Almost Perfect (18 page)

“Right. I'll take your word for it. I'll be down in a minute.” She hung up before he could make her like him any more. The man had a real flair for that.

He'd held her when she'd cried.

Don't make anything of it, Alyssum,
she warned herself as she jabbed a hair pick through her mop, then looked for her wrench. She found it in the kitchen drawer with her steak knives. Men like him probably had women weeping on their shoulders all the time. That didn't mean he wasn't a bastard out looking for sex any way he could get it.

Fixing a toilet did not equate sex, and crying didn't have anything to do with Jared. Kismet's situation had upset her, and she'd let it out on him rather than falling apart in front of the kids. Her counselor might even think that an improvement over her usual selfdestructive tactics.

This was not a setback. Other people cried all the time.

Setting her jaw, she marched out of the house, wrench in hand. She'd fix his damned toilet, find out more about counseling—provided Macho Man knew anything about it—and be on her way.

He met her on the porch wearing a Hawaiian-print shirt, a straw fedora pulled down over his forehead, and chomping on a huge cigar. She'd never seen anything so sexy or so comical in her life, and the female part of her lurched happily. Damn, but he was good.

He grinned around the cigar as she approached. “Super Cleo, come to save the day! I really like that wrench as an accessory.”

“Where'd you get the cigar?” She knew she sounded rude, but it was the only line of defense left to her.

“Carpenter's assistant just had a kid. He's handing them out. Want one?”

Cleo rolled her eyes and walked past him, into the house. He followed right on her heels. He'd just shaved. She could smell the lotion, and she had an irrational impulse to rub his jaw so her hand would smell like him. She desperately wanted any excuse at all to touch him. How insane could she be?

Pretty insane, if past evidence could be believed.

“Downstairs toilet?” she asked, ignoring his cheerful expression.

“Yup. Do you always wear flannel in this heat?”

“I freeze in air-conditioning.” She took the back off the toilet tank and tried concentrating on its mechanics while he leaned against the vanity and watched her. She didn't like that he noticed what she wore. It made her self-conscious.

“I heard there's a fifteen percent chance of that hurricane in the Caribbean turning this way. Does this humidity up the odds?” he asked.

“Haven't the foggiest. This time of year, expect rain from now on.” Maybe that would chase him off. Buckets of rain had a way of putting a damper on beach lovers.

“How do they warn people to evacuate the island in the event of a hurricane?”

“Don't know. I've been here less than a year, and they didn't have one last fall.” She unhooked the chain, lowered it several notches, and hooked it up again. If it was something that simple, she could be out of here in minutes. The long length of lean man focusing all his charm
and attention on her was more than her defenses could handle. Her hands would start shaking any minute now.

“How's Kismet?” he asked idly, but Cleo sensed the tension behind the question.

So, maybe this wasn't entirely about his toilet. She flushed the tank and watched the water level. “She seems fine. Could your friend the psychologist recommend someone around here? I figure I'll have to take her into Charleston.”

Jared crossed his arms and watched Cleo's bent head warily. She'd made some damned telling points about his lack of character earlier, so he couldn't believe she was asking for his help now. He couldn't miss the opportunity to show he possessed some competence. “I'll call and ask her. Do you think Kismet would go?”

“I don't know. And if she goes, I don't know if she'll talk.” She finally turned in his direction, and the defensive barrier was so blatant as to be almost visible. “She won't, if she thinks it will hurt her mother. Do counselors have to report abuse?”

“I don't know. I'll have to ask.”

She nodded curtly. “Do that. She definitely won't talk otherwise.”

A word from the wise, he figured. He attempted to look at her sturdy, flannel-clad figure as nothing more than his mechanically inclined landlady, an ex-addict, ex-con, hard-talking piece of Southern culture, but he failed dismally. He saw her tears and caring and lonely defensiveness and had to fight the urge to cuddle and comfort her. She'd probably rap his skull with the wrench for his efforts.

He didn't have time to get involved. The deadline loomed closer, and all he had was a bunch of rough sketches and even rougher ideas. And he still had next week's strips to put together. He was getting further and
further behind. He couldn't afford to lose his syndication on top of everything else. He'd been insane to offer his last few thousand for the wrestling team.

He saw her off with no more than a casual wave. He needed to plant his ass in a chair and get some work done. No wandering beaches, watching waves, waiting for life to happen. He'd had about enough life for the moment.

The phone rang a little after noon and Jared knew he should ignore it. He hated writing, but he'd managed to cram together enough words to present half an idea to George. If he could pull together the rest—

He grabbed the phone off the hook. He deserved a break.

“What?” he demanded rudely. He'd purposely given only immediate family and his agent this number so he'd have peace and quiet. Normally, they never bothered him.

“Obviously, island life isn't suiting you,” a lazy drawl declared.

“Doubting Thomas,” Jared mocked, while internally groaning. What had he been thinking? His family always bothered him. “What can I do you for?”

“Not a thing, bro, but our mutual broker is frantically trying to track you down. I don't suppose you've been paying any attention to the market today, have you?”

Oh, shit. He didn't have cable internet out here. He couldn't even go online until he got his brother off the phone. He never followed the market, didn't understand any of it. He just knew he had a lot of money in it, and right now, he couldn't get online to see what was happening. “Get off the phone, and I'll check,” he growled, refusing to ask.

“Well, all I can say is, I told you not to buy on margin. How's the work coming?”

He loved his brothers when they were a thousand
miles away, and he couldn't break their heads through a brick wall. “Swimmingly,” he replied. Thomas would never catch the sarcasm.

