A Bad Boy is Good to Find

chapter 14

“What time is it?” Lizzie pulled the sheet over her as the door opened.

“One.” The light from the doorway turned Con into a silhouette. Still shirtless, with his clothes under his arm. He unbuttoned his pants and slid them off, then headed for the bed.

“Floor.”

“Come on, babe, you know you won’t be able to sleep without me.”

“Wheelock Engineering. That’s all I have to say.”

She turned her back to him. Not wanting her eyes to adjust to the silvery outline of his muscled body in the moonlight. She was going to wean herself off him, starting tonight.

“Alright, babe. But if you change your mind…” Without so much as rolling some clothes into a pillow, he eased himself down on to the bare wood.

“I won’t.” She flipped over, trying to get comfortable on the soft feather mattress. If anything, the heat and humidity were more oppressive in darkness. An almost-full moon blazed through a crack in the brocade curtains, picking out the plaster moldings around the high ceilings. A billion tree frogs screeched a high-pitched symphony.

She’d been lying here in the dark for two hours, hearing the voices of the crew—and Con—laughing and talking and having fun. She’d come up early, had all she could take of sitting outside under the stars with Con’s arm around her. She couldn’t laugh and talk and have fun with the cameras on her when it was all fake. The pretense was exhausting.

Con got along with everyone. Easygoing, quick witted and charming. He already had Maisie eating out of his palm. When Lizzie announced she was off to bed, he’d jumped to his feet to follow her upstairs to the Bridal Suite like the doting fiancé he so convincingly pretended to be.

But she needed to be away from him more than any of them. “Oh, no, sweetheart, please stay up. You’re the only one who knows how to keep the fire going.” He’d looked her in the eye, read her thoughts and stayed outside.

Sensitive bastard.

She’d spent some time studying the little stack of yellowed letters. No return address, just the address of the plantation house written in neat cursive. Ballpoint pen.

She hadn’t had the guts to open one. Yet.

Con shifted on the floor. Hardwood with no carpet. He’d have a pretty rough night. Maybe she should offer him the comforter since she wasn’t using it anyway?

Stop being a wuss. He deceived you and made a fool of you and turned you into the kind of person who throws shoes.

She tossed again. A very soft mattress could be surprisingly uncomfortable. A cramp seized her calf and she grabbed her foot, pulled the toe back hard and rubbed her knotted calf muscle, cursing under her breath until the ball of tension released.

Her dad probably wasn’t sleeping too well either. The ankle bracelet stayed on even at night, and his activities were under constant surveillance, particularly since his coconspirator, her former “financial advisor,” had disappeared without a trace. Probably sunning himself on a Caribbean island. She’d picked up several weeks’ worth of mail being held at the post office in New York and discovered a long letter from her father. He’d apologized for squandering her inheritance and letting the family down. He regretted the cruel things he’d said to her that last day at the house. He’d been overwrought, almost psychotic.

Or so he said.

He’d promised to try to make it up to her and her mother. He’d written so persuasively that she almost forgave him.

Almost.

The promise of a large inheritance had warped her life in many ways, cramped her existence. Now, dear, don’t forget, people know who you are. She’d accepted the limitations, held up her end of the deal.

Daddy’s a busy man, darling.

It had been a tradeoff— money instead of love—and he’d reneged on his end of the bargain.

She heard Con shift. Maybe just a pillow? She really didn’t need all four of them…

Sucker.

She’d been a sucker for her father and a sucker for Con, and she’d never be a sucker again.

That little game of footsie earlier had left her irritatingly aroused. Simple body mechanics of course, but frustrating.

She hadn’t had sex since the showdown in the desert. During their whirlwind courtship, four heavenly weeks, they’d done it almost every day. Sometimes several times. So easy, warm, inviting. A blissful connection and shared release.

Don’t think about it.

She tossed again, dragged the sheet over her. She could still hear laughter from downstairs. The crew were whooping it up and having a great time. They were all young, free and single—like her—except that she wasn’t really like them. Money had stood like a wall between herself and other people. She’d never had those easy, comfortable friendships other people her age enjoyed.

