License to Thrill (18 page)

Fresh guilt assaulted him. Obviously she’d read more into last night’s kisses than he intended. He had to set things straight with her.

“About last night…” he started to say but then Francie leaned across the aisle and interrupted him.

“Aren’t you just over the moon excited?” she enthused. “This is the most thrilling thing that’s ever happened in my entire life. I bet I won’t be able to sleep a wink after we get to the bungalow.”

“What about our wedding night, babe, that was pretty thrilling,” her husband Jerry interjected.

Francie waved a hand. “That was fine, sweetie, but this is live television. Imagine. Common ordinary everyday people like us on TV.”

Charlee and Francie chatted up a storm and Mason never got the chance to apologize for kissing her. A few minutes later, the bus pulled up to the studio lot and checked in with the guard at the security gate.

A spotlight shone on a large banner spanning the entrance. It read: T
WILIGHT
S
TUDIOS
C
ONGRATULATES
B
LADE
B
RADFORD ON HIS SECOND
O
SCAR
N
OMINATION.

Blade Bradford.

Hmm. Mason had completely forgotten that Blade Bradford, the actor who had beaten out Gramps for best actor, had recently made a silver screen comeback with a small budget film the previous year that had earned him a best supporting actor nomination.

Charlee nudged him. “Twilight Studios? Is this just happenstance or could this have something to do with Maybelline and Nolan?”

“It is weird but I don’t see how this
Newlywed Game
thing and our grandparents are connected.”

“I don’t trust coincidences,” Charlee said. “Keep your eyes open for a link.”

Edith Beth got on the microphone and started in on her spiel. “Blade Bradford’s Oscar nomination has resurrected not only his own flagging career but has been the saving grace of Twilight Studios that until the unexpected hit of
The Righteous
was on the verge of bankruptcy. Between Blade’s coup and developing television shows like
The New Millennium Newlywed Game,
Twilight is poised to return to its glory days of the 1950s. So see, you guys are part of a history-making event. So give yourselves a big hand.”

On cue, the bus broke out into applause.

Gus pulled the bus to a stop under bright security lights outside a collection of bungalows.

“Back in the early days, actors actually lived in these bungalows while they were making movies,” said Edith Beth. “You’ll be rooming two couples to a bungalow. I’ll call out your names and your bungalow numbers and give you the door key as you get off the bus.”

Mason reached over and squeezed Charlee’s hand. “Here’s where we make a break for it.”

Charlee giggled. “You sound like an escapee from some cheap prison flick.”

“I
feel
like an actor with a third-rate script,” he said. “Keep an eye out for the Malibu. I’m hoping they weren’t allowed on the lot.”

They stood in the aisle and waited their turn to disembark. Edith Beth herded everyone outside while Gus unloaded luggage from the right side of the bus.

“When you get off,” Mason instructed, “head around the front of the bus and go left.”

“Wow. Gentry, taking control. I like your macho side.”

“Charlee, this is no joke.”

“Sorry. Just trying to lighten the tension.”

She was right. He was tense. If he clenched his jaw any tighter, he’d snap off a tooth. Charlee climbed off the bus in front of him and immediately darted to the left. Mason followed right behind.

“Skeet, Violet!” Edith Beth snapped her fingers. “This way. You’re in bungalow five with Jerry and Francie.”

“Hurry,” Mason said. “Before Edith Beth gets hold of us.”

Charlee sprinted ahead and rounded the corner of the closest bungalow before he did, but he hadn’t taken more than two long strides when she did an abrupt U-turn and almost plowed smack-dab into him.

“What?” Startled, he put out an arm to stop her forward momentum and grabbed her wrists between his fingers.

“Go back, go back.” Charlee moved her hands in a shooing motion. “They’re here.”

“Who are here?”

“Our Malibu buddies and they’re coming toward us and they don’t look happy. Move it.”

That’s all it took. He grabbed her arm and hustled her back round the front of the bus to face the frowning Edith Beth.

“You two enjoy being mavericks, don’t you?” the tour director asked in a snippy tone. “Now pick up your suitcases and go to your bungalow.”

