Heaven, Texas (Chicago Stars #2)(9)

“I don’t drink.”

“Is that so?”

She sounded priggish instead of businesslike, perhaps not the best posture for dealing with a wild man, and she tried to recover. “I don’t drink myself, Mr. Denton, but I have nothing against those who use alcohol.”

“I’m Bobby Tom, sweetheart. I don’t hardly recognize any other name.”

He sounded like a cowboy just coming in off a trail drive, but from watching him give that football quiz, she suspected he was smarter than he pretended to be. “Very well. Bobby Tom, then. The contract you signed with Windmill Studios—”

“You don’t look much like the Hollywood type, Miz Snow. How long have you been working for Windmill?”

She busied herself straightening her pearls. Once again the phone began to ring, and once again he ignored it. “I’ve been a production assistant for some time.”

“Exactly how long?”

She surrendered to the inevitable, but she did it with dignity. Lifting her chin half an inch higher, she said, “Not quite a month.”

“That long.” He was clearly amused.

“I’m very competent. I came into this job with vast experience in management as well as excellent interpersonal communication skills.” She was also a whiz at making pot holders, painting ceramic pigs, and playing Golden Oldies on the piano.

He whistled. “I’m impressed. What sort of job would that have been?”

“I—uh—ran the Shady Acres Nursing Home.”

“A nursing home? Isn’t that something. Were you in the business for long?”

“I was raised at Shady Acres.”

“You were raised in a nursing home? Now that’s interesting. I knew a running back who was raised in a penitentiary—his daddy was warden—but I don’t think I ever met anybody raised in a nursing home. Did your parents work there?”

“My parents owned it. My father died ten years ago, and I’ve helped my mother run it ever since. She sold it recently and moved to Florida.”

“Where is this nursing home?”

“Ohio.”

“Cleveland? Columbus?”

“New Grundy.”

He smiled. “I don’t believe I ever heard of New Grundy. How did you get from there to Hollywood?”

It was difficult for her to keep her concentration in the face of that killer smile, but she resolutely plowed on. “Willow Craig offered me a job because she needed someone reliable, and she was impressed with the way I ran Shady Acres. Her father was a resident there until he died last month.”

When Willow, who headed Windmill Studios, had offered her a job as a production assistant, Gracie had hardly been able to believe her good fortune. Although it was only an entry level position and the pay was low, Gracie fully intended to prove herself so she could advance quickly in her glamorous new profession.

“Is there any reason, Mr. Den—uh, Bobby Tom, that you haven’t shown up to start work?”

“Oh, there’s a reason all right. You want some Jelly Bellys? I might have a bag here in my desk someplace.” He began feeling around on the rough granite corners. “Hard to find the drawers, though. I think I might need a chisel to open them.”

She smiled, only to realize he had once again avoided answering her question. Since she was accustomed to communicating with people whose minds wandered, she decided to come at it from another direction.

“You have an unusual house. Have you lived here long?”

“A couple of years. I don’t much like it myself, but the architect is real proud of it. She calls it urban Stone Age with a Japanese Tahitian influence. I sort of just call it ugly. Still, the magazine people seem to like it; it’s been photographed a whole bunch of times.” Abandoning his search for the Jelly Bellys, he rested his hand on the computer keyboard. “Sometimes I’ll come home and find a cow skull lying next to the bathtub, or a canoe in the living room, all that strange stuff they put in those magazine photos to make them look good, even though real people would never have things like that in their houses.”

“It must be hard living in a house that you don’t like.”

“I’ve got a whole bunch of other ones, so it doesn’t much matter.”

She blinked in surprise. Most people she knew worked all their lives to pay for one house. She wanted to ask how many he owned, but she knew it wouldn’t be wise to let herself get distracted from the topic at hand. The phone began to ring again, but he paid no attention.

“This is your first movie, isn’t it? Have you always wanted to be an actor?”

He looked at her blankly. “An actor? Oh, yeah—A long time.”

“You’re probably not aware that every day shooting is delayed costs thousands of dollars. Windmill is a small, independent studio, and it can’t tolerate that sort of expense.”

“They’ll take it out of my paycheck.”

The idea didn’t seem to bother him, and she regarded him thoughtfully. He was toying with the mouse that sat on a gray foam pad next to the computer. His fingers were long and tapered, the nails clipped short. One strong, bare wrist showed beneath the cuff of his robe.

“Since you don’t have any acting experience, it occurs to me that you might be a bit nervous about the whole thing. If you’re afraid…”