Desert Spring by Michael Craft Read Free Book Online

guests will talk about this for years to come—wining and dining with the likes of Spencer Wallace, while sending Tanner on his way to begin the filming of Photo Flash. ” Grant finished his drink, then mentioned, “I had a chance to gab with Wallace awhile. He has high hopes for this project— loves the script.”
    Tanner laughed. “He ought to. He wrote it.”
    â€œInspired by his own hobby.” Grant set down his glass and strolled toward the fireplace, telling me, “I see Wallace brought you yet another example of his work.”
    â€œYes,” I said, rising, joining Grant at the fireplace, “the one on the mantel is new. But some of those are mine, you know.”
    Studying the wall of pictures, he noted, “It seems your styles have merged.”
    â€œThey have, haven’t they? We’ve struck up a close friendship, Spencer and I. He’s taught me a lot.” With a quiet laugh, I stepped back to the bench, adding, “Everything has turned out perfectly—especially with regard to you, Tanner. I couldn’t have plotted it better. Except, I had no idea it would happen so fast. And I had no idea we’d grow so attached.”
    Tanner stood and, without hesitation, suggested, “Just say the
word, Claire, and I’ll stay. I have far more to learn from you—right here. Hollywood can wait. Wallace can wait.”
    â€œDon’t kid yourself.” I shook my head decisively. “An opportunity like this knocks only once.”
    â€œMiss Gray?” said Erin as she made another pass through the room with her tray, gathering more glasses. “If you’ll be sitting up for a while, would you like me to make a fresh pot of coffee?”
    Looking from Tanner to Grant, who both expressed disinterest, I told the girl, “Thanks, that’s good of you, but I think not. It’s getting late.”
    She continued loading her tray, which was already heaped high.
    â€œToo late for coffee …,” I thought aloud, strolling toward the bar. Then I turned to Grant. “Maybe a nightcap is in order.”
    â€œOf course it is.” Grant joined me at the bar and poured a splash of cognac for each of us.
    Tanner was standing near the coffee table, which Erin now cleared of a few more glasses. Noticing that her tray was loaded to capacity, Tanner asked, “Can I give you a hand with that?”
    â€œI’ll be fine. But thank you, Mr. Griffin.” She squatted, picked up the tray, and hoisted it to shoulder level.
    â€œâ€˜Mr. Griffin’?” repeated Tanner with dismay—he was only three or four years older than the girl. He insisted, “It’s Tanner.”
    â€œYes, sir. I mean, I know, sir.” She offered a quick, weak smile, then turned and crossed toward the kitchen.
    Noting this interchange, Grant and I lifted our snifters to hide our grins.
    With a confused laugh, Tanner followed Erin, asking, “Have we met? Do we know each other? We must.”
    Erin paused, blushing. “I’m sure we haven’t met, sir.” Then she scampered to the kitchen and disappeared.
    Scratching behind an ear, Tanner called after her, “But you do seem familiar. And, please—don’t call me ‘sir.’”

    Grant blurted a loud laugh. “Stop flirting, Tanner.” Then, with a disapproving tsk, he told me from the corner of his mouth, “She’s far too young for Tanner. He must be twice her age.”
    I gave Grant a dirty look, then downed a slug of my cognac. Tanner returned to the bookcase, where he put away the last of the CDs that were scattered about. “Tanner,” I asked, “can we mix you something? Bar’s still open.”
    He looked over his shoulder, shook his head. “Better not. Have to drive.”
    â€œAwww,” I whined, setting my snifter on the coffee table as I crossed the room to him, “you don’t have to, do you? Can’t