Courting Trouble

by Maggie Marr

  “And then I got angry,” Tulsa said. “The older I got, the more successful I became, I figured out somewhere deep inside that Hudd had manipulated me. And the fact that you didn’t come after me made me angry at you, and the fact that I’d let myself be manipulated made me angry at myself, and the fact that we disagreed about my mother made me angry at the entire world.” Tulsa sighed with her words. She felt cleaner for having said it. As though releasing her thoughts cut loose a tie to the past that needed to be severed.

  “And then it was just too long,” Cade said. He clasped his hands together and leaned back in the chair. “I was so deep in my life—”

  “And I was so deep in mine.”

  “And now we’re here.”

  Tulsa locked her gaze with Cade’s.

  Where was here?

  She closed her eyes. She knew what she wanted but a slick fear pitted her belly. Years of obstacles. Years of pain. Years of anger. How could two people face that storm? And yet they had. They’d faced the obstacles and the pain and the storm and now they sat in her living room with three feet separating them. Not thousands of miles. Not angry words. Not heartbreak and pain. She would be a fool to let this slip from her—this moment, this man, this love.

  Cade stood. She stood too.

  What could she say, what should she say, how should she convince him that he couldn’t leave?

  Cade walked toward her and with each step Tulsa’s heart beat quicker, and her breath came faster and that electrical tingle pulsed up her spine and caused heat to pool in her belly.

  He stopped in front of her. The energy between them—energy that never died, never paused, never dissipated—was hot and fierce. She fought to look into his eyes, to meet his gaze.

  “Why are you here?” she asked again. This time her voice was softer, with less shock, less surprise. But her words came out throaty and full of unmet want.

  “Because we needed to talk,” Cade said.

  Tulsa took a deep breath and the scent of Cade—musky and strong and earthy and good—filled her lungs. She wanted to place both her hands flat on his chest, she wanted to tilt her head and kiss him, she wanted his arms to wrap her tight and keep her inside them for the rest of her life. She opened her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He placed his fingertips under her chin with the gentlest of touches and tilted her face up. “I’m sorry too.”

  He moved his hand across the hollow of her cheek and she tilted her head and rested it in his palm. Her eyes closed. Her heartbeat gentled and for the first time in a very long while she felt the anxiousness she carried, the worry, the pain, slip from her body. Contentment. Pleasure. Warm and solid happiness surged through her.

  “Are we going to do this?” Cade asked.

  She opened her eyes. Her breath caught in her chest with the sight of him—solid and warm and kind. His eyes stared into hers. This place. This moment. She could stay in his arms for a million years.

  “Yes,” Tulsa said and tilted her head to the side. “We are.” She closed her eyes and let the stars dance across her lids with Cade’s lips upon hers.

  Epilogue

  Eight months later...

  With the brush of a breeze laced with heat, summer unfolded in Powder Springs. The season opened slowly in the mountains like a morning glory awakening to the sun. Savannah appreciated the individual caress of each season. The different light that shone from the sun, the different colors that each season bore. Summer brought the brightest and boldest of greens. Today, in late June, just before the mountains grew dry and the grass started to crunch beneath your feet for want of rain, the grass was lush. The aspen leaves glittered green.

  Savannah's gaze shifted from the view of Thunderridge Peak. She looked past the bouquets of hydrangeas and purple Columbines with their intricate and delicate blooms to the bride and groom. Intricate and delicate—it was the flowers, it was her family, it had even been Tulsa and Cade. Now, as Cade swept Tulsa around the dance floor Savannah wouldn't call their love fragile. She'd call it solid, and strong, tempered well by the heat of loss and life. Like the metal Savannah worked with to make her sculptures she knew how malleable heat could make metal—you could make nearly anything bend if it got hot enough. A tiny smile crept across her face. Perhaps Cade and Tulsa had simply got hot enough to bend for each other. To meld. To finally join into one permanent piece.

  Ash leaned toward her mother from two seats over, "Mom."

  Savannah pulled her gaze from Tulsa and let her eyes rest on her daughter. Or the woman whose voice sounded like her daughter's voice—but the body and the face and the hair—none of that could be Ash. Savannah pressed her lips together and willed her eyes to remain dry. Each time she looked at Ash today she'd nearly cried. How had this happened? When had this happened? Of course she knew the answers to each of her esoteric motherly questions, but damn if she still wasn't surprised. Her daughter had turned into a woman right before her very eyes and yet it had taken a pale purple bridesmaid dress with a sweetheart neckline and a fancy hair style for Savannah to fully appreciate that her daughter was no longer a little girl.

