Shameless (3 page)

On a howl of pain, he let her go. Since The Pope was blocking the exit, she ran toward the ladies' room. Nero would have chased her, but the wide-shouldered customer who reminded her of Phillip had sprung from the bar, stuck out a booted foot and tripped him.

“The lady said to let her go,” said a hard voice as the short, dark thug went sprawling into chairs and tables that toppled on top of him.

“Stay out of this. The witch owes us money.”

It was an exciting conversation. She would have loved to have stayed and listened, but it didn't seem smart to stick around. There was a window in the ladies' room just big enough for her to squeeze out of.

Once she made it to the ladies' room, the shouts from the bar got louder. Mo must have tackled the other guy.

“You a cop?” The Pope yelled.

“He's got cops' eyes. He moves like a cop, too—”

“We gotta blow this joint.”

“What about her?”

“Later—”

As Stella stood on the toilet and opened the window,
she heard gunshots pop in the bar. In a panic, she shoved her guitar through the window. Then she scrambled out of it herself, only to lose her hold on the window frame and fall so hard, she nearly broke her ankle.

She got to her feet, straightened her ripped gown and then fluffed her hair. When she reached down to get her guitar, it wasn't there.

A large hand curved out of the darkness, and she jumped about a mile and then moaned in pain because she'd landed with all her weight on her bad ankle.

“Easy. I won't hurt you.”

The big, handsome guy from the other end of the bar, the one who'd tripped Nero, held out her guitar.

She grabbed it and hugged it to her chest.

“Need a ride?” he asked in a hard, precise voice.

“As a matter of fact—” She blurted out her address.

“You can't go home. Can't stay in Vegas, either. Not with those guys after you. They'll kill you…or worse.”

She gulped in a breath and then followed him to a sedan that was parked in the shadows. “But—”

“Do you think those guys are going to quit if you can't give them what they want?”

She swallowed.

“Honey, they know where you live.”

“You're scaring me.”

After he helped her into the front seat of the vehicle, he said, “Didn't your mama ever teach you never to ride with strangers?”

“I didn't have a mama.”

He shut her door. “Everybody has a mama.”

When he slid behind the wheel, she said, “I was five when she died.”

“Too bad.” He started the engine and revved it.

“You don't know the half of it. Foster homes. Cin
derella. The whole bit. Only without the prince. But when I was little, I used to sing with my mama on stage. She told me I was going to be a star. And…and I believed her. But she died….” Her voice shook. “On a cheerier note, if you're a bad stranger, I can always beat you up with my guitar.”

He didn't laugh as they sped away. “That'd be a waste of a good guitar.”

“Thanks for saving me.”

“So, where to?”

“The bus station.”

“And then?” he persisted.

“Texas.” She was surprised by her answer.
Texas?

“Is that home?”

“Not exactly. But I have an old boyfriend with a hero complex.” Phillip—he was the only man she knew tough enough to save her if those guys ever caught up with her. Oh, dear. Phillip—

“The poor sucker your song's about. You left him, didn't you?”

“He'll still help me.” He would. She knew he would.

“What if he's married?”

“He's not.”

“And you know this how?”

She stared out her window at the bright glitter of Vegas. She wasn't about to admit she'd kept tabs by reading the Mission Creek newspaper online, so she bit her lip and said nothing.

When they got to the bus station, he got out with her and carried her guitar to the ticket window for her. Pulling out his wallet, he said, “You gave your sleazy manager all your money, didn't you—”

“No, but I left my purse in my, er, dressing room.”

He counted out five one-hundred-dollar bills.

“I don't need nearly that much.”

“It's a loan.” He handed her his card.

“I'll pay it back. All of it. I really will….”

His face was grim as she read his card. “A.T.F. You're A.T.F.” Her voice softened when she read his name. “Cole Yardley.”

“Good luck,” was all he said before he strode away.

“Thank you, Mr. Yardley,” she whispered after him. “Thank you.” Although he'd refused to open up, something about him made her long for Phillip.