Two suitcases remained on the curb. Everyone else was shuffling off in the dark toward the row of cottages. Charlee looked at Mason. “Do you suppose that’s Violet and Skeet’s luggage?”

“Who else would it belong to?”

“But how come their luggage got on and they didn’t?”

Mason shrugged. “Who knows? People and their luggage get separated all the time.”

“Maybe they were making out in the bathroom of the bus terminal.”

“Maybe.”

Mason hurried over to pick up the suitcases. When he bent down, he darted a quick glance under the bus and spied two pairs of legs on the other side.

“Skeet, Violet, hurry up,” Jerry called. “We’re waiting for you guys.”

CHAPTER 11

M
ake the best of a bad situation, Charlee told herself. As long as the Malibu goons were lurking outside, they might as well get some shut-eye. They could worry about escaping after daylight. Sensible advice until she saw the size of the bed she and Mason were expected to share.

“Oooh,” Francie called out from the bungalow’s other bedroom. “Aren’t these beds nice and cozy. Just perfect for snuggling.”

Cozy, hell, in that twin bed wanna-be, they’d be stacked on top of each other like Pringles in a can.

Mason dropped the suitcases on the floor and turned to look at Charlee who hung back in the doorway.

“We sleep in our clothes,” she decreed.

“I’m not arguing.”

“And no touching.”

He cocked his head at the tiny bed. “Be reasonable.”

“Okay then, we sleep back-to-back.”

“Why? Afraid you’ll be tempted?”

“Of what, kicking you out of bed?”

“You can relax, sweetheart. I’m much too tired to even think about molesting you, much less work up the energy to do it.” He peeled off his shoes and flopped down on the bed.

The truth of the matter was, she was
very
tempted and a little disappointed he wasn’t even going to try to molest her.

What in the hell is the matter with you?

It was the idea of lying next to him on that itty-bitty bed that had her thinking crazy thoughts. All she had to do was look at his long form stretched out on the mattress and her stomach performed a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree loop-de-loop.

She was
not
getting emotionally involved with him. She just thought he was kinda sexy and a very good kisser.

Well, stop thinking like that, she chided herself and edged cautiously toward the bed. She left the bedroom door open just in case Mason changed his mind in the night and decided to get frisky. She could make a quick getaway if necessary.

And speaking of getting away, concentrate on how you’re going to get away from the Malibu goons. That’s what’s important.

She kicked off her cowboy boots, turned off the bedside lamp, and gingerly lay down next to Mason.

He didn’t move. Propping herself up on her elbows, she peeked over at him. He appeared to be sound asleep already. Good. She would close her eyes for just a few minutes while she thought about how they were going to get out of this mess. She would plan for tomorrow. She’d plot a way to find Maybelline with or without Mason’s help.

She was not going to think about how solid Mason’s body felt pressed against hers or how the steady sound of his breathing reassured her. Not for one single minute was she going to notice how his long legs hung off the end of the bed or how his beard stubble gave him a roguish appearance in the muted glow of the night-light. She was not going to remember how vulnerable he’d been back in the diner parking lot when that hamburger had smashed Matilda to smithereens or how angry he had gotten just before he’d kissed her for the very first time.

No siree. He was completely out of her head. She was giving herself a mental Mason vaccination. From now on, she was one hundred percent immune to his charms.

Charlee paced the closet-sized dressing room where she and Mason had been told to cool their heels before the live broadcast began at nine.

Before leaving the bungalow that morning, Mason had tried to make a phone call to his brother only to discover the cottages weren’t equipped with telephones. Charlee had peeked outside to see the Malibu still parked in the studio parking lot, although there were no signs of the two gun-toting men.

Not knowing what else to do and faced with Edith Beth shooing them along, they had followed Francie and Jerry and the other couples to the breakfast buffet. The media had interviewed them and then the couples had been ushered over to the studio.

And so, they waited.

Charlee was dressed in the least offensive outfit she could find in Violet Hammersmitz’s suitcase. That meant she was stalking back and forth in a red flouncy-skirted micro-mini, a black faux leather shirt with shoulder pads and four-inch, scarlet, ankle-strap stilettos. She looked like a streetwalker version of Joan Crawford.

