Someday Soon Page 14

“When he first pitched the idea, I knew he was wasting his time. The Connellys didn’t give a rat’s ass about him. The only reason they even talked to him was because he threw my name around—Camilla being my stepdaughter and all.”

  William nodded.

  Sam lifted his arms in guiltless glee. “I’m an opportunist. I admit it gladly! Paul Merrill was floundering around, boring everyone to tears, but he was close to the right idea. I remember thinking, ‘Camilla can get to Ty.’ That’s when I put a little bug in Nora and Jim’s ears. Simple.”

  “Brilliant,” William concurred. But then he cleared his throat. “You’re sure she wants this as much as you do?”

  “Are you kidding? That young lady’s hungry for a career. That nowhere soap opera of hers…” Now it was Samuel’s time to snort in disdain. “Paul Merrill said the show was going in another direction, so I kind of suggested he get her axed a bit sooner than originally planned. Hah! I should get a medal. Gave the program a bang-up ending they wouldn’t have had this season.”

  Privately, William believed Samuel Stovall was inclined to give himself too much credit, but he wisely kept that opinion to himself. “How long are you going to give her?” he asked.

  “What?” Sam was lost in his own “feel-good” over his Machiavellian machinations.

  “Summer Solstice won’t wait forever. They’re red hot and ready to roll, so what kind of time frame are we talking about?”

  Sam frowned in consideration, smoothing his hair once more. “It’s April. There’s some time left.”

  “They want production to start as soon as possible.”

  “Well, of course they do! They always do,” he growled, referring to production companies as a whole. “We’ll give her a few weeks. Maybe a month or so. They can hold off till August, if necessary. There’s a bunch of preproduction still left that has nothing to do with the actors.”

  “Will you still want to do the film if your son refuses?”

  “Hell, yes. It’s too good to give up. But Tyler will see the light, just you wait. The boy’s got good business sense. The only one of my kids that does.” A flash of bitterness swept through his voice.

  They switched topics briefly, with William checking how things were going with Sam and his current wife, Felicia. This latest marriage was foundering, and though Sam showed some interest in keeping it together, he was more concerned in furthering his own selfish goals. In his later years, he’d turned his energies from philandering to the self-promotion of his career—much to Felicia’s relief—but his ego was huge, his selfishness legendary. He was a difficult man at the best of times, and these, though not the worst, were definitely down the list a ways.

  William was Sam’s sole source of sanity and reason. Though Samuel Stovall heeded no one but himself, William at least had the power to pose possible avenues for Sam to reach his goals in the least destructive way.

  But both men had one long-term goal that never wavered: to get Samuel Stovall everything he wanted.

  “June on the outside,” Samuel said now, as the conversation wound down and each man’s thoughts returned to the issue on the top of both of their lists. “If she hasn’t succeeded by then, we’ll just have to prod her along, won’t we?”

  William Renquist inhaled deeply through his nose, wondering exactly what that might entail. Orren Wesson had broken into that stockbroker fellow’s house, which was felony by anyone’s standards, and William was a bit fainthearted when it came down to skullduggery of that nature. Still, his check was fat, his loyalty deep.

  “June,” he agreed, and both men smiled.

  Cammie lay awake in the middle of Ty’s king-size mattress, stretching her arms across the smooth sheets. The bed was enormous, made more so by the confines of the room, as it was tucked beneath the slanted wall where the stairs turned to the top of the loft. Everything was constructed of fir, warmed to a golden richness that seemed to envelop Cammie and make her want to snuggle further beneath the nautical blue comforter. Her gaze searched the nooks and crannies of the room, her senses soaking up more and more information about Ty Stovall.

  He kept things. Whatever was purchased or given to him seemed to be set down and forgotten. There were books and magazines and a stack of blank computer paper. His office seemed to have spilled downstairs into his bedroom, and when she dared to open the drawer in his nightstand, she discovered Chapstick, several best-selling novels, a recent copy of Popular Science, and a stack of papers that looked suspiciously like a screenplay at first glance.