Except with Con.

“You okay, babe?” His murmured question startled her. Had he somehow heard her thoughts?

“Of course,” she snapped. “Go to sleep.”

And he did. Within minutes she heard his breathing slow and deepen. When she leaned over the edge of the bed, incredulous, she watched his broad chest rise and fall in the bright moonlight. He lay on his back, sinewy arms at his sides, totally relaxed. Expensive dark designer briefs hugged a bulge that suggested he might already be enjoying a good dream. Long muscled legs extended carelessly over the floor as if he lay cushioned on a cloud.

How on earth did he do it?

She wondered what lay in store for them at his real ancestral homestead. His obvious apprehension made her nervous. Wasn’t that just what she wanted? She’d come here to rub his nose in the humble roots he’d so artfully concealed. To blow his cover on national TV and punish him for his deception?

Now they were here he didn’t even put up a fuss about going. He didn’t look happy about it, but he didn’t seem embarrassed like she’d expected.

She couldn’t figure him out. Which was, of course, how she’d gotten into this mess in the first place.



She didn’t sleep a single second all night long. In the morning her neck was killing her and her head ached. Con hadn’t moved a muscle. Just lay there, lips slightly parted, relaxed expression on his revoltingly handsome features, big sexy body sprawled on the bare wood.

She’d just decided to accidentally step on his hand on her way to the closet, when a knock on the door jolted him from his unseemly repose.

He flew onto the bed and flung his arm over her. “Come in.”

She resisted the urge to elbow him off, grateful for his quick reflexes. Honed, no doubt, while scrambling out women’s bedroom windows.

“Maisie!” She pulled the sheet up higher and tried not to recoil from those all-seeing ice-blue eyes.

“Don’t you two look cozy, sorry to interrupt.”

Con had circled Lizzie with his arm and snuggled against her, spoon fashion. She could feel a sizeable morning erection against her butt.

“That’s okay.” Con spoke lazily. “We’re practically in-laws, aren’t we, Maisie?” She could feel his smile and it raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

“So true. What a sweet thought.” Maisie snapped on a smile. “I’d love you to come down for breakfast, darlings, though I can see Lizzie needs some attention from Raoul first.”

Lizzie cringed. Her flattened hair probably stuck out all over like a Vandergraf generator and she could pack her new wardrobe in the bags under her eyes.

“We did have rather a wild night,” she managed.

Con buried his face in the back of her neck and kissed it. “Maisie doesn’t want to know what we were doing all night.”

Oh, she’d eat it up like pie, believe me.

“You’re right sweetheart. Sometimes I forget myself when I’m with you.” She settled her hand possessively on his big thigh. Steeled herself against the delicious spicy warmth of him at her back. He deserved full marks for playing along.

Maisie’s smile remained firmly in place. “I’ll send Raoul up. Oh, and Con, if you want to go shirtless again, that’s just fine.”



“You don’t have to really go shirtless, you know.” Lizzie sat in front of the dressing table mirror, trying to get the comb through her snarled hair.

“I’m a performer under contract. I wear what the director tells me to.”

She glanced at his reflection in the mirror. Was he smiling? “Well, I’m the real director here and I’m telling you to wear a shirt.”

“What if I don’t want to?” He buckled his black leather belt.

“If you don’t want to, then don’t,” she snapped. “I just think it’s rather undignified.” The waistband of his Italian slacks sat low enough to reveal the top of the fine line of black hair below his belly button. Low enough to be unpleasantly suggestive.

“Since when are you concerned about me being dignified? I figure this whole trip is designed to rob me of any false dignity I might have assumed. And you know what? I’m okay with that. I guess dignity isn’t all that important to me in the grand scheme of things.”

He moved up behind her, his low-slung waistband clearly visible in mirror. He put his hands on her shoulders and started to massage. “But I think it’s sweet that you still care enough about me to defend my rights.”

“I don’t care about you one bit. If you want to prance around half naked it’s fine by me. Go for it.” She deliberately avoided looking at his broad fingers as they dug into the tender knots at the base of her neck.

