CUTTING LOOSE

by Kristin Hardy

  There was a short silence. "Sounds like you've been talking with Sabrina."

  "What if I have? Don't say none of it happened, because the newspapers say differently."

  "And of course they never lie. Look, maybe I haven't always been an angel, but it's the past. It's not what happens now."

  "Yeah, well, the only way I spend time with people I don't want to is when I'm getting paid for it."

  "I'll see what I can do."

  She snorted. "Goodbye, Ramsay."

  "Bye-bye, cupcake."

  * * *

  4

  « ^ »

  "'Morning, Laurel," Trish said as she walked through the lobby of Amber's Assistants. If only writing were her full-time job. Briefly, she indulged in a fantasy of walking in and giving notice to Amber. It's been a slice and thanks for the memories, but you're making me crazy and I quit.

  Heaven.

  Bliss.

  And not likely to happen any time soon unless the job market recovered or she sold her script, she thought with a sigh, remembering her bank balance. Time spent in wishful thinking was time wasted. The screenplay was never going to sell unless she finished revising it and showed it to an agent. What she needed was to grab her task list and get to work so that she'd have some time and energy to write at the end of the day.

  "Be sure to stop in Amber's office," Laurel called after her. "She wants to see you."

  It wouldn't truly be a workday without a run-in with Amber, Trish thought resignedly. She stopped in the room where they kept the assignment lists and keys, then walked down the hall to knock on Amber's open door. "Hi. You wanted to see me?"

  Amber looked up from her computer. "Have a seat." Her voice was strung tight with excitement or frustration or something Trish couldn't quite decode. There was no point in trying to figure out what to expect. Amber was one of a kind.

  Amber finished tapping on her keys and turned toward Trish. "So you didn't think we could live up to servicing the stars, did you?" she said without preamble.

  "Amber, it sounds like the motto for an escort agency." Trish kept her voice mild.

  Amber flushed. "It sounds fine. You just think it's a silly goal."

  Patience, Trish told herself, and managed a casual shrug. "It's your business, it's up to you to decide, but take a look at your books. You've got a solid client roster. You're making money. Who cares if you don't have a bunch of Hollywood bozos coming to you?"

  "Who says I don't?"

  "Have Hollywood bozos?" Trish thought of Mr. B-list Russell Nelson. "Not me."

  "Ha, ha. Well, you can stop looking down your nose. Our Hollywood roster just got bigger."

  "Really? That's great," Trish said, genuinely pleased for her. She might have her doubts about Russell and his buddy, but Russell did pay his bills, even if his demands were somewhat self-indulgent. "I'm happy for you, Amber. I'm sure it's the start of big things. We'll have to go celebrate." She tapped her fingers restlessly. "Was that all? Because I've got a full schedule today so I should get rolling."

  "Actually no, you don't." Amber flicked a glance at her.

  "I don't what?"

  "You don't have a full schedule. Forget the errands, I'm shifting you over to personal assistant."

  Trish blinked. "Okay, not three days ago you were telling me I wasn't qualified for anything but dog-walking. Now I'm a personal assistant? What gives?"

  Amber opened up a file, her posture rigid. "Our new client is looking for a personal assistant. I've chosen you."

  The way she bit off the final sentence made Trish wary. "And who, exactly, is our new client?"

  Amber flashed a triumphant smile. "Ty Ramsay."

  "Oh, hell," Trish said.

  Hell, indeed. She had only herself to blame, yapping away to Ty about her work. Apparently all she'd accomplished by putting him off was to make him more determined. Well, she had news for Mr. Superstar. She wasn't ridiculously flattered that he'd tracked her down. She wasn't. Not a bit. Really. It was all about ego for him, anyway. He figured he could just pull on a few strings and like a little puppet she'd do his bidding.

  He figured wrong.

  "I'd expected you to be more excited for me." Amber gave her a chilly look. "This is huge, Trish."

