Tempting Faith (Indigo Love Spectrum) (6 page)

“So we’re in agreement?” Brent said.

“Yes. I’ll phone
Personality!
now, and then I’ll call you with a date and time.”

“Hold on,” Zander said, raising a hand. “Who are you calling? What are you up to?”

“I’m saving your career,” Olivia said, clipping her phone headset onto her right ear. She spun her chair to face her glorious mountain view, effectively dismissing both her only son and favorite client.

“Paula,” she said, speaking to her assistant through the headset, “conference me in to Magda Pierson at
Personality!
”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Zander said, stepping toward the desk.

Brent caught his arm and silenced him with a wave.

“Tell them that I’d like to set up a tête-a-tête with Faith Wheeler and one of my clients, Zander Baron,” Olivia continued. “Off the record, of course.”

Brent signaled for Zander to follow him as he exited his mother’s office. Olivia’s entire house had been decorated in her signature snow queen shades of white, faded blues, greys and silver. Zander had done some amazing drops and car chase stunts in his films, but nothing daunted him more than navigating his way down Olivia’s “floating” spiral staircase. Constructed of narrow six-foot planks of silvery-white marble, the gently spiraling staircase had no visible means of solid support.

Zander always felt as though he were hovering in midair when he went down the stairs.

“What does she hope to accomplish by shoving me right under Faith Wheeler’s nose?” he asked once both feet were safe on the gleaming white marble floor of the foyer.

“Mom is worried,” Brent said, grabbing the long, stylized chrome handle of the frosted glass front door. He swung it open for Zander. “She’s managed every detail of Zander Baron’s life and choreographed his rise flawlessly. That
Personality!
reporter really threw her for a loop.”

“Yeah, she kinda surprised me, too,” Zander admitted, stepping into the bright February sunshine.

“You’re doing it again,” Brent said in a warning tone.

“Doin’ what?”

“Your Appalachia is creeping in.”

Zander grinned. Of all the things Brent policed him on, his native accent was the one Brent monitored most closely. When he got tired or stressed, two years of diction coaching gave way to his West Virginia origins.

“Sorry,” Zander replied in the Midwestern accent Olivia had paid for. “I’ve got some things on my mind.”

“Some things or some
one
?” Brent asked, following Zander to his bike. “And why didn’t you ever tell me about her?”

Zander scratched behind his ear. “No reason to. She’s someone from a long time ago. From another life.”

His answer was really no answer at all, but he knew Brent would understand.

When Olivia discovered an unformed lump of West Virginia mountain clay and brought it home to shape into Zander Baron, Brent’s first instinct was to resent the intrusion of the country-bred stranger who had become his mother’s latest project. But Brent’s head for business had prevailed, and he had accepted Zander’s role in their lives, with the two ultimately becoming friends. Truthfully, Brent was Zander’s only friend, and he felt guilty for not having shared the one good thing in his past with him.

Brent’s hybrid car, a sunset-orange Lexus GS, was parked alongside Zander’s motorcycle. He paused at the driver’s door, toying with his keyless remote. “It’s all gonna come out someday, you know, probably sooner than later. And you don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

“I know,” Zander said hastily, mounting his bike. He absently ran his hand over the handlebar. The Confederate Hellcat, the first thing he’d purchased with his very first big paycheck, had been hand-built in Alabama to his specifications. Having money in his pocket for the first time, he’d gone a bit spend crazy, but the silver and black beauty beneath him was far and away his favorite purchase. He’d often thought about driving into Dorothy, announcing his return with the roar of the Hellcat. But there was no reason to return to Dorothy now, not with Faith in Los Angeles.

“I’ll give you a call after my mother finishes working her magic,” Brent said, getting into his car. “Hopefully, what she comes up with won’t be too painful.”

“I can handle it, whatever it is,” Zander said. “I’m the strong, tough movie star, remember?”

Chapter 3

“I can’t do this,” Zander said, the heels of his boots wearing a path in his living room carpet. “I won’t.”

Brent snorted. “What happened to Mr. Tough Guy? I’ve never seen you like this. Zander Baron, scared of a woman.”