“Jesus, you’re wound up. Did you sleep at all last night?”

“Yes.” No.

Not a frigging wink. She’d rather die than let him know that, though. She glanced at his face in the mirror.

“What are you laughing at?”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Your eyes are laughing.” She bristled, tightened up the shoulders he was trying to loosen.

“I’ll tell them to stop. Relax, let your shoulders go.”

She pushed her shoulders down, bent her neck forward and closed her eyes. Con had magic fingers and could zero in on a tension point from fifteen paces. “You’ve missed your calling, you know,” she moaned, as he unkinked a hump beside her spine. “You could have been a masseur.”

“Maybe I’ll be one yet.”

“I’m serious. I’ve had a lot of professional massages, especially out at Las Gordas, and you’re better than any of them. It’s amazing how you can be so gentle and so firm at the same time.”

She instantly regretted the compliment. One with sexual implications, no less. “You could hang out a shingle, Come and Get Conned. I’m sure you won’t have trouble attracting female customers.”

Her barbed suggestion caused a slight hiccup in his massaging rhythm, then he continued with renewed vigor. “You wouldn’t mind your husband putting his hands all over other women?”

“You’re not my husband.” Why did it hurt to say that?.

“I will be soon.” He dug his thumbs into her neck with insistent pressure.

“Not for long.”

A movement inside the door made her start. “Raoul!”

When had he come in and how much had he heard? Con’s hands fell from her shoulders. He hadn’t heard Raoul either.

“Hey,” said Con.

“Hey yourself,” replied Raoul, giving his bare chest a lingering once-over. “What’re you trying to do, raise the temperature around here even higher?” He fanned himself, straight-faced.

“Maisie’s orders. Do I look like an ass?”

“Best piece of ass I’ve seen in weeks. But we digress. I have work to do.” He turned to Lizzie, still poker-faced. “Heard you need some primping. Can see it’s true. You look like you’ve been in a boxing ring. Where’s your icepack?”

“What icepack?”

“The one you are supposed to keep ready to reduce puffiness around your eyes in the morning.”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to have one.”

“Ignorance of the law is no defense. They’ve probably got some iced-up shrimp downstairs we could use instead.”

Con chuckled.

“Hey, I’m just kidding.” He smiled, revealing unnaturally even white teeth between his thin lips. “There can be a lot of tension on a set and I like fooling around. Don’t take me too seriously. Anyway, the hairdresser still hasn’t shown up, so I’m doing double duty again. If things get ugly, we can go into my personal wig collection.”

“Raoul does celebrity impersonations. In drag,” said Con. “Goes onstage at the Copa.”

Lizzie forced a laugh. She snuck a nervous glance at Con, who was slicking back his hair with a comb, biceps artfully displayed by the motion.

Raoul savored the view with her for a moment.

“I don’t really see her in the Monroe or the Joan Crawford, do you?” He raised an eyebrow at Con. “Maybe the Veronica Lake?” He lifted up a semi fried hank of Lizzie’s frizzy, flattened hair. “But you’re definitely going to need one of my wigs if you keep trying to straighten. This humidity is a red-hot bitch.”

“I like it curly.” Con put his comb down on the dressing table in front of her. “I think Lizzie’s hair is beautiful in its natural state. Wild and lovely, just like her.”

He leaned in, all spicy scent and warm muscle, and planted a featherlight kiss on her cheek. Left her skin humming and her face heating. Bastard. “You always look beautiful to me, babe,” he said. “See you downstairs.

She noted with deep satisfaction that he picked up a shirt on his way out.

“You’re a lucky woman,” said Raoul after Con had left the room.

“Yeah,” said Lizzie, with no conviction whatsoever. How much had Raoul overheard? And what might he do with that information?

“So, shall we wash it and see what happens?”



“Lizzie, darling!” Maisie beckoned to her from the floodlit dining room.

