Crazy for Cowboy (14 page)

Then, for the first time, she saw the smudges under his eyes. In the darkened movie theater, they had gone undetected. She sat down on the armchair opposite the couch and contemplated him. Was that the reason he’d been quiet all evening? Was the man exhausted?

She supposed she should wake him and send him home to the comfort of his own bed. That would have been the reasonable thing to do. Instead, she continued to gaze at him. A smile came to her lips.

He looked so sweet that she didn’t have the heart to disturb him. Besides, it was about time her couch was used for something. She grabbed the afghan from the back of her chair and gently covered him with it.

“Goodnight, sleeping beauty,” she whispered, then turned off the lights and retired to her room.

CHAPTER NINE

Her lips were soft, begging to be kissed.

Brandon leaned forward, weaving his fingers through the hair that he never tired of touching. He came closer and closer, until his mouth brushed against hers.

“Emily,” he whispered.

Her head fell back as she lifted her face toward him. “Take me, Houston,” she said, her voice husky. “Take me now, you naughty cowboy.”

Brandon pulled back. He couldn’t take her—not anywhere—not when she thought he was someone else. For that matter, even Emily sounded like someone else, a racy caricature of herself.

“Honey, before we go any further, there’s something I have to tell you—”

“Later, cowboy. Right now, all I want is to see you naked, holding a copy of Crime and Punishment.”

The sound of breaking glass called a halt to his rebuttal. Brandon looked up to see a strange man, smashing through the sliding glass doors of Emily’s balcony.

“Give me the diamonds,” the newcomer demanded, pointing a gun in their general direction.

Brandon’s first thought was to protect Emily. He bolted off the couch and put himself between the strange man and the lady vet. He was halfway off his seat when he jolted awake, his chest heaving.

“Wow. Weird dream.” Brandon raked his hand through his hair.

Had he actually fallen asleep? His nap would no doubt secure him a position as one of the Top Ten Worst Dates in the Guinness Book of World Records. And that was at the very least. He imagined screaming and crying might follow. Or even worse, The Silent Treatment.

The question was: how long had this little snooze of his lasted? He was sure the severity of Emily’s anger would be in direct proportion to his time spent unconscious. The last thing he could remember was her walking down the hall to check her messages. Maybe, he’d dozed off for only a few minutes.

He knew it was wishful thinking. The fact that all the lights were out did not bode well for his theory. He looked at his watch, barely able to see the numbers in the dimness.

Five-thirty? It couldn’t be. He’d picked her up at six.

He gave the timepiece a tap and held it to his ear. It was ticking away like mad.

He looked at it again, puzzled. What the heck was going on? Then he noticed the date. He’d slept clean through to the next morning.

The next morning!
Panic coursed through his veins. This was the day he was supposed to start filming.

He jumped up. A knitted afghan fell from his legs and onto the carpet.

“Where’d that come from?"

Emily, his mind answered. She didn’t hate him. She had cared enough to cover him with a blanket. Quickly, he bent to pick it up and place it back onto the couch, trying to fold it as neatly as possible.

He peered around the semi-darkened room. A faint beam of light was peeking in through the blinds from the balcony doors. Stumbling through the apartment in search of paper and a writing utensil, he made his way into the kitchen. There, on the counter, sat a notepad and pen.

Now, what to write? He needed to apologize, but how? Something witty and humorous would be perfect. Where was Oscar Wilde when you needed him?

Sorry I fell asleep,
he wrote. His pen paused. Nothing witty about that. Then inspiration hit him. He scrawled the rest of the note in big, broad letters.
It seemed only natural, since you are the woman of my dreams.

He looked down at his handiwork and added another line.
Thanks for the blanket
, he scribbled, then signed his name along the bottom. In his daze, he almost wrote Brandon. He changed the
B
into an
H
as best he could, following it with an
O-U-S-T-O
and an
N
.

Then silently, he crept to the front door of the apartment and let himself out.

* * *

“Roll sound! Speed! Mark! And...action!”

Brandon stood at the back of the Wainwright Saloon and watched the barroom brawl unfold. A man of similar height and weight as himself, with the same dark curls and an identical costume, approached a light-haired man and took a swipe at him. The blond dodged the punch, grabbed Brandon’s double and smashed his head against the bar.

