Temptation's Kiss (10 page)

By the time she was dressed, T.K. was also dressed except for his coat. Sam was sitting by the door as if patiently waiting for them.

Patrice zipped up her parka. She was dressed warmly in jeans made of winter-weight denim, an undershirt, a long-sleeved pullover sweater, socks, fur-lined boots and a fur-lined hooded parka. She didn't play with cold weather.

T.K. was more lax in his winter attire. He didn't even have on an undershirt, just a long-sleeved pullover sweater, jeans, thick socks and athletic shoes, with an expensive insulated parka in which he felt warm and toasty.

After pulling on her hood, Patrice went and helped him with his. “Being hair-deprived as you are, you need this,” she joked.

He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose. “You look like a cute little Inuit.”

They left the RV and immediately felt the urge to turn around and go back inside. The air was bitingly cold on the skin of their faces. The wind was blowing fiercely, and it was snowing.

“I take it back,” Patrice said, her breath making white plumes in the icy air. “Albuquerque was never this cold!”

Sam bounded down the steps ahead of them. T.K. had put on his black doggy coat, and he looked kind of like a baby bear in it. T.K. had his leash in his hand but didn't think he needed to use it because he doubted Sam would run off in this weather. The dog was not fond of the cold. He was a real L.A. pooch.

“Hurry up and do your thing, Sam,” he urged. He had the blue bag in his coat pocket. It wasn't one of his favorite tasks, but he was a responsible dog owner.

“I wonder if Santa really lives in Wyoming and the claim that he lives in the North Pole is a total fantasy,” Patrice joked.

“That guy at the gas station not far from here did resemble St. Nick,” said T.K.

Patrice chuckled, remembering the friendly guy with the white beard and hefty build. “Nah, that wasn't Santa. Santa wouldn't own a gas station. A reindeer ranch, maybe.”

“How do you know what Santa does in his spare time?”

“Spare time? He has no spare time. He's supervising the elves while they make the toys all year long.” She
paused when she saw Sam stop by a bush and lift his leg. “We may have some action over there.”

A few minutes later, Sam finished, and T.K. went and did his duty, tossing the blue bag into a garbage can.

He left Sam in his trailer and walked with Patrice over to hers. “I don't know what I was thinking when I suggested Wyoming as a location for this movie,” he said as he followed her inside. He locked the door behind them. “We could have done it on a Hollywood back lot and faked the snow.”

Patrice was pulling off her coat. “That wouldn't have been half as authentic as Wyoming,” she disagreed. She put her coat on a nearby chair. T.K. took his off and put it next to hers.

He followed her into the kitchen. “Yeah, but we would have been comfortable.”

“Comfort isn't everything. This movie will have some wonderful cinematic moments. The rugged terrain here is worth every penny. Besides, some of my favorite movies were filmed in Wyoming.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asked. He washed his hands at the sink, dried them and got the bread from off the counter while Patrice looked in the fridge for the roast beef and other sandwich makings.

“Yeah,” said Patrice, her head nearly inside the fridge. “
Shane
and
Close Encounters of the Third Kind,
the first Spielberg movie I ever saw.”

“You're so young, I figured your first Spielberg movie would be something from his later years.”

“I didn't see it in a theater. I saw it on tape at my friend Beanie's house. We were having a sleepover.”

“What's Beanie short for?”

“Benina,” said Patrice. “Benina Johnson. She moved away. I haven't seen her in years. These days my best friends are two women I met while at Juilliard, Belana Whitaker and Elle Jones-Corelli.”

“Corelli?”

“She married Italian composer Dominic Corelli.”

“I know him!”

“You do?” Her arms were full with a package of thin-sliced roast beef, a plastic jar of spicy brown mustard, lettuce, tomatoes and a jar of pickles. She carried everything over to the counter, took a moment to wash and dry her hands and then started making two sandwiches. “How do you know Dominic?”

“I was doing a film near Milan with George Clooney, and George has a house on Lake Como. Dominic has a house—”

“Yeah, I know. That's where the wedding was held.”

“Anyway, we all got together and played cards. He's a good player but not nearly as cutthroat as you need to be if you're playing with those guys.”

Patrice laughed shortly. “You play cutthroat poker.”

“I do,” he said, smiling. “Do you play poker?”