She came down the stairs rigid with self-awareness since she’d noticed a camera trained right on her. Raoul had used some kind of greasy gel on her hair that made it hang in stringy tendrils about her shoulders. She looked like a wet wood nymph. He’d talked her into wearing cutoff jeans by some SoHo designer and a halter top with a built in bra, so she was a wet wood nymph who’d dipped into Daisy Duke’s wardrobe. She’d been rather impressed with her swamp-sexpot look in the age-spotted bedroom mirror, with Raoul standing behind her claiming jealousy. In full view of the crew, with 3200 Kelvins of artificial daylight blasting her from every direction, she felt like a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

“Wow.” A grin spread across Con’s face. “I like this look.”

She cringed at the blush creeping up her chest, which was pushed into view by a large quantity of industrial-strength underwire.

Maisie stood off to one side, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Cut!” She strode forward. “Goodness, Lizzie, Raoul does get creative doesn’t he? Shame it took so long, but I imagine it was a lot of work.” She picked up a clump of “wet look” hair. “I was just telling Con about our plans for the day. We’re going to drive over to Mudbug Flats—” She lingered over the name a bit—“after breakfast. You two are taking a sweet little white Jeep we’ve rented. Of course, they’ll be a cameraman in the car with you, but the rest of the crew will be in a van.”

Maisie paused to look at her clipboard. Lizzie paused to regret ever coming up with this stupid idea.

She glanced at Con. He stared rather too intently at his cup of coffee.

“So, darling, the only snag is that when we tried to scope out the exact location, we couldn’t find it, so Con will have to show us the way.”

Con seized his cup and took a sip, without looking up. His shirt was on and buttoned.

“Your family will be expecting us, I imagine?” Maisie looked at Con.

Family? Lizzie felt a drip of sweat trickle down her back. It hadn’t really sunk in that Con could have a family of real people. He certainly never mentioned them. What would they be like? What on earth would they think of her? She swallowed hard.

“No one’s expecting me.” Con’s voice was throaty. “I’ve been gone a long time. Haven’t stayed in touch.”

Maisie stared at him, her smooth brow furrowed. “Reallllly?” she said slowly. “So this is sort of a prodigal-son-returns type of piece, then?”

Con licked his lips. No sign whatsoever of his usual polished charm. “I don’t know what kind of piece it’s going to be.”

“But you will be able to find the place?”

“If it’s still there, I can find it.” He pressed his lips together. Lizzie tried to catch his eye but couldn’t.

“Alright then, we’ll go there and see what we see. Make a day of it.” Maisie smiled brightly. “Breakfast!” She indicated a spread on the table. “Let me get out of the shot for a moment.”

Con seemed to recover himself as Lizzie sat down with a plate of spiced sausages and scrambled eggs.

“Looking forward to seeing the old place?” she said brightly. Took a bite of her eggs. Squinted under the harsh spotlight.

“I haven’t been back in so long, I don’t know what to expect.” His worried brown-eyed gaze threatened her defenses.

Don’t fall for it. Picture him chuckling about you with Raoul over the free weights.

“I understand. Change can be so traumatic. I hardly recognize the block on East 66th Street where I grew up..” She smiled, bracing herself against any unwelcome emotion.

She noticed Maisie snap to attention and give some kind of signal to Dino. Maisie strode forward and sat down at the table next to Con, opposite Lizzie. Lizzie braced herself.

“Morning, Lizzie, Morning, Conroy,” she said, brightly. A kind of ‘on-air’ glow made her smile shine whiter. She spoke to Con. “We’re all very excited to be here with you for this little homecoming. As you know, Lizzie grew up in a luxury brownstone in one of New York City’s finest neighborhoods. As cousins we spent many beautiful Christmases gathered around the fresh-cut tree in the magnificent living room of that house, surrounded by Van Dykes and Gainsboroughs.”

“In a way it was the end of an era, a time of unsurpassed luxury and genteel living, when the Hathaway family was riding high on the success of the company founded by Lizzie’s grandfather, Ezreel Hathaway.”

Con, who had retained something of a poker face during this barrage of backstory, couldn’t keep his lips from twitching with mirth at the mention of Grandpa Ezreel.

