The Way U Look Tonight Read online

  The Way U Look Tonight

  Dianne Castell

  Chapter 1

  How could such a little thing make so much noise! Keefe felt every cell of his body tingle as baby Bonnie scrunched up her face framed with soft brown curls and let out another bellow that rattled windowpanes in every corner of O’Fallon’s Landing, Tennessee. His stomach knotted, and his brain split with a migraine. He was used to working long hours, being under pressure, performing under hot lights . . . but caring for a baby? How the hell did he get into this?

  He came home to help search for Bonnie’s mother, that’s how!

  “Shh, shh,” he cooed as he paced the totally pink nursery and held the baby close like he’d seen others do on the set of Sins and Secrets. “The sitter’s going to be here any minute. She speaks your language; she’ll know what to do . . . Least I hope to hell she does.” He sang, “Hush little baby don’t you cry, brother’s going to cook you a big fat . . . pie.”

  Bonnie yowled louder.

  “You’re right, you’re right, that sucks. I’m no good at this big brother thing. I need Big-Brother 101.”

  Outside, Max, the four-legged alarm system, went on a barking spree that wasn’t hampered one bit by the wound in his side. The doorbell bonged and Keefe went weak with relief. “The sitter. Bless the sitter.” He kissed Bonnie. “We’re saved.”

  He tucked Bonnie in the crook of his arm like a football and sprinted down the stairs to the front door. He yanked it open, then grabbed the sitter’s hand, hauling her inside. “Thank God, you’re here!” He thrust Bonnie into her arms. “I think I broke this kid. All she does is cry. I was in the shower and she started to holler and I ran out and got my jeans and picked her up, and for the last three hours I’ve walked and sang and bribed and . . . and ...”

  He cut his gaze from the sitter to Bonnie. “And she’s not crying now. How’d you do that? She’s smiling.” And considering the woman who held her, Keefe understood why. Curly blond hair pulled back into a clip, big brown eyes, petite, familiar . . . except it wasn’t a good familiar. Why was that? This gal was way hot. “Is there an off switch on babies I don’t know about?”

  “No switches, but I should tell you—”

  “Never mind.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I don’t care. All I know is whatever you did worked.” He pointed to the silver duct tape holding the diaper together. “And everything I tried didn’t work.” He let out a long sigh. “Everyone had to go out today, and I got to baby-sit Bonnie, and that’s okay except sitting wasn’t involved, just a lot of howling. I need a beer; would you like a beer? Iced tea? Tea’s good for baby-sitters, right?” He went to shake her hand, but it was full of contented baby. “Damn, I’m glad you’re here, I really mean that. Well done, Ms. ...”

  “Cahill. Callie Cahill. I take it you’re not the father. Babies can sense if you’re not at ease with them. You’ll get the hang of it soon enough but—”

  “Listen.”

  Callie held Bonnie over her shoulder, and the baby looked around as if she were queen of the world . . . which she was. Callie said, “I don’t hear anything but a far-off boat horn somewhere and the grandfather clock.”

  Keefe stroked Bonnie’s soft cheek. “And that’s the whole point, isn’t it, half-pint? Nothing but Mississippi River sounds and home.”

  Callie’s hair was the golden kind of blond, not silver, her figure fuller, nice womanly curves, very pretty. Though Attila the Hun could be standing in the hall keeping Bonnie quiet and Keefe would think he was pretty, too. “Heard you used to nanny for the Louises over in Riverside. Have we met before? When I came home at Christmas?” He gave her his best smile. “I’m going to be in town for a while. Maybe we can get acquainted, go to dinner. I owe you for saving my ass.”

  She gently swayed as she stood, rocking the baby side to side. “We didn’t meet at Christmas, but I’ve seen you, of course, on TV. Everyone knows Lex Zandor, mob boss and all-around ladies’ man, but why no interviews or appearances on The View or Letterman or Leno? Bet your fans would like to know more about you.”

  Keefe hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “My fans get to see plenty. S and S has my shirt off more than on, and if I do one more bedroom scene, I’ll set a record for near nakedness on daytime TV. One of the best things about the Landing is being with family. Fans and the press don’t have a damn clue where the hell I am. That’s why I drive in from New York. Being here is like falling off the face of the earth.”

