did,” he agreed.
She glanced up at him. “She’s really not like that at all. She’s usually very warm and open, but she’s got a crisis going at the moment.”
He nodded. “Don’t we all.”
“I’m sorry about your fiancée,” she said without warning. It always unsettled him when someone brought it up when he wasn’t expecting it. Often conversations led that way and he was prepared. But sometimes he wasn’t.
“Thank you,” he replied, wondering where she’d learned that information. Addy?
“Mariah Trent is a friend of mine, too,” she explained. “She’s also hoping you and Paris give each other a chance.”
“Your sister was pretty adamant that she wasn’t interested.”
“She lied,” Prue said as though completely convinced that was true. “She was a little flustered after she left here. Paris is never flustered.”
“Really.”
“Yes. She thought you were handsome and charming. She tried not to make it sound as though those were good things, but I think they made an impact on her. And she’s trying to ignore it because she’s struggling right now.”
He wasn’t sure if it was okay to ask what she was struggling with. Then deciding honesty had always served him better than calculation, he asked, “A man?”
She smiled, but there was curiously little humor in it. “Yes, but not in the way you’d think. She could use a friend. Sometimes a man understands what a devoted mother and sister just don’t get.”
That was cryptic. He wasn’t really into mysterious women. He liked them openhearted and easy to understand. Still, this woman was warm yet distant—a contradiction in terms. There was that scientific element that fascinated him despite his usual preferences to the contrary.
“You didn’t eat the chocolate,” Prue noted, closing the wallet.
“I thought it was probably as important to her as the money.”
Prue grinned. “Even more so at the moment. I’m a dress designer on the side, and she’s going to model for me at a library benefit. I made her promise to cut way back on chocolate.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I thought she looked pretty great.”
“I’ll tell her you said that.” She offered her hand again. “I have to tell you I’m now officially on Addy’s side. Nice to meet you, Randy Sanford.”
“Nice to meet you,” he replied. Though the experience was a little like being mowed down by a runaway train.
He waved her off as she drove away, then went to his car, smiling at the thought that Paris O’Hara had been flustered.
By him.
CHAPTER THREE
“THE MIRANDA POOLE AGENCY.” A slightly bored voice with a pseudo British accent answered the telephone. Paris felt her courage wane. Her mother had often talked about her very first agent, and Paris had looked her up on the Internet, somewhat surprised to see that she was still in business. But would her mother’s agent know about Paris’s father?
She might very well know something, Paris answered herself with a fortifying toss of her hair. One of the few bits of information her mother had given her was that they’d been represented by the same agent. That was how they’d met.
Paris assumed a tone of voice a shade deeper and more authoritative than her usual courteous manner. “May I speak to Ms. Poole, please? This is Paris O’Hara calling.”
There was a momentary pause. “Does Miss Poole represent you?”
“No, but she represented my mother some time ago.”
That was almost a non sequitur, but not quite. The voice didn’t seem to know what to make of it.
“Who was your mother?”
“Camille Malone.”
“Hold on a moment,” she advised.
A cheerful New York voice came on the line almost immediately. “Miranda Poole,” she said. “Camille, is that you?”
“No,” Paris replied, sitting up straight at the kitchen table to sustain her woman-in-charge attitude. It was threatening to bail on her. “This is Camille’s daughter, Paris. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me.”
“About Camille?”
“About…another actor you represented at the same time. Jeffrey St. John.”
“Ah, yes,” Miranda replied. “He and Camille were in the chorus of Damn Yankees together as I recall.”
“That’s him.” Paris’s heart thudded against her ribs. Now came the tricky part. She had to make her willing to share information without revealing that he’d gotten her mother pregnant, something her mother claimed no one had known. If she could at least confirm where he’d come from, she’d have somewhere to start in an effort to find out what kind of man he’d been. “I understand he was from Florida.”
“That’s right,” Miranda replied. “Still is, last I heard. Got one of those photo cards from him at Christmas. He and his sons have formed a band and they’re working clubs from Daytona to Miami Beach.”
Still is. The words rang over and over in Paris’s ears. For a moment she couldn’t speak.
“Paris?” Miranda asked.
“He’s…” Paris had to clear her throat and try again. “He’s alive?”
“Of course he’s alive. You kids, honestly. A person turns sixty and you think the warranty automatically runs out. I’m eighty-three and still placing the best talent in New York.” Paris heard the sound of paper being shuffled on the other end of the line. “I don’t seem to have kept his number,” Miranda said, “but he shouldn’t be hard to find if he’s working clubs. Performers like privacy off duty, but they can’t make themselves too hard to find or they won’t get work. I think it was a Fort Lauderdale address.”
Paris was still speechless.
“How is your mother?” Miranda asked. “She was such a game girl. Once played a pickle in one of the first commercials for Burger Bungalow. A lot of actors won’t take those roles, but your mother paid her rent with whatever came her way. Not too many actors like that today.”
“She’s fine,” Paris replied, finally regaining a fraction of her composure. “She’s in Africa on a fashion shoot right now.”
“She was a beautiful girl. I suppose she’s matured into a handsome matron.”
“She has,” Paris confirmed, then thanked Miranda for her cooperation. She hung up the phone, thinking that it was a good thing her mother had experience playing a pickle, because she was going to find herself in one the moment Paris got a hold of her.
Paris paced the living room with its unobstructed view of the lake, but failed to notice the setting sun, the ducks sheltering in the reeds, the lone sailboat dawdling across the middle of the lake, its running lights streaking a pattern across the water as it moved. She usually took such pleasure in the beautiful, quiet moments when she was alone in the house without her charming but chattering mother and sister.
Tonight, all she could think about was that her mother had lied to her. Twice! First, she hadn’t bothered to tell her that Jasper O’Hara was not her biological father, then, when confronted with Paris’s evidence to that effect, she’d lied again, and told her her father was dead.
To think Paris had waited a year, trying to respect her mother’s sensitive feelings on the subject. Only the need to pull her life together after a year of floundering had made her desperate for more information.
She