“Rising from the ashes of the depression, the Hathaway company brought new advances in sanitation into the homes of millions and created jobs in all fifty states. Now after decades as a beacon in American industry, the company is gone, the workers laid off, and the Chairman and CEO Ronald Hathaway—” She pressed a slim hand to her breast. “My uncle and Lizzie’s father is facing a jail sentence for stock fraud. Unbowed by the disgrace to our family, Lizzie has boldly struck out on her own and claimed a new life with you, Conroy.”

Lizzie squirmed as sweat tickled her back. She glanced at Con, who gave every appearance of having been a professional poker player at some point in his checkered past. Entirely possible, of course. Though his eyes were fixed on Maisie, somehow his entire posture and bearing seemed to project one thought.

I told you so.

Lizzie gritted her teeth.

“So, Conroy, how do you feel about marrying into such a famous—now almost infamous—family?”

Lizzie tensed.

“People are people,” he said. “When I met Lizzie, I knew she was the woman for me.” He cocked his head, exuded confident charm.

Yeah, right. That’s my kind of money was your only thought.

“Now, Conroy, Lizzie was still a wealthy woman, with the expectation of a large inheritance when you met her.”

Lizzie’s last bite of sausage lodged in her throat.

“How did you react when you found out she was wiped out in the stock scandal?”

“It was a shock, of course, but Lizzie and I both feel it’s for the best.” He leaned into Maisie a little.

Lizzie’s eyes widened.

“Lizzie and I want to live a simple life. As she’ll tell you herself, she’s never had expensive tastes. She’s looking forward to living like a normal person for a change. To having car payments and mortgage payments and having to save for vacations. We’re excited about building our own American dream.”

Lizzie realized her jaw was hanging open. If she wasn’t mistaken that was almost word for word the little speech she’d given on that terrible night. When she still believed in Con and thought they could make a life together. That moment of desperate hopefulness rang in her heart. Stung her with fresh pain at how totally she’d loved him.

“And Celebrity Access is delighted to be able to set that dream in motion with a wedding you’ll never forget.” Maisie beamed.

Please don’t talk to me. Lizzie tried desperately to gather her thoughts, to catch her breath. She could feel Maisie getting ready to launch a missile in her direction, and she couldn’t take the heat. She caught Con’s eye and shot him a pleading glance.

Con cleared his throat. “It was Lizzie’s idea to come back here to Louisiana. We’re from very different backgrounds, and Lizzie wanted to see where I’m from.”

“Where you’re from,” repeated Maisie, in a sonorous imitation of Barbara Walters. “Did you grow up in an antebellum mansion like this one?” She arched a slim brow.

“No.” Con narrowed his eyes slightly. “No, I grew up in much…simpler surroundings.”

“A stark contrast, I imagine, to the lap of luxury that nurtured your fiancé?”

“No doubt.”

“You told me earlier, Conroy, that you haven’t been home in a long time.” Maisie lowered her voice, leaned forward. “Is this homecoming somewhat difficult for you?”

Con didn’t flinch. “It was Lizzie’s idea, like I said, but she’s right. It’s something I’ve put off far too long.”

“And on that note, we have a journey to make. A journey to Conroy’s hometown. A little place in bayou country, known to its inhabitants as Mudbug Flats.” Maisie held her smile in place for a count of three. “Cut.”

Con leaned back in his chair, obviously relieved the inquisition was over. Lizzie’s head buzzed with his words—her words—that she’d said in another lifetime.

“A good start, I think. Thank you, Conroy.” Maisie looked disgustingly pleased with herself. In a pale beige power suit that set off her rather subtle coloring, she was elegant and composed. A perfect on-air interviewer. Lizzie could already envision the fifty year retrospective of her illustrious career in journalism, beginning with her very first on-air story…

This one.

She closed her eyes and willed away an incipient headache. “Let’s go.” She wanted to get this Mudbug Flats ordeal over with and get back to the world of hand-trimmed seamed silk stockings and artfully arranged roses that was at least familiar.

Twenty five thousand dollars. You can do it.