Zander glared at him. If some other man had made such an accusation while reclining on his dark-brown leather sofa he would have found himself bleeding profusely, but Zander realized Brent’s baiting was deliberate.

“I’m not afraid of her,” Zander insisted. “And she’s no ordinary woman. She’s…”

He left his response hanging. He had no idea what Faith was anymore. She had been in the deepest reaches of his heart and head for years, but he hadn’t seen or talked to her. The Faith Wheeler who had hurled angry questions at him at the
Reunion
press conference was not the girl he’d known in Dorothy.

Or was she?

“The only way to take control of this situation is to meet it head on, find out what the reporter wants—”

“Faith,” Zander interjected. “Her name is Faith.”

“Once we find out what Faith wants, maybe we can turn this situation our way,” Brent said.

“I don’t see how.” Zander drained the last of his Ned’s Pale Ale. His fondness for the West Virginia Brewing Company product was one of the very few things he hadn’t left behind when he left Dorothy. At Olivia’s hypocritical insistence, he had given up smoking, but he refused to abandon his home state brew. As if doing something illegal or illicit, he had to order his beer from the distributor through Brent, so that nothing connected him directly to anything associated with West Virginia.

“You two have history, right?” Brent asked. “There are a couple of approaches you can take. One, appeal to her memories of the friendship you two once shared, or…” He raised an eyebrow and tipped his head in some wordless communication Zander was meant to understand.

“Or what?” Zander said, failing to translate Brent’s expression.

“Or use your considerable appeal to win her silence,” Brent answered. “It’s not like you’ve had any trouble seducing any woman you’ve set your sights on. I’ve seen some of the coldest broads in Hollywood turn to putty once you smile their way.”

“Faith was never like that. It’ll take more than my rebuilt face and dubious charm to turn her to putty. As for friendship, I don’t think her memories of it will be that good.”

“What did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” Zander said defensively. “What the hell kind of question is that? Why are you automatically assuming that I did something to her?”

“Calm down, Zander,” Brent said. “It was an innocent question. Or so I thought until your reaction just now.”

“I—” His words snagged in his throat. He couldn’t look at Brent as he admitted, “I hurt her.”

Brent sat up, his concern evident in the serious set of his features. “What happened?”

Dropping heavily onto the sofa, Zander rubbed his palms over the stubble covering his cheeks. “I left her alone in Dorothy.”

Brent relaxed, sitting back and sighing with relief. “Don’t scare me like that, Alex. I thought you were gonna tell me that you killed somebody.”

“I did, in a way,” he said. “You don’t know what it was like for me and Faith back there. We were freaks.”

“I don’t doubt your memory of your childhood, bro, but I have to tell you that Faith Wheeler isn’t anything close to what I’d call a freak. That woman is beautiful, and she’s obviously smart. If Mom wasn’t so frustrated with her right now, she probably would have tried to get me to sign her as a client.”

“Freak isn’t the right word,” Zander said. “We were outcasts. We couldn’t have been more opposite, but we were still in the same boat. She was black and rich, I was poor white trash. Her dad owned the biggest coal mining company in southwestern West Virginia. My dad was the town drunk. She was an honor student and a cheerleader—”

“You’re right,” Brent chuckled. “She was a freak.”

Zander ignored him. “I was the local waste of space working two minimum wage jobs to keep the trailer over our heads and my mother’s antidepressant prescriptions filled.”

“And you two were friends?”

“I can’t tell you exactly what we were because I don’t know. But it was more than friends. It was better than friends. The only time I was ever happy in Dorothy was when I was with her. She treated me like…like…like I mattered.”

“I don’t get it,” Brent said, wrinkling his brow. “Why did you leave?”

“I had to.” Zander stood, his quick and decisive motion making it clear that he wanted to change the subject. “So when and where am I supposed to meet Faith?”

Brent gave him a tiny smile. “Ten tomorrow morning at Krasco’s Deli.”

“Krasco’s Deli. Are you kidding?”

“Would I kid about a thing like that?”

“If your mom is trying to tell me something, I wish she’d just come out and say it and not play games with me.”

