Читать книгу Temptation - Sherryl Woods, Sherryl Woods - Страница 8

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Callie Smith felt as if she’d been run over by a truck. Looked pretty much like it, too, she decided with brutal honesty as she gazed into the mirror above the sink in her minuscule bathroom.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from what felt like a solid two months of crying. Her skin was blotchy. Her hair had defied every weakhearted attempt she’d made to coax some curl into it.

Terence Walker peered over her shoulder and shook his head at her reflection. “Girl, you look sorrier than any cat Grandma ever dragged in.”

“Thank you for that pick-me-up,” she commented snidely to her neighbor and best friend. “Go away.”

Unfortunately, Terry was not the sort of man easily dissuaded once he’d set his mind to something. Callie had learned that the hard way in the months since she’d been dumped by her Wall Street brokerage firm and her husband in a depressing burst of downsizing on all fronts of her life. Terry was harder to shake than a nagging midwinter cough and, especially on days like today, twice as irritating.

“This can’t go on,” he declared. “You’ve been a mess since that jerk you were married to walked out that door and flew to the Caribbean for a quickie divorce so he could marry the bimbo in spandex.”

“That was six months ago. I’m over that,” she said blithely. It wasn’t entirely true, but she was convinced if she repeated it often enough, it would become true. Time, that reported healer, was crawling by at a snail’s pace, it seemed.

“And losing your job two months ago? Are you over that, too?” Terry pressed.

Callie frowned. It probably said a lot about her priorities that that blow had been even harder to take. She’d never depended on a man, even her husband, for her sense of self-worth, but her self-esteem and her ambition were inextricably tied together. Still, she said determinedly, “I will be.”

“Right,” Terry said with a familiar disbelieving note in his voice. “The bottom line here is, you have to pull yourself together.”

“For what?” she demanded, sniffling and patting ineffectually at her eyes with a damp cloth in an attempt to reduce the puffiness. She flatly refused to smooth on the hemorrhoid cream that Terry had assured her in a recent makeup tip session would work wonders. “I have no job. I have no love life. What’s left?”

“Living, for one thing,” Terry said. “Being forced to move back to Iowa and raise corn, for another. It could come to that, you know.”

That dire reminder was almost enough to shake her out of her lethargy. Going home to the Iowa farm she’d always despised was a fate not to be endured.

Born Calliope Jane Gunderson almost thirty years ago, she had been named for a musical instrument in what must have been the last bit of whimsy in which her stern, rigid, Iowa-bred mother had ever indulged. Callie had always suspected she’d been conceived in the back of her father’s pickup during the Iowa State Fair as a calliope played in the background. She’d never dared to ask either of her parents if some momentary lapse in judgment explained why two such wildly different and totally incompatible people had married.

Growing up in that strained household hadn’t exactly been a picnic for her or her younger sister, Eunice. They had led a cold, harsh, sometimes desperate life, made more difficult by the lack of joy or affection between her parents. Eunice had married a dry, humorless man just like their father and was currently withering away on a farm of her own.

Callie had fled at the first opportunity. She had gravitated to New York the way a thirsty man might crawl toward an oasis in the middle of the desert. She loved the neon, the frenzied energy, the vibrant culture, the ethnic diversity, the quaint boutiques. She hadn’t even minded the dirt and grime so much. After all, she had grown up on unrelenting acres of the stuff.

Now, it appeared, she was facing a return to more of the same unless she could haul herself out of this depression and pull her life together. If she hadn’t known that already deep in her gut, Terry’s constant reminders would have drilled it into her. She scowled at his reflection in the mirror.

“If this is your idea of cheering me up, it’s a good thing you didn’t choose comedy as a career,” she said.

“I didn’t choose comedy because I am a certifiable hunk,” he retorted immodestly, grinning back at her and preening outrageously.

It was true. He had been blessed with the kind of interesting, rough-hewn features and muscular body that made women want to throw themselves at his feet and beg for just one of his endearing, crooked smiles. Ever since he’d become the leading actor on Within Our Reach, they had been doing just that with such regularity that Callie was embarrassed on behalf of the entire female half of the population.

Didn’t they have lives? Didn’t they realize that the character Terry played was make-believe? Apparently not, if the mail he periodically carted home was any indication. They really, really wanted his well-developed and carefully maintained thirty-three-year-old body.

“Stop bragging,” she muttered, giving up on salvaging her face for the moment and turning away from the mirror. “One word to the soap opera magazines about your true sexual preferences and you’ll be back trying to find work in some pitiful chorus line off Broadway.”

“Discovering that I’m gay might force the writers to adjust the story line the teensiest little bit,” he admitted without taking offense at the threat of blackmail. “But I could draw a whole new audience.”

That was Terry, ever the optimist. No wonder he was wearing on her nerves. She wanted to sulk. In fact, she had been sulking off and on for most of the past six months. Just as Terry had diagnosed, it had begun with the departure of her husband and showed no signs of letting up. It was starting to put a strain on their friendship, if not her bank account, which was large enough to weather a few more months of self-pity if she stayed out of Bloomingdale’s.

She scowled at him again. “Funny, I’ve never heard that the networks were battling for that particular demographic.”

“I don’t see why. We’re young. We’re upwardly mobile. We buy cars and clothes and beer.”

Callie patted his sexily stubbled cheek. “Give it up. This is daytime TV we’re talking about. The culture of Middle America. They’ll never let you kiss on-screen again.”

As she headed into the kitchen to see if there was anything in the refrigerator that could still be considered edible, Terry trailed after her.

