Natural Born Charmer (3 page)

It was true. Dean’s face had remained remarkably unscathed. His shoulder, however, was another story.

“Then there’s your hair. Thick, shiny, blond. How many products did you use on it this morning? Never mind. It’ll just make me feel inferior.”

The only thing he’d used on his hair that morning was shampoo. Good shampoo, it was true, but, still, shampoo. “It’s all in the cut,” he said, his cut having been administered by Oprah’s hairstylist.

“Those jeans didn’t come from the Gap.”

Correct.

“And you’re wearing gay boots.”

“These are not gay boots! I paid twelve hundred dollars for them.”

“Exactly,” she said triumphantly. “What straight man would pay twelve hundred dollars for boots?”

Not even her asinine assessment of his footwear could cool him off because he’d reached her waist, and, as he’d imagined, she wasn’t wearing a bra. The frail bumps of her spine disappeared into the furry
V
of her costume like a delicate pearl necklace being swallowed by Bigfoot. It took all his considerable willpower not to slip his hands inside, slide them around, and explore exactly what the Beav had going on for herself.

“What’s taking you so long?” she asked.

“The zipper keeps getting stuck, that’s what.” He sounded grouchy, but his jeans hadn’t been designed to accommodate what they now needed to accommodate. “If you think you can do this faster, you’re welcome to try.”

“It’s hot in here.”

“Tell me about it.” With one last tug, he reached the end of the zipper, which was a good six inches below her waist. He took in the curve of her hip along with a narrow band of bright red elastic.

She pulled away, and as she turned to him, she crossed her paws over her chest to hold the suit in place. “I can take it from here.”

“Oh, please. Like you have anything I’d be interested in seeing.”

The corner of her mouth ticked, but whether from amusement or annoyance, he couldn’t tell. “Out.”

Oh, well…He’d tried.

Before he left, she passed over her keys and asked him, none too politely, to get her stuff from her car. Inside the dented trunk he found a couple of plastic milk crates stuffed with art supplies, some paint-splattered toolboxes, and a big canvas tote. He’d just loaded them in his car when the guy who’d been working inside came out to inspect his Vanquish. He had oily hair and a beer gut. Something told Dean this was the alleged sex deviant who’d earned the wrath of the Beav.

“Man, that is a sweet machine. I saw one of them in that James Bond movie.” And then, as he got a good look at Dean, “Holy shit! You’re Dean Robillard. What’re you doin’ around here?”

“Just passing through.”

The guy started sputtering. “Gawdamn. Ben should have made Sheryl drive her own big ass to the hospital. Wait’ll I tell him The Boo was here.”

Dean’s college teammates had stuck him with the moniker because of the amount of time he’d spent at Malibu Beach, which was nicknamed “The Boo” by the locals.

“I saw that sack you took in the Steelers game. How’s your shoulder doing?”

“Coming along,” Dean replied. It’d be coming along a lot better if he stopped driving around the country feeling sorry for himself and started doing his physical therapy.

The guy introduced himself as Glenn, then launched into a review of the Stars’ entire season. Dean nodded automatically, all the while wishing the Beav would hurry up. But a good ten minutes passed before she emerged. He took in her wardrobe.

This was just wrong.

Bo Peep had been kidnapped by a Hells Angels gang. Instead of a ruffly gown, pink bonnet, and shepherd’s crook, she’d decked herself out in a faded black muscle shirt, baggy jeans, and the big old work boots he’d seen in the bathroom but mercifully forgotten. Defurred and delicate, she was maybe five four, and as thin as he’d imagined, right down to her chest, which was definitely female, but hardly memorable. Apparently, she’d spent most of her bathroom time washing up, because as she came closer, he smelled soap instead of musty fur. Her wet, dark hair lay flat against her head like spilled ink. She wasn’t wearing makeup, not that she needed much with that creamy skin. Still, a little lipstick and a dab of mascara wouldn’t have hurt her.

She practically threw her beaver suit at Glenn. “The head and the sign are out at the intersection. I stuck them behind the power box.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Glenn retorted.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Dean whipped open the car door before she decided to throw another punch. As she climbed in, Glenn thrust his free hand at Dean. “It’s been great talking to you. Wait’ll I tell Ben that Dean Robillard was here.”

“Give him my best.”

“You told me your name was Heath,” the Beav said as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“Heath Champion is my stage name. My real name is Dean.”

“How did Glenn know your real name?”

“We met last year at a gay bar in Reno.” He slipped on a pair of Prada aviators with green lenses and gunmetal frames.

“Glenn’s gay?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know.”

The Beav’s husky laugh had a disconcertingly wicked edge, as if she was enjoying her own private joke. But then, as she turned away to look out the window, her laughter faded and trepidation darkened those grape candy eyes. It made him wonder if the Beav didn’t have a few secrets of her own hiding behind that feisty exterior.

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.”