What I Did for Love

  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  (SKIP looks searchingly into SCOOTER’s eyes, then slowly kisses her.)

  Georgie felt the hard touch of his lips, and this time the magic didn’t work. Skip’s lips should be soft. And Skip shouldn’t taste of cigarettes and insolence. She pulled back.

  “Cut,” Jerry called out. “Is there a problem, Georgie?”

  “There’s a problem, all right.” Bram scowled at the camera. “It’s eight fucking o’clock in the morning.”

  “Let’s do it again,” the director said.

  And they had. Again and again. It was only a simple stage kiss, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make herself believe Skip was kissing her, and each time their lips met, she felt as though she was shaming herself all over again.

  After the sixth take, Bram stormed off and told her to go take some “fucking acting lessons.” She shouted back that he should swallow some “fucking mouthwash.” The crew was used to temperament from Bram, but not from her, and she was ashamed. “I’m sorry, everybody,” she murmured. “I don’t mean to push my bad day off on you.”

  The director coaxed Bram back. Georgie reached inside herself and somehow managed to use her own churning emotions to show Scooter’s confusion. They finally had their take.

  And now here she was again, doing something she’d never thought she’d have to repeat. Kissing Bram Shepard.

  Bram’s mouth closed over hers, his lips soft as Skip’s should have been. She began her mental retreat to the secret place she’d hidden in so many years ago. But something was wrong. Bram no longer tasted of late nights and seedy bars. He tasted clean. Not clean like Lance, who had an Altoids addiction, but clean like—

  She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she knew she didn’t like it. She wanted Bram to be Bram. She wanted the sour taste of his condescension, the tainted bile of his disdain. Those were both things she knew how to handle.

  She waited for him to try sticking his tongue down her throat. Not that she wanted him to—God, no—but at least it would be familiar.

  He nibbled at her lower lip, then slowly set her back on her feet. “Welcome to married life, Mrs. Shepard,” he said in a soft, tender voice even as his hand, hidden in the folds of her skirt, pinched her bottom.

  She smiled with relief. Bram was finally acting like himself. “Welcome to my heart…,” she said just as tenderly, “…Mr. Georgie York.” Beneath his jacket, she jabbed him in the ribs as hard as she could.

  It was dark outside when Duffy left, and the management had slipped a message under the door. The switchboard was swamped with calls, and a horde of photographers had gathered outside. She turned on the television and saw that the news of their marriage was out. While Bram changed his clothes, she sat on the edge of the couch and watched.

  Everyone was shocked.

  No one had seen it coming.

  Since only the bare-bones details were available, the cable news outlets were trying to fill out the story with comments from a string of so-called experts who knew absolutely nothing.

  “After the devastating end to her first marriage, Georgie has returned to the comfort of the familiar.”

  “Perhaps Shepard’s grown weary of his playboy lifestyle…”

  “But has he really reformed? Georgie’s a wealthy woman, and…”

  Bram came out of the bedroom in a fresh pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. “We’re leaving tonight.”

  She muted the remote. “I’m not exactly anxious to drive to L.A. with a herd of photographers chasing us. As Princess Diana would say, ‘Been there. Done that.’”

  “I’ve taken care of it.”

  “You can’t even take care of yourself.”

  “Let me put it another way. I’m not staying here. You can either come with me or explain to the press why your new husband is leaving alone.”

  He was clearly going to win this skirmish, so she conjured up a sneer. “You’d better know what you’re doing.”

  As it turned out, he did have the situation taken care of. A paneled plumbing van waited for them at the darkened loading dock. He tossed their suitcases inside and slipped the driver a couple of folded bills from his wallet. Afterward, he gave her an arm-up into the back, then climbed in himself and shut the door.

  The interior smelled like rotten eggs. They wedged themselves into a space near the doors, drew up their knees, and set their backs against their luggage. “We’d better not be going all the way to L.A. in this,” she said.

  “Were you always so whiny?”

  Pretty much, she thought. At least this past year. And that was going to change. “You worry about yourself.”

  The van lurched away from the loading dock, and she fell against his side. Her life had come to this. Sneaking out of Vegas in the back of a plumbing van. She rested her cheek on her bent knees and closed her eyes, trying not to think about what lay ahead.

  SCOOTER

  I never look up at the stars.

  SKIP

  Why’s that?

  SCOOTER

  Because they make me feel too small. Less than a speck. I’d rather stick my hand in a lion’s cage than look at stars.

  SKIP

  That’s crazy. Stars are beautiful.