  "Mom?" Ash said the word again, this time with a hint of confusion in her voice.

  "Hmm?" Savannah finally mumbled.

  "You need to dance. You're supposed to dance with the best man now."

  "Oh, right."

  Savannah looked past Ash toward Wayne who lumbered toward them his hand outstretched. Events like these confounded Savannah. Dress and heels, hair and make-up—she much preferred work boots, jeans and a lump of clay.

  "You ready for this?" Wayne said a giant smile plastered to his face. He grabbed her hand in his giant paw and Savannah couldn't help but feel more at ease. Lighter. Wayne was big and surely he would catch her if she tripped over her own feet.

  "I've been practicing for just this dance," Wayne said.

  He pulled her to the dance floor and whipped her into his arms. Tulsa's eyes locked on Savannah. The beatific smile of a happy bride was permanently plastered to Tulsa's face. She wore a strapless dress of Dupioni silk with lace flowers across the bodice. A French bustle decorated the back of Tulsa's dress. Cade danced his bride toward her sister and his brother. The foursome now danced in the center of the dance floor.

  "You look," Savannah sighed and blew air out of her mouth to get a curl from her face—"you look so happy."

  "I am," Tulsa said. She glanced from Savannah to her groom. Cade leaned forward and wordlessly planted a kiss on Tulsa's forehead. "Everything is perfect. The location is perfect." She glanced around the tent that had been raised in the backyard of Grandma Margaret's home. "Everyone I love is here." Tulsa said.

  Savannah followed Tulsa's gaze as it swept around the tent. The wedding party had all found their way to the dance floor; Jo and Emma and Ash and Sylvia.

  "The wedding was perfect. I—" Tulsa paused. Even as she smiled waves of emotion crested over her face. "I...I just never thought I could be this happy." She shook her head as though absolutely amazed at her own feelings.

  Savannah's heart filled—a warm solid feeling of gratitude and love and pure bliss. This. This moment was her joy. Her sister was in love. Her daughter was happy. And she—she was where she'd always wanted all of them to be, she was here, in Powder Springs, Colorado, she was home.

  Acknowledgements

  Courting Trouble has been a work in progress for a very long time. Thank you to my agent Kristin Nelson for her support of this book in all its incarnations. Thank you to everyone at Nelson Literary Agency and NLA DLP. Thank you to Kim Killion, the most brilliant cover designer in the business. Thank you to Lori Bennett for her e-book magic. Thank you to my editor Anne Victory—for her patience with my love for the em dash. Thank you to my managers at Heroes & Villains; Dick Hillenbrand, Mikhail Nayfeld, Markus Goerg, and Robert Watts. Thank you to Shan Rey, my agent for film and TV.

  A special thank you to RWA and LARA. To Amanda Berry who so graciously read the manuscrip
t ages ago and provided notes. I must thank Margie Lawson for her classes on writing. I thank all the fabulous writers at the Girlfriends Book Club for all their love and support. I am honored to be your girlfriend.

  Thank you to Margaret L. Marr, Nancy Veskerna, Nealie White, Gavin White, Lauren Harrison, Paula & David Glasscock, Garrett L. Marr, Linda & Bill Henderson, Lindsy & Mark Henderson, Tom & Joyce Leahy, Jim & Chris Leahy, Peg Cafferty, Margaret Hafner, Melissa Clark, Amy & Brent Zacky, Victoria & Karl Makinen, Paramount Elite Gymnastics and the entire Paramount family, Jennifer Probst, Maisey Yates, Wendy S. Marcus, Aimee Carson, Abbi Wilder, Linda Joffe Hull, Megan Crane, Jennifer Barnes, Tara Altebrando, Sara Zarr, Sarah Mlynowski, Ally Carter, E. Lockhart, Maryrose Woods, Lauren Myracle, Alan Gratz. A special thank you to Bob.

  With everything I am and everything I hope to become, I thank my husband and my children. I asked G-d for a family, and I was blessed beyond measure because G-d gave me you.