“Speaking of kissing on-screen,” he said, automatically leaning against the counter and striking a camera-ready pose that would have set most female hearts tripping. “Rumor has it that the network boss man himself has taken an interest in the show. He’s out to spice up the ratings with some new femme fatale. When the word came down today, all the actresses on the set were in an absolute tizzy. I’ve never seen so many cell phones in use at one place at one time. Every agent in town must have been getting a blistering earful. I can’t imagine why. At the rate soap time moves, it’ll be months before the character does more than say hello.”

Terry loved industry gossip. Since his long-time lover was bored to tears by what he considered to be the shallowness of television, Callie heard more than she’d ever wanted to know about Terry’s coworkers.

She knew, for instance, that the sweet little ingenue on the show had slept with almost every male in the cast and crew. She also had it on excellent authority that the man who played a pious, self-righteous physician with such dedication was addicted to cocaine. And the show’s Emmy Award−winning villain was the softest touch on the set, to say nothing of being an Olympic-caliber ladies’ man.

About the only thing she could say for being the beneficiary of all of this inside information was that it made the calls she received from Eunice almost bearable. Her sister was a die-hard viewer of Within Our Reach. Feeding her the show’s latest gossip usually kept Callie from having to discuss anything at all about Iowa.

Lately, though, it was getting harder and harder to put off hearing about her mother’s inability to cope with the farm now that her father was dead. Regina Gunderson was only in her fifties, but she had arthritis. She had a bad heart. In fact, she had so many ailments, Callie had given up trying to keep track of them all. No one had expected her to outlive her husband, but Jacob Gunderson had died of a stroke while harvesting last year’s crop of corn.

Ever since the funeral, Eunice had been growing more and more determined to get the message across that, unless Callie had a very good reason for staying in New York, she ought to be at home bailing out that failing farm and taking care of Mama. The loss of her job and the failure of her marriage were a pretty good indication that she was washed up in the big city, according to Eunice.

Although she loved her mother and felt bad about her plight, she shuddered at the thought of going home, then dismissed it for now. She’d find work sooner or later. In the meantime, she was more interested in dinner.

She sighed heavily when her search of the refrigerator revealed nothing more than a spotty banana and a suspiciously green chunk of what must once have been cheese.

When she glanced up, she discovered Terry regarding her speculatively. “What?”

“I have just had a very bizarre thought.”

“What else is new? Your thought process should be analyzed by some government grant,” Callie observed. She eyed him hopefully. “Did you bring chicken soup, by any chance?”

“No, you’re not sick. You’re depressed.”

“You used to bring chicken soup.”

“I used to bring gin, too, but then I saw how maudlin it made you,” he retorted. “If you mope around much longer, you can forget about little dabs of Preparation H. The best pancake makeup in the business won’t hide those puffy circles under your eyes.”

Callie frowned. “Is that supposed to upset me?”

“It would if you were thinking what I’m thinking.”

“I’m thinking we ought to order in Chinese.”

Terry shook his head. “Too much water retention. We’ll go out for a nice, healthy salad as soon as Neil gets home,” he suggested, referring to his live-in companion. “But that wasn’t what I was thinking. I was thinking that you could very well be the woman who has all the actresses feeling so threatened.”

Callie froze at the suggestion. She stopped rummaging around in her nearly bare cupboards to stare at him. Surely she couldn’t have heard him correctly. “Me?” she said eventually.

“Don’t look so shocked. Word is that the woman Jason Kane is so hot to sign had a bit part on the show that aired a week ago. It just occurred to me. That fits you, dearie. I’m sure of it.”

Callie had pretty much blocked the memory. The walk-on had been Terry’s bright idea, another of his maddening attempts to get her out of her apartment and back into life. Stumbling from four decorator-designed rooms on the Upper West Side onto a soundstage filled with set-designed rooms in the fictional town of Glen River Falls hadn’t struck her as a giant leap back into reality, but it had made Terry happy.

It had also killed ten hours that otherwise would have been spent bemoaning her fate and considering whether murder was too good for her ex-husband and her ex-boss.

The possibility that anyone had noticed her on-screen seemed completely ludicrous. Even Eunice claimed she’d blinked and missed it.

It hadn’t exactly been a star-making role. Callie had walked from one corner of the dreary police headquarters set to the other. She had accomplished it without falling on her face or tripping over a cable. She had paused on cue and given one long, lingering look toward the camera, a look that supposedly conveyed all sorts of dire portent. Aside from shoving Terry out of the way of an unscripted falling file cabinet, that was it. The sum total of her acting experience, now and forever, amen. She had every intention of keeping it that way.

“You’re delusional,” she said just as the phone rang. “Work on getting back to reality while I grab this.”

Five minutes later, head spinning, she hung up and stared at Terry.

“What is it, dollface? You’re white as a sheet. Was it bad news? Did something happen on the farm?” He pushed her none too gently onto a chair. “Head down. Don’t faint on me, please. As cute as some of those paramedics are, I really hate to cause a commotion by calling 9-1-1.”

He hunkered down in front of her, hands on her thighs. “Callie, sweetie, are you okay? Talk to me.”

“You...” Hysteria bubbled up in her throat. “You were right.”

“Well, hallelujah! The girl finally sees what a genius I am!” He gave her a puzzled look. “Right about what?”

“It appears that Within Our Reach wants to hire me back.”

“There now, see? I told you so,” he exulted. “For another walk-on?”

Still dazed by the obscenely generous offer that had been rattled off, Callie could only shake her head.

“Recurring status?”

Apparently not even the ever-optimistic, ever-supportive Terry had bought that stuff about her being a femme fatale. Boy, was he in for a surprise.

“On contract,” she said in a squeaky voice that would have made the producer who’d given her the news shudder. She gazed at Terry in total bewilderment. “It seems they want to make me a star.”