Brandon flinched. Even though he knew it was playacting, he still felt the blow. It seemed to have little effect on his twin, however. The man merely shook his head then plowed the blond in the belly.

The stuntman on the receiving end of that fist doubled over, his right hand skimming the top of the bar. He found the lone bottle, grasped it by the neck, and brought it down hard in the direction of the bad guy’s head.

Brandon’s lookalike was too smart to fall victim to such an obvious maneuver. He sidestepped the bottle, which exploded as it hit the bar, shattering into a fountain of whiskey-colored liquid and fake glass.

Countering, the dark-haired man twirled around and produced a knife from his belt. He jabbed it toward his opponent. The other man dodged the blade, moving left, then right, then back. In a last-ditch effort, he lunged at his attacker and grabbed him by the wrist.

The two men struggled with the weapon. Losing their balance, they toppled onto the floor and rolled several times. When the dark-haired man stood up, a large red stain was spreading across the front of his shirt. He stared at it, apparently surprised, then collapsed onto the floor. Dead.

“Cut. Good. Let’s take it again,” a balding man said. He was seated beside the camera, wearing a smart khaki ensemble that screamed Rodeo Drive. “First positions, please.”

Brandon watched the action repeat, memorizing the moves, preparing himself for the moment when he would step in and take over his stunt double’s choreography. As the camera changed angles and the sequence repeated five more times, Brandon’s attention wandered.

He’d called Emily at the clinic that morning, but the answering service had clicked in. He left a short message, apologizing again and explaining that he was tied up for the day and couldn’t be reached. Not thinking, he almost left his home phone number. Not smart. On his own voicemail, he identified himself as Brandon Hollister. He hadn’t had the forethought to change it. Hell, he hadn’t had the time. He was in such a panic—driving back to his apartment, showering and getting to the set—that he’d managed to trip over his feet half a dozen times.

Mentally, he kicked himself. This lying was getting to him. Heck, he was even dreaming about it. The problem was, he just wasn’t very good at it. He smiled at the irony of it all. He was an actor. Didn’t acting and lying go hand in hand?

Ay, there’s the rub.
When he was another character, he could say anything and even half believe it. But when he was plain ol’ Brandon Hollister and he lied, his gut twisted into a knot. Especially when the lie was to Doctor Emily Grant.

“Okay everyone, we’re going in for the close-ups.” The balding man looked over in Brandon’s direction then sauntered over to him. “So, are you ready to meet your maker?”

“Absolutely.”

“Brandon, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand. “Brandon Hollister.”

“I’m Nick Sunderland, the director. Pleased to meet you.” Before Brandon could interject with a similar sentiment, Nick raced on. “I’m going to put you in the scene now, for reaction shots. To do that, I’ll have you go through some of the moves that your stunt double made.”

“I’ve been watching.”

“Excellent,” Nick said, smiling back. “We’ll begin with the opening sequence, where you throw the punch at Houston. Starting positions, please.”

Brandon moved toward the mark taped onto the floor, his knees feeling rubbery beneath him. This was it. His big screen moment.

He chided himself. Now was not the time to get insecure. He’d auditioned and been hired. They must have liked him or he wouldn’t be here. Still, he’d never acted opposite a major Hollywood star before. He was thankful that his death scene was the first one that he had to film. At least he wouldn’t make a fool of himself by forgetting his lines. He didn’t have any.

He scanned the room, looking for the young, blond dynamo called Houston Savage. Through the crowd, a fair-haired man appeared. He made his way to the bar, stopping on the tape mark in front of Brandon.

“Okay,” Nick told the blond. “You know the drill.”

It took Brandon a second to recognize the guy. From a distance, he could have passed for thirty. Up close was a different story. He looked as though he was barely out of puberty. Brandon doubted the youth had mastered the fine art of shaving. Yet, this was Houston’s stunt double, the same one Brandon had watched earlier, fighting for his life.

“Isn’t Mister Savage going to be here?” Brandon whispered to him.

