Stormy Vows/Tempest at Sea (5 page)

The phone was answered on the second ring, and Donovan sounded disappointingly wide awake. When she had identified herself, he said impatiently, “I didn't expect it to be anyone else, Brenna.”

“Well.” She drew a deep breath. “I want to do it,” she said rapidly.

There was a long silence on the other end and then a low chuckle. “I assume you mean the part,” he drawled mockingly.

Color flooded her face at the innuendo, and she silently cursed both her inept tongue and the taunting redheaded devil on the other end of the line.

“You know I mean the part,” she said angrily.

“Yes, unfortunately I do,” he said lightly. She could almost see the amused grin on his face. Then his voice became cool and businesslike. “I trust you can be ready to leave by two this afternoon. You can fly up with me in the Lear jet. We're filming at Twin Pines, you know.”

She hadn't known. It hadn't occurred to her that she would have to leave Los Angeles. It should have, of course. Nearly all of Donovan's pictures were shot at Twin Pines now, when not on location. Her mind moved frantically. She'd have to notify the clerical agency, and Randy's nursery school, and Vivian, of course. She knew Charles would be glad to replace her in the play.

“I can leave today,” she said slowly. “But you needn't bother yourself about arrangements. I prefer to drive.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Donovan said impatiently. “I want you there this evening.”

“Then I'll start early,” she said stubbornly. There was no way she was going to see more of Michael Donovan than was absolutely necessary. He had a most unsettling effect on her. “Traveling with a baby can be very cumbersome, Mr. Donovan. I prefer to travel by car.”

“You're taking the child?” he asked, his tone flat.

“Of course,” Brenna said coolly. “Do you have any objections?”

“None at all,” he said absently. “I should have expected it, I suppose. I'll work something out.”

Brenna wondered what he had to work out. “Then I'll see you this evening,” she said firmly. “Good night, Mr. Donovan.” She replaced the phone without giving him a chance to object, and leaned back against the cushions of the couch, her head in a whirl. She wondered dazedly how she was going to get everything done, and still leave in the early morning to keep her promise to be at Twin Pines by early evening.

Well, first things first. She must get a few hours' sleep if she was to drive all day. She turned out the light and walked briskly into the bedroom. She set the alarm for six, shrugged out of her navy robe, and settled down to try to sleep.

The alarm came too soon. Brenna felt as tired as when she went to sleep. She took a cold shower, standing under the spray until she at least felt alive again. She brushed her hair and dressed hurriedly in rust-colored high waisted pants and a buttercup-yellow shirt that made her hair gleam in a glossy contrast. No time for makeup, she decided. She made herself a cup of instant coffee, added milk and sugar and carried it to the bedroom to sip as she packed. There was more to pack for Randy than for herself. Her own wardrobe was meager to say the least, but a two-year-old had to have a minimun of at least three changes a day. In the middle of her packing Randy awoke and she had to stop and dress him. After depositing him in his playpen in the living room, she hurried back to resume her packing, ignoring his loud protests. Randy always got up in the morning with a voracious appetite and wanted to eat first thing. She knew she couldn't put off his breakfast for very long, but she wanted to finish packing
this suitcase before she stopped again. She had just put the last items in and closed the lid, when the doorbell rang. Who in the world could be at the door at seven in the morning, she wondered.

“Just a minute,” she called frantically, trying to fasten the bulging suitcase. She succeeded, only to have it spring open again. “Damn!” she muttered impatiently, giving up temporarily.

On her way to the door, she stopped to pick up a teddy bear that Randy had tossed out of the playpen, and gave it back to that howling individual resignedly. “I know, love,” she said with a quick kiss on his silky head. Her sympathy was met by another bellow. She restrained herself forcibly from picking up the mournful little figure and comforting him. She'd never get out of here if she gave in to Randy's pleadings.

The doorbell rang again, and she tore herself from Randy's clinging arms with some difficulty. Randy renewed his heartbroken wailing, and she ran her fingers through her hair in exasperation.

She marched to the door and threw it open, her brow creased in a frown. “What is it?” she asked crossly of the man in jeans and sweatshirt, who stood appraising her coolly.