What in hell was “margin,” exactly? He vaguely remembered the broker mentioning the term in the same relation with “leveraging” and “risk.” The only part he'd really grasped was “more money.”

“We going to see your name in Hollywood lights?” Tom asked with interest. “Is that program I wrote helping with the graphics?”

Oh, hell, the kid meant well. Just because he should have been strangled at birth …“Yeah, it works far better than Microshit. I'll endorse it when you're ready to market it.”

“‘Hollywood screenwriter Jared McCloud swears by his brother's graphic software.’ Yeah, that works. So, what's the script about?”

As if he knew. “Look, I gotta finish this. I'll tell you all about it later, okay? Thanks for passing on the message.” Jared pried his younger brother off the phone and punched in the buttons for his broker. He had a feeling he didn't want to hear this, but he'd lost his train of thought anyway, and he didn't need the question nagging him.

“Hey, Caleb, Tom says you're looking for me. What's happening?”

Caleb was one of those old high school comrades who'd once ragged on Jared for his artistic inclinations. Caleb had followed his stuffed-shirt father into the brokerage and now lived in a mansion in Schenectady, of all places. He sounded tired and anxious as he answered. “Market's down three hundred already this morning, and plunging fast. I've got to cover your margins on the tech stocks. If you wire me a hundred right now, maybe things will turn around before the day ends, and we won't have to sell. I've been making calls all morning and
people are going crazy on me, but I figure you're good for it, at least.”

He might have been good for it before Jag, beach house, and the loss of royalties on hick newspapers, not to mention the end of the TV money. Jared winced as his house of cards slowly but surely tumbled. “A hundred?” he inquired cautiously. He could manage a hundred dollars without a problem. He had a nasty feeling Caleb wasn't talking a hundred dollars.

“A hundred thou,” Caleb confirmed. “That covers the outstanding debt and should keep you in the market until it turns around.”

“Sell,” Jared ordered wearily, sinking his head against his computer and wishing he dared bang it a few times.

He couldn't afford a new computer if he smashed this one.

Jared swung his mouse, and red fire breathed from the dragon's nostrils. Kismet's dragon, to be exact. What in hell was he doing drawing dragons?

Maybe he could use it in the Sunday strip. Could stealing from unpublished work be plagiarism? So, okay, he'd pay her.

With what, might be the next question.

Caleb had suggested selling the New York apartment instead of his stocks. It would only take a phone call, and
he'd have a bank loan on it. He supposed he wouldn't need the place if he was going to L.A. Money was easy.

Failure wasn't.

We won't go there, McCloud.
Easing back in his chair, Jared stared at the screen. It was a pretty darned good dragon if he did say so himself. It could work. If Cleo wanted depth, he could have the characters delve into the monsters in their souls—although the main monster in an adolescent soul was usually hormones. Minor matter.

He certainly couldn't put Kismet's
real
dragons in a comic strip.

Shit. He stared at the fire-breathing screen, then glanced at the telephone. The kid needed help. Cleo had asked him to get it for her. Cleo never asked for anything.

He didn't have time for Cleo's problems. She very obviously considered him a nuisance who stood in the way of her taking care of the kids.
Her
way of taking care of the kids. Not that he agreed with it. Not that it was any of his business.

His business was drawing next week's strips and producing a screenplay. And salvaging his investments— what was left of them.

Saving the computer dragon with a button stroke, he reached for his planner. It wouldn't take a minute to call Holly. She could find out about privacy laws and give him some names of local counselors. Then he could write off any further responsibility to the mixed-up mess of his neighbors.

He made a face at that thought. Maybe Cleo and the kids were mixed-up, but they felt things he didn't. They were real. Some days, he thought he belonged in the comic strip with his characters.

That kind of stupid psychobabble was what he got
from hanging around women. He preferred action. He hit the telephone buttons.

Ten minutes later he had the information he needed and that Cleo wouldn't like. He also had the germ of a real idea for the film script, and not that mindless trash he'd been scribbling.

He glanced guiltily at the computer screen, then at the phone numbers in his hand. Cleo was at work. He couldn't just run over to the house and give these to her. He could call her, but he wanted to
see
her. Maybe Tim was right and he needed a challenge and Cleo was it. He just needed to see her, to hear her commonsensical approach, to have her put his world into perspective.

Getting her into his bed would certainly do that. Talk about your marginal chances … He'd have better luck in the stock market.

He needed a break, and there wasn't anything worth eating in the house. He could run into town, see if she wanted lunch. He didn't think even his best smile could persuade Cleo to do what needed doing with the kids, but he could try. Then he could go back to work with a clear conscience and a clearer head.

He'd call the apartment manager in New York first. They usually had a waiting list of eager buyers. And the bank, for a quick equity loan until he had it sold. He'd worry about moving all his stuff some other time.

He wouldn't even think about what he would do if the script he had in mind didn't fly. Bankruptcy didn't become him.

“No. No, I'm not talking about Matty, but a friend. Good grief, what kind of monster do you think I am?” Cleo glared at the phone, wishing she hadn't got daring and called her stupid counselor. Counselors always thought
the worst of everyone, especially ones with criminal records.

She lifted her gaze and grimaced as Marta rolled her eyes in sympathy, then grinned as her clerk spun her index finger at her temple to give her opinion of all counselors everywhere. Marta understood. Marta didn't have a clue, however.

“Look, all I wanted was some advice, all right? If you can't tell me what I need to know, that's fine. I have other sources. Give the feds my love when you snitch to them.” Cleo very carefully, very politely, lowered the receiver to its cradle. Then she slammed her fist into the counter.

“Effing morons! Blunderheads! Bean-brained bastards of bloated banality—”