Two Sexy!

Jarett clasped her wrists gently, and turned her around. “Taylor, stop this childish routine.” He shrugged out of his standard black jacket and put it around her slender shoulders. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care about you, but not in that way.”

“You’re just afraid David will be mad at you if you sleep with me,” she said as she walked away. “But David knows his little sister is all grown up.”

Jarett pursed his mouth. “Let’s hope that David doesn’t get the tabloids at his missionary camp in Haiti. And it’s a good thing that your folks don’t own a television.”

She flounced down on one of the twin pink sofas. “Isn’t that a gas? I’m one of the biggest stars on TV, and my own parents have never seen my show.” She took a drag from the cigarette. “Really, sometimes I can’t believe I came from such a hick family.”

Anger sparked low in his stomach. “Don’t talk about your family that way. They’re good people.”

Her laugh was dry as she looked up at him from the couch. “I know—salt of the earth, God-fearing people. And I’m glad they took you in, Jarett, really I am. I just wish you’d stop thinking of me as your little sister. There are thousands, maybe millions of men who’d love to sleep with me, you know.”

He refrained from mentioning that a good number of them already had. She opened her knees slightly to give him another glance at what she was offering, but Jarett had developed a rather clinical attitude toward Taylor’s nudity. “Put your legs together, and act like a lady.”

She scoffed, but complied. “A lady? Is that what you’re holding out for, Jarett—a lady? You’re in the wrong town, old friend.”

Don’t I know it. And his lack of female companionship the last year or so had proved it. “I’m only here to look out for you,” he said finally, crossing his arms. “Although I don’t believe I’m doing such a good job.”

She grinned, took another drag, then smashed the cigarette butt into a lead crystal ashtray the size of a dinner plate. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jarett. You follow me like a goddamned bloodhound, and you keep the freaks at bay.”

He walked over to the wet bar and picked up an empty bottle of vodka. “Those freaks don’t pose nearly as much of a threat as the things you do to yourself.”

“Booze loosens me up,” she said with a sigh. “You ought to try it sometime.”

He opened a drawer that held drinking glasses and reached in the back to pull out a handful of prescription bottles. “And what do the pills do?”

She blanched, then recovered with a glib smile. “The pills give me a boost of energy when I need it, that’s all.”

“You’ve been needing a boost a lot lately.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You have been keeping an eye on me.”

He set the pills aside, then walked over and eased down on the couch opposite her, hoping that some part of the small-town girl he remembered remained to reason with. “Taylor, I think after the trip to Chicago, you should check yourself into a rehab clinic.”

She frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not like I’m an addict or anything.”

“Good. Then it should be easy for you to give up the pills and the booze. You’re on hiatus from the show, so it’ll be a good time to get some rest and to get clean.”

“No way—the tabloids will have a field day.”

“You haven’t seen today’s headlines—they’re already having a field day. That stunt you pulled at Zago’s restaurant the other night has everyone speculating about what you’re hooked on.”

She scoffed again. “Can’t a girl dance on a table without everyone thinking she’s on drugs?”

“But you were on drugs.”

“Jarett, for heaven’s sake, you make it sound like I’m a coke head or something.”

“Or something,” he said, nodding.

“The doctor gave me those pills,” she said, her eyes bright.

“Some of the doctors you’ve been dealing with are little more than drug dealers,” he said quietly.

“Peterson called this morning, and he said the network is getting concerned about your behavior.

He said one more stunt, and your career could be on the line.”

“Peterson isn’t the only agent in town,” she said lightly.

“Taylor, listen to yourself. You jumped through hoops to sign with Peterson’s agency—he’s one of the best and you know it. He’s the reason you got the part on Many Moons.”

She sat up, scowling. “I got myself that part.

No one could play Tess Canton the way I do.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. But you’re letting the character take over your life.

And it’s not pretty.”

Her face screwed up in anger and she bounced up from the couch, his jacket swinging around her. “Oh, so now you don’t even think I’m pretty?” She started crying.

Jarett sighed and held up his hands. “I didn’t say that. Of course you’re pretty. You’re beautiful, Taylor.”

She managed a smile through her tears. “You think so?”

