“Relax,” he said. “Do you really think I’d know how to read a financial statement?”
“You were deliberately baiting him.”
“Didn’t you enjoy it just a little bit? Now your father knows he can’t order me around the way he does you.”
“I run my own life.” At least she was trying to.
She expected him to debate the point, but he flicked off the desk lamp instead and nudged her toward the door. “Bedtime. I’ll bet you’d like a back rub.”
“I’ll bet I wouldn’t.” She stepped outside as he pulled the doors closed behind them. “Why do you keep pushing this?” she said. “You don’t even like me.”
“Because I’m a guy, and you’re available.”
She let her silence speak for itself.
Chapter 7
The next morning Georgie carefully made the bed she’d slept in by herself and went downstairs. In the kitchen, she found a young woman standing at the counter, her back to the door, a colander of strawberries in front of her. She had dyed black hair clipped short on one side, but jaw-length and jagged on the other. Three small Japanese symbols tattooed on the back of her neck disappeared into a sleeveless gray T-shirt, and big safety pins secured a long hole in the side of her jeans. She looked like a 1990s punk rocker, and Georgie couldn’t imagine what she was doing in Bram’s kitchen.
“Uh…Good morning.” Her greeting went unacknowledged. She wasn’t used to people who didn’t suck up to her, and she tried again. “I’m Georgie.”
“Like I wouldn’t know that.” The girl still didn’t turn. “This is Bram’s special protein breakfast drink. You’ll have to fix whatever you want for yourself.” The blender roared to life.
Georgie waited until the motor went quiet. “And you are—?”
“Bram’s housekeeper. Chaz.”
“Short for?”
“Chaz.”
Georgie got the message. Chaz hated her and didn’t want to talk. Trust Bram to have a housekeeper who looked like she’d stepped out of a Tim Burton film. Georgie started opening cupboard doors, looking for a mug. When she found one, she carried it over to the coffeepot.
Chaz turned on her. “That’s Bram’s special blend. It’s only for him.” She had heavy dark eyebrows, one of which was pierced, and small, sharp, very hostile features. “The regular stuff is in that cupboard.”
“I’m sure he won’t mind if I have a cup of his.” Georgie pulled the carafe from a high-end coffeemaker.
“I only made enough for one.”
“Probably best to make a little more from now on.” Ignoring the poison darts being shot at her, Georgie took an apple from a Mexican Talavera bowl and carried it, along with the coffee, out to the veranda.
She drank half a cup of his coffee—it was delicious—and then checked her messages. Lance had called again, this time from Thailand. “Georgie, this is crazy. Call me right away.”
She deleted the message, then phoned her publicist and lawyer. Her evasiveness about what had happened over the weekend was driving them nuts, but she wasn’t telling anyone the truth, not even the people she was supposed to trust. She used the same script on them that she’d tried out on her personal assistant yesterday when she’d made arrangements for him to start packing up her things. “I can’t believe that you of all people didn’t figure out Bram and I were dating. We did our best to keep it quiet, but you can usually see right through me.”
She finally worked up the nerve to phone Sasha. She asked about the fire, but Sasha brushed her off. “I’m taking care of it. Now explain what’s really going on, not that cockamamie bull April told me about you and Mr. Sexy getting nostalgic over Skip and Scooter reruns.”
“That’s my story, and we’re all sticking to it, okay?”
“But—”
“Please.”
Sasha finally gave in. “I’ll let it go for now, but on my next trip to L.A., we’re going to have a long talk. Unfortunately, I need to stay in Chicago for a while.”
Georgie always anticipated Sasha’s L.A. visits, but she was more than happy to postpone what she knew would be a dogged interrogation.
She didn’t bother calling her agent. Her father would handle Laura. Trying to earn his love was like being on a perpetual hamster wheel. No matter how fast she ran, she never got any closer to the goal. One of these days, she had to stop trying. As for telling him the truth…Not now. Not ever.
