The Girl From Summer Hill by Jude Deveraux
“You don’t get it, do you?” her friend said. “We live in a world of metrosexuals. Tate isn’t like that. He throws women over the saddle of a horse and tells them to shut up.”
Casey was aghast. “What would you say to one of your clients if she told you her boyfriend did that?”
“I’d give her the number of a center for abused women and make sure she went. But that’s real; Tate is fantasy.”
Casey shook her head at her friend. “This guy is an actor. In real life he probably wears pink shirts and gets his eyebrows waxed.”
“Not Tate! I read that he—”
Casey had thrown up her hands. Her friend had tried to get her to go to romantic movies, but she wouldn’t. With her workload she had little time off and she wasn’t going to waste it on some drippy saga.
Now it seemed that she was living in a house on property owned by some big-deal movie star—who hated her.
And rightfully so, Casey thought. It was one thing to watch some half-naked guy mow the lawn, but when people spied on public figures they often ended up in court. And went to prison.
What was it he’d said? “Where is it?” And “Please tell me you didn’t use this! I think I deserve better than a mobile phone.”
“He thought I was photographing him,” she said aloud. When he thought she’d snapped the pictures on a cellphone, his ego had been hurt. In spite of the gravity of the situation, she couldn’t help smiling. No wonder he ran away at the mention of the sheriff. Wouldn’t the tabloids love a photo of the romantic hero in handcuffs?
Casey stood up. “I have to fix this,” she whispered. She needed to apologize and explain, then apologize some more.
She looked at the clock on the mantel. It was still early, so she could take about an hour to do what she did best. She was going to cook something wonderful and take it to him. She’d use her best I’m-sorry voice to make him forgive her. And she’d assure him that she had entered the room just as the phone rang, so she’d only seen him with his shirt off.
That’s good, she thought. A few lies, some of her honey-glazed chicken, and a good strong mimosa, and maybe he wouldn’t kick her out of her very comfortable little house. Or put her in jail.
She had a plan.
An hour later, Casey arrived at the Big House—as everyone in town referred to it—with food. She’d used some of what she’d already prepared for Kit’s group, then added a few things. In an insulated container she had strands of slow-roasted, honey-glazed chicken and sweet-potato hash with fried eggs on top. She’d buttered freshly made bread and grilled it.
It wasn’t easy to think about what she had to do. Apologize profusely, explain that she didn’t know about the showerhead on her porch, and— No! She wasn’t supposed to know that he’d taken a shower. Her story was that she was in bed, heard the phone ring, and ran down the stairs.
There was an old brick path between her cottage and the back of the Big House. Most of the land was too overgrown to walk around, but during the past snowy winter, she’d explored the area near the house. She’d grown to love the uneven surface of the path, had even memorized the places where the bricks stuck up, so she wouldn’t trip on them.
But right now she wasn’t enamored of them. The big case was heavy and she was so nervous she was afraid she’d drop it. If she did, she was sure she’d be told to vacate the house. Then where would she stay? The lake people were beginning to open their houses in preparation for the summer, which meant that all the service personnel for the restaurants and shops were arriving. One-bedroom apartments would be packed with about six college kids each, all working in shifts.
Casey couldn’t help shuddering at the thought. No, she liked where she was and wanted to stay there.
She’d never been inside the Big House, but during the winter she’d tried to look in some of the windows. They were mostly shuttered or curtained, but she knew where the kitchen was and that next to it was a glassed-in breakfast room.
She saw lights in the room and, like her, Mr. Landers had all the windows and doors open to the screens. As she approached, she saw him sitting at a white table, his head down. She halted. He was dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt and he looked…well, rather forlorn.
Casey stepped out of view. Please tell me I didn’t do that to him, she thought. Poor guy probably came to sleepy little Summer Hill for some peace, but he was greeted by what he thought was a paparazzo taking photos of him au naturel.
She glanced at the heavy container she was holding. Maybe, possibly, this food would cheer him up—and make him forgive her. And later she could introduce him to some people so he wouldn’t be so alone.
Putting on a smile, she turned back to the door. Would he welcome her or call the sheriff?
She shifted the container to free a hand so she could knock, but then she froze. Walking into the room was the actor Jack Worth, and all he had on was a pair of very low-riding sweatpants.
Casey flattened herself against the wall, and for the second time that morning her heart started pounding in her ears. She’d seen Jack Worth on the big screen, blown up to epic proportions as he tore through streets on a motorcycle, ran across buildings, rappelled down mountains—and saved the girl while doing it. His movies were nonstop action.
Whatever could be imagined, Jack Worth had done it onscreen—and usually while wearing the bare minimum of clothing. And she was one of his biggest fans! Meeting him had always been a dream of hers.
I must get myself under control, Casey thought. Calm down. No gushing or staring, or making a fool of myself.
But she wasn’t succeeding at being calm. Two nude, or nearly so, drop-dead-gorgeous men in one day. Was the angel who’d been assigned to look over her a sweetheart or a sadistic devil?
She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, then turned toward the door.