“You know Olivia,” Brent sighed. “She only plays games she knows she can win. Sending you to Krasco’s might just be her way of trying to teach you a lesson.”

“What kind of lesson?”

“Hell if I know,” Brent chuckled. “I gave up questioning Olivia’s methods years ago when she got me out of summer school by flipping my trigonometry teacher a walk-on in
Ally McBeal
.”

* * *

Zander sat in a booth in the back of Krasco’s. Five years ago, he’d come to the same deli—the same booth, in fact—for a meeting with Olivia Baxter. That meeting had changed his life, and now he was back full circle to meet another woman who had the power to change his life again. For better or worse.

Nursing a cup of Krasco’s signature black coffee, Zander picked at a crack in the blue vinyl seat. Krasco’s was the real deal, a genuine 1950s-era diner that had been run by the Krasco family for fifty-five years. It was so authentic, in fact, that Zander’s stomach had twisted a little bit upon walking through the door and inhaling the aroma of fried meat and onions cooked on an open grill. The scent reminded him so much of his years spent at Red Irv’s, and it reminded him of nothing good.

Except for Faith.

There was no doubt Olivia had been a godsend. In the years since that first meeting, Olivia Baxter had taken control and given him a life he had never imagined.

He’d made his way from Dorothy to Los Angeles a few bucks at a time, hitchhiking when he dared, walking when he didn’t. Finding work had never been any trouble, but keeping it proved problematic when he couldn’t provide a social security card or any ID other than an expired out-of-state driver’s license.

He was Alex Brannon back then, and home was a pay-by-the-hour or -week motel. He’d been earning a meager living as a part-time mechanic and day laborer when he had run into Olivia—literally.

One of the few perks of working for a custom garage in Los Angeles was delivering cars to their owners once the work on them was completed. On a clear and sunny June day, he’d been cruising along Roxbury Drive in a champagne-silver Jaguar belonging to an actress when Olivia Baxter, her face partially concealed by oversized Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, shot out of the driveway of a big Tudor house hidden behind birch trees.

Alex hit the brakes, managing to lessen the Jaguar’s impact on the front passenger door of her white Mustang convertible, spinning it in a half circle. Shock, embarrassment and fury sent him into the wide, tree-lined street, where he shouted at Olivia.

With her benevolent yet playful smile and perfectly coiffed hair, Olivia reminded him of actress Betty White, and for a moment, he’d thought he had crashed into a
Golden Girl
.

To her credit, Olivia had calmly exited her car and leaned against it, her steely gaze dissecting him as he had ranted about cats, women and how neither should ever be allowed behind the wheel of a car.

When she reached into her damaged car to retrieve her handbag, Alex was sure she was about to give him her license and insurance information, which pressed his panic button. The garage paid him under the table, and he was driving uninsured on an expired license. If he’d been alone he might have wept at the irony of a day that had started so beautifully finishing with him in jail—the very place most people in Dorothy had expected him to end up.

But instead of accident information, Olivia had flipped out a thick cream-white business card pinched between her impeccably manicured index and middle fingers.

“Call me,” she had said, pressing the card into his hand.

The black crescent of his thumbnail stood out starkly against the pristine white card, which read:

Olivia Baxter

Founder & President

Baxter Publicity and Promotions

In the lower corners of the card were phone, fax and cellphone numbers newly smeared with traces of automotive grime from his fingers.

“The accident was my fault,” Olivia had said with the same concern she might have shown in reporting the time. “Once your boss calms down after you tell him what happened to Robia Hart’s Jaguar, have him call me and we’ll work out the arrangements for the repair of the car.”

Alex looked up from the card. “How did you know who this car belonged to?”

“Robia Hart is one of my clients,” Olivia said, smiling serenely. “She bought that car with the paycheck from her first film. I look forward to hearing from you, Octavio.”

“Hey, lady, my name isn’t—” But Olivia had started her car, spun her wheels, and peeled out of sight.

Tucking the card into a front pocket of his borrowed jumper, Alex circled the vehicle, inspecting the damage. The front of the Jag was scratched and dented, but the Mustang had come off the worse for its encounter with the British import. The vanity license plate Alex hadn’t noticed earlier now made sense: RBAHRT.

