Weekend Wife (2 page)

For the first time that morning Emily’s smile was real. How she loved Helga’s feisty spirit. “How are you two doing?” she asked, and chucked Carmen playfully under her soft, smooth chin.

“We’re doin’ okay. I could use a smoke and a drink, and the same for my friend Carmen here,” Helga said dryly, causing the child to giggle. “Yeah. And a massage. That would be nice.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Emily grinned. Turning to Carmen, she stroked the girl’s midnight black hair and looked into her large, clear brown eyes. “You look like you might be feeling a little better,
sí?
”

“Sí.”
Carmen nodded and sneezed.

Emily frowned. “If someone doesn’t stop and give us some help by the end of the day, we’ll need to start thinking about what to do next, okay?”

Shrugging, Carmen smiled widely.

Helga snorted. “Ain’t nobody gonna stop and help us, so you may as well give up and let me teach you how to strip. I know a place you could work where the tips are great.” She paused, her brow furrowed thoughtfully. “At least, they used to be.”

“Thanks, Helga. I’ll keep that in mind. In the meantime, I’d better get back to work. You never know when our knight in shining armor could pull up.”

Helga let loose with a string of skeptical expletives and, rolling her eyes, disappeared into her multilayered plastic ensemble.

Doggedly, Emily rose and strode to the edge of the freeway where she picked up her cardboard plea for help. What she wouldn’t give for a filling meal and a hot shower. And sheets. Clean, crispy, linen sheets would sure feel good against freshly shaved legs.

Someone out there just had to care. Someone normal and nice, who would offer her a legitimate job. Someone who could make a difference in the lives of these two homeless people. Yes, she thought determinedly. She would know them when she saw them. Until then, she would just have faith and wait.

* * *

Rush hour. The perfect capper to a world-class lousy day. Tyler slowly inched forward on the interstate and tried to think calming thoughts. But it was useless. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he shoved his new Mercedes into low, and resigned himself to the fact that it would be at least another hour before he arrived home. Until then he was stuck on this rotten freeway with nothing to do but nurse his fledgling ulcer.

What on earth had possessed him to lie to Roxanne? he wondered, groaning out loud at his stupidity. Why hadn’t he just told her what she could do with her crummy job? Exhaling noisily, he knew the answer. Because he had worked too damn long and too damn hard to let the owner’s bimbo niece get in the way of his fast-track career. He knew from experience that people like Roxanne eventually got what they deserved. The trick was hanging in there until they hung themselves. And Tyler was determined to hang in there till the bitter end. If only for the satisfaction of watching Roxanne’s demise.

As he flexed his hands on the steering wheel, wishing it were Roxanne’s heavily perfumed neck, his car phone rang.

“Newroth,” he barked into the mouthpiece. He was in no mood for a conversation.

“Well, well, well,” came the husky voice. “Is that any way to talk to the boss?” Roxanne giggled girlishly.

Damn it! Now he couldn’t even escape this viper in the privacy of his own traffic jam. Modern science had definitely gone too far.

“Hello, Roxanne.” Tyler schooled his voice to not give away his exceeding frustration. “What can I do for you?”

Roxanne laughed suggestively. “I’ve been giving that some thought.”

His single-handed grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“Actually, it’s not what you can do for me. It’s Uncle Denny. He and I will be entertaining a personal friend and potentially very lucrative client this Monday night. He wants you to be at the meeting.”

“Sure,” Tyler said. “Where will we meet?”

“Uncle Denny has a bunch of season passes to the Dodger games. Box seats.”

“Sounds great. Count me in.”

“Good,” Roxanne purred. “Oh, and, Tyler? Uncle Denny wants to meet your wife. He sends his heartiest congratulations on your recent...
nuptials
and requests that you bring her to the game. The client has a thing about family men, so your timing is perfect.” Roxanne’s irreverent laugh tinkled delightedly across the line.

“That will be fine.” He choked. Tyler sat in shock as Roxanne obviously relished his discomfort. So she thought she was on to his little ruse. Well, damn it all, she was. But he couldn’t let her know that. Not yet. “We’d love to attend,” he said, trying to sound as self-confident as possible.

“You would?” Roxanne seemed surprised.

“Absolutely,” Tyler lied.
Oh, holy cow, great day in the morning! He was up the creek without a paddle now.

