What I Did for Love (Wynette, Texas #5)(121)

She could call a member of the legitimate press, but she wanted a jackal to have the story. She wanted to give it to Mel, who was gluttonous enough to exploit every bloody angle. “All right. Monday night. Midnight. If you’re not there, I won’t wait.”

She hung up, her heart racing, her fury seething. Bram had taken away what she most wanted. Now she’d do the same to him. Her only regret was having to wait forty-eight hours to exact her revenge.



Bram couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t eat, and he was seriously going to kill Chaz if she didn’t stop hovering. At the age of thirty-three, he’d acquired a twenty-year-old mother, and he didn’t like it. But then he didn’t like much of anything or anyone these days, especially himself. At the same time, a steady sense of resolve had taken hold of him.

“Georgie’s not doing Helene,” he told Hank Peters on Monday afternoon, two days after that ugly scene at Malibu. “I can’t talk her into changing her mind. Make whatever you want of it.”

He wasn’t surprised when, less than half an hour later, he received a summons to meet with Rory Keene. He stalked past her fleet of alarmed assistants and entered her office without waiting to be announced. She sat behind her burled wood desk, beneath her Diebenkorn painting, and ruled the world.

He kicked aside a wire chair shaped like a backward S. “Georgie’s not taking Helene. And you’re right. I’ve screwed up my marriage. But I love my wife more than I’ve loved anyone, and even though she currently hates my guts, I’d like you to stay the hell out of this while I try to get her back. Got it?”

Several long seconds passed before Rory put down her pen. “I guess our meeting’s over then.”

“I’d say so.” As Bram strode from her office, he knew some of what he had to do. He only wished he could figure out the rest.



Georgie parked her rented Corolla in front of a two-story apartment building just north of the Woodland Cemetery entrance, close enough so she could see Mel arrive, but far enough away to keep him from spotting her until she wanted him to. It was almost midnight, and the traffic on Fourteenth had thinned to a trickle. As she sat in the dark, she found herself remembering it all—from the moment Bram had overheard her proposing to Trev to the stormy afternoon on that same beach when Bram had declared his undying love.

The pain wouldn’t relent. She was going to tell the jackal everything. The story of Bram’s phony declaration of love would take over the tabs, then make its way to the legitimate press. The reputation he’d been working so hard to polish would be tarnished all over again. Let Bram try to play the hero after she was done with him. She’d hurt herself in the process, but she no longer cared. She was angrier than she’d ever been, but she was freer, too. Her days of letting tabloid headlines rule her existence were over. No more smiling for photographers when she was falling apart. No more posturing for the press to preserve her pride. No more letting her public image steal her soul.

A black SUV pulled up just past the cemetery entrance. She sat lower in her seat and watched in the side-view mirror as the headlights went off. Duffy got out, lit a cigarette, and looked around, but he didn’t notice the Corolla. The lies were going to end now. She’d hurt Bram as badly as he’d hurt her. It was the perfect revenge.

The jackal lit a cigarette. She’d begun to perspire, and her stomach wasn’t right. He started to pace. It was time. After tonight, there’d be no more subterfuge. She could live honestly, with her head high, knowing she’d fought back, that she hadn’t let herself become another man’s emotional victim. This was the woman she’d grown into. A woman who took control of her life and her revenge.

The jackal pitched his cigarette into the gutter and headed toward the cemetery entrance. She hadn’t counted on that. She wanted to tell her story near the safety of streetlights. A jackal in a deserted cemetery was too dangerous, and she reached for the door handle before he could go any farther. But as her hand closed around the cold metal, something cracked open inside her. Right then, she saw that the jackal inside the car was more dangerous than the one approaching the cemetery gates.

The jackal inside the car was her. This vengeful, furious woman.

She clutched the handle. Bram had betrayed her, and he deserved to be punished. She needed to hurt him, to destroy him, to betray him as he’d betrayed her. But that kind of destruction wasn’t in her nature.

She sagged back in her seat and looked at who she was—at who she’d become. The air inside the car grew heavy and stale. One of her feet fell asleep. But she stayed where she was, and slowly, she began to understand her own nature. With a furious new clarity, she knew she’d rather live with the weight of her anger, the burden of her grief, than turn herself into a creature of vengeance.

The jackal finally emerged from the maw of the cemetery, cell phone to his ear. He smoked another cigarette, gave a final look around, then climbed into his car and peeled away.

She drove aimlessly, feeling empty, still angry, not at peace, but clear about who she was. Eventually, she ended up on a seedy section of Santa Monica’s Lincoln Boulevard populated by massage parlors and sex shops. She parked in front of a brake shop closed for the night, hoisted her camera bag from her trunk, and set off down the sidewalk. She’d never been alone in a dangerous neighborhood at night, but it didn’t occur to her to be frightened.