She broke the first hundred and bought a one-way ticket to Mission Creek, Texas, where Phillip now lived. Phillip's uncle had died, and he'd inherited the ranch and made it his home.

Oh, Phillip—

Mission Creek, Texas

I
t was 10:00 a.m. when the bus driver roared to a stop in front of the café in a swirl of dust under wide, hot, Texas skies. Not that the slim little girl behind him in what looked to be her mama's sophisticated black evening dress noticed. She was curled into a tight ball, her pretty face squashed against the back of her seat cushion.

Stella jumped when the driver shook her gently and said, “Mission Creek.”

Not Stella anymore, she reminded herself drowsily. Not in Mission Creek. Here, she was Celeste Cavanaugh, a nobody.

“Didn't mean to scare you,” the driver said as she rubbed her eyes and blinked into the white glare.

“Thanks. Give me a minute, okay?”

“Take your time. It's hot out there,” he warned.

July. In Texas. Of course it was hot.

“No hotter than Vegas,” she replied.

From the frying pan into the fire, she thought as she got up, gathered her guitar and stumbled out of the bus in her low-cut black dress and strappy high heels. For a long moment she just stood there in the dust and the baking heat. Then lifting her torn skirt up so it wouldn't drag in the dirt, she slung her guitar over her bare shoulder. Cocking her head at a saucy angle, she fought to pretend she was a star even though all she was doing was limping across an empty parking lot toward the café that was Mission Creek's answer for a bus station.

The historic square with its southwestern flair hadn't changed much. With a single glance she saw the quaint courthouse, the bank, the post office and the library. She was back in Mission Creek, the town she'd almost chosen to be her home. She was back—not that anybody knew or cared.

Inside the café, she hobbled to the ladies' room before she selected a table. It was a bad feeling to look in the mirror and hate the person she saw. The harsh fluorescent lighting combined with the white glare from the bathroom window revealed the thirty-hour bus ride's damage and way more reality than Celeste could face this early. Shutting her eyes, she splashed cold water on her cheeks and throat.

What would Phillip think when he saw her? Her eye-liner was smudged. What was left of her glossy red lipstick had caked and dried in the middle of her bottom lip. Her long yellow hair was greasy and stringy. She didn't have a comb, but she licked off her lipstick.

When she was done, she had a bad taste in her mouth, so she gargled and rinsed with lukewarm tap water. Oh,
how she longed for a shower and a change of underwear and clothes.

Just when she'd thought she couldn't sink lower than Harry's, here she was at the Mission Creek Café in a ripped evening gown with a sprained ankle. Mission Creek Café. Phillip had brought her to lunch here once. The café was noted for its down-home country cooking. Oh, how Phillip had adored the biscuits.

Carbs. Celeste hadn't approved of him eating so many carbs.

She glanced at her reflection again. She was thirty-two. There were faint lines beneath her eyes. Faint.

Seven years later, and she was right back where she started. Still… Someday…

“I'm going to be big! A star! I am!”

A girl could dream, couldn't she?

The smell of biscuits wafted in the air.

Biscuits! In between dreaming, a girl had to eat. She was starving suddenly, and she had nearly four hundred dollars tucked snugly against her heart—more than enough for breakfast. After all, this wasn't the Ritz in Paris. This was Texas where carbs, and lots of them, the greasier the better, came cheap.

Celeste found a table in the back and ordered. When her plump waitress with the mop of curly brown hair returned with platters of eggs and mountains of hash browns and biscuits slathered in butter, Celeste decided to work up her nerve to ask about Phillip.

“More coffee, please,” Celeste began.

“Sure, honey.”

As the waitress poured, Celeste bit her lip and stared out the window. Not that there was much of a view other than the highway and a mesquite bush and a prickly pear or two.

Celeste could feel the woman's eyes on her. Still, she managed to get out her question in a small, shy voice.

“Does Phillip Westin still hang out at the Lazy W?”

The coffee pouring stopped instantly. “Who's asking?” The friendly, motherly voice had sharpened. The woman's black eyes seared her like lasers.

Celeste cringed a little deeper into her booth. “Can't a girl ask a simple question?”

