Sweet Talk Me (41 page)

“Uh huh, I know,” he said dismissively.

He hadn’t shaved for days—typical behavior for your average macho male celebrity—but he was Ralph Lauren handsome, too, tall and broad-shouldered. A man’s man, for sure, but distinguished—elegant, even—in the way that a sweaty, mud-laden horse with highly muscled flanks is when it wins the Kentucky Derby.

Shock and—she had to admit it—
awe
were quickly replaced by indignation. His eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of alcohol. Henry was upstairs, for goodness’ sake. “I’ve got some bad news for you, Mr. Wilder.” Her voice shook just a little, but he was only a man—and an actor at that. “This isn’t your lighthouse.”

“For the next two months it is,” he shot back and dropped his bag with a thunk, managing to avoid the puddle forming at his feet. “I traded Callum four front-row seats to a Lakers game to get this place. That’s a business transaction. I have rights.”

His tone was deliberate, gritty, as if he were facing a Bad Guy. A Bad Guy who was gonna lose.

“You don’t really expect me to buy that,” she said.

“What?”

She laced her right arm over her left. “You’re in a
light
house. Not a courthouse. I’m not your perp, and
you’re
drunk.”

He scowled at an invisible audience first, then looked her up and down, taking his time. She was used to that—but he was getting off on the wrong foot with her in a big way.

“Hey,” she warned him. “Mind your manners.”

She shifted on her feet, nervous again because suddenly he exuded unholy joy, his eyes glowing the same green golden-brown as the tips of marsh grass caught in a beam of sunlight.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “You’re the hot tamale who starred in
Hell on Wheels
.”

Released online-only, five years ago. It had gone viral, too, but in a bad way. Which was why Lacey was no longer a natural blond. She tossed her head. “Don’t get sexist with me, Mr. Stud Muffin.”

“Oh, for crying out loud. It was a compliment.” He lifted a
very
suggestive brow. “Greta.”

He might be a pain in her backside right now, but, Lord, he drew the eye. And he’d seen her movie. She couldn’t believe it! Her whole body responded to the new energy he put out—at her expense, yes, but she’d always liked bad people. Really bad people. Not pretend ones like Sheena who rebelled because they needed attention but people who bucked the system because they were too smart to stay bored—too selfish to sacrifice fun.

Like her.

But she was done. Done with bad people and the excitement they brought into her life. For Henry’s sake, she was willing to learn bored. There had to be something to it.

“You look like
I Love Lucy
now,” he said. “But you’re still Greta Gildensturm. You can’t hide those eyes, or that—that—”

Despite her warnings, he gazed at her as if she were Cool Whip and he was the spoon—which considering the source, she knew she should find flattering. But she was over all that malarkey and over all the men who did it, even one-in-a-billion men like Mr. Beau Hot Stuff Wilder. And because he must have valued his life, he didn’t finish the sentence.

“Her name was Lucy Ricardo, not
I Love Lucy
.” She made a
duh
face. “That was the name of the show.” And she refused to acknowledge her character’s name in
Hell on Wheels
. She’d refuse to her dying day. She’d refuse even after death, if that were possible. She’d come and haunt anyone who tried to put her and Greta Gildensturm together.

“She’ll always be
I Love Lucy
to me.” Smug. Still a little drunk. But damned cute. And bad clear through.

Oh, God. The worst kind of man.

And the best kind of movie star.

She crossed her arms over her ample breasts, which she’d declined to have reduced. Her back didn’t hurt. So why should she? Was it her fault God made her that way? And she was scared of doctors and knives and, oh, anything that had to do with medicine, including Band-Aids and Luden’s Cherry Cough Drops, which she’d choked on once when she was five.

So it would be a cold day in hell when she got a breast reduction.

“Let me get this straight,” she said. “If you meet someone who looks like Theodore Cleaver, you’re gonna say, you look like
Leave It to Beaver
? Does that make sense?”

He didn’t seem to be listening. “And you were just in the news. You spilled a whole pitcher of margaritas over Callum’s head at a West Hollywood restaurant with Monica Lowry sitting right next to him. Don’t tell me you wanted to break up those two lovebirds. They deserve each other.” He lifted a wet cigar to his mouth and clamped down on it, grinning. “Yep,
Hell on Wheels
and Greta Gildensturm both trended on Twitter that day.”

