Reilly's Return (16 page)

He shot her a glance over his shoulder. “Come on, sheila. Shake a leg or we’ll be late for rehearsal.”

J
AYNE HAD NEVER
lived through anything quite like the two weeks following the press’s discovery of Reilly’s whereabouts. After the initial call from the tabloid reporter, the leak in their security quickly cracked wide open. In short order Anastasia was overflowing with reporters and fans, all eager for a glimpse—or a piece—of Pat Reilly.

It was a case of mass hysteria unlike anything Jayne had ever imagined. They followed him everywhere. Mobs of them. It had become necessary to post guards at the theater doors. Reilly had reserved rooms in every motel, hotel, and inn in the area to keep everyone guessing as to where he was actually staying.

“Something like this happened on
Star Trek
once,” Jayne said as she and Reilly met on a deserted
side street three blocks down from the theater. Even from there they could see the swarms lying in wait at the building’s main entrance. “Captain Kirk and the whole landing party went onto this planet where once a year the whole population just went nuts and ran around the streets screaming and carrying on.” She frowned at the similarities. “I never thought that would happen here. Isn’t life strange?”

Reilly preferred a stronger word for it, preceded by a string of colorful adjectives. He’d damn near had it with being the centerpiece of a three-ring circus. He hadn’t anticipated the interest his absence from L.A. would spark. Everyone in the business or clinging to the fringes of it wanted to know why he was in Anastasia doing community theater for el zippo money when he could have been stuffing his pockets with his advance for
Road Raider Part III
. On top of that was the interest that blasted article in
WE
had generated. He was going to strangle his publicist for arranging that. Not once in his thirty-two years had he yearned to be known as the sexiest man in the universe.

And the worst part of all this hoopla was the way it was interfering with his courtship of Jayne. Things had been progressing so well until the press had descended on them. Suddenly they were
living in a fish bowl, and Jayne hadn’t taken to it at all. She had pulled back, retreated to her role as observer rather than participant, watching the mayhem swirl around him, but not allowing it to touch her.

She had not pulled away from him physically. They had managed to outwit the hordes so far; no one had yet discovered where Reilly was staying. They managed to escape the madness for a few hours every night after returning to Jayne’s house via an elaborate escape route. And every night she willingly came into his arms. But emotionally she had begun to distance herself. He could sense the hesitancy in her. She was having second thoughts about being involved with him, and Reilly didn’t like it one bit. His patience, which was limited at best, was frayed right down to the nub.

“It’s creepy the way people follow you around,” Jayne grumbled, giving voice to some of her own impatience. It unnerved her the way fans—particularly female fans—sought Reilly out. They were willing to do literally anything to get his attention. Hotel keys and frilly bits of lingerie had been left at the stage door for him every night, along with sacks full of fan mail, written marriage proposals, and proposals that weren’t anywhere near as honorable.

It was intimidating in the extreme. For a few days Jayne had allowed herself to believe she could have Reilly all to herself, and that had been wonderful—to pretend she could be the center of his universe and he could be hers. But that was not the case. She was going to have to share him with an overly adoring, mostly female public. If she was going to have a relationship with him, she was going to be swept up into the madness that surrounded him. The sense of peace and sense of place she had worked so hard to attain would be blown right out of the water.

And where would she be left if one of the many lovely ladies ready to throw themselves at Reilly’s feet, or any other part of his delectable male anatomy, snagged the actor’s attention? Jayne loved him, but she would never bathe him in the kind of blind adoration some would, the kind actors of her acquaintance had demanded from their partners—one after another after another.

“I didn’t invite them here,” Reilly snapped.

“I didn’t say you did,” Jayne snapped back.

Stewing, they stalked off down the deserted side street. They took the secret route to the theater, creeping through a series of alleys and buildings that adjoined the theater building. Jayne carried a gigantic ring of keys which she sorted
through as they went. She let them into the hardware store, where they had to go down into the basement to get into Liebowitz Deli, where they had to go through a meat locker to get to Babbette’s Hypnosis and Tanning Parlor. The last leg of their incredible journey was to climb out a second-story window at Marx Appliance Barn and scramble down the fire escape then dash across the alley to the side door of the theater.

“I hope you appreciate what I’m going through for you,” Jayne said as she made her way down the fire escape. “I moved here to find spiritual tranquility. I don’t think anybody ever found spiritual tranquility on a fire escape.”

Above her, Reilly ground his teeth. Spiritual tranquility? He had a different name for the reason Jayne had moved to Anastasia—cowardice. But he bit his tongue on that word.

“Oh, pardon me,” he said, unable to keep all his frustration at bay. “Whose stupid play is it I’m donatin’ my time to?”

Jayne dropped the last three feet to the wet pavement and brushed a wild snarl of mist-damp hair out of her eyes. She glared at Reilly as he joined her, looking rugged instead of rumpled. “If you think it’s stupid, then why are you here when
you could be throwing your career away on some sorry excuse for a movie instead?”

“I’m here because I made a promise.”

So they were back to that, were they? He’d made a promise and his code of honor demanded he keep it. It wasn’t the line she’d wanted to hear and her expression clearly said so. Beyond that one careless declaration of love delivered two weeks before, Reilly had made no mention of his feelings, and Jayne had been too afraid of getting the wrong answer to ask. She wanted him here because he loved her, not out of some sense of obligation.

Hurt, she stared up at him and willed her chin to stop trembling. “If that’s your only reason, then you can leave,” she said. “You’ve kept your promise.”

“Aw, Jaynie,” Reilly said on a long sigh. His breath silvered the damp night air. He slid his arms around her and drew her unyielding form into his embrace. It was like holding a post. “Don’t let’s fight, okay?” The leather of his jacket squeaked as he rubbed Jayne’s back through the army surplus coat she wore over her dress. “I know the press and the rest are a pain in the neck. They’ll lose interest in a day or two.”