“Not in this town, honey. Everybody's business is everybody's business.”

“And I had such high hopes the town would mature.”

“So—who's asking about Phillip?”

“Just an old friend.”

“Westin has lots of lady friends.”

“He does?” Celeste squeaked, and then covered her mouth.

“He meets them out at those fancy dances at the club.”

“The Lone Star Country Club?”

“You been there?”

“A time or two.”

“What's your name, honey?”

“Forget it.”

“You're mighty secretive all of a sudden.”

“Last I heard that wasn't a crime,” Celeste said.

The waitress's smile died and she scurried off to the kitchen in a huff. Watching the doors slam, Celeste felt morose with guilt. She was running from killers, deliberately putting Phillip in danger. He'd moved on, made friends with real ladies at that fancy club he'd joined as soon as he'd moved here permanently.

He was wealthy. She was the last thing from a lady, the last thing he needed in his orderly life.

Her appetite gone, she set her fork down with a clatter.
What was the matter with her? Why had she argued with the waitress like that? It was just that she felt so lonely and scared and desperate, and so self-conscious about how cheap she looked. And then the woman had told her Phillip had lots of classy girlfriends.

Oh, why had she come here? Why had she ever thought— If she was smart, she'd catch the next bus to San Antonio. Then she'd lose herself in the big city.

Celeste should have known that wouldn't be the end of her exchange with the waitress. Not in a nosy little town like Mission Creek. Before her eggs had time to congeal, the plump woman was back with a cordless telephone and a great big gottcha smile.

“He's home,” the waitress said.

“You didn't call him—”

The waitress winked at her and grinned slyly as she listened to Phillip.

“Oh, no…. You didn't. Hang up.”

“She's got long yellow hair. It's sort of dirty. And a low-cut black dress with a rip up the left thigh. Nice legs, though. Sensational figure. And a great big shiny guitar that has a booth seat all to itself.” She hesitated. “Yes, a guitar! And…and she's hurt… Her ankle….” Another pause. “What?” Again there was a long silence.

Celeste stared out at the prickly pear and chewed her quivering bottom lip. Then she buried her face in her hands.

“He wants to talk to you.”

With a shaky hand, Celeste lifted the phone to her ear. “H-hello…?”

“Celeste?” Phillip's deep Marine Corps-issue voice sliced out her name with a vengeance.

“Phillip?”

“Mabel said you're limping.”

“I'm fine. Never better.”

“You're in some kind of trouble—”

She bit her lip and coiled a greasy strand of gold around a fingertip with chipped pearly nail polish. What was the use of lying to him? “I—I wish I could deny it.”

“And you want me to rescue you….”

She swallowed as she thought of The Pope and Nero. If they followed her and killed Phillip, it would be all her fault.

Her throat burned and her eyes got hot. She squeezed them shut because the waitress was watching.

“How do you intend to play this? Sexy? Repentant? Do you see me riding into town on a white horse and carrying you out of the café in my arms?”

“Don't make this harder.”

“What do you want from me then?”

Not to end up in some back alley with my skirt tossed over my head, my panties shredded and my throat slit.

“Just to see you,” she said softly.

He laughed, but the brittle sound wasn't that deep chuckle she'd once loved. “You want way more than that and we both know it.”

He knew how she hated that military, big man, know-it-all tone. She couldn't bear it any more than she could bear to answer him when he was feeling all self-righteous and judgmental.

“I wasn't born rich…like you…. Maybe if you'd gone through even half of what…” She stopped. That was a low blow. “I—I'm sorry.”

For an instant—just for an instant—she saw her mother's white, lifeless face in her coffin and remembered how little and helpless she'd felt.

“Stay at the café. I'll send Juan to get you as soon as he gets back with the truck.”

“Juan? I'd… I'd rather you came….”

But he didn't hear her heartfelt plea. He'd already hung up.

Thirty minutes later Phillip's ranch hand arrived in a whirl of dust. When Celeste saw him, she grabbed her guitar.

The waitress stared at the blowing dust and said to no one in particular, “It's awful dry out there. We could do with some rain.”