“Not well enough to play with you guys, no doubt, but yes, I play. I don't gamble, though, so what's the point?”

“Why don't you gamble?”

“I just have an aversion to wasting money. Growing up, money was tight. There were four of us kids, and sometimes ranching wasn't very lucrative. You have good years and bad years. I guess I learned to be frugal. I'd rather give the money to somebody who can use it rather than gamble it away. That's all.”

“I do both,” said T.K.

“Yes, I've seen you at charitable events around town,” she told him.

“Why is it I never noticed you?”

“Because I was just another young actress clawing her way to the top,” said Patrice.

“No,” T.K. disagreed, pulling her into his embrace. “You are not just some young actress clawing her way to the top. You're special.”

I
t was December, and they were at the end of the filming schedule. Patrice felt sad on one hand because she would miss everyone she'd worked with. On the other hand, she was
so
ready to leave the cold of Wyoming behind. People joked that L.A. enjoyed wonderful warm weather because it was so close to the entrance to hell, what with all the sinners who lived there. But she had come to appreciate L.A. more with each passing day. It had been below freezing here every day in December.

Mike had waited for this delightful weather to shoot the gunfight in the snow scene during which Patrice's character, Bella, takes a bullet to the stomach. Of course, no one survived a gut shot in the 1800s. Medicine hadn't been advanced enough back then to work the kinds of miracles that were seen today on a daily basis.

That morning, the wardrobe people dressed her in an emerald-green frilly dress trimmed in black, with long curly extensions hanging down her back, black lace-up ankle boots and a thick black hooded cape. After several starts and stops and, to Patrice, way too much time spent lying in the snow, they got the final scene on film.

In the scene, she was supposed to argue with Ted Knowles' character, Bass Reeves's nemesis, Sheriff Jesse Beaumont. Beaumont had tracked them down, and he'd spotted her in the general store buying more appropriate clothing for the winter weather. He grasped her by the arm and prevented her from leaving. Bella kneed him and fled the store, her only wish to get to Bass and warn him.

She ran out into the street, trying to make it to the livery stable where Bass was bartering with the owner for fresh horses so they could continue their escape unimpeded by exhausted horses. She stopped short when Bass came out of the stable and began walking toward her.

Sheriff Beaumont was right behind her, gun drawn. “Reeves!” he yelled upon seeing Bass. “You stop right there and raise your hands in the air.”

Bass, not wanting Bella to get hurt, did what he was told.

“Take off your gun belt and get down on your knees,” Beaumont ordered. There was a satisfied smile on his face. He thought he had the upper hand and that he was finally going to see Bass Reeves hang.

“Bass, don't!” Bella shouted, seeing Bass untying the leather straps that held his gun's holster securely against his right thigh.

Beaumont was so hungry for payback that he didn't wait for Bass to loosen the straps and allow his gun belt to fall to the ground. He raised his gun to shoot Bass in cold blood. Bass was concentrating on Bella, so he didn't notice what Beaumont was getting ready to do, but Bella did. She turned and threw herself in front of Bass just as Beaumont fired and the bullet hit her in the midsection.

To Bass's tormented mind, Bella seemed to fall in slow motion.

“No!” Bass shouted and shot Beaumont right between the eyes. The sheriff was dead instantly, and Bass rushed to Bella. It was snowing heavily now, and as he held her head in his lap, her blood stained the snow beneath her. She looked up at him and smiled.

“You were the best time I ever had,” she told him.

“You're gonna be okay, Bella. Save your strength,” said Bass. A few people were slowly emerging from neighboring buildings and venturing onto the wooden sidewalks. “Somebody get the doc!” he yelled.

A shopkeeper turned and ran in the opposite direction, presumably to fetch a doctor.

Bella's breath was labored now. She continued to smile. “Too late for that,” she told Bass. “You'd better go, baby. I'm sure the bastard didn't come alone.”

“I won't leave you,” Bass stubbornly said. There were tears in his eyes.

“But I'm gonna leave you,” Bella said. “Kiss me goodbye.”

Bass lowered his head and kissed her, and when he raised his head, her eyes were closed in death.

There was no time for grief though because Bella was right: the bastard had not come alone. Three men stood a few feet behind Bass with guns drawn. One stepped forward and ordered Bass to lay down his gun.

