped down on the bed. "Rats. You and Cal had a fight."

Ginger scowled at her. "Please do not mention that name. A woman does not like to revisit her mistakes."

"Some mistake. The guy's crazy about you."

"Ah... Now that's where you're wrong. Cal Beaumann is crazy about Cal Beaumann." She pulled out a pair of black jeans, tugged them up, zippered them closed, and headed for her bureau There she pulled out a red T-shirt, atrocious with her hair, and a handful of lingerie, which she tossed on the bed. She went back to her nearly empty closet and pulled out a suitcase.

"Where are you going?"

"First? Seattle."

Tracy took the cookie from her mouth. "Why don't you just cool it? Wait for him to call and give the man a chance to grovel."

"Cal. Grovel?" Ginger looked at her friend as if her brain were leaking. "Never happen." She crammed the underwear into the case, followed it with an armful of shirts, pants, and shoes, then sat on it to zipper it up.

"What are you going to do in Seattle, anyway?"

"Shop."

Tracy looked alarmed. "Oh, no. Not another reincarnation."

"Could do worse things." She pulled a brush through her hair, and it tangled so bad she needed both hands to set it free. Maybe she'd get a haircut. One of those Marine style crew cuts over a dyed blue scalp. Something futuristic.

"Don't do it, Ginge. He'll call. You'll work things out. You know what they say, patience makes the heart grow fonder."

"That's absence, Trace. And that's exactly what I'm going to be. Absent. Like the great woman said, 'I
vant
to be alone.' I intend to put some major miles between me and Waveside."
And Cal Beaumann,
she added to herself. "Cal is selling Cinema Neo and moving on." She squared her shoulders. "He didn't factor me into that event. More fool him." She leaned over and kissed Tracy on the forehead. "After Seattle, I'm going to up to Canada. I'll call you from there."

"Canada?" Tracy made it sound as if she were heading for Siberia, rather than a friendly border crossing less than two hours away. "How long are you going to be gone?"

"I don't know. Anywhere from a few days to forever. I'll call you," she said again, and with that she picked up her bag, her injured pride, and headed for the door. She intended to take all the time she could afford.

It wasn't every day a woman had to get over a man like Cal Beaumann.

* * *

Cal called Ginger the following morning. He had a lot to say and was impatient to say it.

"She's where?" he said to Tracy, not sure he'd heard right.

"Someplace in British Columbia."

Canada. What the hell had taken her there? "Okay, I'll try her cell phone."

"She's not answering it, just took it with her in case of emergency."

"Damn." Cal's stomach tightened, and he rubbed his jaw. "Did she say when she was coming back?"

"She said she was coming back when she was completely and irrevocably over you." He heard Tracy munch on something. The woman was always munching. "Those were her words, not mine."

"Damn." If it hadn't been Tracy on the other end of the phone, Cal would have used a more fitting expletive. Okay, he should have called, but hell, his business troubles weren't Ginger's. And he'd had nothing to say until things were finalized—and when he'd left there'd been no guarantee they would be.

"I just hope she doesn't do something crazy."

"Like what?" he asked.

"Like coming back with purple hair and a nose ring." Now that sounded like Ginger, but he didn't care if she came back as the tattooed lady, just so long as she came back.

After he hung up the phone, he cursed. There was nothing he could do but wait. And if there was one thing in the world he was lousy at, it was waiting.

* * *

Eight days later, Ellie dropped the mail on his desk, and he muttered his thanks. She headed for the door, then stopped. "Cal?" she asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Would you mind if I took off an hour early this afternoon?"

"No problem." He didn't lift his head from the posters he had spread over his desk.

"Great. I'm meeting Ginger at the thrift shop. She's going to help me get a new image."

Cal's brain locked on one word. He lifted his hands from his desk, and the posters snapped back into rolls and hit the floor. "Did you say Ginger?"

He must have raised his voice, because Ellie took a step back. "Uh huh."

Cal came out from behind his desk. "Ellie, you can have the whole damn week off if you tell me exactly where and at what time you're supposed to meet Ginger."

"A week? Really?"

"Really."

* * *

Ginger, half in and half out of a copper colored sweater, stopped tugging long enough to stare into the angriest pair of green eyes she'd ever seen.
Cal.
She gave the sweater a yank to pull it over her head, but only succeeded in snagging her hair on one of its decorative buttons.

Without a word he stepped forward and freed her hair. Her head surfaced, and one of the metal buttons clinked to the tile floor, rolling under the rack she'd been foraging through for the last fifteen minutes while she waited for Ellie. Now she'd have to buy the darn thing.

"What are you doing, Cameron?"

She coughed to calm the swell of fluttery butterflies and deranged sparrows in her belly. She'd been gone for days, but still, just looking at him turned her brain to aspic. "I'm shopping."

He gave her a quizzical scan. "And what in hell is that?" He nodded at her mesh encased torso, silver spandexed legs, and metal-studded calf-hugging boots. "You look like a piece of space junk."

"Really," she said, her voice nicely icy. "Thank you. I like it, too."

"I didn't say I liked it."

"No, you didn't, but that doesn't necessarily mean you don't, does it? Seems to me you have a talent for saying one thing and doing another." She stepped to the other side of the rack, careful to keep it between them. She needed all the protection she could get. If he touched her she was a goner. As added insurance she took a hanger from the rack, held it up and made a pretense of considering it. It was an off-shoulder white tee, with the words Love Me splashed across the front.

Cal eyed the shirt. "Now
that
I like," he said, adding, "We need to talk, Ginger."

She studied the tee rather than study Cal. She
kinda
liked it. It had attitude. "So talk. I've got all the time in the world to listen. I'm not the one who's leaving town."

"Neither am I."

He said it so softly, the words were registering just as she added, "I'm not the one who sold a business—a life—I loved because somebody opened a wallet and"—she lifted her eyes to meet his—"you're not?"

"No, I'm not." He walked around the rack to stand facing her.

"Not what?"

"I'm not leaving and I'm definitely not selling Cinema Neo."

"You aren't?"

"No. Selling was my brother's idea—and a lousy one—and when he laid it on me, I had to move fast or lose everything. Which meant getting to L.A. pronto." He paused. "The good news is that I've got a new partner. Hud."

"Hudson Blaine?"

"Uh-huh. He took Ian's position, and he's given me three years to buy him out. It's a good deal for him and a good deal for me." He took the tee from her and laid it over the rack, then took her hands to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. "But not calling you was a mistake. I'm sorry." He lifted his eyes to hers. "Really."

Ginger wasn't quite ready to concede. "I'm not getting this sudden change of heart, Beaumann." She tried to back off, but her boot-encased feet refused to move.

He shook his dark head. "There's been no change of heart, Ginger. Mine's belonged to you since you walked into my office wearing a burlap suit and nun's shoes."

She couldn't take her eyes off him. And that soft buttery sensation in the middle of her chest told her she was falling again, toppling like one of those duck silhouettes in a shooting gallery. "I'm not sure I believe you," she said.

"Yes, you do," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders and dipping his head to look into her eyes. "I'm in love with you, Ginger. Always will be."

"You will?" Oh, goddess, she was squeaking like a mouse trapped in a cornflake box. Cal loved her.

"Which means I want this relationship to go exclusive." His voice was quiet. "You okay with that?"

The world stopped and Ginger's lungs imploded. Fortunately, she managed a tiny intake of breath and a bit of oxygen filtered into her numbed brain. She hoped he didn't see her swallow. She picked up the Love-me tee and slipped it off the hanger and over her arm. "I should say no," she mumbled, not doing so well with the hard-to-get act.