said, finally smiling, so that he could begin to relax. “By the time this summer is over, you’re all going to owe me a small fortune in favors.”
T HEY OWED HER a small fortune in favors before supper that night as it turned out, simply because she didn’t kill Holden Masters, star quarterback, loving brother and chivalrous idiot extraordinaire.
Because, when Taylor and Holden finally left the beach and turned the corner at the end of the row of beachfront condos, it was to see two huge news vans parked outside the lime stucco building and the pavement littered with miles of electrical wire, cameras and a half-dozen television newsmen and print reporters.
Above them, a red-faced Thelma Helper danced around on the upper living-room deck, waving a broom in the air as she yelled at them all to go away before she poured boiling water on them, the way she would drown ants.
“That agent of mine is too much. He must have gotten on the wire the minute the two of us hung up,” Holden complained, squeezing Taylor’s hand as she slipped it into his, probably not realizing what she was doing—not that he minded. “Just smile pretty and let me do the talking, all right?”
“I already tried that once today, Holden, and ended up engaged to you,” she reminded him sharply.“Much more talking on your end and I’ll find myself the clandestine mother of triplets. Please, forgive me if I’m lacking some confidence in my bigmouthed fiancé right now.”
“Good point. Triplets, huh? That’s too much, even for me. Okay, what else do you suggest? We camp out on the beach all night, hoping they give up and go away? They won’t, you know, and the sand flies can get pretty hungry after dark.”
Anything Taylor might have suggested meant nothing as one of the reporters shouted out, “There they are!” and Holden gave her hand another squeeze before leading her across the street and straight into contact with the wing-flapping media vultures.
“This the lucky lady, Holden?”
“Where did you meet?”
“What happened to the mustache? You were hiding, weren’t you?”
“Tell me about the accident, Holden. Is it true you were drunk?”
“Turn this way, Ms. Angel.”
“Over here, Taylor, baby. Give us a big smile for the camera!”
“Should I call the police, Mr. Masters? Maybe they’ll hit ‘em all with billy clubs or something. I’d give up my soap to watch that!”
Holden held up a hand, asking everyone to be silent for a moment as he had an announcement. “Those cameras on?” he asked, wishing Thelma,who was now shouting 911 at the top of her lungs, would just shut up and go back inside the condo.
“Now,” he said, smiling as the reporters stepped back a pace, acting only slightly less like piranhas than they had a moment earlier. A boom mike almost got away from one of the technicians, nearly taking off the top of Holden’s head. Finally, order was restored—sort of.
“You’ve got me, guys, so I might as well talk, huh? Here it is, the whole truth. I’m fine. My shoulder is fine—I was dented a little in the accident, but the Ferrari got the worst of it. I’m just a man in love, that’s all. Taylor and I tried to get away from the limelight for a little while—get to know each other better—but as long as you’re here, I’m happy to announce that, yes, Taylor and I are engaged to be married. We—”
“Nancy Marsh here, local stringer for AP. These guys can talk all the football they want later. Let’s just cut to the chase now, okay? That her real name, Holden? Angel? Yeah, like anyone’s gonna believe that one! Who is she, really? Where did you two meet? What does she do? And what about Amanda Price? She’s registered at the Regency right down the street, you know. Isn’t that just a little too cozy?”
Holden looked at the ambitious woman who had rattled off this list of questions, smiling even as he wondered who in hell she was. “Amanda Price has always been a good friend,”
T HEY OWED HER a small fortune in favors before supper that night as it turned out, simply because she didn’t kill Holden Masters, star quarterback, loving brother and chivalrous idiot extraordinaire.
Because, when Taylor and Holden finally left the beach and turned the corner at the end of the row of beachfront condos, it was to see two huge news vans parked outside the lime stucco building and the pavement littered with miles of electrical wire, cameras and a half-dozen television newsmen and print reporters.
Above them, a red-faced Thelma Helper danced around on the upper living-room deck, waving a broom in the air as she yelled at them all to go away before she poured boiling water on them, the way she would drown ants.
“That agent of mine is too much. He must have gotten on the wire the minute the two of us hung up,” Holden complained, squeezing Taylor’s hand as she slipped it into his, probably not realizing what she was doing—not that he minded. “Just smile pretty and let me do the talking, all right?”
“I already tried that once today, Holden, and ended up engaged to you,” she reminded him sharply.“Much more talking on your end and I’ll find myself the clandestine mother of triplets. Please, forgive me if I’m lacking some confidence in my bigmouthed fiancé right now.”
“Good point. Triplets, huh? That’s too much, even for me. Okay, what else do you suggest? We camp out on the beach all night, hoping they give up and go away? They won’t, you know, and the sand flies can get pretty hungry after dark.”
Anything Taylor might have suggested meant nothing as one of the reporters shouted out, “There they are!” and Holden gave her hand another squeeze before leading her across the street and straight into contact with the wing-flapping media vultures.
“This the lucky lady, Holden?”
“Where did you meet?”
“What happened to the mustache? You were hiding, weren’t you?”
“Tell me about the accident, Holden. Is it true you were drunk?”
“Turn this way, Ms. Angel.”
“Over here, Taylor, baby. Give us a big smile for the camera!”
“Should I call the police, Mr. Masters? Maybe they’ll hit ‘em all with billy clubs or something. I’d give up my soap to watch that!”
Holden held up a hand, asking everyone to be silent for a moment as he had an announcement. “Those cameras on?” he asked, wishing Thelma,who was now shouting 911 at the top of her lungs, would just shut up and go back inside the condo.
“Now,” he said, smiling as the reporters stepped back a pace, acting only slightly less like piranhas than they had a moment earlier. A boom mike almost got away from one of the technicians, nearly taking off the top of Holden’s head. Finally, order was restored—sort of.
“You’ve got me, guys, so I might as well talk, huh? Here it is, the whole truth. I’m fine. My shoulder is fine—I was dented a little in the accident, but the Ferrari got the worst of it. I’m just a man in love, that’s all. Taylor and I tried to get away from the limelight for a little while—get to know each other better—but as long as you’re here, I’m happy to announce that, yes, Taylor and I are engaged to be married. We—”
“Nancy Marsh here, local stringer for AP. These guys can talk all the football they want later. Let’s just cut to the chase now, okay? That her real name, Holden? Angel? Yeah, like anyone’s gonna believe that one! Who is she, really? Where did you two meet? What does she do? And what about Amanda Price? She’s registered at the Regency right down the street, you know. Isn’t that just a little too cozy?”
Holden looked at the ambitious woman who had rattled off this list of questions, smiling even as he wondered who in hell she was. “Amanda Price has always been a good friend,”
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