“You shouldn't open your door without first checking to see who's on the other side, you know,” the man said disapprovingly. “I'm Monty Walters. Michael Donovan sent me.”

She should have known, Brenna thought with irritation, glaring balefully at the man standing before her. Did Donovan infect all the people around him with his own arrogant bossiness?

“May I come in?” Walters asked politely, stepping forward so that she was forced to give way or be trampled underfoot. A little over middle height, he was in his late twenties, with crisp dark curly hair that framed a face that was surprisingly boyish. The dark eyes, however, were completely adult and just a little cynical.

After the night and morning she had gone through, Brenna
was not about to be intimidated by one of Donovan's underlings.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Walters, but I haven't the time to talk to you right now,” she said shortly. “Any last minute instructions Mr. Donovan has for me will have to wait until I arrive at Twin Pines.”

There was a flicker of surprise in the dark eyes, and Walters looked at her with new interest. “That's why I'm here,” he said coolly. “Mr. Donovan didn't care for the idea of your driving yourself. I'm to personally escort you and the child to the complex.”

“That won't be necessary. I can drive myself perfectly well,” Brenna said between her teeth.

Walters closed the door behind him firmly. “It may not be necessary for you, Miss Sloan,” he said dryly. “But it's of the utmost necessity to me, if I want to keep my job.” He looked around appraisingly. “Now I suggest that we get moving. If you'll supply me with the names and telephone numbers of people you want to advise of your departure, I'll attend to that, while you look after your child.” He flinched as Randy emitted another piercing howl.

“He's hungry,” Brenna said defensively, as she moved toward the playpen.

“Then I suggest you feed him,” Monty Walters said bluntly. “But first give me those phone numbers.”

Without knowing quite why she was giving in to this aggressive young man, Brenna found herself meekly supplying him with the necessary information. Then she picked up Randy and headed for the tiny kitchenette, where she prepared his usual oatmeal, bacon, and orange juice. Once fed, he regained his sunny disposition, and permitted her to put him back in his playpen with a toy. She swiftly washed and dried the dishes and tidied up the kitchen, then went back to the bedroom to resume her packing.

When she came out of the bedroom, Walters had already
disassembled the portable playpen and high chair and set them neatly by the door, and Randy was sitting on the couch playing with a chain of fascinating colored keys. Monty Walters was standing before the window, his eyes narrowed appraisingly.

“Stained glass,” he said, admiring the rich violet and blue of the floral design. “Quite lovely and unexpected. Your work?”

Brenna nodded, thawing a bit at his admiration. She was very proud of that window. “It seemed appropriate,” she said, making a face. “You've probably noticed this neighborhood is not high on aesthetic views.”

“So you made your own,” he observed, looking around the room with new interest. Cream walls provided a classic frame for the window. The furniture was in neutral shades and far from new, and the glowing beauty of the hardwood floor was accented by several brightly colored throw rugs.

“You've done a lot with it,” he said thoughtfully, his eyes returning to the window, which was the focal point of the room. “An unusual hobby,” he commented.

“It's becoming increasingly popular,” she said quietly. “I learned it at school.” The children's home had been convinced that idle hands bred mischief and the children had been offered arts and crafts classes of all descriptions.

“I've always thought a person's home reflected a great deal of their personality,” Walters said quietly, turning his gaze to regard Brenna soberly. “I like your home, Miss Sloan. I have a hunch you're not just another pretty face.”

“If that's a compliment, I thank you, kind sir,” she said lightly. “I'm sure you're not just a pretty face, either.”

He smiled ruefully. “Did I sound chauvinistic?” he said, shaking his head. “I haven't made a very good impression on you, have I? I guess my pride was a bit hurt at being used as a glorified chauffeur, and I took it out on you.” His smile widened appealingly. “Shall we start over?”

Brenna answered his smile with a warm one of her own. “I
think we'd better. It's a long way to the Oregon border.” She made a face. “No one would have voted me Miss Congeniality this morning either.”

“You're right there,” he said impudently, dark eyes twinkling. “Now shall we hit the road, before I manage to alienate you completely?”