“You said that two weeks ago.”

“Maybe they’ll stay for the performance,” he said, changing tracks. “Think of the money that’ll
mean for your young artists. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Jayne nuzzled her cheek against the warmth of his flannel shirt, breathing in the scents that always made her think of Reilly—leather, soap, and man. She felt unaccountably miserable. “I don’t know what I want,” she mumbled, secretly cursing her bracelet for not providing her with an answer to that question.

“Do you want me?” Reilly questioned in a sexy voice, his hands drifting down to bracket her hips and lift her against him. It was a query with more than one meaning, and he wanted a yes on both counts, but now was not the time to push Jayne. Even he could see that.

Jayne dodged the playful kisses he tried to plant on her mouth and cheeks. She couldn’t help but chuckle. “We’re in an alley,” she pointed out.

“Yeah,” he murmured against her throat. “Ever done it in an alley?”

“No and I’m not going to start now,” she said primly, even though a panorama of steamy alley scenes was playing through her fertile imagination.

Reilly set her down and shrugged as they moved through the shadows toward the theater door. “Don’t know what you’re missing, luv,” he said cockily.

With a wry smile, Jayne shook her head and sorted through her jumble of keys. There was one thing she could always count on: Reilly’s libido.

“There he is!” The cry went up followed by a volley of screams and the thunder of feet on pavement as a crowd stampeded toward them down the alley. “It’s Reilly! It’s Pat Reilly!”

There was another thing she could always count on, Jayne reflected with a sinking heart: Reilly’s fans.

They made it into the building in the nick of time, slamming and bolting the door behind them. The rest of the cast and crew stared at them with looks of mingled amazement and worry. They looked like the occupants of the Alamo, maintaining their vigil while an overwhelming army swarmed outside the gates.

Jayne forced a bright smile. She was, after all, their spiritual leader. She was the one who wanted to encourage people to join the theater and get involved. “Isn’t this fun?”

Marlene Desidarian shook a meaty finger at her, a dozen copper bracelets rattling on her wrist. “I told you you had your work cut out.” She pointed accusingly at Reilly. “His aura glows red.”

“I could have foretold all of this by reading his palm,” Wanda Styles said in a husky voice. She
patted her hand against her chest, which was mostly exposed by the low-cut black dress she wore. Her inch-long red nails glowed under the stage lights. Tonight she had a spider ring on each finger.

Reilly inched behind Jayne for protection. Wanda Styles was the closest thing to a witch he ever cared to encounter. Not that he was superstitious or anything. He was just none too keen on the idea of Wanda reading his palm or any other part of him.

“I can’t imagine how all those people found out Mr. Reilly was here,” Cybill Huntley mused. “I only told my mother … and my husband … and my hairdresser.”

“I only told my secretary,” Phil Potts said. “And she only told her card club.”

So much for swearing people to secrecy, Jayne thought as she looked at her guilty cast. No matter. This had probably all been predestined anyway. It was a test, Jayne thought morosely, wondering whether she and Reilly would pass or fail.

Arnie Von Bluecher stepped forward, looking earnest and enormous. “You vant I should go out and chase dem away from de door, Jayne?”

“No thanks, Arnie. I think Deputy Skreawupp is out there. He can handle things.”

On the other side of the door a voice boomed.
“Break it up you people. Show’s over. Go on home, or I’ll bust you all like ripe melons, and I can do it.”

Jayne sighed and turned her attention to work. “Okay, everybody, let’s get to it. We have just one more week of rehearsal. I want to polish up Act Three tonight, then we’ll take the weekend off because, Lord knows, we could all use a break.”

Reilly sat alone in the wings during the first two scenes, watching Jayne work. She was good. Too good to be wasting her time reviewing other people’s work. Her directing instincts were very strong, and she had a knack for getting the most out of her actors. The cast of
A Taste of Starlight
were rank amateurs, yet Jayne had them relaxed and into their characters, so involved in what they were doing, they would likely forget there was an audience watching them come performance time. Even Cybill, who had been too nervous to speak at the first rehearsal, was hamming it up in her role as the nightclub singer. Jayne had managed to convey to her people that acting was more than simply reading lines and taking direction, it was becoming a whole other person with a certain way of speaking and moving and thinking.

She had an uncanny eye for detail, for expression and vocal inflection and timing. With nothing more than a suggestion for a head movement
or a pause in the middle of a sentence, she could make a scene come alive.

Reilly wondered how she would do behind a camera. His own gut instincts told him she would be good. Heaven knew, she’d gotten more out of him in the few weeks they’d spent on this little play than most of the film directors he’d worked with during his career. She had him working through the wall of insecurity that had sprung up so suddenly in his path. She had him moving forward instead of bolting around side to side like a frightened horse. She had him focusing on positive thoughts rather than negative fears. And those massages she kept giving him weren’t hurting anything either.

Reilly knew he had come to Anastasia in part to escape his insecurity. Instead, Jayne had helped him get on the road to defeating it. She had bolstered his confidence in himself.

He owed her a lot, his little Jaynie, and he meant to pay her back. Pat Reilly wasn’t a man to let a good turn go unrewarded.

Making certain Jayne was still absorbed in helping Marlene and Wanda through their big fight scene with Phil, he picked up his script and pulled another script from inside it—
Everlasting
by Jayne Jordan.

“You’ll be a star, Desiree,” Reilly said, gazing lovingly into the eyes of his leading lady. He pushed his prop glasses up on his nose with his middle finger—exactly the way Bryan did it.