His Forever Valentine Read online

  “It’s Val,” she corrected, making a mental note not to introduce herself using her full name anymore. It was hard to get people to take her seriously at first. “And likewise,” Val told him, shaking the hand he held out to her.

  “To answer your question,” Brett said, picking up the thread of the conversation where he’d dropped it. “I like my skin just where it is, too, but his missus is a little bitty woman. She’d have to catch me to skin me.”

  “Jamison doesn’t exactly look like a lightweight,” she pointed out.

  “He’s not—but he’s afraid of his wife,” Brett told her.

  “And you’re not,” Val assumed.

  “Not a woman alive I’m afraid of,” Brett told her matter-of-factly. “Except for my dear, sainted mother, but she’s gone now. And for the record,” he added, “I never partake when I’m on the job. You never know what might come up.”

  She supposed, given the nature of his work, that was a wise position to take. She nodded at the sleeping customer. “Does Mr. Jamison do this all the time?”

  “You mean drink himself into a stupor and then sleep it off on my bar?” She nodded. “Only when he’s got money in his pocket,” Brett told her.

  Definitely colorful, she thought. “And he doesn’t mind sleeping like that?” she asked out loud. All she could think of was the way the man’s neck was going to ache when he woke up.

  Brett shook his head. “Says he likes to be close to his supply of alcohol. To each his own. I guess.”

  Still, that had to be awfully uncomfortable, she judged. Val looked at Rafe. “Shouldn’t you bring him home?”

  Rafe raised his hands slightly, as if to fend off the thought. “I don’t relish getting skinned any more than Brett here does.”

  “But his wife could see that you haven’t been drinking, which means that you weren’t around him when he was drinking, so you’re not responsible for his condition,” she argued.

  “That would be a reasonable deduction,” Rafe agreed, “but Jamison’s missus isn’t exactly known for being reasonable. What do you think he’s drinking to forget?” he asked her.

  She looked from the man behind the bar to Rafe. The answer to Rafe’s question was suddenly as obvious as the shine on the bar.

  “Oh.” She looked at Jamison. The man’s snoring was getting louder. “I guess his neck won’t hurt too much when he wakes up.”

  “Not as much as the welts he’d have on his body once Charlene got hold of him,” Brett guaranteed. “Don’t worry, I’ll water down his drinks for the first part of the day when he starts in again—and charge him accordingly,” he said.

  Leaving the rest of the glasses where they were, Brett crossed his arms before him as he took a closer look at the woman Rafe had brought into the establishment he co-owned with his brothers.

  “Did I hear Rafe right earlier? Are you looking for a place to make a movie?”

  “Actually, I’m not looking anymore,” she answered. “The deal’s already been finalized. We’ll be bringing our production company here within the next few days. Miss Joan and the town council voted on it and agreed it would be all right with everyone.”

  Brett laughed shortly. “Miss Joan is the town council. Can’t think of a single time that woman was for or against something and got opposed by someone on the council, never mind voted down by the whole council. They know better than that.” The bartender seemed to roll the idea of a film crew mingling with the local citizens over in his head. “So she actually likes the idea of a whole bunch of strangers coming into Forever, disrupting everything? How’d you manage to talk her into that?” he marveled. “I’m assuming that you’re the one who did the talking,” he added.

  “I didn’t talk her into it,” Val protested, although not too vehemently. “What I did was promise her that nothing would be damaged—if it was, we’d definitely pay to have it fixed or replaced—and that the town would be given a sizeable sum of money in exchange for the use of the area.” She noticed the skeptical look on the bartender’s broad, handsome face. “You don’t believe me.” It wasn’t a question, it was a conclusion.

  Brett shrugged his broad shoulders. “No disrespect intended, ma’am, but on occasion, when things are particularly slow, I do thumb through those Hollywood tell-all rags they’ve got at the grocery store,” he told her, referring to the tabloids that had a way of turning up absolutely everywhere, like dust on unattended furniture. “From what I read, Hollywood people love to party and while that might be good for my business, that kind of thing can’t ultimately be good for the town.” He looked at her for another long moment. “No offense, but if I’d been at the meeting, I’d have voted no.”

  “See what you miss by not coming to the meetings?” Rafe pointed out, doing his best not to grin.

  Brett frowned. “Usually, it’s a snooze fest, two people jawing for hours, debating whether or not the sign outside the town could stand to be repainted and if it did, what color to make it, that sort of thing,” he explained for Val’s benefit. “Doesn’t really excite me,” he concluded. “When did you say your people were coming?” he asked her.

  The way he phrased it, it made her feel as if she was the standard bearer for the entire movie industry. That, and an outsider, as well. An unwelcome outsider.

  “The production company’ll be here as soon as they can get everyone together.” Because she could see that he was waiting for an actual number, she made an estimate based on her past experiences. “Anywhere from a couple of days to a couple of weeks. Nothing happens fast in our industry,” she confided, making the admission to Rafe rather than the bartender. “Our overall motto unfortunately is hurry up and wait.”

  “That’s funny,” Brett told her, his mouth curving in amusement.