“Super. See you there,” she breathed, and hung up.

“See you there.” Ty echoed, and wished someone would just drive by and shoot him. He was in the heart of the city for Pete’s sake, where was a weapon-toting gangster when you needed one?

And just where the hell was he going to get a wife over the weekend? Letting out a primal scream, he beat the dashboard in frustration. That witch would be the death of him yet.

Thinking back on his fruitless calls to the Hollywood talent agencies that afternoon, Ty downed half a pack of antacids as a bad case of heartburn smoldered in his churning gut. He had called too late. No one, it seemed, could rush to his aid this weekend and begin rehearsals for a week-long cruise as Mrs. Tyler Newroth. Friday afternoons were a bad time to call, he’d been informed.

He had considered running an ad in the Personals section of the
Times.
But by the time the ad made it to the paper, and he had screened and interviewed the applicants, and eventually hired Mrs. Right, the cruise ship would have sailed without him.

Feeling desperate, Tyler suddenly realized that he now had less than forty-eight hours to come up with a wife. For once in his life, he dearly wished he were married. It had never seemed that important before now. He’d been happily married to his career for years, and his casual dating life kept him entertained. Besides, he was only twenty-nine years old. He had aeons of time to settle down.

“Wrong-o, you big jerk,” he chastised himself out loud.
You have forty-eight hours.

There just had to be a wonderful, warm, caring, reasonably attractive woman out there who could play the part. Someone who needed work. Someone who wouldn’t mind picking up and leaving at the drop of a hat. Someone...as desperate as he was.

“Fat chance.” He sighed, and slowly rolled a few inches farther down the freeway. Yep, he was definitely dead meat.

* * *

Uh-oh.
She was dead meat now. Emily felt her mouth dry up like the Mojave desert as what absolutely had to be a pimp pulled off onto the shoulder in his bright pink, vintage Cadillac. After slowly unfurling his lanky body from the seamy interior of his gaudy car, he closed the door with a flourish and sauntered jauntily in her direction.

Emily tightly gripped her cardboard sign for support and glanced back at Helga and Carmen.
Oh, no!
Her knees shook violently at his approach and, as a wave of nausea washed over her, she was sure she was going to faint dead away. She wasn’t ready to be a filly in some sleazoid pervert’s idea of a stable. His gold tooth gleamed evilly in the afternoon sunlight as he sauntered down the shoulder toward her, wearing a wolfish smile. Emily smiled as bravely as she could in return and began to back up toward Helga and Carmen.

Frantically her mind searched for an escape route, for herself and her two innocent companions. Carmen and Helga weren’t up to running for their lives, she was sure. And she’d be damned if she’d ever allow either of them to become love slaves to this...this...miscreant dirtbag. She stopped walking and thought about what she was doing. She was leading the wolf to the sheep, that’s what she was doing. Uh-oh. No, better take this particular dirtbag by the horns and get rid of him herself.

With a confidence she was nowhere near feeling, she stood her ground until he approached, and was shocked by how truly nasty he looked up close.

“Hello, there,” she chirped, in her best Little Mary Sunshine voice. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I was just noticin’ yer sign there, little gal,” he mumbled around the toothpick in his mouth.

Her sign was the last thing he was noticing, if his roving eyes were any indication. Emily fidgeted uncomfortably. “Oh, that.”
Darn it, anyway.
She was sick and tired of having these ridiculous job interviews with potential employers who should probably be behind bars. “I was just using that to shade myself from the sun,” she explained somewhat lamely.

“Says you’ll work for food.” The dirtbag spat on the ground and pointed at her sign with his frayed toothpick.

She’d play dumb. “It does? Imagine that.”

The dirtbag rolled his eyes. “Come on, honey. You need work. I gotta job. It’s that simple. Just come with me and I’ll fix ya up real good.”

“Oh, no. I’m fine. Really. Thank you, though,” she hedged, and started to back slowly away.

Not easily dissuaded, the dirtbag followed her. “Oh, come on now, sweetheart,” he cajoled, his tone dripping with honey. “You could make some serious money workin’ for me. Why a little gal with your looks and figure could go far.”