“Yes,” he said levelly. “Now, are you going to the cast party, or are you going to disappoint your fans?”

She inhaled, then sighed prettily. “I’m going to the cast party.”

“Good.” He stood up.

“Do you have to go, Jarett?” Her face crumpled, and his chest squeezed at her desperate tone.

He wished he could help Taylor, but his sympathy didn’t extend to having an empty physical relationship with her. He’d promised his best friend, David, that he’d take care of his sister until David returned from Haiti to step in. In addition to the bond they’d forged when David and Taylor’s parents had taken him in as a teenager, he and David had joined the Air Force and trained side by side for four years. They were closer than most brothers, and Jarett would gladly have put his life on the line for David. Although some days, he thought the two-year promise he’d made to his friend would be the death of him.

“I have to get a car lined up for tonight,” he said with the best smile he could muster. “And another guard to help me keep the, um, freaks at bay.”

“Okay. Do you want your jacket back?” she teased.

“I’ll get it later,” he said breezily, backing away before she could take it off and offer it to him.

She sighed. “What would I do without you, Jarett?”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he said sincerely, then handily changed the subject.

“Your hairdresser is downstairs ready to have a stroke.”

She drove her hands into her wild, white-blond hair. “Okay, send him up—tell him I’m jumping in the shower.” A yawn overtook her and her entire body seemed to deflate with fatigue.

“No pills tonight,” Jarett said with a pointed look.

“No pills,” she agreed, although her voice was less than convincing.

He left her suite and found Rosie to let her know that Taylor was back on track for the time being, but as he walked downstairs, Jarett’s booted feet were heavy. He had a bad feeling that Taylor was going down the same path many ill-fated starlets had taken before—drugs, alcohol, and ultimate destruction if she didn’t get help soon.

He felt guilty as hell that her infatuation with him seemed to be driving her closer to the edge.

In reality, he knew Taylor struggled with low self-esteem. She craved approval, especially from her intensely religious family. At times, it seemed as if she behaved so outrageously just to get their attention.

He also suspected that her preoccupation with him was rooted in the fact that she couldn’t have him. She knew her family would be scandalized if the two of them became involved. But he wasn’t willing to sleep with her just to prove his theory. Instead he held out hope that someday she’d meet a decent guy who would make her feel good about herself. To date, however, all her boy friends had been first-class losers.

But the worst part of the entire situation was that, at one time, he had fancied himself to be in love with Taylor. When he and David had joined the Air Force to travel the world, Taylor had been a gangly girl of twelve. When they returned to Wheeling, West Virginia, she was a voluptuous woman of eighteen. He’d been enchanted by her, and Taylor had made no secret about the fact that she’d waited for him. But the Gumms had trusted him completely, so he’d set aside his feelings and discouraged her advances.

When Taylor announced that after graduation, she was going to L.A. to become an actress, Mr. and Mrs. Gumm were horrified, especially since they’d tried to shelter their daughter from the ways of the world by banning TV and rock and roll music from their household. But when they realized their stubborn little girl was not to be denied, they agreed to let her go, as long as David and Jarett went along to look after her.

From the get-go, Jarett had hated L.A., but he was more worldly than either David or Taylor, so he’d stayed to make sure nobody got into trouble. The three of them had shared an apartment. He and David had gotten work in the security business, and took turns accompanying Taylor to auditions. She’d landed enough modeling shoots and commercials to keep her spirits high. David, on the other hand, was miserable. So when his father had presented him with a two-year missionary opportunity in Haiti, David had happily left Taylor to Jarett’s charge.

Nobody knew that Jarett had been miserable, too. Taylor was coming into her own as a woman and tempting him at every turn in the close quarters they shared. At the same time, some of the less pleasant aspects of Taylor’s personality were also coming to light—she had a cutting tongue, a dirty mouth, and was prone to outlandish tantrums when she didn’t get her way. And when Jarett had made it clear they wouldn’t be lovers, she’d retaliated by bringing a string of bozos back to their apartment.

