Trish Jensen - Without A Clue

“How about if you cast me in another part that puts me in the middle of things the entire weekend, instead of the dead guy?”

He could swear her shoulders drooped just a little, and his heart kind of pinched.

“I could do that,” she said. “But all of the other roles have been cast.”

“So, recast.”

“I can’t ask them to learn a new role on this short notice. It’s just not fair. And I’m not sure of the rules, but they might charge me extra for it. Besides, that means you relinquish your bedroom.”

This woman might be a little crafty, but he still figured she didn’t have a clue what she was doing. “You don’t have a clue what you’re doing, do you?”

The shoulders straightened and stiffened, which kind of made him want to cheer.

“Listen, things were going just fine until you came along.”

“Right, your dead guy was basically DOA.”

“I could have found a way around that without you. You just seemed…convenient, in a really inconvenient kind of way. I’m trying to accommodate your desires while still pulling off this gig. And you’re really beginning to tick me off.” She paused for a breath, but before he could retort she chimed in some more. “I have the lease. As far as I can tell, you are the one trespassing. You could be a drifter or a squatter or something for all I know. So you can choose one of the options I’ve given you, or you can come up with one of your own which I’ll approve, or you can stick it and just leave. Work with me or you’re dead weight.”

Whoa! Smiling and grinning and beaming and cajoling, she was beautiful. Pissed off she was absolutely stunning. Her eyes turned a dark, firecracker silver, her cheeks turned into flaming spots. Even her hair seemed to get mad at him, tossing and shimmering like molten lava.

Deadly if messed with.

But still funny. “A hobo who drove up in a Mustang?”

“Could have been stolen.”

“In these clothes?”

“Stolen.”

He was suddenly in the position of having to prove himself, which felt a little ludicrous. How had she turned the tables on him? “Want to see my driver’s license?”

“Could have been forged.”

“Talk to my lawyer?”

“Could be your bookie.”

“Audit my taxes?”

“You mean you’ve actually filed?”

Okay, now cheeky had morphed into insulting. He was trying to prove himself to a squatter who in the last half hour had claimed she had the right to invade his home and evict him at the same time. This was reaching critical mass on his acceptable meter. She might be pretty, but she was taking the upper hand without him ever having figured out how, and that was unacceptable. But he wasn’t quite sure what the next step would be. He’d encountered crooks and shady dealers and wretched lawyers, but he’d never had to deal with an adversary who demanded with such conviction that she was within her rights while he was a possible fraud.

He squelched all of the possible courses of action he could take to ruin her uppity attitude and her weekend, swallowed his pride and said, “I’ll play the ghost.”

Her anger seemed to melt from her eyes. She smiled. “Thank you,” she said softly. “And I’m sorry. I really almost never have a temper.”

Somehow he doubted that.

Once again she thrust out her hand. “I promise, you’ll receive industry wages.”

He almost choked. But he kept a straight face and said, “I should hope so. I don’t work for free. And since I’m pulling double duty…”

“You’ll get the same wage as everyone else. Scale. And be glad for it, seeing as I didn’t ask to hire you. Don’t push it.”

He wanted to grin so badly. “Well, technically you did hire me.”

“That was a choice of getting rid of you or putting your carcass to use.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “My carcass is at your disposal.”

“Don’t I wish,” she muttered, but then grinned. “Just teasing of course.”

He wasn’t so sure. Didn’t Ted Bundy have an engaging smile?

“All right,” she said, her voice going all practical again, “I’m going to have to do some rewrites tonight, before I can get you your script. How about if I have it delivered to your room by nine? That should give you time to memorize by—”

“Nine-fifteen.”

“Sure. Yes, well, let’s hope so.”

“I have a better idea,” Matt said, from out of nowhere that he could figure out. “How about if we meet for supper and go over the script together? I’d love to help shape my ghost character.”

Meg also looked gorgeous flustered. He wondered if she’d ever be able to play a corpse because she’d probably look too good then, too. No one would ever believe it.

“I don’t think—”

“I want a say in my ghost,” he said.

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, a dinner meeting. In here?”

“Let’s do it from the suite adjoined to my bedroom. I’d like to work out logistics.”

She stared at him, narrow-eyed.

Holding up his hands, Matt assured her. “Ms. Renshaw, I have no designs on you. But whatever I do, I want it to be done right. And if I’m dying up there and clues will be planted up there, I want to talk them through.” When she still continued to look skeptical, he said, “You’re welcome to bring a bodyguard. How about Tina?”

Meg stared at him and laughed. “It’s a deal, Mr….”

“De Wynter. Just call me Lionel De Wynter.”

VIOLIN STRINGS had nothing on Meg’s nerves. Her career depended on the success of this weekend, and so far everything was shaping up about as well as her wedding day to Mike.

A disaster in the making is what it was. Her dead guy was gone, and in his place she had an overbearing, angry homeowner who was trying to call his own shots on her project.

So she’d spent all day feverishly rewriting much of the script to incorporate the fact that the man didn’t look all that sinister. Sinfully sexy, maybe, but turning him into the twenty-first century Genghis Khan wasn’t going to be easy, given he wanted to play the part sans makeup.

And it was hard to conceive of anyone wanting to rid the world of this particular male specimen. Climb into bed with him, maybe. But shoot him in bed? No.

He wanted to talk over the script. He’d had to cancel the supper meeting—which gave her a vague sense of disappointment—because an important business call had come through. So she’d had to write one herself, fast. And she wasn’t a writer, she was a party planner for a travel agency.

Was it only six hours ago she’d loved her job? Right now she’d happily flip flapjacks at the local diner. At least those people would appreciate her efforts.

She blew a strand of hair off of her forehead, just as there was a knock on her door. “It’s open,” she said, with not much conviction.

Tina walked in. Just who she wanted to see. The voice of doom and gloom.

“We have a problem.”

“This is news? What now?”

“Lionel De Wynter’s personal assistant has just run off with the pool boy.”

“They’re supposed to run off together. It’s in the script. Maybe they’re rehearsing?”

“If they are, they’re really into their roles. They just called from Las Vegas.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Let’s do the same thing. Blow this pop stand and head to Vegas.”

Meg tsked. “You have no imagination. We can get through this.”

“Tell me how.”

Meg looked at Tina speculatively. “Feel like playing the part of a personal assistant?”

Tina’s hands raised defensively, and she began backing up slowly toward the door. “Not a chance, boss. I’m the behind-the-scenes person, remember?”

Sighing, Meg closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. There had to be a solution. One just wasn’t popping into her head at this very moment.