  "No argument here. That's why I think you should be the one to work with him. You'll make a more professional impression." Feed her vanity, Trish thought. Do whatever was necessary to stay away from Mr. Ty Ramsay. Mr. Heartbreaker Ty Ramsay. What had Sabrina said? Fatally sincere? Right. "You take the job, Amber," she urged. "You're more his type."

  "I don't think it has anything to do with type," Amber said frostily. "I would do a better job. You're right, but I'm going to give you a chance." The look on Amber's face would have curdled milk. There was no way the arrangement was voluntary. "So just when, exactly, did you start running around with the likes of Ty Ramsay?"

  Trish's gaze cooled at her tone. "He was at Sabrina's party last Friday. We talked." And he kissed me senseless.

  "You hung out with Ty Ramsay?" Amber gave her a patronizing smile. "Are you're sure you're not exaggerating a little bit?"

  It got Trish's back up. "Why is that such a shocker? I do socialize, you know."

  "Oh, sure. Well, it must have been some socializing if he wants you for an assistant. What did you tell him, anyway?"

  I told him no. "Nothing. We just talked a little in passing."

  Amber stared at her, a little frown creasing her brow. "Well, I don't see what that has to do with him wanting you for a personal assistant," she said finally.

  "Nothing." Trish had had enough. She rose to walk out. "Tell him you're the only one who can do it."

  "I already did," Amber snapped. "He said it's you or he goes elsewhere. So it's you."

  Trish stopped and turned. "No," she said with a calm she didn't feel.

  "No?" Amber's expression went tight with incredulous fury. "I gave you a job when you were unemployed. I've kept you working, and now, when the chance comes for you to do something to keep this business going, you're refusing?"

  "Amber, I've been working fifty-hour weeks for you on this job so that you could cut staff," Trish protested. "You couldn't have kept it going without me."

  "Don't start with me, Trish," Amber hissed. "You want me to bring out the big guns, I will."

  Translation: a call to their mother. "Didn't we get over tattling in junior high?"

  Amber's lips were white with anger. "You are not going to screw this up for me, understand?"

  What had she been thinking by going to work for Amber? Trish wondered, stomach roiling. She should have had her head examined. Any other job, she could just quit. If she walked away from this one right now, she'd never hear the end of it, from Amber or their mother.

  Ty Ramsay had her well and truly trapped.

  She consciously loosened her jaw and took a breath. "Okay, fine, I'll do it. How long?"

  "He's faxed a six-month contract."

  "I'll do it for three. That should give you enough time to arrange a substitute." And give her time to polish up her résumé.

  "Thanks for that sacrifice." Amber's voice was without heat. "You'll work out of his house. Be there today, 10:00 a.m."

  "Out of his house?" Trish's voice cracked.

  "What's your a problem here, Trish?"

  "Look, you've got what you wanted," Trish said, biting down on her anger. "Let's leave it at that."

  "Fine. Here's the address." Amber held out a slip of paper. "You should get going. Don't be late."

  "Fine." Trish collected the directions and turned to go.

  "And Trish?"

  She stopped at the door and looked back.

  "Put on something besides a T-shirt and jeans, for God's sake."

  * * *

  Trish drove north on Pacific Coast Highway, headed toward Latigo Canyon Road. The glinting sea on her left and the puffy clouds in the blue sky overhead did nothing to improve her mood. She'd put on something besides a T-shirt, Tr
ish thought defiantly, fingering the fleece of her hooded blue sweatshirt. Ty Ramsay thought he wanted her around? Wait until he saw the real her. She had a funny feeling his demand for a six-month contract would fade as quickly as one of his grand passions.

  And she could get back to getting him out of her system.

  Her irritation carried her all the way up the winding canyon, to the driveway that led to Ty's house. She turned in and stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath. There was no reason to be nervous, she told herself. Five minutes would take care of this little fiasco. She'd show up, he'd cool off, and that would be that. Game over.

  She drove up to the gate, stopping at the little speaker to press the call button.

  "Hello?"

  Her stomach jumped at the sound of his voice. "It's Trish Dawson from Amber's Assistants."

  "Hey. Come on in." The gate slid noiselessly back.