  Footsteps sounded above her. Panicked that he would catch her snooping, Cammie shut the drawer so quickly she slammed her finger, hard. Pain shot through her hand and she involuntarily cried out, tears stinging her eyes.

  Klutz! she railed at herself. Her index finger ached like a beast, and she’d done it to herself. Fighting back a moan, Cammie watched blood well around the base of her nail. Guilt wasn’t enough, apparently. Throbbing pain beat like a pulse.

  “Damn,” she whispered.

  Moments later, Ty tapped on the door. Curling her throbbing hand beneath the comforter, Cammie called, “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?”

  How odd, she thought. I’m in his bed and he’s asking me if I’m all right! “I’m just getting up,” she said.

  “I thought I heard you—” His voice trailed off as if he couldn’t quite figure out how to ask her about the noise she’d made. No wonder. She’d have a hard time asking him!

  She struggled not to laugh, then bit back a groan of pain as the pressure in her finger increased. She’d really done it. She would undoubtedly lose a nail after the blasted thing turned every shade from red to puce to black!

  “Cammie?” Ty was clearly puzzled.

  “Just give me a few minutes. I’ll be right there.”

  She heard him walk back down the hall, then she dared to look at her hand. It was already red and growing redder, and a dark purplish spot showed beneath the nail. The pressure was growing. She knew she’d have to do something to release it.

  Why me? she thought with an inward sigh.

  With difficulty she climbed out of bed, threw off the T-shirt she’d worn as makeshift pajamas, then struggled onehanded into a pair of jeans and white, long-sleeved cotton blouse. She made it through three buttons before she gave up and just held it closed with the good fingers of her injured hand. She wanted a shower anyway, before she was fully dressed, so grabbing up her makeup bag with her free hand, she stepped into the hall…

  …and straight into Ty’s warm, hard chest.

  She gasped in shock. “Ty!” She hadn’t counted on him being right outside the door.

  “Sorry,” he apologized, steadying her as he stepped back to arm’s length. “I was just going to ask if you wanted your coffee black or with cream or sugar or…” His gaze dropped to her partially buttoned blouse.

  Cammie knew an expanse of skin showed at the throat of her white shirt. With difficulty she managed a breezy smile and murmured something about a shower. Slipping past him, she sneaked into the bathroom and closed and latched the door.

  Leaning against the panels, she squeezed her eyes shut tightly, exhaled slowly, then slowly lifted her lashes again. Tyler Stovall! Good Lord, she was staying at his cabin!

  Shaking her head to dislodge the sense of disbelief, she examined her battered finger, turning her hand around to view it from all sides. Nothing life-threatening. Just swollen, sorely painful, and a reminder that she was absolutely no good at detective work!

  She heard him in the kitchen, probably pouring the coffee. Unbuttoning her three buttons once more, she stripped off her shirt and jeans and slipped into the shower.

  The spray hit her in a hot, steady shot, streaming over her head. She stood there for what felt like an eternity, until her nerves slowly calmed down and her breathing returned to normal. Good grief, she felt odd. Seeing Ty again had sent her emotions spinning, and though she’d expected to have some reaction, she couldn’t get over the sense of
displacement and all-out strangeness that had descended upon her.

  What a weird night it had been! All the while she’d been gathering her things, she’d worried that as soon as she crossed his threshold again he would throw her out once and for all. She was certain he would change his mind, so she’d scrambled and rushed and scurried, parking the car with more speed than safety in a spot directly in front of the cabin. Once inside, she’d pretended with a bright smile that her being in Bayrock was all ho-hum and commonplace. What Ty thought of this performance, she couldn’t say. He’d barely grunted at her when she returned.

  He did insist she take the bedroom, however, and though she protested loud and long, she lost that particular battle before it had scarcely begun. Ty was deaf, dumb, and blind to anything she might say.

  “I’m sleeping on the couch in my office,” he told her flatly.