  The doorbell rang, and Keefe answered it. A woman, mid-twenties with green eyes, highlighted hair and tight jeans and a fuchsia spandex halter top. “There you are, you no-good creep.” She poked him in the chest with her index finger, driving him two steps back inside as she entered. “I’ve looked all over this blasted state for you. You owe me, Keefe O’Fallon. You owe me big-time, and I’m here to collect.”

  “Excuse me? How’d you find me? Who the hell are you?”

  “Georgette Cooper, and I followed you from New York till we got to Memphis; then I got lost when you left the expressway. But I asked around, and here I am, and I’m not excusing one blasted thing.”

  “I don’t even know you. How could I—”

  “I entered that ‘Fantasy Weekend Contest with Keefe O’Fallon’ that Sins and Secrets had, and I didn’t win.” She jabbed her finger again, her eyes drawing together. “How could that happen? Look at me.” She held her arms wide, which was better than getting poked. “I’m absolutely perfect. These”— she jutted her breasts at him—”cost me a damn fortune. I had a complete makeover, head to toe, just for you, just to win. I got sucked, implanted, stapled, tucked and puckered. I want my weekend, dammit. I want my name in the papers, my picture on TV. I want you!”

  Ob, shit! He stepped away from the boobs. “Look, I didn’t do the picking, I swear. A computer did and—”

  “I intend to cause a lot of problems if you don’t pay up, buster. That whole contest was fixed. Rigged! That gal who won wasn’t as gorgeous as I am. Am I not gorgeous?”

  “Absolutely. Terrific. Incredible. Wonderful.”

  “Don’t you patronize me!” She poked his chest again. “I’m going to file complaints with the network and the FCC and anyone else who will listen. I’m going to ruin your reputation unless you pay up. How are you going to make that happen, huh? I want notoriety!”

  “I . . . uh . . .”

  “Well, you better think of something fast. I’m staying at that Hastings Bed and Breakfast. I want answers, and I want them fast.”

  She turned in a snit and whisked out the door. She tramped down the four steps to the circular driveway that separated the rambling white-frame house from the large expanse of lawn and oaks and the Mississippi River rolling beyond. Keefe followed her out onto the porch and called, “Would you settle for dinner at Slim’s while you’re here? Great barbecue ribs? Cold beer? Fried chicken? The blues? How about that?”

  “How about you go to hell!” she shot back as she opened the car door. “I didn’t get all fixed up to eat ribs. This is my chance to shine, and I’m going to do it. It’s important to me—more important than you can imagine—and you’re going to make it happen or else.” She climbed in the red Ford, slammed the door shut and sped off, her tires spitting gravel.

  Callie joined Keefe as the car squealed onto the main road, Bonnie now asleep in her arms. The kid could sleep through anything . . . except him. Callie said, “Well, so much for dropping off the earth. Next time you have a contest give away potholders.”

  “Hell, I don’t need her making trouble with the studio. I’m up for contract renewal in a month. S and S could kill off Lex Zandor in a shoot-out with the cops or a gang war, and bam, I’m out of a job just like that. Can’t
believe a contestant followed me here. The press and disgruntled fans have no conscience.”

  “About that conscience ...” She looked at him and smiled sweetly. “Maybe you should rethink your position on the press a little.” She walked around Bonnie’s stroller parked by the side of the house and sat on the porch railing. A puff of summer breeze floated off the Mississippi as a towboat pushed barges upriver, and the July humidity curled Callie’s golden hair into spirals. He didn’t remember seeing her around when he was in high school, and he sure would have remembered. She must have moved in after he went off to college. She added, “You got it all wrong about publicity; the right kind can be good for your career.”

  “Or it can kill it.”

  A silver Honda Civic pulled into the drive. It stopped, and a middle-aged woman in a navy jumper, white blouse and graying hair pulled back tight enough to eradicate the most stubborn crow’s-feet wiggled out. Max ran and barked. Callie offered, “Another disgruntled fan? That must have been some contest. It’s too late to hide.”