  No way was she going to be impressed by the clean lines of the white house, or by the sweeping views to either side. She studiously ignored both, driving onto a broad concrete parking apron edged with hibiscus. Taking a deep breath, she turned off the ignition and got out of the car. He might have charmed her at Sabrina's party when she didn't know who he was, but that wouldn't happen now. She knew enough to be wary of him. There was no way he was going to get on her good side.

  Then Ty Ramsay walked out his front door wearing a denim shirt untucked over jeans, looking as artlessly perfect as though he were in a shot in a movie. The sunlight brought out glints of gold in his hair. His eyes, as he approached, were the color of drift glass. "Good morning."

  She'd seen him on the screen and in magazines, but always at a distance. His was a face made for the camera: straight nose, cleft chin, clean jaw, a mouth that could hold both strength and tenderness. Looking at him, though, she didn't see the individual features. She saw a careless charisma in the intelligence and flickers of fun in his eyes, backed with enough sexuality to blast the top of her head off.

  Trish grabbed at her irritation as though it were a lifeline that might keep her from being swept away. "You really don't take no for an answer, do you?" she asked as she stalked up to him.

  "That was dinner. You never said anything about work."

  "Don't split hairs. You knew what I meant."

  "I needed an assistant," he said easily.

  Without the benefit of high heels, Trish had to tip her head to stay eye to eye with him. "And you just happened to pick Amber's Assistants out of all of the businesses in the city?"

  "It did start with the letter A," he said reasonably. "But no, I just happened to pick Amber's Assistants because I knew you worked there. And I wanted to see you again."

  What was she supposed to do when a man that heartbreakingly gorgeous said something like that to her? Even though she knew she couldn't trust him, even though she knew the last thing in the world she wanted was to go anywhere near him, the pleasure in his eyes looked so genuine. Fatally sincere. Trish was certain she could smell her synapses frying.

  Ty just watched her steadily, a little smile playing over that mouth, with its little depression in the bottom lip that made it look as if he was just about to taste something really wonderful.

  And she remembered when that something had been her.

  Trish shook herself mentally. "Well, you've seen me. Satisfied?"

  "Careful using a word like that when your motto's Servicing the Stars."

  The corner of her mouth twitched.

  "But you've already made it clear that that's not an option." He tipped his head consideringly. "'Course, I figure I've made some progress just by having you here."

  "This is not a date," she reminded him.

  "Don't blame it on me. I tried."

  This time she did smile a little, with an uneasy sense that she was losing her grip on the situation. "I'm here to work."

  "Trust me, you will." He reached out to take her satchel. "Let's go inside and I'll show you the setup."

  As she stepped through the door onto the marble tiles of the entryway, Trish had to struggle not to stare. The living room alone would have held her whole apartment. What seemed like an acre of celery-colored carpet stretched away toward a wall of windows that opened out on the canyon. A waterfall in the entryway sent a sheet of water down rough slate to drip into a catchment basin, filling the space with the tranquil sound of flowing water. The furniture was distressed leather, dotting the room in comfortable groups. A painting hung opposite her, a few slashes of color that somehow managed to suggest the space and openness of the desert at sunset.

  The room held a sense of calm that surprised her. She wouldn't have expected superstar Ty Ramsay to live in a space like this. Then again, she wouldn't have expected Ty Ramsay to live so far outside of town.

  A tasseled silk rope hung over the arm of a couch that faced out toward the windows. On the coffee table lay the Marquis's whip. Trish felt her pulse speed up as she fingered the silk. She turned to look at him. "So is there something I should know about here?"

  "That? Oh, I'm breaking in a new sex slave." He kept a straight face for a beat, then broke into laughter. "It's from my current project," he explained. "We're in rehearsals. I figured a few props would help me get into my character's head."

  "So that's why you were dressed up at Sabrina's party?"

  "Dipping my toe in the water," he agreed.

  Trish looked at him warily. "Don't even tell me you hired me to help you out with your toe-dipping."

