What I Did for Love (Wynette, Texas #5)(53)

Bram abandoned his clean-up efforts. “Have you told your parents you want to stay here? Because I swear to God, Meg, I don’t need Jake on my ass right now. Or your mother.”

“I’ll deal with Dad. And Mom already dislikes you, so she’s no problem.”

Chaz chose that moment to enter her kitchen. Today two tiny rubber bands made miniature devil horns out of the now fluorescent red hair on top of her head. She looked fourteen, but she cussed like a veteran sailor when she saw the condition of her kitchen. Until Bram stepped forward…

“I’m sorry, Chaz. The blender got away from me.”

Chaz immediately softened. “Wait for me next time, okay?”

“I sure will,” he said contritely.

She began ripping off squares of paper towel and handing them out. “Wipe your feet so you don’t track this shit all over the house.”

She refused any offers of help and began attacking the mess with single-minded focus. As they left the kitchen, Georgie remembered Chaz’s enthusiasm for cleaning up messes and wished she had her video camera handy.

She decided to settle for Meg instead, and later that afternoon as they sat around the pool, she turned the camera on her and began asking about her experiences in India. But unlike Chaz, Meg had grown up around cameras, and she answered only the questions she chose to. When Georgie tried to press her, she said she was bored talking about herself and wanted to swim.

Bram appeared not long after. He closed up his phone, sprawled on the chaise next to Georgie, and gazed at Meg in the pool. “Having your pal around isn’t a good idea. I still have the hots for her.”

“No, you don’t. You just want to annoy me.” He hadn’t put a shirt on, and lust shot right through her slutty little body. Bram thought she was playing games by holding him off, but it was more complicated. She’d never viewed sex as meaningless entertainment. She’d always needed for it to be important. Until now.

Was she finally clear-eyed and self-assertive enough to indulge in a mindless fling? A few steamy romps and then, “Arrivederci, babe, and don’t let the door hit you on your way out.” But that scenario had a major flaw. How could she have a mindless fling with a man she couldn’t send home afterward? No matter which way she looked at it, living under the same roof was a complication she couldn’t get around.

“You haven’t mentioned your meeting at the Mandarin this morning,” she said to distract herself.

“Nothing to say. The guy mainly wanted the dirt on our marriage.” Bram shrugged. “Who cares? It’s a beautiful afternoon, and neither of us is miserable. You have to admit this is a great third date.”

“Nice try.”

“Give it up, Georgie. I’ve noticed the way you look at me. You do everything but lick your lips.”

“Unfortunately, I’m human, and you’re a lot hotter than you used to be. If only you were a real person instead of a male blow-up doll…”

He swung his legs over the lounge and stood above her like a golden Apollo who’d sauntered down from Mount Olympus to remind female mortals about the consequences of messing with the gods. “One more week, Georgie. That’s all you’ve got.”

“Or what?”

“You’ll see.”

Somehow it didn’t sound like an idle threat.



Laura Moody finished her salad and tossed the container into the trash basket by her desk, which was located in a glass-walled office on the third floor of Starlight Artists Management. She was forty-nine years old, single, and perpetually dieting in an attempt to lose the extra ten pounds that made her grossly obese by Hollywood standards. She had flyaway brown hair, still without a speck of gray; brandy-colored eyes; and a long nose balanced by a strong chin. She was neither pretty nor plain, which made her invisible in L.A. The designer suits and jackets that were a Hollywood agent’s required uniform never looked quite right on her short frame, and even when she was dressed in Armani, someone invariably asked her to get coffee.

“Hello, Laura.”

She nearly knocked over her Diet Pepsi at the sound of Paul York’s voice. A week of dodging his phone calls had finally caught up with her. Paul was a great-looking guy with his thick, steelgray hair and even features, but he had the personality of a prison warden. Today he wore his customary uniform: gray slacks and a powder-blue dress shirt with a pair of Ray-Bans hooked in the breast pocket. His easy, loose-jointed walk didn’t fool her. Paul York was as laid-back as a cobra. “You seem to be having trouble returning phone calls lately,” he said.

“It’s been crazy.” She felt around under her desk with her bare foot for the stilettos she’d kicked off earlier. “I was just getting ready to call you.”

“Five days too late.”

“Stomach flu.” As she located one shoe, she forced herself to remember everything she admired about him. He might be the stereotypical overbearing stage father, but he’d done a decent job raising Georgie. Unlike so many other child stars, Georgie had never needed a stint in rehab. She hadn’t changed boyfriends every week or “forgotten” she wasn’t wearing panties when she got out of a car. Paul had also been scrupulous about handling her money, taking only a modest management fee for himself so that he lived comfortably, but not ostentatiously. What he hadn’t done was protect her from his own ambition.