Now Emily knew he was deranged. What looks? She had the looks of a desperate, filthy vagabond. Nervously she pushed at her grimy hair with sweaty palms, and tried to slow her hammering heart. How the hell had she gotten herself into this mess?

Her twin sister had tried to warn her. Told her she was crazy to risk her life living among the homeless for her thesis project. But would she listen? No. And now...well, now Erica would finally realize her dream of being an only child. Her yen to help the down-and-out had always driven Erica crazy, she thought frantically as her life flashed before her eyes.

Standing here, watching the dirtbag eyeball her, she could finally admit that her sister was right. She was nuts. Always had been.

All her life she was the twin that took up the cause of the underdog, took in the stray, couldn’t resist the person in trouble, no matter how deep. She and Erica may look exactly alike, but they couldn’t be any more different.

Erica had inherited all of the sensible, levelheaded genes, and she had gotten the bleeding heart. And to think that she’d fast-talked her poor, uptight sister into pretending to be her this summer in her regular summer job as the Spencer family’s nanny...for this! To be killed by a dirtbag on the interstate in L.A.

Tears of self-pity welled in her eyes. And dang it anyway, she’d left all her ID at home in San Francisco. No one would even know who she was after this guy killed her. What an idiot. Make that, ultra-idiot, she thought, and wondered how one fashioned a deadly weapon out of a piece of cardboard.

* * *

What an idiotic thing to do. After slowly coasting mile after endless mile toward home, Tyler had come to the conclusion that he had made a huge mistake in telling Roxanne that he was married. He was in deep, deep trouble and, short of a miracle, he didn’t see any way out.

Now the owner of the company and the client of the century were mixed up in this ridiculous charade, and Monday night he would have to let them down. Unless...

Tyler’s mind was momentarily taken off his troubles as he slowly cruised by what looked like a young beggar woman clutching a sign that read Will Work For Food. Some motley character was standing next to her, obviously trying to hire her services.

She looked desperate. He knew the feeling. She needed a job. He needed a woman. They needed each other.

Back off, buddy,
he thought fiercely as he suddenly found himself veering off the freeway and getting out of his car.
She’s mine.

Was he crazy? The closer he got, the more he could see she looked like something out of a Charles Dickens novel. He tried to envision himself introducing her to Connstarr’s owner.
Sir, I’d like you to meet my wife, Olive Twist....

And Roxanne. He was sure she’d die laughing.

What the hell. At this point he didn’t give a rat’s rear end. She was better than nothing. And who could tell, maybe she’d clean up nicely.

Although Tyler had little experience with the plight of the homeless, his heart melted at the sight of this plucky little thing standing her ground against the loser with the gold tooth. His dislike for this guy was instant and profound.

“Hey!” Ty called, smiling broadly at the little vagabond whose eyes were filled with terror. “I saw your sign and wondered if, uh, you weren’t already taken—” he nodded politely at the loser “—if I could offer you a job.”

“No!” she cried hastily, and then, looking confused at her reply, amended, “I mean, no, I’m not already taken.”

“Great. Why don’t you come with me now and you can get started?” Ty watched her look back and forth between the two men, as though trying to figure out which was the lesser of two evils. Her hands shook as they gripped her tattered piece of cardboard. He had to admire her caution, after all, he was a stranger, too.

“What kind of work?” she asked suspiciously as she looked him over from head to toe.

“Oh, uh, well, it’s a long story, actually.” He fumbled for words that wouldn’t scare her off. She was probably his last chance, and he didn’t want to frighten her away by seeming too desperate. “But it’s a good job, with good pay, and I can offer you a room and meals.” Noting how her eyes kept darting fearfully to the gold-toothed loser, he added, “Nothing you don’t want to do.” He shot a meaningful glance in the loser’s direction.

The loser grew impatient. “Hey, now! I think I was here before y’all.” His eyes narrowed at Ty.

“So you were,” Ty admitted genially. “I guess we’ll have to go with what the lady wants.”
Please want me, please want me,
he silently pleaded in his head. Yes, he admitted forlornly to himself, Roxanne had reduced him to a pathetic, groveling wreck.

“No!” The loser was through fooling around. “She goes with me. I found her, she’s mine.”

At this point the little waif, quaking in her boots, moved behind Ty for protection. She seemed so frail and helpless, Ty felt a sudden urge to protect her against this scumbag.