  "Well, you're my assistant. I thought…"

  "You go to hell, Ramsay," she snapped. "You wanted someone for fun and games, you should have flipped to another section of the phone book." She turned to leave and he caught at her arm.

  "Hey, take it easy. I was only joking."

  Face flaming, she shook off his arm. "I know," she muttered.

  Ty studied her. "So why are you so jumpy? I don't bite."

  "I'm not jumpy."

  He resisted the urge to smile. She wore an unzipped sweatshirt over a red tank top and jeans. Her hair was a tumbled mass flowing over her shoulders, not the smooth, sophisticated spill it had been at the party. In her face, he read nerves, tension and, most of all, defiance.

  "I'll take your word for it. The computer and phone are right here." He'd had to make some fast phone calls that morning to get another computer in time, but it was instructive how much a person could get done with a little charm and deep pockets. He'd wanted Trish there, and if it took buying furniture and a computer to make it happen, it was little enough to do.

  Trish walked over to rest a hip against the polished maple table that held the sleek iMac. "So why don't you tell me what you're expecting me to do?"

  He couldn't keep himself from studying the hollows at the base of her neck. When he'd met her, she'd been dressed to show off those sexy eyes, that fabulous body. Now, she was dressed to hide them. It didn't make sense, and it didn't work a lick because her face still fascinated him.

  And the riddle of her fascinated him even more. "What do I want you to do? Whatever comes up. Run errands, make arrangements for me, pay bills. Simplify my life."

  "Does your life need simplifying?"

  He grinned. "Doesn't everyone's?"

  "Why don't you have an accountant pay your bills?"

  He shrugged. "I remember reading when I was a kid about this legendary basketball star waking up one morning with nothing because his accountant embezzled it all. I figured if I ever made a lot of money, I'd sure as heck know what was happening to it."

  "I thought you came from a big-money Hollywood family," she objected.

  "I was raised thinking that you made your own way." He smiled faintly. "You look surprised. I didn't use my family to get ahead, you know, or to pay my way."

  "Most people would."

  "Family's supposed to be there for you, not do everything for you. If I succeeded, I wanted to know I'd done it myself." And it was worth all that work to watch the respect creep into her eyes.
<
br />   "You're different than I expected you to be," she said finally.

  "Expectations will confound you every time."

  She moistened her lips and took a brisk breath. "So, um, you want to keep your own hands on your money. We can set up a lot of your everyday bills to autopay, though. Utilities, mortgage, that sort of thing."

  "See, I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that you'd make my life better."

  "You're easily impressed," she tossed out.

  "No," he smiled, "I'm not."

  * * *

  5

  « ^ »

  Afternoon sun slanted in through the windows. Trish sat at the computer, ostensibly typing a letter but mostly trying to ignore Ty. He was sprawled on the couch, idly running the silk rope through his fingers as he read the script that lay open in his lap. His eyes were intent, his mouth firm in concentration. Something about the way he stroked the rope made it impossible to keep from glancing at him. Then he looked up without warning and caught her watching. Trish started typing furiously, face burning. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his mouth curve in amusement.

  "Let me know if you're looking for something to do," he said, a hint of laughter in his voice.

  "I'm fine, thanks," she replied.

  He flicked an appreciative glance at her. "You are, you know."

  Before she could react, he lapsed back into silence, tossing the silk rope aside. Picking up the flail, he slapped the leather thongs lightly against the couch, absorbed in reading the script.

  Trish tried to ignore the pattering swack of leather hitting leather. Focus, she told herself and printed out the letter. A moment later, she picked up the phone to call in an appointment for him. There was something alarmingly intimate about scheduling him for the dentist, about writing out checks for him to sign to pay his bills. She'd hoped that her initial nerves would abate into detachment; instead, as the day had worn away, they'd eased into a dangerous comfort.

  The rhythmic noise of the flail was louder now, and more impatient. Finally, Ty cursed and stood up, tossing the whip aside.

  "You need something?" Trish asked.

  "Yeah." He walked over to her. "A script writer who has a clue about the way people really talk."