“Nah,” the young man replied, flashing a mouthful of braces. “He’s off filming another scene at a different location. It’s just you and me, kid.”

Kid?
Brandon’s cheeks warmed. He’d have no trouble making this punch look real.

* * *

Emily found the place easily enough. It was on the third floor of one of the downtown office buildings. A huge sign proclaimed the site as the home of Theater-to-Go.

She strode up to the ticket booth and asked for Jackie. The clerk behind the counter disappeared for a moment and returned with the culprit.

“Emily, I didn’t expect you.” Jackie’s tone was jovial, but hushed. From the auditorium, Emily heard a round of applause, followed by a snippet of music.

“No. I’m sure you didn’t. Can we talk?”

Jackie’s eyebrows lifted. “Sure. Come on back to my office.” She unhooked one of those red velvet ropes—the kind seen at Hollywood premiers and while standing in line at the bank—and gestured toward Emily to follow her. She led the way through a maze of halls until she came to a small office. After showing Emily a seat, she shut the door behind her. “You look serious. What’s the matter?”

Emily remained standing. “I’m here to talk to you about Houston Saveloy...and Brandon Hollister.”

“Houston Saveloy? Isn’t that the cowboy we met at Eduardo’s?”

“Yes. It is.”

“Okay. So who’s the other guy?”

“The same one.”

“The same one as what?”

“The same one as the other.”

Jackie’s lip curled a la Elvis Presley. “I beg your pardon?”

“They’re the same guy, Jackie, as if you didn’t know.”

“I don’t know. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The actor, Brandon Hollister—the one you got to play that cowboy at the restaurant.”

Her friend stared at her. “I’m lost.”

“Are you actually going to deny that you hired a guy to play a cowboy to mock my resolution?”

“Mock you?” The muscles around Jackie’s mouth tightened. “Em, I have pulled some pretty weird pranks in my time, but I would never do anything like that. How could you think it? You’re my best friend.”

This confrontation wasn’t going the way Emily had planned. She was supposed to be making Jackie feel guilty, not the other way around.

“You’ve played practical jokes on me before, Jackie.”

“Yeah, but only to embarrass you. Never to hurt you.”

Emily took a second to ponder the subtle difference and went on. “Are you denying that you enlisted a local actor to play a cowboy for my benefit?”

“Darn right I’m denying it,” Jackie said, her head nodding up and down vehemently. “Although, it sounds like a great gag.”

“It’s not. Believe me. I keep seeing this guy everywhere.”

“What’s his name again?”

“Brandon Hollister.”

“Let’s see if he’s in our talent bank. Come with me.”

Jackie led the way down the hall, Emily apologizing for her suspicions until she received a forgiving hug from her pal. Hurt feeling soothed on both sides, they continued their journey until they reached the last door. Jacks rapped lightly on it. When no one answered, she entered and gestured for Emily to follow her.

The cramped room housed a large oak desk, piled high with papers. “The artistic director’s office,” Jackie informed her, then moved toward a filing cabinet with six drawers. Each drawer was marked with a different label: Children, Teens, Women 20 to 45, Men 20 to 45, Women 45 Plus, Men 45 Plus. Jackie tugged on the fourth drawer and flipped through the files.

“Here he is,” she said, glancing at several pieces of paper before handing them to Emily. “Mmmmm, he can sing. Wonder why we didn’t look at him when we were casting the 50’s show. We had an awful time getting men. Seems every actor in town is in that cowboy movie they’re filming at Heritage Park.”

Emily took the résumé from her. Attached to it was a black and white, eight by ten photograph.

It was her cowboy, all right. But the picture looked several years old. It was probably done around the same time as the commercial she’d seen on TV. She scanned his list of credits. Not one of them had occurred in the past six years.

“What’s this?” Jackie tipped up the résumé and examined the back. “‘Not available. Family commitments.’”

Emily flipped the sheet over and looked at the writing. Three different shows were listed, in three different hands. After each the same words followed: ‘Not available. Family commitments’.

“What’s going on, Em?”

“Mmmmm.” Emily peered over the information, trying to get a sense of the man she’d come to know.

“Earth to Emily,” Jackie said, snapping her fingers. “What’s up with this guy?”