  Well, at least someone was amused, she thought. As for her, she’d be a whole lot happier if things could proceed at least a little faster. She knew that Jim felt the same way she did. But it was hard to light a fire under so many people and movie making took intense coordination. Still, the films that Jim had a hand in usually came in ahead of schedule as well as under budget. That was why, most of the time, the man had no difficulty in finding financial backing.

  “Sadly, it’s also true,” she told Brett.

  As if he suddenly remembered his chosen vocation, Brett straightened just a tad behind the bar and asked, “Would you like a drink? On the house?” he added before she could answer.

  “Maybe later,” Val responded.

  She wasn’t much on social drinking and when she did imbibe, it tended to be some kind of a mixed, fruity drink, the kind that hit her knees, made her talk faster for a few minutes and then faded away. She had a feeling that the bartender at Jack’s would look down at something like that—if he actually knew how to prepare those kinds of drinks.

  Even if she was given to drinking something harder, it was a little early in the day to start consuming alcohol.

  She turned toward Rafe. “Right now, I believe I owe you a steak.”

  Brett’s dark eyes slid over Val’s frame slowly, then glanced over toward Rafe. A knowing half smile curved his mouth.

  “Lucky guy,” he commented.

  Rafe had a hunch that Brett thought something more than a meal was being discussed at the moment. He also knew that if he protested in any manner—for Val’s sake—it would only add weight to what Brett was already mistakenly thinking.

  To be honest, Rafe had no idea why he felt this overwhelming desire to defend her honor, especially since they hardly knew one another. In all likelihood, Valentine Jones was probably involved with someone in Hollywood. And he knew that it would take more than a protest from him to change Brett’s mind.

  So instead, he merely nodded and said, “Yeah, I guess I am. Miss Joan gets her meat from the best cattle ranchers.” He didn’t bother adding that his family�
�s ranch numbered among them. That would sound like bragging. “See you around,” Rafe said to the bartender just as he followed Val out.

  The sun felt warmer to her as they began to walk back to the diner. Since this was Texas, she’d expected it to be much colder here in January than it was back home. But, she reminded herself, this was the southern part of Texas and as such, given to more temperate weather. She found that fortunate since she’d never cared for cold weather in general.

  She glanced back at Rafe, who caught up to her in a couple more steps. “He thinks I’m sleeping with you, doesn’t he?” she asked.

  The question, coming out of the blue like that, took Rafe by surprise. This woman was a wee bit more abrupt, not to mention honest, than he was accustomed to—if he didn’t include his sister, Alma. Alma had an in-your-face kind of attitude when it came to the men in the family.

  But Val wasn’t family and he wasn’t sure just how to respond to her question. Rafe looked at her for a long moment, searching for a way to answer her. Not many things left him speechless, but this question certainly had.

  “Yeah, I think he does,” he finally heard himself tell her. Honesty was always the best way to go—especially if you didn’t have a game plan and didn’t want to trip up.

  “Why didn’t you set him straight?” There was no indignation in her voice.

  What he heard, again to his surprise, was just plain curiosity. So rather than come up with some half-baked excuse, Rafe went with his instincts and told her the truth.

  “Because I thought if I told Brett I wasn’t—that we weren’t—” He decided not to frame that part of the conversation. She knew what he was getting at, he silently argued. “—he’d just think I was lying. You know, that famous line about someone protesting too much, that sort of thing.”

  “And that’s the only reason?” she asked, cocking her head and studying him.

  “What other reason is there?” he asked.

  That seemed like a simple enough deduction to her. “Well, by not saying anything, you might have thought he’d think that we were sleeping together and you’d have bragging rights.”

  “Not that sleeping with you wouldn’t be something to really brag about,” Rafe qualified, “but I’ve always found that if you lie about something, somehow, some way, some day, that lie comes back and bites you on the—well, it bites you where you don’t want to be bitten.”

  Rafe saw the grin that spread out across her lips. Was she laughing at him? Or was that just her reaction to not believing him?

  “What?” he asked. It seemed like even her eyes were laughing.

  “Seems we’ve got something in common, Rafe. I don’t lie or stretch the truth for the same reason—and because I don’t want to be lied to myself and I certainly don’t want to be caught in a lie. Maybe I’m naive, but I’d like to think that if I always tell the truth, aside from having people believe me when I tell them something, they also feel guilty if they lie to me—and so to keep their consciences clear, they don’t.”

  She saw the diner come into view as they turned down another street. She changed the subject to something more pleasant. “So, how do you like your steak?” she asked him cheerfully.

  “Barely dead,” Rafe answered automatically.

  When the words were out of his mouth, he realized what that had to sound like to her. He expected her to make a face. After all, didn’t all California girls espouse eating only vegetables and turn their noses up at anything that didn’t have the word “green” in it?

  Instead, he saw her grin again—and had the same reaction that he’d had the first time—and every time. Because each time he saw her grin like that, he felt his stomach muscles quickening. They seemed to be doing it faster and faster.