  About the Author

  Maggie Marr began her Hollywood career in the mailroom at a talent agency in Beverly Hills. She rose through the ranks to become a Motion Picture Literary agent where she worked with amazing writers and directors. Once HOLLYWOOD GIRLS CLUB was published she dedicated her life to writing (books, films, and tv) and producing films. She is a film producer with Dahooma Productions (Repatriate, Delivering The Goods) and a writer. She is also an attorney, a mother of two perfect children, and wife to an amazing man.

  Follow her adventures in writing and filmmaking here:

  Website

  http://maggiemarr.blogspot.com

  Facebook

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Maggie-Marr-Books/168071873226783?ref=ts

  Twitter

  http://twitter.com/#!/maggiemarr

  Also by Maggie Marr

  Hollywood Girls Club

  Secrets of the Hollywood Girls Club

  Can’t Buy Me Love

  Praise for Hollywood Girls Club

  “Romance, sex…[Marr] clearly knows her way around Hollywood. Saucy…bound to be compared to certain Jackie Collins titles not just because of the Hollywood subject matter but also because Marr brings a similar ferocious energy to her writing.”

  —Boston Globe

  “Marr’s titillating debut…Marr offers plenty of steamy romance. Each woman gets a string of lovers—some winners, some losers—in her bawdy romp.”

  —Kirkus

  “Hollywood power-puff Marr pulls back the curtain on the wizards of Tinseltown…The girls’ club cutthroat and callous turns out to be a lot like the boys’ club, but cattier and more fun to read about.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Maggie Marr’s L.A. story of friendships, scandals, and crazy egos is as fun and entertaining as any Hollywood blockbuster.”

  —Social Life Magazine

  “Hollywood Girls Club is about as easy to stop consuming as a bowl of Häagen-Dazs.”

  —Robin Hazelwood, author of Model Student

  “Smart, sassy and brilliantly observed … a funny and sharp exposé of the Hollywood machine.”

  —Sue Margolis, author of Gucci Gucci Coo

  An Excerpt from Hollywood Girls Club

  Chapter 1

  Celeste Solange and Her Fifteen-Thousand-Dollar Shoes

  Celeste Solange needed shoes, and not just any kind of shoes – she needed Manolos, Choos, and Versaces. Shoes with price tags containing a minimum of three zeros. Shoes that made salesclerks salivate and Beverly Hills trophy wives green with envy. Damien would pay. She’d make sure of it. He’d blanch at the sight of his credit-card bill. Celeste glanced into the rearview mirror of her midnight blue Porsche Boxster convertible. Although she wore oversized Gucci sunglasses, she knew that behind the shades her turquoise eyes were red-rimmed and swollen (the same gold-flecked catlike eyes for which she was famous). Her signature blond hair, usually expertly coiffed and styled, whipped in the California wind. A cross between Michelle Pfeiffer and Marilyn Monroe, Celeste was the sexpot screen siren of the century (or at least the last five years).

  Who did Damien Bruckner think he was? Heat seared through her taut belly as Celeste pressed her perfectly pedicured toes onto the accelerator. A rush of adrenaline thrilled through her as the pedal sank to the floorboard and she took the tight turn on Mulholland Drive. When Celeste met Damien five years before, he was, perhaps, the most prolific film producer in Hollywood, and Celeste the hottest star. But five years (in an industry where the power brokers changed every ten years) was a lifetime.

  Celeste crested a hill and looked at Los Angeles lying at her feet. She could almost see the Pacific if it weren’t for the haze. The calm that usually accompanied this view was absent—destroyed by Damien’s deceit.

  L.A. must have been beautiful in the forties. As a child, she’d seen pictures in her grandmother’s old movie magazines—orange groves, mountains, beaches, and waves all visible from the top of Mulholland and the Hollywood Hills. The very beauty those pictures promised had captivated a young Celeste and drawn her from a trailer court in Tennessee to the land of movie stars. Now, with the exhaust and pollution, the view was tarnished. This view was dirty and gray. Just like Damien Bruckner.

  Damien believed he’d satisfy Celeste by giving her a five-carat diamond and his last name. But after what Celeste had found, neither the diamond nor the name was enough. None of it was. The fucker.