  “Fuck!” Keefe put his hands over Bonnie’s ears. “Oops. Sorry, Little Bit. Hope you didn’t hear that.” He watched the woman come their way. “I knew that damn contest was a bad idea. But did the producers listen? Hell, no. Drive up the ratings is all they could think about. They’re not the one who had women tearing off his clothes outside the studio, throwing themselves in front of his taxi on Madison Avenue and following him all the way home.”

  “Women like Lex, the brooding, tortured mob boss with a soft spot for women and kids.”

  “What they like is using me to get their names and faces in the press. They’d run after Barney the purple dinosaur if it would get them what they wanted.”

  “I take it you had some pretty bad experiences with women lately? I read about that one gal who handcuffed you to a pole in Times Square while she stripped.”

  “Mr. Keefe O’Fallon?” the woman asked as she tramped up the steps.

  He said, “Look, I’m really sorry for the contest and that you didn’t win the fantasy weekend. You’re lovely, you really are, and the weekend wasn’t that great of a time anyway. Lots of reporters and commotion and the limo got a flat tire and the lobster was stringy and—”

  “I’m the baby-sitter.” She patted her graying bun. “I got lost coming in from Riverside.”

  “Excuse me?” Didn’t he just say that a few minutes ago? This day was not improving.

  The woman continued, “Sally, that lady who runs Slim’s with her daddy, called me, said you asked her to find you a sitter real fast. Now, I’m not cheap, and I’m charging for mileage, of course, but I know how to mind offspring well enough and make them behave.”

  Busted! Callie thought as she took in the pinched-faced woman standing in front of her. Keefe pointed to the woman and cut his gaze to Callie. “If she’s the baby-sitter, who the hell are you?”

  Someone who’s had the hots for Lex Zandor for two years, volunteered to get his interview, and one look at his bare chest and low-riding jeans affirmed her choice was a darn good one! “That’s what we need to talk about.”

  The woman stepped around Keefe, dropped a canvas bag on the porch floor and snagged Bonnie from Callie’s arms before she could stop her. Bonnie opened one blue eye, then the other, wrinkled her body into a tight mass and yowled.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing,” the real sitter instructed as she clomped inside. “I’m Eleanor Stick, and I’ll mind the baby. I get an hourly rate,” she continued as she climbed the steps, calling over Bonnie’s yelling, “Double after six o’clock and it’s getting near that now. I get lunch and dinner served to me, so you better get to it.”

  Callie stared at the retreating figure. “Are you really going to leave Bonnie with her?”

  “Better to leave her with someone who’s a liar? Who the hell are you?”

  “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell the whole truth, yet, but I was working up to it. In case you missed something, it’s been a little hectic around this place for any kind of meaningful conversation.”

  Keefe glared, and it wasn’t aimed at Eleanor. Even with a scowl the man was more handsome in person than on TV, and that was going some. Long sandy hair that nearly reached his shoulders, that killer half smile, those piercing blue eyes with a thin scar at the left corner, incredible biceps, no wonder he was voted Mr. Love-in-the-afternoon. She’d voted for him twenty times, not that she’d ever admit it to a living soul.

  This thing she had for Lex Zandor was so . . . juvenile. Being gaga over a TV star was pathetic. But no matter how she tried to talk herself out of it, she was plain loopy over him anyway. “Before you go ballistic, just hear me out. I’m with Soap Scoops, and your fans really do want to see more of you off the show.”

  “Dammit! That’s where I know you from. You’re one of those nosy reporters always hanging around the studio and getting in everyone’s face.”

  “Other actors cooperate, you don’t and we receive a ton of letters wanting your interview with pictures and—”

  “What the hell’s Soap Scoops?”

  “A magazine that gives the lowdown on what soap opera stars do in their real lives, their families, their kids, hobbies, charities and—”

  “Made-up affairs, erroneous weddings, fake pregnancies, alien abductions, sex-change operations and anything else you can dream up to sell your rag. Out!”

  “That’s not what we’re about. Rags like The Dirt do that. They give all soap magazines a bad name. We’re about the person behind the character, the real you, though sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. Like the hacked-off expression you have on your face now is the same one you had on Sins and Secrets in that episode where you held a gun on that undercover FBI agent and made her strip to see if she was wearing a wire. That was some bedroom scene. Everyone’s favorite. And you’d know it if you answered your fan mail, which I’m sure you never do.”