  SCOOTER

  Stars are depressing. I want to do big things with my life, but how can I when the stars only remind me of how small I really am?

  Eventually the van pulled off the highway and came to a stop on a bumpy dirt road. Bram dropped to the ground. She poked her head out. It was pitch-black, and they were in the middle of nowhere. She climbed down and walked gingerly around to the front of the van. The headlights picked out a wooden sign reading jean dry lake. Next to it, a tattered poster advertised some kind of rocket-launching festival. Bram was talking to the driver of a nondescript dark sedan. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, so she stayed where she was.

  The van driver passed her carrying their luggage. “I really liked you in Skip and Scooter,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She wished more people would say they liked her in one of her movies.

  The sedan’s driver got out and put their suitcases in the trunk. Both men climbed into the van and pulled away. She and Bram stood alone, only his burnished hair shining in the moonlit darkness.

  “They won’t keep quiet about this,” she said. “You know they won’t. It’s too juicy a story.”

  “By the time it gets out, we’ll be long home.”

  Home. She couldn’t imagine them trapped in her small rental house. She’d have to find another place quickly—something large enough so they’d never see each other. As she opened the car door, she checked her watch. It was two o’clock; only twelve hours since she’d awakened and found herself in this mess.

  Bram slipped behind the wheel. He drove fast, but not recklessly. “A friend is driving my car back to L.A. in a couple of days. If we’re lucky, it’ll take that long before anybody figures out we’ve left.”

  “We need a place to live,” she said. “I’ll have my real estate agent find something fast.”

  “We’re moving into my place.”

  “Your place? I thought you were house-sitting in Malibu.”

  “I only stay out there when I want to get away.”

  “From what?” She kicked off her sandals. “Wait. Didn’t Trev tell me you live in an apartment?”

  “Is there something wrong with apartments?”

  “Yes. They’re small.”

  “Have you always been such a snob?”

  “I’m not a snob. This is about privacy. From each other.”

  “That’s going to be a little tough with only one bedroom. Although it’s a pretty big bedroom.”

  She glared at him. “We’re not living in your one-bedroom apartment.”

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but that’s where I’m living.”

  Now she got it. This was how he intended to handle everything. It would be his way or the highway. br />
  Her head ached, she had a stiff neck, and she saw no advantage to arguing about this until they got to L.A. She turned away and closed her eyes. Deciding to take control of her life was the easy part. Carrying it off would be a lot tougher.

  She woke at dawn. She’d fallen asleep against the passenger door, and she rubbed her neck. They were driving up a winding residential street lined with houses hidden behind massive foliage. Bram glanced over at her. Other than heavier stubble, he didn’t show any signs of his sleepless night. She scowled. “Where are we?”

  “In the Hollywood Hills.”

  They passed a high ficus hedge, rounded another bend, then turned into a driveway set between stone pillars. A sprawling russet stucco and stone Spanish colonial house came into view. Bougainvillea twined around a Moorish bay made up of six arched windows, and trumpet vine climbed a round, two-story turret that angled off at one end. “I knew you were lying about the apartment.”

  “This is my girlfriend’s house.”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  He pulled up in front and turned off the engine. “You have to explain to her what happened. It’ll go better if she hears the story from you.”

  “You want me to explain to your girlfriend why you’re married?”

  “Am I supposed to let her read it in the papers? Don’t you think I should be a little more sensitive toward the woman I love?”

  “You’ve never loved anyone in your life. And since when have you only had one girlfriend?”

  “There’s always a first time.” He unsnapped his seat belt and got out of the car.

  Georgie hurried after him toward a one-story arcaded entry porch paved in blue and white Spanish tiles. Assorted terra-cotta planters sat between three small twisted stone columns the same russet color as the stucco. “We’re not telling anybody the truth about this,” she whispered. “Especially a woman who’s going to have an understandable need for revenge.”

  He stepped up onto the porch. “If she’s as serious about me as I think she is, she’ll keep her mouth shut and wait this out.”

  “And if she’s not?”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “Let’s be honest, Scoot. When have you ever known a woman not to be serious about me?”

  Chapter 6

  Bram had his own key to his girlfriend’s house, so he was either living with her, or he spent a lot of time here, which would explain why he only needed a one-bedroom apartment. Georgie followed him up the tiled steps into a foyer with bronze wall sconces and glazed, parchment-colored walls. “You should have told me about her earlier.”

  He tilted his head toward the back of the house. “The kitchen’s that way. She’s going to need coffee. I’ll go prepare her while you make it.”

