What I Did for Love (Wynette, Texas #5)(62)

She beamed up at him. “I told you. I got my period.”

He beamed down at her. “And I told you I didn’t give a damn.”

Lance had given a damn. He’d been nice about it, but sex with a menstruating woman wasn’t his thing. Not that she’d really gotten her period.

“Obviously I haven’t made myself clear,” she whispered, playing the role of the female sexual predator as shutters clicked around them. “You passed your audition yesterday at Provocative. From now on, your only function is to service me. When and where I want it. And I don’t want it right now.”

Liar. She wanted it all right, and she wanted it with him. Yesterday’s experience had been so incredible specifically because she’d been with gorgeous, useless, depraved Bram Shepard. Sex didn’t mean anything more to him than a handshake, and knowing that gave her an exciting new freedom. Her fake—and possibly alcoholic—husband could never have the hold over her Lance had possessed. With Bram, she wouldn’t stew over whether a negligee was alluring enough to attract him or feel as if she needed to read the latest sex manual to keep him interested. Who cared? She might not even shave her legs.

He kissed the top of her ear. “Just so we’re straight, Scoot. You didn’t get your period. You chickened out because you’re afraid you can’t handle me.”

“Not true.”

He gave a final wave to the photographers and began steering her toward the street, still speaking so only she could hear. “The thing about these restrictions you keep trying to set up…” He brushed his knuckles down her spine. “I’m not going to pay attention to any of them.”



Bram loved messing with Georgie—mentally and physically. She’d shocked the hell out of him yesterday. In his mind, Georgie and Scooter had always been pretty much the same person, but no way in hell would Scooter have put on a show like that. What had happened at Provocative proved the Loser hadn’t managed to whip all the self-confidence out of her, something that had become increasingly evident in the past few weeks. The fact that Lance had traded Georgie in for a cold fish like Jade gave Bram a lot more pleasure than it should.

As they returned from their coffee run, he toyed with the idea of getting her naked right away—it wouldn’t take much effort—but Aaron ruined his plans by meeting them at the door.

“Rory Keene’s secretary called. You’re invited to her house for a glass of wine at five.”

Bram did a mental high jump. He’d been hoping Rory’s affection for Georgie would translate into an opportunity for a face-to-face meeting so he could state his case personally, instead of through her people. He grinned and jiggled his car keys. “Call her back and tell her we’ll be there.”

Aaron pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “She didn’t mention anything about you, Bram. Just Georgie.”

Bram tightened his hand around his keys. “She meant both of us.”

“I don’t think so. She said to tell Georgie not to get dressed up because it would be just the two of them.” Aaron beat a hasty retreat.

Bram let loose with a string of obscenities. Rory was still stone-walling him. She loved the Tree House script, but according to her V.P. in development, she wouldn’t consider backing the film unless he stepped aside as producer and lead actor, which would defeat the goal of restarting his career. Sometimes he thought he should buy an ad in Variety and announce to the world that he wasn’t the same feral kid who didn’t have enough character to survive his success. Or maybe a simpler message…How about a f*cking second chance?

If only Rory would meet with him personally, but the closest he’d been able to get was during the nighttime incident in her backyard. He’d even slipped through the rear gate with a bottle of Cristal a few days later as an apology for having woken her up, but one of her lackeys had taken the champagne from him and shut the door.

He glared down at Georgie. Thanks to Chaz’s cooking, she’d gained enough weight so those big green eyes peeping at him through a fringe of bangs had lost their sunken appearance, and her shiny brown hair curved around fuller cheeks. “I want you in my office in ten minutes.”

She opened her mouth to tell him to go to hell, but he was ready for her. “Unless you aren’t interested in seeing the script for Tree House…”

He knew he had her, and he walked away without looking back.

She kept him waiting ten minutes longer than he expected. She hadn’t used the time to change her clothes, and she still wore the outfit from their paparazzi coffee run: a bright lemon knit top with a modestly curved round neck, a tiny cropped cardigan as insubstantial as a spiderweb, and wide-cut green-and-cream mattress-ticking slacks only someone so slender could carry off. The outfit concealed far more than it revealed, which made it sexy as hell.

She made the first move in this new game they were playing by tilting her head toward the poster of Jake Koranda playing Bird Dog Caliber. “Now there’s a real man.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said so.” He squeezed a rubber exercise ball in his fist, channeling Humphrey Bogart in The Caine Mutiny. “I need a little cooperation for a change.”

She looked wounded. “What do you mean, ‘for a change.’ I’m always cooperative.” She plopped down on his couch. “Okay, mainly cooperative with other people, but still…”