Her Leading Man (19 page)

Uncommonly out of sorts, he gave up looking for
Christina and went
to the resort’s
telephone room,
where he had the telephone operator place a
long
-
distance
call to
Phineas Lovejoy at the Peerless Studio
in Los Angeles. He
told the operator he’d wait
for the connection in the saloon. He could use
a
drink.
Maybe even several.

This picture
was doomed.

The saloon was dark, as was appropriate for such
places, and Martin
spent his first several seconds after
entering the room blinking into the gloom
and
trying to
accustom
his
eyesight to the changed level
of light. He walked to the bar, ordered a gin
and
tonic,
and turned to survey the room.

And there she was! His insides lit up before he
could stop them or
figure out why they even wanted
to. He didn’t have a clue as to why
Christina Mayhew
should always have this effect on him, but she
did.

He also wasn’t sure he approved of single females
who went into
drinking establishments all by themselves,
especially when they were still
wearing men’s
trousers. She saw him and waved, but he didn’t think
she was especially
pleased to see him
.
Not nearly as
happy to see him as he was to see
her, for instance.
Nevertheless, he walked over to her table, faintly
shocked that she
should be sitting alone in what was,
essentially, a tavern.

She greeted him with one of her beautiful smiles,
though, and Martin
couldn’t hold on to his disapproval.

“
Hi, Martin. Did that poor doctor ever manage
to
get
the cast on Pablo’s arm?”

With a weary sigh, Martin all but fell into a chair
across from her.
“Yes. It was a struggle.” He swallowed
a good third of his drink and felt
minimally
better.

She shook her head. “I know you don’t think
I
should say so, Martin, but Orozco really is a
stinker.”

Too depressed by circumstances to argue with her,
Martin told the
truth. “I know it.” He wondered if
that fizzy pink drink was her first, or if
she’d had
more than one in the
hour or so since she’d left him
and the doctor in
that back parlor. He didn’t ask, for
fear she’d get mad at
him
.

“
Have you decided what you’re going to
do about
his
part in the picture yet?”

Her words were perfectly crisp and clear. Martin
cheered up a little
bit, taking her coherence as a sign
that she wasn’t a hardened drinker.
Although—he
chided himself as an idiot—what it should matter to
him what she was, he
couldn’t fathom. As long as
she could act, what did he care if she was a
hopeless
drunk in her off hours?

His insides answered back that they had no idea
why it mattered to
him, but it did, and there wasn’t
anything he could do about it. Blast it,
he wished
they’d
stop doing things like
that.

She sipped daintily at her drink, and Martin decided
to hazard a
question. “What’s that? I don’t
think I’ve ever seen a pink drink
before.”

Laughing
softly, Christina lifted her
glass and tilted
it slightly toward him “It’s a pink gin fizz, and
it’s
probably
a sissy drink, but it tastes all right. I’m
afraid I’m not much of a
drinker.”

Thank God
, Martin thought, although
h
e
didn’t
voice
his relief out loud. He’d seen too much tragedy
follow when young ladies got
involved in too much
booze and too much of
the wild side of life. Look
at that poor Normand creature,
who was said to be
addicted
not merely to drink, but to cocaine as well.
He shook his
head before he
remembered
Christina
was there and wasn’t privy to his thoughts.

“
What’s the matter, Martin?” There was an
edge
to her voice. “Are you shocked that I’m in here
drinking
alone?”

“
Not at all,” he answered too quickly.
He saw she
didn’t believe him, took another gulp of his own
drink, and sighed
again. “All right, I was a little
shocked.”

“
Thank
you for telling me the truth.”

She didn’t sound sarcastic. Martin eyed her
uncertainly.
“You’re welcome, I think.”

She laughed again. “I’m not a drinker, Martin. I
was so darned mad at
Pablo Orozco—and, I must
admit, at a world that refuses to acknowledge
the
equality
of women—that I decided to come in here
and defy convention.” She lifted her
glass again, and
her gorgeous eyes twinkled. “I guess it’s a Mayhew
family
tradition.”

Martin chuckled some himself as he considered
Grandmother Mayhew.
“I suppose you do have something
of a tradition to live up to.”

“
Amen.”

The rest of her prior comment sank in and he
asked, genuinely
interested, “But what does Orozco
have to do with women’s equality?” Martin
had no
problem admitting women were as smart as men—hell, most
human beings of both sexes were as stupid
as mud. Still, he didn’t understand
why Christina had
connected the two in her own mind.

She didn’t answer at once, but looked at him as
if she were trying
to read his thoughts. After several
seconds of that, she said, “I guess it
just bothered
me that Orozco could carry on like a spoiled brat
and be catered to.
If a woman did the same thing,
everyone would call her hysterical.”

That wasn’t what she’d been thinking;
Marti
n
would have bet on it if he’d been asked to do
so.
But he
didn’t know how to call her a liar without
seeming rude. He said, “I see,” and
left it there.