Bass was in no mood to negotiate with crooked lawmen. He rose and faced them, but he didn't relinquish his weapon. With steely eyes, he said, “If you want a fight, you've come to the right man.”

He could smell the fear on them. They'd probably signed on with Beaumont because they had figured the colored lawman would be easy prey. Now that Beaumont was lying a few feet away with a bullet in the head, they were not so certain that the job would be a cakewalk.

One of them whispered to the others, “Maybe we ought to get outta here.”

Another whispered back, “He's just one man. He can't get all three of us.”

“Yeah, but I don't want to be the one he gets. Look at him. He's ready to kill somebody.”

Bass was waiting for them to make a move. He was as steady as a rock. Although rage surged through him, he was able to harness it and use it to his benefit.

Two of the men raised their arms and slowly moved away from the one who wanted to remain and fight.

“Toss your guns in the water trough,” Bass told them.

They did as they were told.

“Okay, now get the hell outta here!”

They took off running and didn't stop until they reached their horses that they'd left tethered in front of the saloon, where they mounted them and raced out of town.

Bass had his eye on the remaining man the whole time. “Let's get this over with,” he told him gruffly.

“You don't scare me,
boy,
” said the man. “I've heard about you. They say you killed fourteen outlaws in fair fights. Well, I don't fight fair.” With that, he drew his gun, but he wasn't fast enough. Bass shot him through the heart before his finger could pull the trigger. He toppled over, a surprised expression on his florid face.

Bass didn't know it, but the sheriff of the town had watched the entire gunfight. He walked onto the sidewalk adjacent to the spot where Bella still lay in the snow. “You might want to put that firearm away,” he said.

Bass, keyed up, turned the gun on him.

The sheriff held up his hands to show he was unarmed. “I'm Sheriff Beaumont. I got a telegraph from the federal judge saying you might be passin' through here and to be on the lookout for you. You're Bass Reeves, a federal marshal, right?”

“How'd you guess?” Bass asked. He knew full well
that besides the four men who followed them there, he and Bella were very likely the only strangers in the little town.

“He sent me a description of you,” said the sheriff. “He said you were a tall, tough bastard with a handle bar mustache.” He looked with sympathy upon Bella. “I'm sorry about your woman. Do you need help with her?”

“No,” Bass told him, going to gather Bella in his arms. “I'll take care of her.” As he stood and began walking down the wooden sidewalk, Bella cradled in his arms, the picture faded to black.

“And cut!” shouted Mike. “Congratulations, people! That's a wrap!”

“You cry real pretty,” Patrice joked in her Bella voice while still in T.K.'s arms.

“And you die real pretty.”

“Where're you taking me?”

“Straight to wardrobe so we can get out of these costumes. Then I'm taking you to my trailer and I'm going to make love to you.”

“What about the wrap party?” she asked mischievously.

“We can be a little late,” T.K. said.

“People will talk,” said Patrice smiling up at him. She was freezing, and the blood pack taped to her stomach was oozing red-colored syrup.

“Get real, Ms. Sutton. People have been talking about us for at least two months now.”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “I'm going to miss the mustache.”

“Liar,” he playfully accused her. “You were horrified it was going to fall off my face every time I kissed you.”

“I could imagine I was kissing Tom Selleck.”

“Had a thing for him, huh?”

“Only when he was in a Western,” said Patrice. “I like my men rough and ready.”

“I'll give it to you rough,” said T.K. and nuzzled her neck.

They arrived at the RV that housed the costume department. He put her on the top step, and she walked inside and said hello to the two women who immediately began helping her out of the dress.

“When are you heading out, sweetie?” asked one of the women, a sweet-faced grandmotherly type with graying brown hair, warm brown eyes and almond-colored skin.

“Tomorrow morning,” said Patrice. She smiled at both of them. “Thank you so much for all you've done.”

“It was our pleasure,” said the woman's partner, a tall, thin blonde.

“Yes, you were a treat to work with,” said the woman with the graying hair. T.K. walked into the room, and the women gasped in unison. “Out,” said the grandmotherly woman imperiously. Patrice was down to her corset. T.K. turned his back to them. “Is this better?”

“It is not,” the woman said. “Wait in the hallway, T.K.,
or you'll be sorry.” She waved a hat pin threateningly at him.

