She smiled up at Pearl, half amused, half intrigued … “playboy heir to the Thayer Shipyard millions.” … Now she recognized the name, of course, though it hadn't rung any bells for her before. Playboy heir … she wasn't sure if she liked that. She didn't want him to think she was after his money, nor did she intend to be a notch on the belt of a notorious playboy. Suddenly he seemed a little less appealing than he had the night before, a little less ordinary, less “real.” He wasn't like the men in Grove City after all. In fact he was extremely different. It bothered her more than she wanted to admit, and after mentioning it only once, Pearl got the hint and didn't mention it again. It was a difficult day anyway. Vance Saint George made a nuisance of himself all day, and when they all left the set at six o'clock, Faye was totally exhausted. She left her makeup on, and slipped into a pair of tan slacks and a beige cashmere sweater, the honey-colored hair flying loose around her face, and she started the Lincoln Continental, just as she heard an insistent horn behind her. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a familiar red car, and sighed to herself. She was not in the mood to talk to anyone, let alone a “playboy millionaire.” She was a working girl, and she'd had two hours' sleep the night before, and she wanted to be left alone, even by Ward Thayer. No matter how attractive he was, she had her own life to lead. And now he was just a “playboy.”
He hopped out and slammed the door of the little red car and ran over to see her with a smile, his arms filled with white tuberoses and gardenias and a bottle of champagne. She shook her head and grinned at him, almost in despair.
“Don't you have anything else to do with your time, Mr. Thayer, except chase poor actresses after they finish a day's work?”
“listen, Cinderella, don't get excited. I know you must be dead. I just thought these might cheer you up on your way home … unless, of course, I could steal you away to the Beverly Hills Hotel for a drink … any chance of that?” He looked like a hopeful little boy and she almost groaned.
“Who's your press agent, by the way?” She sounded a little bit annoyed, and his eyes looked worried as he watched her.
“I suppose Rita did that. I'm sorry … do you mind very much?” It was no secret that Hedda Hopper disliked Orson, but she had always been fond of Rita. And Ward, but Faye didn't know that.
She smiled. It was impossible to be annoyed with him. He was so ingenuous and generous and obviously happy to see her, and she had to admit that, even knowing he was a playboy, he still had enormous appeal. There was something overwhelmingly attractive about him. There had been, even in Guadalcanal. And now, in his own element, he was even more so. He exuded confidence and sex appeal, and Faye was far from immune to him.
“At least now I know who you are.”
He shrugged with a grin. “None of that junk means very much, or is very accurate, as you know.” He made no comment about the “beaux” mentioned in the piece, but he smiled at her in a way that touched her heart. He had a knack for doing that. “Shall we follow their suggestion, Faye?” There was something funny in his eyes and she didn't know him well enough yet to know if it was serious or playful.
“What was that?” She was so tired she couldn't think and he watched her eyes carefully as he answered.
“Remember the bit about wedding bells … we could surprise the hell out of them and get married.”
“What a great idea,” she mocked, glancing at her watch and squinting. “Let's see … it's six twenty-five … how about at eight o'clock tonight, that way it could make the morning papers.”
“Great idea.” He ran around to the other side of her car, and before she could object, he hopped in beside her. “Okay, let's get going, kid.” He sat back against the seat matter-of-factly, and grinned at her, and suddenly she was amused at him too. She forgot how tired she was. Actually, she was happy to see him. More so than she meant to be.