Juan was short and dark, and dressed in a red shirt and baggy jeans coated with a week's supply of dirt. He didn't speak much English, and she didn't speak any Spanish. So she spent the ten-minute drive singing to the radio and watching the scenery go by. If you could call it scenery.

Unlike Vegas, south Texas was flat and covered with thorny brush. When they flew through the gate, Juan braked in front of a tall white house with a wraparound porch. Dust swirled around the truck and the wide front porch as he lit a cigarette.

She coughed. “Where's Mr. Westin?”

“Señor Westin?” Juan clomped up the stairs and pointed inside the house. Then he opened the screen door like a gentleman and beckoned for her to go inside. She nodded. Picking up her long skirt, she hesitantly stepped across the threshold into the living room.

The second she saw the burgundy couch she'd picked out at Sears, her heart began to beat too fast. Nothing much had changed. The same easy chair she'd bought for Phillip still squatted in front of the television set. Maybe the set was a little larger. She wasn't sure.

She knew her way around the house, not that she in
tended to explore the rooms in the house she'd once called home.

The Lazy W had been a rundown ranch Phillip had visited most summers as a kid. He'd grown up loving it. As an adult, he'd helped his uncle out when he'd been unable to do the work himself. Then a few years back, his elderly uncle had died and left him everything including the ranch.

Phillip had told her several of his friends who'd served under his command in the 14th Unit of the U.S. Marine Corps lived nearby, too. The guys had all belonged to the Lone Star Country Club, so Phillip had joined because they'd told him that's where the prettiest girls in town were. Apparently when the 14th unit was off duty, their favorite sport was chasing women.

Once a Marine, always a Marine, she thought grimly as she set her guitar down by the front door. Oh, dear, now that she was inside, it was all coming back to her. She'd been so crazily in love with Phillip, but at the same time, she'd wanted to be a star for as long as she could remember. Loving Phillip had only made her want it more. She'd wanted to be somebody…somebody special enough for Phillip to love on an equal footing, a somebody like her beautiful mother.

The two obsessions had fought within her. She'd felt deliriously happy when she was in Phillip's arms, and then the minute he'd gone off to war she'd felt scared and trapped. Then he'd gone missing.

How long did a woman wait for a man missing behind enemy lines? Her fear that he'd been dead, like her parents, had driven her mad. She'd felt as if she'd be a nothing forever if she didn't do something besides wait at the ranch. These very walls had seemed to close in
on her like a prison. She'd had to run. She'd had to, but Phillip hadn't seen it that way.

When he'd turned up alive and called her, she'd been overjoyed. She'd wanted to see him so badly, to tell him about recording her first song, the song he'd inspired.

Oh, why hadn't he listened? Why hadn't he been able to understand? All he'd understood was that she'd left him.

“But I didn't know you were coming back! I thought you were dead!” she'd cried over and over again.

He hadn't listened. He'd believed the worst of her.

Now she was back in Phillip's living room. How would he treat her? Was he in love with someone else?

“Phillip,” she cried, suddenly wanting to stop the bittersweet memories as well as her doubts about the wisdom of coming here.

“Phillip?”

He didn't answer.

Was she really so washed up she no longer had a chance to make it as a country-western star? Should she just give up and settle for some ordinary life filled with babies and chores with some ordinary man? Not that she'd ever thought of Phillip as ordinary.

She wandered into his kitchen. Dishes were piled high in the sink. She didn't have to answer all life's questions today. All she had to do was to convince Phillip to help her until she could find a job and could get back on her feet. He knew people. Maybe he could even get her a job if he wanted to. The Phillip she remembered liked to help people. Surely he'd help her. Even her. Surely—

“Phillip?”

Again, he didn't answer, but when she stepped into the hall, she heard his shower running. At the sound, she almost stopped breathing. Paralyzed, she stood outside
his bedroom door until the water was turned off, and she heard the same old pipe that had always moaned groan and rumble. The shuddering sound broke the tension and she laughed.

They'd made love in that shower more times than she could count. She leaned against the wooden wall behind her and fought against the memories.