Bram came out onto the veranda, finishing the dregs of something pink, thick, and frothy. As she took in the way his T-shirt clung to those unfamiliar muscles, she decided she liked his old heroin-chic look better. At least she’d understood that. She watched a final strawberry morsel disappear into his mouth. She wanted a foamy pink breakfast shake, too. But then, she wanted a lot of things she couldn’t have. A great marriage, kids, a healthy relationship with her father, and a career that would improve with age. Right now, she’d settle for a well-orchestrated plan to make the public believe she’d fallen in love.
“Vacation time’s come to an end, Skipper.” She rose from her chair. “The weekend’s over, and the press is demanding answers. At the least, we have to plan for the next few days. The first thing we need to do is—”
“Don’t upset Chaz.” He wiped a pink foam bubble from the corner of his mouth.
“Me? That girl is a walking, talking rude machine.”
“She’s also the best housekeeper I’ve ever had.”
“She looks like she’s eighteen. Who has a housekeeper that young?”
“She’s twenty, and I do. Leave her alone.”
“That’s going to be a little hard to do if I’m living here.”
“Let me spell it out. If I have to make a choice between you and Chaz, Chaz wins hands down.” He and his empty glass disappeared back inside.
They were sleeping together. That would explain Chaz’s hostility. She hardly seemed like his usual sex bunny, but what did Georgie know about his current preferences? Not a thing, and she intended to keep it that way.
Aaron Wiggins, her personal assistant, arrived half an hour later. She held the front door open so he could wedge through with her biggest suitcase and some outfits on hangers. “It’s a war zone out there,” he said, with the relish of a twenty-six-year-old still obsessed with video games. “Paparazzi, a news crew. I think I saw that chick from E!”
“Excellent,” she said glumly. Aaron had been her personal assistant since her previous P.A. had defected to Lance and Jade’s camp. He was nearly as wide as he was tall—probably three hundred pounds and barely five feet nine. His wiry brown hair surrounded a roly-poly face decked out with nerd glasses, a long nose, and a small, sweet mouth.
“I’ll have the rest of your clothes packed up by tomorrow,” he said. “Where do you want these?”
“Upstairs. Bram’s closet is full, so I’m turning the room next door into a dressing room.”
Aaron was out of breath by the time they reached the top of the stairs, and his black man-purse had slipped down to the crook of his elbow. She wished he’d take better care of himself, but he ignored her hints. As they passed Bram’s bedroom, he peeked in, then came to a stop. “Sweet.”
The sound system had caught his attention, not the decor. “Mind if I set these down and take a look?” he said.
Knowing how much he loved gadgetry, she couldn’t refuse. He deposited her clothes and suitcase in the next room, then returned to study the electronics. “Awesome.”
“A party, babe?” a silky voice said from the doorway.
This produced a geek snort from Aaron. “I’m Aaron. Georgie’s P.A.”
Bram arched one of his perfect eyebrows at Georgie. Personal assistants tended to be cute young women or well-turned-out gay men. Aaron didn’t fit either category. She almost hadn’t hired him, even though her father had recommended him for the job. But during their interview, the smoke alarms in her house had shorted out, and he’d fixed the problem so effortlessly that she’d decided to give him a ch
ance. He’d proved to be cheerful, smart, scarily well organized, and not particular about the tasks she assigned. He was also as low on self-esteem as he was on drama, and he never thought to ask her for favors, like getting him into a trendy club or hot restaurant, something her past P.A.s had taken for granted.
Lots of guys like Aaron had moved to L.A. from their midwestern hometowns with dreams of doing special effects in Hollywood only to discover those jobs weren’t easy to come by. Now Aaron worked as her P.A. and ran her Web site. In his free time, he played video games and ate junk food.
Aaron shook Bram’s hand, then gestured toward the sound system, which rested in a rough-hewn cabinet with doors that looked as though they’d come from a Spanish mission. “I’ve read about these. How long have you had it?”
“I put it in last year. Do you want a demo?”