  It was also the episode where she really started to connect with Lex Zandor—aka, Keefe O’Fallon—because he had a certain inner sincerity, a caring that seemed to shine through to the character he played.

  Who was she kiddingl The reason she watched S and S was Keefe O’Fallon’s dynamite looks and especially his great ass. “Think of an interview as free publicity, a chance to tell your adoring fans about the real Keefe O’Fallon. Give me a chance to make you even more popular.”

  “I’ll give you a chance to get out of here before I call the sheriff. The last interview I did five years ago nearly killed my career before it started. Implied I was gay, had a lover and I was the secret love child of Hillary Clinton and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Try getting any kind of acting gig after press like that!”

  Callie folded her arms. “So you had one little bad experience.”

  “Bad?” His eyes beaded. “Lady, bad is having a waiter spill a drink in your lap. My experience with the rags is way beyond bad. It sucked!”

  “Well, you’re successful because the fans like you. You’re a personality, you owe them and your life is an open book whether you like it or not. It’s the price you pay for fame; that’s what fame means. If you have some hard knocks along the way, get over it and deal. You’re rich, famous.” Gorgeous!

  “Hard to deal when you can’t find a job, your rent’s due and the fridge is empty. The soaps were the only ones that would give me a chance. I took a small part no one wanted and made Lex Zandor into the mob boss from hell. I’m not risking it all again because you hunt me down and can rock a baby to sleep.”

  “Well, she’s not asleep now. You need to do something fast because she’s getting more upset by the minute.” Bonnie’s crying carried outside, and the big yellow dog sat on the porch and howled in sympathy.

  Keefe glared at the dog. “Max, knock it off. You’re not helping.”

  Max howled all the louder, sounding more pitiful, and Callie said, “Least let me calm the baby before I go. Even your dog knows how miserable she is.”

  “Nothing to calm,”
the Stick said as she bustled out. “Best to let babies cry is my motto. They get over it in a few hours, and then they know who the boss is.” She tipped her chin. “That would be me.” She glared at Max, and he yelped and ran under the wicker settee.

  Stick said, “I take it that my dinner has been delayed?” She snagged her canvas bag, parked herself in the white wicker rocker and pulled out her knitting. “I’m waiting and not patiently, I might add.”

  “Get out of here,” Keefe growled to Callie, Stick’s knitting needles clicking in the background.

  “Fine, suit yourself, Uncle Keefe.”

  “It’s brother.”

  “I’m waiting,” grumbled Stick as Callie threw in, “Some big brother.” She clambered down the wooden steps and traipsed across the gravel driveway. To think she’d panted over Lex Zandor, even had some wild sexy dreams about the man, followed him from New York just to interview him. Well, Keefe O’Fallon was a long way from Lex Zandor. Lex might be a mob boss, but he had a heart. . . and a great ass. Keefe was a first-class jerk, and she didn’t give a flying fig what kind of ass he had!

  She got into her blue Taurus rental and fired the engine. She felt ill and not from the interview rejection and having her Lex Zandor fantasies shot to heck, but because there was a baby involved who didn’t deserve to be left crying since some egomaniac chose to protect himself and not a child.

  What to do? She didn’t have any authority to do anything. Callie started off, stopped, then killed the engine.

  She got out and doubled back as Keefe jogged down the drive toward her, handsome chin set, hair mussed as if he’d run his fingers through it too many times, a worried look in his eyes and a slight sheen of sweat across his chest that made her a little woozy. No woozy! She steeled herself for a fight, determined to get her way for the sake of the baby, reminding herself not to touch . . . anything! “You can yell and threaten me with a sheriff and jail or whatever, Keefe O’ Fallon, but I am not leaving Bonnie with that—”

  “I just remembered that the Louis kids stuttered and had eye twitches. Now I understand why. How about I’ll pay you to take care of Bonnie till someone gets home who knows what they’re doing, because I sure don’t. I’ll get rid of Stick. What do you say, is it a deal?”