  Rather than growing more immune to her, he discovered that he was growing more susceptible to her. That couldn’t be good. Ultimately, this couldn’t go anywhere. He was treading on a slippery path, but somehow, he couldn’t seem to reason himself into staying clear of the path—and her.

  Since he wasn’t altogether certain what she was grinning about, he asked for an explanation. “What?”

  “That’s the exact same way I like my steak. Barely dead,” she repeated. “My mother’s convinced I’m going to wind up ingesting tapeworms or something equally as unhealthy and dangerous one day.”

  “Hasn’t happened to me yet and I’ve eaten more than my share of steaks,” he told her, holding the door to the diner open for her.

  “I’ll be sure to cite you as a reference the next time my mother starts in on how bad that kind of a meal is for me,” she told him just before she walked into the diner.

  He had no idea why something like that—being used to defend her stand as well as convince her mother—would make him smile, but it did.

  Rafe was beginning to discover that everything about this woman was making him smile.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Wow. I didn’t think it was possible, but this place is even more perfect close up than in those photographs you sent me,” Jim Sinclair said enthusiastically as he surveyed the town.

  He and his crew had arrived with their trailers just a short while ago, parking the vehicles as unobtrusively as possible on the far side of town.

  Not that far, coincidentally, from the saloon.

  The moment she saw him, Val had brought the director right into the center of Forever. She’d been told the other day that, at Christmastime, the people of the town would gather together around the tall pine tree that was selected each year and they would all take turns decorating.

  As she stood beside Jim, Val could almost see an eighteen-foot tree, decked out in all its glory, a point of pride for everyone in Forever and a symbol of the citizens’ inherent goodwill.

  Val smiled to herself. She was willing to bet that the whole thing was a good deal like an old-fashioned 1940s musical come to life.

  For just a moment, she couldn’t help wondering what it had to have been like for Rafe, growing up in a town like this. And maybe, just for that moment, she’d even envied him.

  Not that she hadn’t had a good childhood herself, Val quickly amended. She’d grown up loved, wanting for nothing and playing with the children of A-list celebrities—not that the last part mattered all that much to her. What mattered then—as it did now—was whether or not the people she associated with were good people and fun to be with.

  Taking it all in, Jim slipped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick, intense half hug. To the unobservant eye, Jim Sinclair looked like a gangly, slightly-too-thin, recent college graduate eager to make his mark on the world. Only upon closer scrutiny did it become obvious that Jim was actually a lot older than he appeared. There was just the barest hint of gray in his sandy-colored hair and a few lines had crept in around his mouth—smile lines, he liked to call them, because Jim loved his work, loved knowing that he was reaching so many people.

  Was he Val’s boyfriend? Not that it really mattered, Rafe told himself, hanging back. After all, the woman would be gone the moment the movie was finished being filmed. Maybe even sooner.

  There was absolutely no kind of future for him with her.

  But nonetheless, he watched the tall, thin man’s movements intently.

  It had taken more than a week for the film crew to come out and for most of the time while she was waiting for the crew to arrive, when his father didn’t have him doing something on the ranch, Rafe would spend the time with Val. He showed her the different sights, got to know her a little better and found himself inevitably getting closer to her.

  He tried to downplay the latter in his mind now, telling himself that she was an exceptionally attractive young woman and he was just doing what came naturally. But the truth of it was, he wasn’t all that sure it was only that, because the intensity of what he was feeling toward
her was of a caliber that he had never experienced before. For that matter, he’d never felt a single glimmer of jealousy about any of the girls and women he’d been with prior to Val—and technically, he wasn’t even actually with her. He was just occupying space in the same area that she was, he silently argued. That didn’t qualify as any kind of a relationship.

  He was losing the argument, he realized. That was not exactly an encouraging thing when the opponent was himself.

  “You know, the sun doesn’t go down for hours,” Mike said, coming up behind him as the crowd around the newly arrived film crew started to grow, lured there by curiosity.

  Caught off guard, Rafe turned around. He hadn’t even noticed that his oldest brother was in the vicinity, much less right behind him—and spouting riddles.

  “Why would I care when the sun goes down?” Rafe asked, confused.

  “Well, when the sun goes down,” Mike told him, pushing the brim of his hat back with the tip of his thumb, “it gets dark, and that way, you can hang out in the shadows, observing things to your heart’s content without running the risk of being seen by the person you’re watching.”

  Rafe frowned. “You’re not making any sense,” he told Mike dismissively.

  “Well,” Mike decided, “that makes two of us. Because it sure doesn’t make any sense to hang back the way you are, just glaring at that tall, skinny guy with his arm around Val. If it bothers you so much to see that, go up and stake your claim.”

  Now Rafe was certain that his brother wasn’t making any sense. “Stake my claim? She’s not a piece of property, she’s a woman.”

  Mike gripped his brother by the shoulders, as if that could somehow make him see the light faster. “Exactly. The woman you’ve been seeing ever since you brought her over to the house to make that pitch to use our ranch for the movie. Don’t just hang back and let this Hollywood guy snatch her away from you.”

  With Mike, things were always so black and white. But they weren’t like that in the real world, Rafe thought.