T.K. took one look at the wickedly long pin and left. “What do you do with that thing?”

“Wouldn't you like to know,” said the woman. She smiled at Patrice. “You've got to keep them in line.”

Patrice chuckled. “Yes, you do.”

“What are you working on next?” asked the other woman, obviously wanting to change the subject. “Got anything lined up?”

“I have a small role in a Johnny Depp film,” Patrice told her.

“There are no small roles, only small actors.”

“Like that cute little blonde who works on Broadway a lot,” her friend quipped.

“Oh, yeah, she's a tiny thing. What's her name?”

“Kristin Chenoweth,” Patrice provided the answer. “I loved her in
Pushing Daisies.
Chi McBride was in it, too. Do you know his work?”

The blonde smiled knowingly at her partner.

“What?” asked Patrice, curious to know why the woman had had that wistful expression on her face after she'd mentioned Chi McBride.

“He's a sweetheart,” the woman told her confidentially, “so nice and not full of himself like some actors.”

Patrice had never worked with him, but that was nice to know.

“Don't tell a certain person I said this,” the graying woman said to Patrice, “but Trevor Kennedy is
my
favorite movie star. He's a dear. He treats everybody well, no matter who they are. I've never seen him be unkind to anyone.”

Patrice smiled. She knew T.K. was a good man, but it was wonderful to hear people like these ladies say it.

After she'd changed back into her own clothes, she hugged them both. “Take care of yourselves, and I hope to work with you again someday.”

 

By the time T.K. and Patrice arrived at the wrap party, which was being held in the dining room of the inn they'd used at the start of filming, it was in full swing. Although the inn didn't have a live band, they provided the celebrants with music piped in over a sound system and, for those who were brave enough, karaoke. Ted Knowles was on stage singing “I Will Survive” as they walked in.

There was a buffet, and T.K. and Patrice went and filled their plates before sitting at a table near the stage where Lara Miller had waved them over, crying, “Come join us, there're two empty chairs at our table!”

They sat, doffing their coats to reveal casual clothing of jeans, long-sleeved shirts and boots. “He's pretty bad,” Patrice said of Ted's singing. She started to playfully shout something encouraging to him but Lara grabbed her by the arm. “Please, don't,” she said. “That's his third song. Someone else made the mistake of telling him he sounded good, and he hasn't shut up since.”

Patrice smiled at her. “It wasn't you by any chance?”

Lara smiled regretfully. “I learned
my
lesson.”

Patrice and T.K. ate their meals, entertained the entire time by Ted, who was now being intermittently booed. T.K. put down his fork and rose. “Someone's got to end this madness.”

He reached down for Patrice's hand. “Come on.”

Patrice laughed. “You're on your own, big guy.”

“Chicken?” asked T.K., laughter evident in his eyes.

Patrice grudgingly stood up, “All right, but no disco.” While she was at Juilliard, she'd taken voice lessons and dance lessons with the goal of becoming a well-rounded actor.

However, she would never compare her singing to Elle's or her dancing to Belana's. They were devoted to their disciplines as she was devoted to hers, and it showed.

So it was with a bit of trepidation that she went onstage with T.K.

Ted took being kicked to the curb with his usual sense of humor. “Good luck,” he told them as he walked off the stage. “This crowd's hard to please.”

Patrice and T.K. perused the song list for a moment and decided on “Ain't No Mountain High Enough.” When the music began, they stood onstage back to back, microphones held in their hands at the ready.

The music started and T.K., taking Marvin Gaye's part, turned around and sang to Patrice. They stood close, arms around one another's waists.

Patrice gazed up at him the way Tammi Terrell used
to gaze up at Marvin Gaye, and she sang with as much sincerity. She was pleasantly surprised that T.K. could carry a tune. He was no Marvin, but who was? He was getting into it, too, looking at her as if she were the most desirable creature in the world when he pledged to be there no matter what. Patrice let go and belted out the chorus, and T.K. met the challenge, matching her enthusiasm.

When they finished, they got a standing ovation.

Ted yelled from the back, “When's the wedding?”

Everybody got a good laugh out of that one. T.K., looking into Patrice's upturned face, thought the idea had merit. What would it be like to share his life with Patrice? The past four months had been among the happiest he'd ever spent, entirely owing to her. Was love enough to sustain a marriage in Hollywood?