  “But you don’t have to. I feel guilty enough already, barging in on you like this, so I refuse to throw you out of your bedroom.”

  “Give me a break,” he said with a faint smile and trudged up the stairs while Cammie’s protests floated after him.

  Eventually, she did as she was bidden, checking the lock on the front door since Ty was particularly lax about privacy and protection. Then, tucked in the comfort of his huge bed, she’d lain awake for hours and hours, convinced she would never catch a wink of sleep.

  She’d been overwhelmed by the idea that it was his bedroom, his belongings, his scent hanging in the air. He’d been gone so long from her life, and so long from the film industry and world as a whole, that he’d assumed mythical proportions in Cammie’s mind. It was as if he weren’t really real, and though she knew he was, Tyler Stovall had become to her, like most of the world, a person who existed only through the media. A celebrity, first, foremost, and only.

  Cammie had entered his bedroom with a sense of treading on hallowed ground, and she simply couldn’t shake the feeling. Tossing and turning, she prayed for the sweet oblivion of sleep and listened to her restless heartbeat, wishing deep inside herself for something she dared not name. In the wee hours of the morning she’d been unable to stand it any longer, so she’d tiptoed into the living room and sat down in front of the cold ashes of the fire. In the semidarkness, she reviewed the events that had brought her to this point, and, as ever, she felt uneasy inside herself.

  Oh, she wasn’t about to get down on her knees and beg him to accept the role in Rock Bottom. She wasn’t a complete loon, and she’d purposely left the script at home. But she was afraid of what she, Cammie, might really want and hope from him, and knowing that made the hours tick by ever so slowly until daylight was a faint lightening of the deepest darkness outside the huge windows that faced the bay.

  And that’s when Ty showed up.

  One moment she was lost in her own troubled thoughts, the next his footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  And it didn’t help that when she jumped to her feet, whipping around in surprise, it was to find him in a pair of dark boxer shorts and nothing else.

  “Holy sh—” He stopped short. “What the hell are you doing, sitting here in the dark?”

  His anger was from surprise. “I—I couldn’t sleep.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “Not long. An hour, maybe.”

  “I’m thirsty,” he admitted, after a long moment of assessment. With that, he ducked under the loft and flipped on an under-counter fluorescent light. Illumination bathed the tiny kitchen in an eerie bluish-white glow. Feeling awkward, Cammie couldn’t think of anything to say or do, so she stood in utter silence, uncomfortably aware of everything about him. Of their own volition, her eyes focused on the narrow white strip of pale skin above his boxers. His tan was deep.

  Ty poured himself a glass of water and drank lustily, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. There was something so rugged and untamed about him that Cammie could hardly credit that this was the same urbane and controlled man who’d left Hollywood ten years earlier. He seemed like a mirror image, or a clone, or someone else. He certainly didn’t seem like Ty.

  “Do you want something?” he asked with forced politeness.

  “Look, if you don’t want me to stay here, I’m perfectly happy heading to the Goosedown Inn.”

  “Did I say I wanted you to leave?”

  “No, but I—” She shrugged unhappily. “I just sense that you’d rather not have me here, that’s all.”

  “I’m not exactly familiar with houseguests. No one’s come to visit, for obvious reasons, and I’m probably doing a damn poor job of it.”

  “I wasn’t criticizing you,” Cammie put in hurriedly.

  “I was criticizing myself.”

  His tenseness translated itself to her. Or maybe hers did to him. Either way, the moment stretched interminably, and Cammie found herself searching for a way to escape to the bedroom. But that would mean she would have to pass by Ty as he’d come to stand at the foot of the stairs, nearly blocking her route to the short hallway and bedroom. She didn’t really want to get that close to him. She didn’t know what she expected to happen, but she didn’t want to find out, either!

  Searching for something to say, she asked, “What do you do all day? I mean, what’s a typical day for you like?”

  “You mean, how do I survive without the confusion and insanity of stardom?” Ty’s lips twisted.

  “No, I just mean, what do you do? When you get up in the morning, what’s the first thing you do? What’s your routine?”