But she’d continued to perform well, and on one of Jarett’s security jobs, he’d had the occasion to do a favor for Mac Peterson, a first-class talent agent. The man had agreed to interview Taylor, and had taken her on. When she’d landed the role of Tess Canton on Many Moons, Taylor became an overnight sensation. Publicity agent Sheila Waterson came on board to manage Taylor’s public appearances, and Jarett had taken over her personal security. Her photo was now one of the most downloaded images on the Internet, and one of her swimsuit posters was the number five bestselling poster of all time.

They had created a monster, it seemed.

Jarett signaled the flustered hairdresser to go on up to Taylor’s suite, then walked to the phone to call Peterson. “Taylor’s going to the cast party,” he assured the man on the line.

“Thank Gawd,” Peterson said, his British accent seemingly more pronounced today. “Do you think you can keep her away from the booze?”

“I’ll try.”

“And everything else?”

“Again, I’ll try. But I can’t be with her every second.”

“Seeing as how I’ve been on the phone for the last hour covering her tracks for that nasty little table dance she did at Zago’s, I think you’d better stay as close as possible. Ditto for the Chicago trip, Jarett. She’ll be under the network’s microscope. No more see-through frocks.”

He sighed. “Fine time for Sheila to be out of town.”

“Sheila’s managing too many high-maintenance personalities. I’m counting on you to handle Taylor until Sheila returns from Mexico with her kleptomaniac rock star.”

“You know I’ll do my best.”

“Yes, I do, Jarett. Taylor’s bloody lucky to have you.”

He thanked the man, then hung up. An ache had set up at the base of his skull. He walked to the window of the opulent living room and looked out over the cramped, arid landscape—houses sat on every possible inch of ground, and crisscrossed power lines ruined what might have been a passable view. The only color relieving the sea of red tile roofs were dots of blue—swimming pools. The people in this neighborhood preferred concrete to grass.

It was selfish he knew, but he was practically counting the days until David returned. By then Taylor would be almost twenty-one and he could walk away with a clear conscience. He was tired of fake people and big crowds and loud parties. He planned to find a cabin in some remote part of the country and hole up with a fishing pole for an extended period of time. No TV, no telephone, no women.

Because if he’d learned nothing else the past couple of years with Taylor, he’d learned he was better off alone than to be tangled up with a woman who messed with his head. At times he wondered if he and Taylor had gotten together when he returned from the Air Force, things would’ve turned out differently. The electricity between them had been palpable in the beginning, and he had to admit, he’d never been so affected by any other woman. But Taylor was Taylor, and everything and everyone in her life paled next to her quest for stardom. He was being arrogant if he thought a relationship between them would have helped matters. If anything, it would have made matters worse. And probably splintered his bond with the entire Gumm family.

It was a shame that Taylor couldn’t have been satisfied with the love of one man instead of millions of men. A shame that instead of possessing the generous disposition shared by the rest of her family, that Taylor was like poison to the people who came in contact with her. Love was wasted on her.

Jarett laughed at his preposterous musings. What he dreamed about was a woman who had a face like Taylor Gee, but had a heart of gold—absurd. She didn’t exist. And if she did, he didn’t want to meet her, because he’d be a lost man.

3

A FEW DAYS LATER Meg descended the stairs leading from her sister’s tiny apartment down to the workroom of the costume shop. Rebecca’s Murphy bed had been comfortable enough, but Meg hadn’t slept well—too many thoughts spinning in her head, too many decisions to make. One minute marrying Trey made perfect sense, the next minute she wondered if marrying him would be selling out, the path of least resistance.

She flipped on lights as she moved through the workroom cluttered with sewing machines, costumes, and dress forms, marveling over Rebecca’s design talent—and laughing at the abundance of yellow sticky notes, some in odd locations. On the coffeepot: “Err on the weak side.” On the bathroom door: “Jiggle the handle.” On the drafting-table lamp: “You’re the best, Sis!”

Swinging doors led to the glorious showroom and dressing rooms of Anytime Costumes. A shiver of excitement slid up Meg’s spine at the new setting, eerily quiet and orderly compared to the start of a school day. The seclusion was downright liberating. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed her own company.

She hadn’t told Rebecca that Trey had proposed. At first she’d convinced herself she didn’t want to steal Rebecca’s thunder. Meg’s sister was obviously infatuated with her new beau, Michael Pierce—they couldn’t take their eyes off each other.