While Aaron explored the gadgetry, Georgie investigated the empty room around the corner where she’d decided to set up her office. Eventually Aaron joined her, and they decided what pieces of furniture she needed from storage. After they’d made plans to close up her rental house and drafted a letter for her fan Web site, Georgie told Aaron to cancel the various meetings and appointments she’d intended to get out of the way before she left for her six-month vacation.
She’d planned to travel in Europe—staying away from big cities to drive around the countryside. She’d envisioned poking into small towns, hiking on ancient pathways, and maybe, just maybe, finding herself. But her journey of self-discovery had taken a far more treacherous path.
“I finally understand why you’re taking six months off,” Aaron said. “Good plan. With nothing on your schedule, you’ll be able to enjoy a long honeymoon.”
Some honeymoon.
She and Lance had stayed in a private villa in Tuscany that had looked out over an olive grove. Lance had gotten restless after a few days, but she’d loved the place.
She’d barely thought of her ex-husband all morning, which had to be a record. As Aaron got ready to leave, Chaz came through the foyer, and Georgie introduced them. “This is Aaron Wiggins, my personal assistant. Aaron, Chaz is Bram’s housekeeper.”
Chaz swept her black-rimmed eyes from Aaron’s wiry hair to the straining buttons on his checked dress shirt to his pudding tummy and black, wedged-sole sneakers. She curled her lip. “Stay out of the refrigerator, okay? It’s off-limits.”
Aaron turned red, and Georgie wanted to slap her.
“If I have to make a choice between you and Chaz, Chaz wins hands down.”
“As long as Aaron’s working for me,” Georgie said firmly, “he has free run of the house. I’ll expect you to make him comfortable.”
“Good luck with that.” Chaz flounced away with the watering can.
“What’s with her?” Aaron said.
“She’s having a little problem adjusting to the fact that Bram’s married. Don’t take any crap from her.” It was good advice, but Georgie had a hard time imagining mild-mannered Aaron holding his own against Bram’s viper-tongued twenty-year-old housekeeper.
After Aaron left, Georgie went outside, looking for Bram. They had plans to make, and he’d put her off long enough. She followed the gurgle of water to a small, irregularly shaped swimming pool tucked away in a private nook behind swaying grasses and a live oak. A four-foot waterfall splashing over shiny black rocks at one end added to the sense of seclusion.
She moved on and found him locked in his office. He was talking on the phone again, and when she rattled the handle to get in, he turned his back on her. She tried to eavesdrop through the glass but couldn’t make out what he was saying. He hung up and started pecking away at his keyboard. She couldn’t imagine what Bram was doing with a computer. Come to think of it, what was he doing out of bed before four in the afternoon?
“Let me in.”
“Can’t,” he called out without breaking rhythm. “I’m too busy looking up ways to spend your money.”
She didn’t take the bait. Instead, she started singing “Your Body Is a Wonderland” and tapping out a bass line on the glass panes until he couldn’t stand it any longer and finally ambled over to open one door. “This better not take long. Those hookers I hired will be here any minute.”
“Good to know.” She stepped inside and nodded toward his computer. “While you’ve been drooling over pictures of naked cheerleaders, I’ve been working on our reentry into the world. You might want to take notes.” She sat on the saggy brown couch underneath Marlon Brando and crossed her legs. “You have a Web site, right? I wrote a letter from both of us to post for our fans.” She lost her train of thought as Bram propped his elbows on his desk. Skip had a desk, not Bram. Skip also had a good education, a sense of purpose, and a strong moral fiber.
She pulled herself back together. “Aaron made dinner reservations for us tomorrow night at Mr. Chow. It’ll be a zoo, but I think it’s the fastest way for us to—”
“A letter to our fans and dinner at Mr. Chow? There’s some powerful original thinking. What else’ve you got?”
“Lunch at the Chateau on Wednesday, then dinner at Il Sole on Thursday. There’s a big Alzheimer’s benefit in a couple of weeks. A charity ball is right after that. We eat, we smile, we pose.”
“No balls. None.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Have you talked to a doctor?”