His boss had been livid when he saw Alex returning with the freshly battered Jag, but his rage vanished within the first twenty seconds of his phone call to Olivia, who had verified that the accident had occurred exactly as Alex had claimed. Alex had no idea what she’d said, but from what he gleaned from his boss’s end of the conversation, Olivia was paying triple his rate to have Robia’s ride repaired as soon as possible.

As for Robia Hart, Hollywood’s reigning period-movie princess had been royally pissed about the accident, but even she had come to Alex’s defense when told that Olivia Baxter had caused the new damage. Evidently, every licensed driver in Robia’s neighborhood knew to literally steer clear of Olivia’s white Mustang when they heard it roaring down Roxbury Street.

His boss had flung Olivia’s business card at him—after firing him. Even though he had praised Alex’s skill at working with cars, he couldn’t take the risk of keeping on an employee with no social security card and no driving insurance.

With Olivia’s business card and his last day’s pay in his pocket, Alex walked the four miles home to his motel. Everything was so expensive in Los Angeles, and he already felt the sting of unemployment. His weekly rent of one hundred and forty dollars was due, his Harley was sitting idle because he lacked the money to purchase the parts he needed to repair it, he was down to his last package of ramen noodles and the six dollars cash and eighty-five dollar check he had in his pocket was all the money he had in the world.

He walked past his motel and went to the corner bar, Jose’s Hideaway, to drown his sorrows in one-dollar shots of watered tequila. He allowed himself six shots to figure out his next move.

There were other repair jobs, but the last one had been relatively close to home, and he’d enjoyed his coworkers. By his third shot, he had just enough of a buzz to convince himself that things wouldn’t look so bad in the morning. Two shots later, when he realized he needed his last buck to tip the barkeep, renewed anger at Olivia Baxter killed the warm fuzzies he’d talked himself into.

He was out of a job, he’d soon be without food, and unless he could talk the motel manager into letting him do odd jobs around the building, he’d be homeless, too. In one careless strike of her hot Mustang, Olivia Baxter had seriously dented his pathetic life. Insurance would take care of the Mustang and the Jag, but who would compensate him for the damages
he
had suffered?

Searching his pockets, hoping to find a stray bill hiding somewhere, Alex patted a stiff wad of paper in his hip pocket. He smoothed it out on the water-marked counter.

Olivia’s card.

Call me.

Alex had gone back to his room. In his old jeans, work boots and ribbed undershirt, he’d sat on his sunken mattress, his head and shoulders propped against the stained wallpaper, staring at the little card in his hand.

And then he’d stopped staring. He’d picked up the phone, dialed the number and, the next morning, he’d met Olivia in a back booth at Krasco’s.

He’d left Alexander Brannon in that booth, and the rough lump that would become Zander Baron had walked out with Olivia Baxter.

And now Zander Baron was there to meet the one woman Alexander Brannon had ever loved.

It was easy to admit that while masquerading as Zander Baron.

“Quit it,” he whispered to himself. “Only crazy people talk about themselves in the third person. Or is it the fourth person, since I’m talking about someone who doesn’t really exist? Or—”

Noticing the pretty waitress watching him mutter to himself, Zander slumped deeper into the booth and turned his face toward his cold coffee.

He glanced at his watch, a heavy silver and black Oris that one of the producers had given him at the close of filming for
Burn
. A simple Timex would have been more in line with his tastes, and certainly easier to read. He had to angle the numberless face of the watch just so to catch enough light to read the time.

It was 9:55, and knowing that Faith would soon walk through the door sent a surge of anxiety through him. He didn’t want to watch the door, but he found himself staring at it, his eyes fixed immovably on it.

His palms began to sweat, so he wiped them on the legs of his jeans. Afraid to blink and miss the moment she came into view, his eyes went dry. Without realizing it, he clamped his jaw hard enough to compromise the integrity of the smile Olivia had bought for him. Even though he had later reimbursed her for every penny she’d spent on his transformation, she still referred to his smile as hers.