Together they packed the Lincoln Continental to its spacious limits. When Brenna had objected to leaving her own car in Los Angeles, Monty had countered that the trip would be much more comfortable in the Lincoln, and Donovan had already arranged for her car to be picked up in a few days. There could be no argument about the drive being more comfortable, she admitted to herself, when they were on their way. The car was the height of luxury. She stroked the wine velvet upholstery of the seat with almost sensual pleasure.

“It's a lovely car,” she commented. “Does it belong to Mr. Donovan?”

Monty Walters shook his head with a grin, as he maneuvered the big silver car onto the freeway. “It's mine,” he admitted. “I have a vulgar passion for ostentatious cars, but I haven't dared to indulge it until recently.”

“Money?” Brenna asked. This car must have cost a small fortune. Though Michael Donovan was reputed to pay his employees very well, she found it unlikely that even the most generous salary would provide a luxury of this magnitude.

“In a manner of speaking.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “You see I'm stinking rich.”

Her mouth quirked at the boyish awkwardness of this revelation. “I'm afraid I don't see your problem,” she said solemnly. “Why couldn't you have a car like this, if you could afford it?”

“I didn't want to remind Donovan that I was wealthy, so I've been driving a '75 Volkswagon for the past two years,” he said simply. “It's only lately that I've felt confident enough to risk the Lincoln.”

Brenna stared at him in amazement. “Do you mean Michael Donovan would have objected to you buying the car of your choice with your own money?” she asked indignantly. That an aggressive, confident man like Monty could be so intimidated was truly incredible.

“Hell, no!” he said explosively. “But after working like the devil to get this job, I thought I'd better play it low key. He knew my background when he hired me and he was dubious, to say the least, about my willingness to stick to the kind of work schedule he demanded of his employees.” His mouth twisted wryly. “I soon understood why. Simon Legree has nothing on Michael Donovan.”

“Yet, you're still with him,” Brenna observed.

“I guess I'm just a masochist,” Walters said lightly. Reaching out he touched a button, and taped music flooded the car with the mellow strains of a Barry Manilow hit. Brenna leaned back and relaxed on the plush velvet seats, letting the strain of the last few hours flow out of her.

In the next several hours Brenna found Monty Walters to be amazingly companionable. He was quick-witted and energetic, with a wry sense of humor that was almost puckish. By the time they had shared lunch, dinner, and almost eight hours of desultory conversation, she felt as if they were old friends.

It was nearing twilight when they crossed the Oregon border, and a brief twenty minutes later they reached Twin Pines.

She didn't know what she had expected of Donovan's Twin Pines complex. Perhaps in the back of her mind had been the idea that it would be the usual movie studio lot like Paramount or Universal. She should have known better.

Twin Pines was as unique as the man who had created it. Located at the edge of a small Oregon lumber town, it looked more like a country club than a movie studio, with low modernistic buildings in redwood and glass, wide streets, and several tree-shaded park areas furnished with picnic tables and benches.

“Impressed?” Walters asked, arching his eyebrows quizzically, as she turned back to him from her eager perusal of the passing scene.

“Who wouldn't be?” she asked dryly. “It's perfectly charming, but not exactly what you'd expect of Michael Donovan.”

“On the contrary, it's exactly what you'd expect of him,” Walters said briskly. “He's gathered the most gifted and skilled people in the industry here at Twin Pines. People that usually work freelance have been formed into a sort of repertory group. When they're working, he drives them unmercifully. It's just good sense to provide them with the most pleasant surroundings possible to enjoy in their free time.”

“You admire him very much, don't you?” Brenna asked curiously.

“You're damn right I do,” he replied unequivocally. “There are a few men in every generation who combine creative genius with irresistible drive. When you find one, if you're smart, you grab hold of his coattails and let him carry you to the top.”

“I wouldn't have thought you'd be interested in a free ride,” Brenna said thoughtfully.

Walters snorted derisively. “There's nothing free about it. Donovan extracts the last ounce of effort from the people around him. You give until you have nothing else to give. Then, somehow, you find he has expanded your limits, so that there is a whole new reservoir for him to tap.” His dark eyes were reflective. “He's a complete workaholic, a nit-picking perfectionist, and a totally ruthless exploiter of the talents of his employees,” he continued, almost beneath his breath. “But, by God, it's worth it!”