His smile curled like a snake’s tail over shiny white teeth. “I’m going to have a great time spending that fifty thousand you’re paying me every month to endure your company.”
He had no shame. She watched him prop his feet on the edge of his desk. “That’s it then?” he said. “Your plan for how we make a splash? We go out to eat.”
“I suppose we could follow your example and pick up a couple of DUIs, but that seems a little extreme, don’t you think?”
“Cute.” He dropped his feet to the floor. “We’re throwing a party.”
She’d almost been enjoying herself, but now she regarded him suspiciously. “What kind of party?”
“A big, expensive party to celebrate getting married, what the hell do you think? Six weeks from now, maybe two months. Long enough to get out the invitations and build anticipation, but not long enough for the public to lose interest in our great love story. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You thought this up on your own?”
“I’m pretty creative when I’m wasted.”
“You hate anything formal. You used to show up barefoot for the network affiliate parties.” And so gorgeously dissipated every woman in the room had wanted him.
“I promise I’ll wear shoes. Get your guy to find a good party planner. The theme is obvious.”
She uncrossed her legs. “What do you mean, the theme is obvious? It’s not obvious to me.”
“That’s because you don’t drink enough to think creatively.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Skip and Scooter, of course. What else?”
She came up off the couch. “A Skip and Scooter theme? Are you nuts?”
“We’ll ask everybody to dress in costume. Either like the Scofields or the Scofield servants. Upstairs or downstairs.”
“You’re kidding.”
“We’ll have the cake designer put a set of those stupid-ass Skip and Scooter dolls on top.”
“Dolls?”
“The florist should use whatever the blue flowers were in the opening credits. Maybe candy miniatures of the mansion for party favors. That kind of crap.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Give the people what they want, Georgie. It’s the first rule of business. I’m surprised a mogul like you doesn’t know that.”
She stared at him. He smiled back with an innocence that didn’t fit his fallen angel’s face. And that’s when she understood. “Oh, my God…You were serious about a Skip and Scooter reunion show.”
He grinned. “I think we should put the Scofield coat of arms on the table menus. And the family motto…What t
he hell was it? ‘Greed Forever’?”
“You really do want a reunion show.” She sank into the couch. “It’s not just the money that made you agree to this marriage.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that.”
“You want a reunion show, too.”
His desk chair squeaked as he leaned back. “Our party will be a hell of a lot more fun than that pussy reception you had when you married the Loser. Tell me you didn’t really leave the church in a carriage with six white horses.”
The carriage had been Lance’s idea, and she’d felt like a princess. But now her prince had run off with the wicked witch, and Georgie had accidentally married the big bad wolf. “I’m not doing a reunion show,” she said. “I’ve spent eight years trying to get out from under Scooter’s shadow, and I’m not walking back into it.”
“If you’d really wanted to get out from under Scooter’s shadow, you wouldn’t have made all those lame romantic comedies.”
“There’s nothing wrong with romantic comedies.”
“There’s something wrong with bad romantic comedies. Those movies weren’t exactly Pretty Woman or Jerry Maguire, babe.”
“I hated Pretty Woman.”
“Audiences didn’t. On the other hand, they did hate Pretty People and Summer in the City. And I’m not hearing anything good about the project you just wrapped.”
“It’s your career that’s in the toilet, not mine.” Only technically true, since Cake Walk wouldn’t come out until next winter. “You aren’t dragging me down with you.”
His desk phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and answered. “Yep?…Okay…” He hung up and came out from behind the desk, bringing his drink with him. “That was Chaz. Fix your makeup. It’s time to start showing off for the press.”
“Since when have you cared about showing off for anybody except trashy women?”
“Since I’ve become a respectable married man. I’ll meet you by the front door in fifteen minutes. Don’t forget to use that lipstick that doesn’t smudge.”
“Oh, I’ll remember.” She rose from the couch and swept ahead of him. “Gosh, all this talk you’ve been doing about holding the power card. Such a fascinating example of self-delusion…” With an airy wave, she headed back to the house.
What I Did for Love Page 10