But not Lacey Clark. No one knew her real name because she wasn’t a memorable enough actress, was she? She wasn’t even memorable enough to get on
Survivor
or any B-list Hollywood reality show. She was on the F list. F for failure. And there was a much worse F word to apply to her acting career, but she was a lady, and she wouldn’t use it, much less think it.

Which might explain why she liked fudge so much. And they made a lot of it on Indigo Beach. That was one good thing about being here.

“You can go to hell.” Lacey angled her chin at the open door. “And lose the cigar while you’re at it.”

His grin disappeared, and he threw the cigar outside. “Wow. You really
are
a buzzkill.”

“Apparently guys like you have nothing better to do than point that out.”

“Guys like me?”

He might think he was one of a kind. But he wasn’t. There were plenty of spoiled, rich, handsome, charming men—many of them
actors
, a word she could barely say anymore without seeing red—who’d been blessed with a confidence they hadn’t earned. But she wouldn’t bother to explain. His kind was too cocky to get it.

“Callum’s a jackass,” he said. “But I’m not Callum. So lay off the I-hate-men routine, please, until you see the guy—or guys—who’ve actually done you wrong. ’Kay?”

“Fine.” She felt a small stab of guilt—but not on his behalf. Oh, no. He’d merely reminded her that she’d let Callum off too easy. “I’ll overlook your general lack of sensitivity and make you a cup of coffee.” Maybe she’d find out how he knew Callum. “But then you’re leaving. If you’re not sober enough to drive thirty minutes from now, I’ll call the sheriff to pick you up. Now that’s a Tweet that would trend! Why don’t you get on there right now and let everyone know you were driving under the influence?”

The rain fell steadily but with less force. It had wimped out, something she wasn’t going to do anymore.

“I didn’t drive,” he said, “and I’m not going anywhere. Nor do I Tweet. My assistant does.” He went to the door. “Thanks, doll,” he called to someone and blew a kiss.

There was the honk of a horn, and then the loud, sputtering sound of a car engine starting up.

“Wait!” Lacey pushed past him. “Was that your assistant?” From the light of the small sconce on the portico, she caught a glimpse of a silhouette of big pageant hair in the driver’s seat of a white Ford pickup truck. It spun up some sand and took off, its oversized tires and raised chassis rocking like mad over the uneven surface of the drive as it sped away. Lacey recognized monster truck rally mania when she saw it.

Over her shoulder, Beau Wilder murmured, “You could call her that. Just for the past twenty-four hours.”

“Ewww.”

He shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he watched her go. “I love a woman who can drive like a bat outta hell. Cooks up a storm, too. Homemade biscuits and ham this morning, along with her mama’s own peach jam. Suh-weet.”

And he didn’t mean about the jam, either. That much was obvious.

Lacey had had enough. “You’ll have to walk or call your one-day assistant back for a ride. If she’s not here in half an hour, I’m calling the police.”

He pulled out his phone. “I don’t think so.
You’re
trespassing. Not me.” He dialed a number and held the phone to his ear.

“Who are you calling?” Her heart pounded.

“Sheriff’s office.” His face was serene.

“
No
.” She swiped at his phone.

But he swiftly lifted his arm. “Why not? You’re about to call them anyway.”

“We can solve this,” she said, realizing too late that he’d never dialed, “without contacting the authorities.”

Dammit, she’d messed up. So she tossed her head and stared him down like a viper hypnotizing its prey.

Mr. Wilder cocked his head. “Whoa.”

She put her hand on her right hip and turned her left foot out to intensify the effect.

But all he did was send her a searing look—he was good at that—and tuck the phone back in his pocket. “Were you ever an evil first-grade teacher in another life? Because I swear you’re channeling Mrs. Biddle right now. She’s why I hate naps and milk in little cartons to this day.”

“You were the non-stop talker, weren’t you? Or the sly boy who hid on the playground at the end of recess when you had a substitute teacher?”

“Don’t change the subject. I thought you were all about getting the police involved.”

A flush of heat spread across her chest and up her neck. “Why should I? I’ve got a lease. You don’t. Your consolation prize is that cup of coffee, and then you’re outta here. Deal with it.”