  “What kind of a question is that?”

  “I don’t know!” Cammie declared in exasperation.

  “I don’t have a routine. I just get up and let the day happen.”

  “Do you work at all? I mean, at some job?”

  She was struggling and she knew it, but what else was there to talk about? He was so closed off about the past, and if the truth were known, she didn’t want to talk about it, either. She wanted the here and now.

  “I’m in real estate,” he stated blandly.

  Cammie half laughed, then caught herself. “Really?”

  “Is that funny?”

  “No, I guess not. It just seems odd that—people around here—don’t realize who you are.”

  “It’s been a long time,” he pointed out, scratching at his beard again. “Besides, I’m Jerry Mercer now.”

  “No one’s ever asked you if you’re Tyler Stovall?”

  He shrugged. “People remark on the resemblance.”

  “I can’t believe it. If you walked into any restaurant in Los Angeles, you’d be spotted immediately.”

  Ty shook his head, drank the rest of the water in his glass, then said, “Nobody thinks about me any longer, which is just fine with me. I’m yesterday’s news. It takes a lot of energy to stay in the limelight, year in and year out, like Tom Cruise or Harrison Ford. You’d be surprised.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Cammie muttered so softly that Ty cocked his head in her direction.

  “What?”

  “Nothing…” She couldn’t go into all the hoopla surrounding Rock Bottom without giving away the impetus for her trip to see him. But she knew he was wrong about his fame. It was much bigger than he realized, immortalized by the very flight he’d chosen to try to make it disappear.

  As if sensing what she’d elected not to tell, Ty set the glass down very carefully on the counter, then ran his hands through his long hair, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. “I hated it,” he admitted through clenched teeth. “Every part of it.”

  Cammie didn’t answer, unsure of what to say.

  “All I wanted to do was act, but then things happened…”

  “You must not have hated acting, then,” she pointed out softly.

  “No, you’re right. But if I had it to do over again, I would choose another profession.”

  “Your father was awfully proud of you following in his footsteps.” Cammie cautiously sat back down on the couch.

  Ty snorted. “A
re you kidding? He only liked it until he considered me a threat. He’s competitive in ways you’ll never know,” he added with a taste of bitterness.

  “Was that why you left? Because of your father?” Cammie asked, realizing she’d never considered that particular angle.

  Ty’s face shuttered, as if he’d realized he’d given too much away. “I wanted out of everything.” Heaving a sigh, he joined her in the living room, flopping himself in the depths of the armchair across from where Cammie had uneasily settled on the couch. She couldn’t look directly at him. There was too much skin, too many muscles, too much—Ty!

  “So, what are you doing these days?” he asked. “What’s your—routine?”

  “Me? Nothing much.” She shrugged.

  “You were studying theater in college, weren’t you?”

  “Well…yes…”

  “And?” He lifted one brow, waiting.

  “I eventually got a job in television. It took awhile.” She linked her fingers together.

  “Acting?”

  She nodded jerkily. Glancing around, she realized there was a television tucked on one of the shelves nestled against the rock fireplace.

  “I don’t really watch it,” he admitted, following her gaze. “I don’t even know why it’s there.” He gave her a searching look. “What television show?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What’s the name of your show?”

  “Oh…I was on a nighttime drama, Cherry Blossom Lane, but I’ve just recently been released from my contract.”

  “I’ve never seen it,” he admitted. “Generally I check the stock market, sometimes the news.” He shrugged. “It’s not a priority.” When Cammie didn’t respond, he asked, “When does it air? Your show?”

  “Oh, um, Wednesday nights. I don’t know about here in Canada, though.”

  “That’s tomorrow night,” he pointed out.

  The idea of Tyler watching her act suddenly filled her with pure fear. Why hadn’t she considered that before? With all this talk of roles and films, she’d never thought about what it would be like to have him view her skill—or lack of it! “Well, it’s probably not on at the same time here. I don’t know. It’s not something I’d change my routine for, that’s for sure!”