The Girl from Summer Hill(3)

Kit had asked if she minded being so isolated, but Casey said no, that she loved it. The Big House—which had been renovated and decorated before she arrived—was locked tight and empty. For six years before she came to Summer Hill, she’d been the head chef of one of the busiest restaurants in D.C. After the noise and controlled chaos of that place, the quiet of the old plantation had been bliss.

But this morning had turned scary.

She was beginning to calm down, and she needed to think about what she was going to do now. All in all, she thought she should call the sheriff and report what had happened—including her embarrassing voyeurism.

She was still holding her phone and she saw that she had a voicemail from Kit. As she touched the screen, her hand was shaking.

“Casey, my dear,” Kit’s strong voice said, “I know it’s late and I hope you’ve gone to bed, but I just wanted to tell you that the owner of Tattwell has returned. I know you think I own the place and I apologize for the subterfuge, but my cousin swore me to secrecy. Still, I feel I should warn you in case you see a couple of strange men on the grounds. The owner is Tatton Landers and he’s with his best friend, Jack Worth. They are both very nice young men, so I hope you’ll welcome them. I must go. I’ll see you at the auditions.”

Casey listened to the message twice to try to get all the information it contained. Jack Worth? she thought. That was the name of an actor she really liked. Her last boyfriend had been a fiend for his movies and had all the DVDs. They had never missed a new Jack Worth movie.

But he wasn’t the man on the porch.

Casey took a breath. This was ridiculous! Jack Worth was a common name. Kit couldn’t have been referring to the actor.

On impulse, she tapped the other name, Tatton Landers, into her phone’s search engine, and it redirected her. There he was. The man she’d watched showering on her porch had thousands of photos on the Internet. Most of them were in period costume: a knight in armor, tight Regency trousers, a leather jerkin like Robin Hood would wear.

“Of course,” she said aloud. “Tate Landers.” She’d never seen one of his movies, but a friend of hers used to talk about him. She loved romantic movies and went to all of them. They’d never interested Casey so she’d only half-listened to what her friend was saying—and had teased her friend about them. “You have a Ph.D. in psychology but you drool over some actor who says, ‘Oh, Charity Goodheart, your eyes are like emeralds. Please be mine.’ ”

“You don’t get it, do you?” her friend said. “We live in a world of metrosexuals. Tate isn’t like that. He throws women over the saddle of a horse and tells them to shut up.”

Casey was aghast. “What would you say to one of your clients if she told you her boyfriend did that?”

“I’d give her the number of a center for abused women and make sure she went. But that’s real; Tate is fantasy.”

Casey shook her head at her friend. “This guy is an actor. In real life he probably wears pink shirts and gets his eyebrows waxed.”

“Not Tate! I read that he—”

Casey had thrown up her hands. Her friend had tried to get her to go to romantic movies, but she wouldn’t. With her workload she had little time off and she wasn’t going to waste it on some drippy saga.

Now it seemed that she was living in a house on property owned by some big-deal movie star—who hated her.

And rightfully so, Casey thought. It was one thing to watch some half-naked guy mow the lawn, but when people spied on public figures they often ended up in court. And went to prison.

What was it he’d said? “Where is it?” And “Please tell me you didn’t use this! I think I deserve better than a mobile phone.”

“He thought I was photographing him,” she said aloud. When he thought she’d snapped the pictures on a cellphone, his ego had been hurt. In spite of the gravity of the situation, she couldn’t help smiling. No wonder he ran away at the mention of the sheriff. Wouldn’t the tabloids love a photo of the romantic hero in handcuffs?

Casey stood up. “I have to fix this,” she whispered. She needed to apologize and explain, then apologize some more.

She looked at the clock on the mantel. It was still early, so she could take about an hour to do what she did best. She was going to cook something wonderful and take it to him. She’d use her best I’m-sorry voice to make him forgive her. And she’d assure him that she had entered the room just as the phone rang, so she’d only seen him with his shirt off.

That’s good, she thought. A few lies, some of her honey-glazed chicken, and a good strong mimosa, and maybe he wouldn’t kick her out of her very comfortable little house. Or put her in jail.