As if she couldn’t change the subject fast enough,
Christina
said brightly, “So, Martin, tell me a
little
bit
about Egypt. It must have been fascinating to
grow up there and be involved
with your parents’
work.”

Far from satisfied, but willing to go along with
the changed
direction of the
conversation, Martin
said, “It was. Very.” He’d find out more
about
Christina later. He
discovered within himself a burning
desire to know
everything there was to know
about her, actually. It was a desire he’d never
experienced
before.

They talked about Egypt for Martin didn’t know
how long. It seemed
both like forever and like no
time at all. The only thing he knew for sure was
that
he was
totally wrapped up in their conversation when
a bellboy entered the saloon and
interrupted them.
He was so startled by the interruption, having
forgotten
about the need to report today’s calamity to
Phineas Lovejoy,
that he gaped at the boy in surprise.

“
Your call has been placed, sir,” the boy said,
looking
exceedingly formal in the resort’s livery, even
though he was
probably only twelve years old.

“
Oh.” Martin stood up. “That’s right. Yes.
Of
course.” He turned to Christina, loath to leave her.
“
Um
, will
you stay here, Christina? I’ll be able to
tell you what Phin and I decide to do
about the picture.”

It was a very strange phenomenon, he thought, his
attraction to
Christina Mayhew. This moment, for instance,
the notion of leaving her, even
to conduct a
vastly important telephone conversation with his
business
partner, filled him with a huge sense of impending
loss. His reaction
to her was impossible to
sort out at the moment. He needed more time.
And
Christina. He needed her, too, in order to get to
the
bottom of it
all.

She smiled her charming smile “Sure, Martin. I’ll
wait here. I’m eager
to know what’s going to happen.”

“
Great. I’ll be right back.” Thank God. The
relief
he felt was all out of proportion to the situation.
For
Pete’s
sake, it wasn’t as if he’d never see her again
if she went up to
her room.

He was shaking his head in befuddlement when
he followed the
bellboy to the telephone room.

As soon as Martin left the saloon, Christina
jumped up from her
chair and dashed to the powder
room. There she frantically checked her
appearance
in
the mirror for any signs of wear and tear.

“
You’re being a fool,” she told herself
savagely
even as she pinched her cheeks in order to drum up
more color. “You’ve
never given a hoot about your
appearance before now.”

Which was true. She’d never wanted to impress a
man before now,
either.

“
Oh Lord.” She turned and sagged back
against
the ornate countertop beneath the lovely antique
mirror
cunningly built into the wall of the ladies’ powder
room. The Desert
Palm Resort provided nothing but
the most elegant of accommodations for its
wealthy
guests. “What in the name of heaven is the matter
with me?”

No answer occurred to her in the time it took her
to finish primping
and return to her tucked-away table
in the corner of the saloon. Martin hadn’t
come
back
yet, so she sat, folded her hands demurely in
her lap, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Was he coming back? Had he forgotten he’d promised
to report to her?
Did she mean so little to him
that he wasn’t going to remember her for even
five
minutes?

Never having been prey to the insecurities common
to her feminine
sisters since she’d never particularly
craved the attention of men,
Christina didn’t at first
understand why her heart was thumping and
her
nerves
were skipping.

When she realized what was happening inside
her—and why—she sat
bolt upright, aghast. Good
Lord, was she having a fit of the female vapors?
Was
she
honestly fretting herself into a frenzy over some
man? Was she having
an internal
hissy
fit worrying
about whether Martin
Tafft was going to
forget his
promise to return to her in the saloon? Was she,
Christina Mayhew,
feminist and future physician, actually,
honestly and truly, in this nervous
state
because
she cared what Martin Tafft thought of her?

By gum, she
was.

What an abysmal shock. How could she have permitted
herself to sink to
this degrading level of feminine
nerves?

No answer had occurred to her by the time Martin
entered the saloon,
blinking into the darkness.
Christina saw him, and her heart soared like an
eagle.
She
hated herself for it, too. Blasted heart was totally
out of
control.

She decided her best course of action was to
ruthlessly
suppress these nonsensical emotions of hers.
If she resumed
treating Martin as if he were merely
one more member of the Peerless
organization—granted, he was more to her taste than
most—she’d
soon be back to normal. And it couldn’t be soon
enough for
her.

Therefore, she waved and called out in her most
friendly,
let’s-be-pals voice, “Martin! Over here.”

He rejoined her, looking even more weary and
worried than he had
when he’d left the saloon to take
his telephone call. Christina’s innards
wanted to reach
out to him, her womanly parts wanted to press him
close to her breast
and succor him, and every cell
in
her body cried out
to offer him solace and comfort.
To kiss him and stroke his poor tired
body. To feed
him hot chicken soup and massage his shoulders. To
stroke his weary
brow and make him a good strong
pot of tea. To sit with him and let him
pour his heart
out to her.