  For five years, Celeste fucked him and blew him. Even fucked a few of his friends, and why? Why? Good question. Celeste thought she’d known the answer. For the fulfillment of a promise. That once Amanda Bruckner, Damien’s first wife, was gone, she—Celeste Solange, superstar—would be Mrs. Damien Bruckner. And finally, in the perfect Malibu wedding just six months ago, Celeste had gotten her wish. Or what she thought was her wish. Fulfilling Celeste’s desire to be one half of “the” power couple in the movie business. It had been a grandiose event. Everyone was there. Tom, Kate, Will, Bruce, even the ever-reclusive Robert. The press was phenomenal. Helicopters whirling overhead, paparazzi sneaking through the bushes. (Damien and Celeste had been smart enough to get tents.) The picture of her dress, Celeste heard, had sold for more than a hundred grand.

  And then, almost immediately after the wedding, the rumors began. The rumors and the questions. What about Celeste’s career? Was it over? She hadn’t worked in close to two years—was she leaving film to become a domestic diva? Perhaps a little Bruckner was soon to follow the Malibu wedding ceremony. Or perhaps, as the most popular tabloid rumors implied, Celeste was already pregnant with what was sure to be the perfect Hollywood child. None of it was true. Celeste’s sabbatical from film was at Damien’s behest, causing, he believed, the public’s hunger for her next picture to swell. Because Celeste’s first film in two years was scheduled to be the next film Damien produced, an action adventure entitled Borderland Blue.

  Celeste gripped the steering wheel of her Porsche with an anger that couldn’t be denied—an anger that consumed her beauty, her dreams, even her picture-perfect marriage.

  Damien’s ex-wife, Amanda Bruckner, would have laughed at this scenario. Thrown back her head and cackled with glee. Barely forty-five and set for life, Amanda sat in a stunning $15 million home in Nice overlooking the ocean, and Damien threw gazillions of dollars at her just to keep her quiet and to stay the fuck away from Los Angeles. Amanda kept his name and a huge chunk of his money (in addition to the $50,000 a month in alimony Damien paid). Amanda—was free. Amanda would appreciate the humor in Celeste’s current situation— how could she not? The irony was absolute.

  Black lace panties.

  It seemed Damien liked them on all his women. Because the black lace panties that Mathilde (Celeste and Damien’s housekeeper) had found in Damien’s suitcase this morning weren’t all that different from all the pairs of little black lace panties Celeste wore when Damien was sleeping with Celeste and still married to Amanda.

  “Senora, es to?” Mathilde had asked, holding up the crotchless undies as
she unpacked the suitcase Damien brought home from New Zealand late last night.

  Emerging from the bathroom sauna, Celeste froze at the sight of Mathilde waving the panties over the couple’s king-size bed. Her heart pounded. Those are not mine. Even from a distance she could tell. The offensive black polyester lingerie that Mathilde held was cheap and shoddily made. It had been a decade since Celeste had felt anything but Agent Provocateur against her skin.

  Celeste put on her Hollywood game face (she was a Golden Globe–winning actress, after all) and smiled at Mathilde. “Sí. Un presente for Senor Bruckner. To remember me by, while he was away on set.”

  No need to have the help talking. If Mathilde discovered that Damien was having an affair, everyone in town would know. All the hired help rode the same bus—how do you think everyone in Hollywood found out that Steven Brockman was gay?

  Celeste flinched at the memory, swerving around her rapper neighbor’s Escalade attempting to turn onto Mulholland in front of her. It wasn’t the fucking around that pissed her off. They were a liberal sort of Hollywood couple. Celeste had been aware of Damien’s fling with this little cocktease of an actress Brianna Ellison for months. But the trip to New Zealand, to a film Damien wasn’t even producing (executive producing only; he might as well be a grip), combined with this little tramp getting the lead in Borderland Blue, that was enough to make Celeste burn.

  Damien didn’t even have the integrity to tell Celeste that she’d been bumped from the lead role (and the sneaky bastard hadn’t left the trades lying around this morning—he’d taken Variety and Hollywood Reporter). But Damien wasn’t clever enough. Much like finding crotchless panties in the hands of their housekeeper, Celeste learned of her public disgrace via another employee—this time her publicist, Kiki Dee. There in the fax machine, just like every morning, lay copies of all the articles (Us, People, Star, the Enquirer, Variety …) that mentioned Celeste. But this morning there’d been a hissing cobra on the second page of Kiki’s twenty-page fax. BRUCKNER BLUE FOR BRIANNA screamed the headline in Variety.