But last night when she’d waved goodbye to Rebecca, Meg acknowledged that she wanted to keep Trey’s proposal to herself in order to sort things out on her own, without anyone else’s advice, no matter how well-intended. Kathie’s parting remark about making sure Trey was the one for her had stuck in her mind like a trendy song. Not to mention the hurt in Trey’s voice when she gently refused his offer to accompany her to Chicago.

If she was making a checklist of qualities she was looking for in a husband, Trey would score high. Handsome, polite, successful. They had similar tastes in books, films, politics. He was dependable—no, she would not say “boring”—and was always prompt for their Saturday-night dates and their Wednesday lunches. Friday evenings he usually spent with his father and two brothers in Mr. Carnegie’s home office, smoking cigars and catching up on family business—real estate, transportation and petroleum.

On Sundays she joined his family for brunch at their vast home—Trey’s brothers were both married, and everyone treated Meg as if she were already part of the family. The Carnegies had an opening, and she fit the mold—passably photogenic, suitably reserved and demurely successful. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that Trey had picked her because of some real or imagined checklist, and not because she moved him. And worse—that she’d allowed herself to be picked.

She pushed aside her troubled thoughts, and her spirits rose as the colorful showroom became illuminated. Rebecca’s costume shop was such a happy place, one couldn’t help but be transformed—the perimeter of the showroom was lined with racks of costumes ranging from blue dinosaurs to Frankensteins to medieval maidens. Meg walked around, stroking the rich fabrics and exotic trims, admiring the more detailed costumes displayed on mannequins—a suit of “armor,” characters from the Wizard of Oz, and an alien. The most elaborate costumes—an iridescent mermaid, an Indian chieftain, and many others were on dazzling display above the long counter.

Rebecca had also added a wall of performance costumes—spangled bodysuits, sequined halter tops, slinky pants, sheer skirts, high-slit gowns, and an array of showy accessories—shoes, hats, scarves. Even though she was alone, Meg looked all around before gingerly holding a blue sequined bikini up in front of her. She angled her head, smiling mischievously. Wouldn’t everyone be scandalized if the Teacher of the Year showed up wearing something like this? Then she sighed and rehung the bikini—some women were born to wear sequins and some women were born to wear cotton.

Mirrors abounded. She knew her sister enjoyed dressing up to entertain customers. Although Meg couldn’t bring herself to do the same, she had foregone her normal “baggy” dress in favor of jeans, T-shirt, and green V-neck sweater, all loose enough to conceal the curves her mother had convinced her eons ago would attract the wrong kind of attention. Since she’d inherited her mother’s figure, she assumed her mother was referring to the type of man her father had been—the type of man who would love, then leave a woman with two small children. Maybe that’s why she’d been drawn to Trey, to his…stability. And his relative indifference to her curves.

Unsure what the day would bring, she’d opted to French braid her fine-textured light brown hair into a single plait down her back to keep it out of her way. She squinted at her reflection—maybe she’d get a new hairstyle before she returned home, or even a complete makeover. Contact lenses? A new outfit? The more she thought about it, the more she wondered if she was simply bored with herself, and was allowing that boredom to overflow into other areas of her life. Somewhat cheered at her revelation, she turned her attention to opening the store.

Following a list of instructions Rebecca had left, as well as the numerous yellow sticky notes, Meg counted cash into the register, turned on the stereo beneath the counter, and flipped the sign on the door to Open. When she unlocked the front door of Anytime Costumes, she was startled by the ringing of the overhead bell.

“No bells,” she muttered, vowing to tie up the brass clanger as soon as she found a ladder.

Humming to the oldies tune playing over the speakers, she pressed her nose against the window until her glasses bumped. The street was studded with cars. Two policemen rode by on horseback. The shops across the street—a bakery, a drycleaners, and an old-fashioned barbershop—were already open for business. A rounded woman sweeping the sidewalk took a good-natured swat at a kid going by on a scooter.