But then Jack spoke. His voice seemed as familiar to her as her own. He was no smooth James Bond. Jack’s voice was deep and gravelly, rough. Kind of dangerous-sounding.
She crept back against the wall. He really sounded like that! No sound adjustments—that was his actual voice.
“What are you so grumpy about?” She heard Jack’s voice fade as he went toward the kitchen.
“Kit put some girl in my guesthouse.”
Casey froze, her breath held. She was now going to hear her fate.
“That’s good,” Jack said as he returned to the breakfast room. “You need somebody to look after the place when you’re not here. This refrigerator is empty.”
“That’s what happens when you leave your cook at home.”
“Any hope for delivery?”
“In rural Virginia before full daylight?” Tate said. “Quit dreaming. There’s coffee, so have some.”
Jack poured himself a cup from the pot on the table and took a drink. “This is good. Who made it?” He glanced back at Tate. “What’s on for today?”
“I made the coffee. Kit wants me to…” When Tate looked up, his eyes were bleak. “He’s going to put on a play, even bought a big building and built a stage.” Tate paused. “His first production is Pride and Prejudice, and he wants me to read with the women who audition for the role of Elizabeth.”
Jack laughed. “Since you’re the only Darcy who’s been able to knock Colin Firth off his pedestal, I’m sure you’ll attract a lot of would-be Lizzys, Janes, and all the others.”
“I guess so. Kit said he wants to boost town spirit and to bring the people who have houses on the lake back to town. Seems they’ve started driving to Richmond to do their shopping, and local sales are falling. Since the proceeds from the play go to charity, I couldn’t say no.”
Outside, Casey suddenly realized that she was again spying. What was wrong with her today? She started to leave but then Jack said, “Think they’ll have food at the auditions?”
“Yeah, and I think it’s being cooked by that girl in my guesthouse.”
Casey could no more walk away than she could have flown.
Jack gave a grunt. “What in the world happened to turn you into something like one of your characters? You look like you’re about to draw a sword on somebody.”
“She was spying on me.”
Casey’s heart leaped back into her throat.
“Oh. That’s bad,” Jack said. “Was she hiding in the bushes? Did you take her camera away from her?”
“No bushes,” Tate said. “And no hiding. I don’t think she took photos. But I believe she watched me take a shower.”
Jack drew in his breath in horror. “She sneaked inside your house? We need to call the police. She can’t—”
“No!” Tate said. “She was in the guesthouse and I used the shower on the porch. But I wouldn’t have done it if Kit had told me someone was staying there.”
Jack took his time before he spoke. “She’s living in a house she probably pays rent on, you were naked on her back porch, and she saw you? So tell me what she did wrong.”
Casey’s heart settled. She had a champion! I love you, Jack Worth, she thought.
“It was just the way she did it that got me, that’s all,” Tate said. “Why don’t you put some clothes on and go to this thing with me?”
“To a local play? No thanks. I think I’ll fly back to L.A. tomorrow. This is about all the rural delight I can take. Empty refrigerators hold no appeal for me.”
“You’re getting soft. But I think I’ll go back with you tomorrow—after I do those damned auditions, that is.”
“So what’s this girl like? And how old is she?”
Casey held her breath. What would he say about her: “She had jam in her hair but she looked good”? That would be nice to hear.
“Late twenties, I guess,” Tate said. “She had on kid pajamas, so who knows what she looked like. I was too angry to see much.”
“A grown-up girl in pajamas. I like it,” Jack said. “And she cooks?”
“Either that or she’s brilliant at making a mess in a kitchen. Pans and bowls were everywhere. And bread. From the smell of it, she’d been baking.”
Jack groaned. “I think I may be in love with her. Pajamas and baking bread. Where is this guesthouse and what’s she look like? Good face?”
“Okay, I guess. Nice eyes, but I wasn’t tempted.”
Yet again, Casey felt deflated. That’s what she got for snooping. Okay, so she could stand to lose a few pounds, but other men liked her curves. But not this snooty movie star. As Jack pointed out, Tate had no right to be angry at her for being in her own house, but that didn’t matter to this so-called celebrity!
Casey pushed away from the wall. She thought about leaving the container on the step, but she didn’t. As snotty as Tate Landers was, he’d probably throw the food out. It wouldn’t be good enough for someone so grand and glorious.
—
Jack was standing by the table, frowning down at his friend, when he saw movement outside. He went to the door and looked out.
A young woman carrying something in a wide container was quickly walking away. And from her pace, she wasn’t happy.
She had on jeans and a T-shirt, and he liked her shape. Her backside curved roundly, and when she turned slightly, he saw that she was quite full breasted. He was glad to see a normal, healthy woman. So many of the starlets he worked with were emaciated. But then, the camera added pounds, so they were under pressure to be very thin.
Her dark-red hair was pulled back into a swishing ponytail and the early-morning sun glinted off it. Jack couldn’t see her face, but if it was half as nice as the rest of her, he’d be pleased. All in all, he thought he should visit the guesthouse.
He looked back at Tate, who was glowering down at his cup of coffee. What in the world was wrong with him? In public, Tate was a very private person. When he had to attend something, he usually took his sister.
