Tristan on a Harley (Louisiana Knights Book 3) by Jennifer Blake Page B

spontaneous and heartwarming that Zeni felt the rise of tears along with the furtive wish that the occasion could be something more than pretense. To become a true part of Trey’s life, joining the ranks of the wives and sincere ladyloves of the Benedict Knights, would be beyond dreams. She could ask for nothing more magical.
    Too bad. This wasn’t real, no matter how she might yearn for it to be that way.
    So she smiled and joked and, every now and then, sent a verbal jab Trey’s way just to keep thing from getting too serious. He took them with a rueful smile, but something in his eyes promised retribution that made her shiver in anticipation.
    In a preemptive strike, she said to Carla and Beau, “Granny Chauvin told you Trey finagled a part in this movie, I expect. But did she tell you he’ll be wearing a dress for it?”
    “A toga,” Trey put in at once, a pained look on his face. “You promised that wasn’t the same thing.”
    Ignoring that, she went on, “Or maybe it will be Bedouin robes like Lawrence of Arabia. Who knows?”
    Carla turned to stare at him. “What do you want to bet he turns up looking like the Sheikh of Araby.”
    Zeni laughed at her droll, half-lascivious tone of voice. “With a turban and big old diamond right in the middle of his forehead?”
    “And a scimitar at his side,” Beau suggested, getting into the spirit of the thing by singing that bit from an old, fairly non-PC, country and western song about Ahab, the Arab.
    Trey lifted a brow in his cousin’s direction. “Traitor. But that’s actually good. I’ve always wanted to wield a scimitar.”
    Zeni turned to Carla again as a thought struck her. “I didn’t see you and Mandy this morning. Weren’t you two chosen for parts at the cattle call?”
    “Extras only,” she answered with a shake of her head. “No special roles like you and Granny Chauvin. We were rushed through our registration and instructions the same day.”
    “Yes, well, that’s all I wanted when this thing started.”
    Even as she made that point, she caught the question that Beau, across from her, put to Trey.
    “Speaking of scimitars, swords and so on, how’s the medieval fair coming along? You think too many of the town’s resources are being diverted to the movie company?”
    “Things aren’t coming together quite as well as in other years,” Trey answered. “Last I heard, the committee was thinking of canceling the ring tournament.”
    Beau gave a nod. “I heard that, too. Something about not being able to gather up enough horses trained to gallop down the arena with lances waving around their heads?”
    “Hard to believe. The country just south of here is full of cattle herds and Cajun cowboys. Of course, they could be staying away from all the movie folderol.”
    “No problem,” Beau said, grinning even as he glanced toward the front door when its bell jangled a warning of new arrivals. “They could always substitute motorcycles for the horses.”
    “Yeah, right. That would be totally medieval.”
    “But just picture it, cuz, you and your biker buds in shiny armor, thundering down the arena. There you are picking up speed, kicking up sand, guiding your bike with your left while leveling a lance under your right arm. You spear the ring and the crowd goes wild—I can see it now!”
    Zeni barely heard Trey’s rather profane comment as she looked toward the door. Her nerves, which had almost relaxed, tightened into knots again.
    “I can see that, as well,” Derek said as he strolled toward the counter. “I like it. I like it a lot. What will it take to make it happen?”

    Trey’s first impulse was to throw the actor out and ban him from the premises. He could do it; he was irritated enough and the Watering Hole belonged to him, after all.
    Peabody might be speaking to him and Beau, but it was obvious he’d come to see Zeni. A distinctly sour look had crossed the actor/director’s face as he saw her standing shoulder to shoulder