A Real Cowboy. Sarah M. Anderson
Hoss was rewarded with a nice smile, J.R. had to fight the urge to kick him under the table. Hoss was not her type. True, J.R. didn’t know exactly what her type was, but Hoss was a decent, honest, hardworking fellow, even if he was a bit of a joker. In other words, he was the kind of man that women like Thalia Thorne probably ate for breakfast.
“A little bit of everything. I scout locations, arrange funding and hire talent.” She managed to say that entire line without looking at J.R. The amount of effort she put into not looking at him broadcast that she knew he was here, loud and clear.
“I was in a movie once.” J.R. fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Me and Minnie, we were extra Native Americans in Hell for Leather.” Hoss shook his head in mock sadness. “First, I got killed, then they cut my part. That’s why I gave up Hollywood and stuck to ranching, you know.”
What a load of crap. Mostly true crap—everything except that last line, which J.R. took as a personal attack. He was about to punch Hoss in the arm when Thalia giggled. “Is that so? Fame can be fickle like that.”
“Sure can.” Hoss shot him a look that said one thing, and one thing only—I’m winning. “Were you always a producer?”
“Not originally. I wanted to be an actress.” Thalia’s voice got that soft quality again. “I came close—I had a three-episode arc on Alias—that girl-next-door-superspy show.” Then her eyes brightened and she gave Hoss a grin that said she was in on the joke. “I got killed, too. It’s murder on one’s career to be dying all the time.”
A former actress? Another strike against her—or it should have been. The way she’d said it felt like she’d plucked a single string somewhere inside J.R. and that string hummed in recognition.
So what? Hollywood was the land of broken dreams. He would not be swayed by a calculated play on his sympathies. “Do you know that Jennifer Garner?” When Thalia nodded, Minnie’s eyes lit up. “I always wondered if she was a nice person or if she’d kill you.”
“She’s normal—but the baby showers! You should have seen the gifts!” As Thalia revealed all sorts of firsthand details and Minnie ate it up, J.R. noticed that everything she said was warm and friendly. Nothing malicious passed her lips.
Not that he was thinking about her lips. That wasn’t it at all.
No, he was thinking Minnie’s sixth sense might be right—Thalia Thorne didn’t act like someone who’d come digging for dirt. But she’d come for something. What was the question. He knew it was only a matter of time before she got around to it.
She didn’t seem in a hurry, though. Instead, she ate and talked like they were all the oldest of friends while Minnie passed around the pot roast and the potatoes. They were J.R.’s favorite kind, smashed red potatoes with rosemary and garlic, but tonight, nothing tasted good. To him, anyway. Thalia sat there oohing and aahing over everything, and Minnie looked like she’d hit the jackpot. Lord, it was irritating. It was almost as if he wasn’t even sitting at the table.
“So, what brings you out our way?” Minnie kept her tone light and friendly, but there was no mistaking that this was the question on everyone’s mind. Including J.R.’s.
Her gaze cast down, Thalia wiped her mouth with her napkin. For a second, J.R. almost felt sorry for her. So far, she hadn’t done a single thing he’d expected of her, and he got the sense that she knew exactly how far she’d overreached.
Then she squared her shoulders. “I’m working on a movie tentatively titled Blood for Roses. It’s slated to be released next December.”
Just in time to be considered for Levinson’s required slew of Oscars, no doubt. “What’s it about?” Hoss was now leaning forward, eyes on Thalia as if every word that fell from her mouth was a ruby.
“It’s a Western set in Kansas after the Civil War. A family of freed slaves tries to start a new life, but some of the locals aren’t too keen on the idea.” She cleared her throat. This was the pitch, no doubt, but she came off as hesitant to make it. Like she knew that J.R. was going to throw her out, and she didn’t want to go yet. “Eastwood is attached to direct, Freeman has signed on and we’re in talks with Denzel.”
It was an impressive roster. No doubt Levinson was hoping to break nomination records.
“Oh, I love Denzel, especially when he’s playing the bad guy.” Thalia had Minnie already, that much was clear. “Have you met him? Is he as sexy in real life as he is in the movies?”
“It’s not quite the same,” Thalia admitted, “although he is quite good-looking.” She shrugged. “When you’re around famous people long enough, you stop worrying so much about who’s the most famous or who’s the hottest. Sooner or later, it has to come down to whether or not they’re someone you can work with.” This blanket statement that could only be described as reasonable hung out there before she added, “Having said that, Denzel is someone that almost everyone enjoys working with, and his wife is lovely.”
Then she looked at him. Not the kind of look that asked if he’d bought what she was selling, but the kind of look that seemed to be asking for understanding.
What the hell was this?
“So what part did you have in mind for him?” Hoss jerked his chin toward J.R. with all the subtlety of a dead skunk in the middle of the road.
She favored J.R. with another look that was lost in the no-man’s-land of apologetic and sympathetic. It made her look vulnerable, honest even—which was completely disarming. He didn’t like that look or how it plucked at those strings inside him, not one bit. “I thought James Robert Bradley would be perfect for the role of Sean Bridger, the grizzled Confederate Civil War vet who unexpectedly finds himself helping defend the freedmen’s land.” Her face was almost unreadable, but he could see the pulse at the base of her neck pounding. “I wanted to see if you’d be interested in the part, J.R.”
Getting him signed on was her idea, not Levinson’s? Wait. There was something more to what she’d said. He scrambled to replay it while keeping his own face blank. She’d thought James Robert was perfect—but she’d asked him, J.R., if he was interested. Her gaze held tight to his, and he felt that flow of energy between them again. She’d been right to avoid looking at him before—he could get all kinds of lost in her ice-blue eyes. Because now she was not just looking at him, but into him, through all the walls he’d thrown up between James Robert Bradley and J.R. That’s why she wasn’t doing the full-court press. She understood the difference between his two lives. Understood it, and possibly even respected it.
She was more dangerous than he’d thought possible.
Eastwood to direct. Freeman and Washington to star. The who’s who of people who could pull off a Western—and she’d thought of him. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t flattered, but that didn’t change things. “I’m not interested.”
Not in the part, anyway. He managed to break eye contact, which snapped the tension between them.
“Any Indians in this movie?” For once, J.R. didn’t want Hoss to shut up. It’d be better for everyone if Hoss did all the talking.
She was silent for two beats too long. He shouldn’t care that he’d disappointed her, so he ignored the inconvenient emotion.
“Sadly, no. I believe they were all pushed off the land before our story begins. If something opens up, I’ll be sure to keep you in mind.”
Conversation seemed to die after that, as if no one knew what was supposed to be said next. J.R. wanted her to leave and take this discomfort with her. He didn’t want her to look at him—through him—anymore. He didn’t want to think about her pretty eyes or long legs, and he sure as hell didn’t want her to give him another just-woke-up, so-glad-to-see-you look of longing. And if she wouldn’t leave, he had a good mind to bail.
But he’d promised Minnie to be polite. So he focused on eating the food that