It was a cool, blustery Saturday in Chicago, but the sky reminded her of a child’s drawing—clear blue with white fluffy clouds and a radiating bright sun, still hanging low. Meg grinned and stretched tall on the toes of her tennis shoes, effused with a heady feeling of freedom, like the first day of summer vacation.

But the tinkle of the bell on the door cut short her reverie. She turned, blushing guiltily at being caught in the throes of giddiness. She was, after all, representing Rebecca’s business.

“Hidy-ho!” A dark-skinned deliveryman walked in bearing a stack of packages and a friendly smile.

“Hello.”

His smiled widened. “You must be Rebecca’s sister from Peoria. She told me to expect you.”

She smiled and stuck out her hand. “Meg Valentine.”

“Hello, Meg Valentine. I’m Quincy Lyle. Welcome to Chicago.”

“Thank you.” She wasn’t sure why, but she suspected the delivery man was gay. Maybe because he was so approachable—there was no filter of sexual attraction.

“Mighty good of you to look after the shop for Rebecca while she enjoys a few days away with Mr. Pierce.”

“You know Michael?”

He pushed back his cap. “I know almost everyone around here. They make a great couple, don’t they?”

“Yes, they do.” Meg signed the clipboard he extended.

He gestured vaguely. “You know your way around the costume shop?”

“I’ve spent time here with Rebecca, but never on my own.”

“Have you met Harry?”

She frowned. “Who?”

He gave a little laugh and a dismissive wave. “Never mind.” He pulled a card from his pocket. “If you need help getting around town, or if you need anything at all, just call my cell phone number.”

Meg smiled. “Thanks.”

He nodded toward the street where more policemen on horseback had gathered. “I guess you heard about the local commotion.”

“No.”

“Big splashy benefit in town, lots of celebrities around.”

Meg made a rueful noise. “I have a friend who’s a celebrity hound—she’ll be disappointed she missed a chance to spot someone famous and get their autograph.”

“Do you have friends here in Chicago?”

“Not really.”

He rooted in his back pocket. “I have an extra ticket to a reception tonight if you’d like to come. The hotel is just a couple of blocks from here. A lot of my friends are coming—it’ll be fun.”

She smiled. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll do that.”

“Bring your camera—with luck, you can bring your friend back a souvenir.” He flashed a grin. “See you later.”

Meg felt a rush of gratitude for Quincy’s generosity, and his upbeat visit seemed to set the tone for the rest of the morning. The shop was a whirlwind of activity as customers returned costumes, and others came in to try on garment after garment looking for just the right one. Michael Pierce’s restaurant, Incognito, had become a popular spot for dining in costume—according to Rebecca, every night was a masquerade party, and business was booming. The bell on the door rang incessantly, and Peoria seemed like a million miles away.

An attractive middle-aged woman named Mrs. Conrad came in with a tin of cream candy. She appeared to be a regular customer since she was familiar with the store layout. She rented a sexy cowgirl outfit, complete with a little rawhide whip. Just putting the items in a bag sent a blush to Meg’s face.

Around lunch time, she got a breather. Meg sighed and sank onto a stool behind the counter, marveling at the business her sister had grown. She pulled off her glasses and massaged her temples, then used the hem of her sweater to clean the smudged lenses. The ringing of the bell on the door startled her and she dropped her glasses on the counter. While she fumbled for them blindly, the customers approached the counter—bright blotches of color, a man and a woman from the sound of their voices, and they seemed to be bickering. A hot flush climbed her neck and cheeks as she searched the counter in vain—she felt like Mr. Magoo.

“Are these what you’re looking for?” the man asked, placing her glasses in her hands. He had a warm, pleasing voice.

“Thank you,” she murmured, then jammed the glasses on her face. But just as her vision returned, her speech fled. Her helpful customer was tall, dark and exotic looking, tanned with dark hair and eyes, high cheekbones and a prominent nose. Around thirty, she guessed, although he had the carriage of a more mature man. Or maybe it was his sturdy build that made him look older, or the fact that he was dressed in black from head to toe. Regardless, she was sure she’d never seen anyone more handsome in her life. Quincy’s comment about celebrities being in the area came back to her, and she wondered if he was someone she should recognize. Of course she couldn’t ask him, because she couldn’t speak.