But when he was with his friends, he was nearly always relaxed and laughing. Jack knew Tate had planned to stay in Summer Hill for at least a month. Tate liked the company of his cousin Kit, who was old enough to be his father, but then, maybe that was why Tate liked him so much. And he’d talked about how he had other newly found relatives moving to the little Virginia town. It had all been good.
So why was he sitting at the table looking miserable? Why wasn’t he out exploring the place? And why was he dreading going to some local auditions? Tate was great with the armies of squealing females who followed him around.
Jack watched the girl disappearing into the trees. “What color hair does she have?” He purposely didn’t say who “she” was.
“Kind of red. I think it was natural.”
“Yeah?” Jack said. “Anything else natural about her?”
The glower left Tate’s face and he smiled a bit. “From the way she jiggled when she ordered me out of the house, I’d say her upper half is quite natural.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “What were her pajamas like again?”
Tate smiled broader. “Very thin and half unbuttoned. And crumpled up from being in bed. She didn’t have anything on under them.”
Jack was working to keep from grinning. “Are you sure you want to leave here tomorrow?”
Tate gave a full smile, something only his friends saw. “Go get dressed. I have a script to read and Kit doesn’t want me there until after lunch.”
“I think I’ll meet you there.” As Jack went up the stairs to his bedroom, he was chuckling. “Not tempted, huh?”
“Hi,” Jack said from outside Casey’s door.
She was putting food into boxes and coolers as she prepared to take it to the old warehouse where the stage was being built. Unfortunately, she was using so much force that she almost broke a Pyrex dish.
“Hello,” Jack said louder as he knocked on the doorframe.
Casey jumped. “Sorry, I— Oh. You.” Her eyes were wide.
“May I come in?”
“Of course, but it’s a mess in here.”
“When a place smells as good as this one does, it’s beautiful to me.”
“I have to—” she began, but stopped. Jack Worth, her absolute favorite movie star, was standing in her kitchen. Her first thought was how odd it was to see this man life-size. He looked good, but he also looked human, normal. And right now she recognized what she was so good at dealing with: a hungry person. “Would you like something to eat?”
“Please,” he said.
Minutes later, Jack was seated on the far side of the island and before him was a feast. Casey had opened every container and dished out some of each to him. She warmed up the sweet-potato hash and fried fresh eggs to put on top.
“This is great.” He was eating a maple-walnut muffin and looking around the kitchen at the rows of jars of home-canned jams, their tops covered with red-and-white gingham. On a side wall hung skillets from four inches wide to one that could feed a crowd. Three tall, narrow bookcases were between the big doors to the outside and they were packed with cookbooks, binders, and card boxes. By the big stainless-steel stove were shelves packed with bottles of oil of different colors, most of them with herbs and peppers inside. “I mean it, every inch of this place is great.”
Casey smiled, pleased by his compliment. If she’d been told she was going to meet Jack Worth, she would have said she’d instantly turn into a fangirl. But as she watched him eat, she realized she felt the same way she did with her brother. “Excuse me, but I need to pack things.”
“Go ahead,” Jack said. “How are you transporting all of this?”
“I have to call my brother to come with his truck.”
“Tate has a big pickup in his garage. I can get it and give you a ride.”
She blinked at him. To ride with Jack Worth? All his stunts with cars flying through the air seemed to run through her mind.
“I promise I’ll keep all four wheels on the ground.”
“Then I’d rather go with someone else,” she said solemnly.
Jack laughed. “Okay, next time I’ll take the Jeep and we’ll find some
“You’re on.” She put a squash casserole into the cooler. “But you’d better not tell…him, the owner, who’s in the truck or he might not let you use it.”
“Bad first meeting, huh?” Jack bit into an apple muffin that had a salted-caramel top.
“Depends on if you like raging fury.”
He held up the muffin. “This is…mmmm! Anyway, that sounds out of character for Tate. He’s not like his screen image of the angry, brooding man. All I have to do is drive fast and a girl is happy. But what’s Tate to do to impress her? Smolder?”
“What does that mean?” Casey asked. “Wait. Don’t tell me. My friend used to say that Tate Landers only had to look at a woman and she’d start removing her clothes. I didn’t feel that. He looked at me like I was something he found on the bottom of his shoe.”
“That really doesn’t sound like Tate.”
Casey waved her hand. “Why are we talking about him? I loved that scene in your last movie where you grabbed the girl off the skimobile. I kept replaying it on DVD. What are you going to do next?”
“In September I start a movie about a spoiled, rich teenage boy who’s been kidnapped. I save him and along the way I make a man of him. So what part are you trying out for in the play?”
“None. I’m not an actress. I just cook.”
“This breakfast isn’t ‘just’ anything. Listen, with your talents, I could get you a job in L.A. at—”
“Thanks, but no. Not yet.” She was planning to say nothing more, but she couldn’t help a bit of a brag. “Ever hear of Christie’s in D.C.?” She knew he had, as she’d been told he’d visited, but she’d been too busy cooking to look.
“Yeah, of course. I’ve eaten there. That place was once great but it got to be a mess. You have anything to do with bringing it back to life?”