A Bad Boy is Good to Find(24)

“Probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to her all year.” Lizzie couldn’t help smiling. She didn’t mind that snotty Realtor thinking she and Con were an item. He was impressively gorgeous. Let her go back to her cronies at the agency and blab about the hunk in the towel at the Hathaway place.

That line of thought stopped her in her tracks. She and Con were not an item. Not any more. He was only here at because she’d roped him into her TV-show scheme. Was she doing this whole phony wedding thing because she wanted the world to see her with Con? To admire and envy her because he was, well, hot?

She felt a blush creeping back.

“What?” Con lifted an eyebrow.

“Nothing. I’m starving, do you have money?”

Gee, that sounded great.

Con smiled. “Yup. Car’s not running though, I’m in media res with the transmission.”

“You are the only person in the known world who would speak Latin while referring to engine repair.”

“I’m a one-off.”

“Thank God for that. We can walk to Main Street and get something to eat there.”

“Sure, I just need to get the car in neutral and push it into the garage. Don’t want the place looking scruffy.”

“Screw her. Leave it right where it is.”

“Okay.”



An extended massage by Con had her feeling almost relaxed the next morning. Her shoulders kinked right up again when Maisie charged at her as she entered the Celebrity Access offices.

“Cajun or Creole?” Maise fired the question at her then looked down at her clipboard, pencil poised as if ready to grade the answer.

“What?”

“Con’s heritage, I know it’s French, but is he Cajun, or Creole? It matters, you know. The food. We’re choosing the menu today.”

“What’s the difference?”

Maisie glanced down at her clipboard. “One is based on French cuisine, and the other is…based on French cuisine.” She raised an eyebrow. “But they’re different.”

“Hmm. How about a bit of both?”

“Why don’t I call Conroy and ask?” Maisie raised an eyebrow.

Lizzie’s pulse jumped. “Cajun. Mudbug Flats is the heart of Cajun country.” Wasn’t that what he said?

“Good. We’re going to bring the chef with us from New York, and I had three lined up to choose from—all native Louisianans—until I found out about this Cajun and Creole thing. This narrows it down to one.”

“Does Celebrity Access really care about making sure all the details are fully authentic?” Lizzie was ready to laugh.

Maisie blinked. “I’m here now, so we care,” she said stiffly. “My reputation is on the line.”

Lizzie kept a straight face. “I’m sure Con will be touched by all the trouble you’ve gone to. But why bring a chef from New York? Don’t they have plenty of them down there?”

“Quality control, darling. Once you leave Manhattan you just never know what you’re going to get.”

By the time she returned home she was bloated with delicious samples from the West Village restaurant where the Cajun chef worked. She’d tried to think about her waistline, especially in front of Maisie, who didn’t seem to eat at all, ever, but the food was just too good. At least she wouldn’t have to beg Con for dinner.

Con was nowhere to be seen as she walked up the driveway, but she could see light coming through the garage window.

She went in through the side door. Con, dressed in only a pair of athletic shorts, was applying newspaper and masking tape to the windshield.

“Why did you put it in here? I told you to leave it outside. And how come the lights are working?”

“Hey, nice to see you too.” He winked. She made sure not to look at his bare chest.

He pulled another piece of tape from a huge roll with a loud rasp. “Brought the car in to keep dust off while it’s painted. I called the electric company and got the lights turned on.”

“How did you do that? You’re not a Hathaway.”

“I didn’t tell them that.” Rasp. “You’re a spray gun artist, right?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I did some work with spray guns in college.”

“Still got the equipment?”

“It’s in the basement.”

“Good. Let’s go get it.”

“Why? Are you going to use my spray gun to paint a car?”

“No. You are.”

“I am not.”

“Let’s go look at your tools anyway, okay?”



She wasn’t sure quite how it happened, but at 1:00 a.m. she was standing in the garage, wielding a spray-gun loaded with #522 Black Ice. Con had the nerve to go yawning off to bed after patting her butt in the most infuriating way and telling her he was sure she’d do a great job.

She’d do a great job alright.

Even the respirator couldn’t dull the invigorating scent of enamel that always made her want to paint the town red. Or black or whatever else was in there. She couldn’t think why she hadn’t painted in so long.

Con had made a big deal about how with Corvettes you had to maintain the integrity of the original. Respray the exact original paint color, keep everything just the way it was.

Come on! This car was from the 1980s. Hardly a priceless antique.

And she wanted to see Con’s jaw drop.

At first she thought she’d do something funny like paint cheesy flames all over it. But the base coat spraying had reinvigorated her muse and she figured she might as well get creative. She’d found quite a few cans of the automotive enamel she used to use, lids tightly sealed and the remaining paint fresh. Spent the last forty-five minutes cutting templates out of bits of leftover cardboard moving boxes. Then mixing colors with a drill mounted paint stirrer to create a palette of metallic off-blacks.

As her design took shape, her guilty glee at messing with the vintage-car integrity of Con’s “investment” mutated into the sheer joy of creation. Her fingertips tingled with the thrill of making images, and her mind buzzed with ideas, urging her to try new things, push the envelope of possibilities.

It was almost dawn when she was finally satisfied. The car’s panels shimmered with overlapping shapes in various shades of silvery black, almost seeming to ripple as her eyes scanned over them. The effect was subtle but powerful, transforming the car into a living thing rather than a hunk of metal. She lowered her respirator and pushed the button on the garage door opener, ready to let some air in now the paint was pretty much dry.

At that moment, Con appeared in the doorway leading from the house, light shining behind him. “How come you’re up so… Holy shit.”

He came down the stairs, eyes riveted to the car. A nasty sting of fear raced through her. Would he be mad? Really, really upset? He had sold his beloved Mercedes to buy this thing, after all. His money was tied up in it.

Hell, he asked her to do it. She didn’t volunteer. Still, she stiffened, searching his face for signs.