“Little lady”—he opened his jacket and pulled out a plastic grocery bag with an oblong square shape inside—“since I’m actually where I’m supposed to be, and you might be kinda cute when you’re not frowning—I’ll try to be patient. I’ve got a steak, and I’m about to cook it. And then I’m going to sit back and enjoy my new place, me and Jim Beam, since the liquor store was all out of Jack.” He tossed the steak on the table, pulled a silver flask out of another pocket, twisted off the cap, and took a swig. “Sorry, but you’re not invited, although I could be persuaded to change my mind.” He cocked that famous brow at her.

Damn him for being so good at that. “Forget it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Their eyes met, and for a split second, she thought he saw everything she’d been trying to hide.

He advanced toward her, his tread slow, careful. She wasn’t in physical danger. That she knew. His was the careful walk of a man who was either still drunk or hungover—hardly aggressive. But it was more than that. He approached her the way he’d done that horse with the broken leg in the last war movie he’d made.

She stuck her chin up. No need to feel sorry for her. She was A-okay. She had a head on her shoulders, and she’d been through the wringer in the craziest town on the West Coast and come out the other side not totally crushed. And, man, had she seen some people out in L.A. plowed over, innocents like her who’d gone out there to find themselves and lost themselves instead.

But Hollywood crazy had nothing on Southern crazy.
Therefore
, she told herself as she exhaled through her nose,
I can handle anything, including this man
.

When he was a mere foot away, he stopped.

“If you’re hoping Callum’s gonna show,” he said in that velvety-rough voice that had melted millions of women’s hearts, “I hate to tell you this—he’s not coming. But you can keep me company for a couple hours instead. If your heart’s broken, that is.” He chucked her chin softly. “Maybe that accounts for your ornery attitude.”

She pushed past him, her hands trembling, and straightened the placemats on one side of the table. Dancing blue crab and shrimp. Henry loved them. “I’m not heartbroken.” She looked up. “And you’re obviously a womanizer, a trait I find a complete turn-off. How do you know Callum anyway?”

“We go way back.”

“Why’d he give you a key to this place?”

“I’m doing the movie. And seeing as he jumped ship with Monica, he handed over his key.”

“His?” She gave a short laugh. “It wasn’t his to give.”

“Maybe it wasn’t yours to take. Why are you in Monica’s rental?”

He had her there. “She owes me.”

“A likely story.”

“You know what?” She sent him her best withering look. “I really don’t need any actors around here.”

Understatement of the century.

She needed sleep, salt air, wind, and Henry. She needed a job, too.

“It’s a moot point,” he replied. “You’re not staying.”

“Yes, I am.” Her words might as well have been hammered into rock by a big, sweaty hand gripping a chisel, they were so solid. “You may be a big star, but I got here first. That counts for something under the law. You’ll have to pry me outta here by my fingernails, you hear? Or spend weeks trying to evict me. Your publicist won’t appreciate the news stories that’ll come out of that.”

The corner of his mouth crooked. “Here’s your problem, Greta. You overact. All Southerners do. It’s in our blood to live larger than life. Doesn’t matter if we come from a trailer park or a mansion. It’s our thing. But here’s a secret: if you want to make it big in Hollywood, you gotta bury your own heart. It’s easy for me. I don’t have one.”

“Talk about overacting.” She almost rolled her eyes but then decided to show him she could do
restrained
and
mature
with the best of them. “What’d you do? Sell it to the devil? Or did some woman rip it out?”

He sent her a look, stood still and tall. Dignified. She felt vaguely embarrassed, but then she remembered she’d seen that same look on him on the big screen when he’d played a hero attorney who sued a big, bad company on behalf of an entire town of poor coal miners.

“All I’m saying,” she said, “is that you’re throwing drama right back at me. Of course you have a heart. You couldn’t have played all those roles without one.”

“You saying I’m good?”

“
No
.” She gave another short laugh. Was he kidding? She wasn’t going to say that, not when he was trying to throw her out on her ear! “I’m just saying I see why maybe you make the big bucks.
Maybe
.”

She winced. It was not intended to be a smile in any way, shape, or form, so it annoyed her when he chuckled.