She was within inches of putting her sweaty, two-day-old jeans and T-shirt back on and saying to hell with it. Especially since the stilettos were a size too big and she kept falling off them.

Poor Mason hadn’t fared much better. He had gotten stuck wearing Skeet’s gaudy purple, hula girl print Hawaiian shirt, beige Bermuda walking shorts, and bright yellow canvas deck shoes.

Must be hard, she thought with a touch of sympathy, for a pampered blue-blood accustomed to the finest designer haute couture to find himself outfitted in Cheapo-Mart red-light-special duds.

“I don’t want to go on the show,” he repeated for about the twentieth time in the last five minutes.

“It’ll be fine.”

“We’ll be on national television. Representing ourselves as Skeet and Violet Hammersmitz.”

“Don’t sweat it. You’ll live. I’ll live. Skeet and Violet will live.”

“You just don’t understand. What if my family sees the show?”

“Something tells me the Gentrys from Houston Texas are not big fans of daytime television.”

“Somebody my parents know might see us.”

“And that would be the end of the world?”

“Three days ago, I would have thought so. But now, after all we’ve been through, what’s a little parental disapproval in the grand scheme of things?”

“That’s the spirit,” she encouraged. “Rebel. Buck the system. I’d say you’re about ten years overdue.”

“You don’t understand,” he said darkly. “Gentry Enterprises is a high-profile company. We live in a fish-bowl. People watch what we say and do. My family is very conscious of their public image.”

“No kidding.”

“You’re awfully young to be so sarcastic.”

“And you’re awfully old to let your family pull you around by the nose.”

They glared at each other.

“It’s going to be a disaster,” he muttered.

“Look, Mason, going on television beats the alternative. We either go on the show, which gives us time to come up with a plan for eluding Rocko and Bruiser out there, or we might as well just get fitted for cement shoes, go climb into the trunk of their Chevy right now, and be done with it. Come to think of it,” she mused, “cement shoes have got to be more comfortable than these medieval torture devices.” She bent to tug at the straps biting into her ankle.

“You don’t wear high heels much.” His gaze, tracking the length of her bare legs, sent heat waves shimmering through her.

“What was your first clue? The fact that I keep twisting my ankle?”

“There you go with that smart mouth again.”

If he only knew what was going on inside her body. Her sharp tongue was her singular defense against the hot and bothered way he made her feel. The lone barrier that kept her heart safe.

“I’m also guessing you don’t wear short dresses either considering the fact you’re swishing that skirt around so hard you keep flashing me your panties.”

“What!” Aghast, she plastered her hand to the back of her skirt. “Oh, crap, how am I ever going to be able to sit down without giving the audience squirrel shots?”

Mason laughed so hard he almost fell off his chair. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“What?” Charlee narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s so funny?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a woman say ‘squirrel shots’ and not be discussing wildlife photography.”

“That’s because the only women you’re ever around are those hoity-toity stuck-up society women. Squirrel shot is a perfectly legitimate term.”

He was still laughing; his dimples tap dancing their way into her heart. So much for the mental Mason vaccination she’d given herself last night. Apparently his strain of charm was so virulent no adequate inoculation existed.

A heavy sense of inevitability weighted her. She felt like one of those shooting gallery ducks going around and around on the mechanical track, listening to the
ping-ping
of ricocheting bullets, never knowing when she was going to get hit but certain the blast was coming.

“Just keep your legs crossed very tightly and don’t squirm. You’ll be okay.”

“I swear this was the longest skirt in Violet’s suitcase. The woman is a floozy, I’m telling you.” Charlee kept yanking at the hem, trying to make it stretch lower.

Mason eyed her legs again. “If Violet looks anything like you do in that outfit then Skeet is a lucky, lucky man.”

“That does it. I’m going back to the bungalow and putting my blue jeans back on. I can’t have you ogling me like a hunk of bologna.”

“Sweetheart,” Mason said and arched an eyebrow. That simple word sent an arrow of longing straight through her very soul. “Forget bologna. You’re filet mignon all the way.”

She thrust a thumbnail into her mouth and started to gnaw.