  “Bram, this isn’t a good idea. I’m telling you as a woman that…”

  He’d already disappeared up the stairs. She sank down on the bottom step and buried her face in her hands. A girlfriend. Bram had always been surrounded by beautiful women, but she’d never heard of him being involved in a serious relationship. Now she wished she hadn’t cut Trevor off whenever he started gossiping about Bram’s activities.

  She rose from the step and began to look around. This girlfriend had exquisite taste in decorating, if not in men. Unlike so many older hacienda-style homes, this one had light hardwood floors that were either original or had been distressed to look warm and rustic. The furniture was comfortable—basic pieces upholstered in muted fabrics dressed up with embellished Indian pillows and Tibetan throws in ochre, olive, rust, pewter, and tarnished gold. A series of tall French doors opening to a rear veranda allowed the early-morning light to spill inside, which accounted for the lushness of the lemon and kumquat trees growing in decorative ceramic pots. An antique olive urn held a luxuriant vine that twined up the side of the fireplace and along the heavy stone mantel, which was carved in a Moorish design.

  The well-equipped kitchen had roughly plastered walls, sleek appliances, and earth-toned tiles with deep blue accents. An iron chandelier with tin shades hung over the center island, and the bay with six arched windows she’d seen when they’d driven in made up the breakfast nook. She found the coffeemaker and made a pot. So far, she hadn’t heard any screams coming from upstairs, but it was only a matter of time. She carried her mug out onto a roofed veranda with the same twisted russet columns and blue-and-white Spanish tile floor as the front entry porch. The filigreed metal lanterns, mosaic tables with curved iron legs, ornate wooden screen, and furniture upholstered in colorful Moroccan and Turkish fabrics made her feel as though she’d stepped into a casbah. Luxuriant vines, low palms, and stands of bamboo offered a sense of privacy.

  She wrapped a cotton throw around her shoulders and settled in a comfortable lounge chair. The faint sound of brass wind-bells drifted through the chilly morning quiet. Bram obviously didn’t know his girlfriend well because the kind of woman who owned a house like this wasn’t going to accept having her boyfriend marry another woman, regardless of the circumstances. He was stupid to even imagine such a thing, which was odd because Bram was never—

  She jolted upright. Coffee splashed on her hand. She sucked it off, then set her mug on a stack of newsmagazines and stomped inside. Within seconds, she’d climbed the steps and found the master bedroom where Bram lay facedown and sound asleep across the king-size bed. Alone.

  Georgie had forgotten the most fundamental rule when dealing with Bram Shepard. Don’t believe anything he says.

  She was ready to dump a cold bucket of water over his head when she thought better of it. As long as he was asleep, she didn’t have to deal with him. She went back downstairs and resettled on the veranda. At eight o’clock she called Trev, who, predictably, nearly blew out her eardrums. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “True love,” she retorted.

  “I can’t believe he married you. I absolutely cannot believe you talked him into this.”

  “We were drunk.”

  “Believe me, he wasn’t that drunk. Bram always knows exactly what he’s doing. Where is he now?”

  “Asleep upstairs in a magnificent house that, apparently, belongs to him.”

  “He bought it two years ago. God knows how he came up with the down payment. It’s no secret that he hasn’t been exactly fiscally responsible.”

  Which was why Bram had agreed to go along with this. The fifty thousand dollars a month she’d promised him.

  But Trev didn’t know about the blood money. “He’s decided you’re the ticket he needs to raise his profile. This publicity could help him get some decent parts again. He pretends not to care that he’s basically made himself unemployable, but, believe me, he does.”

  She moved restlessly from the veranda into the yard and gazed back at the house. A second set of twisted columns on top of the first held up the roof of the balcony that ran across much of the top story, and more vines climbed the russet stucco walls. “He can’t be destitute,” she said. “This place is amazing.”

  “And mortgaged to the hilt. He’s done a lot of the work himself.”

  “No way. He’s talked some lovesick woman into paying at least some of his bills.”

  “Always a possibility.”

  She needed to know more, but when she pressed, Trev shut her down. “You’re both my friends, and I’m not getting involved in this, although I definitely want a dinner invitation so I can watch the fireworks.”

  She had a total of thirty-eight messages and texts on her cell, with her father accounting for ten of them. She could imagine how frantic he was, but she couldn’t bear talking to him yet. April had left with her family for their Tennessee farm two days ago. Georgie dialed her number, and as she heard her friend’s voice, some of her defenses fell away, and she bit her lip. “April, you have no way of knowing that just about everything I’m getting ready to tell you is a pack of lies, so that means you can pass on the information with a clear conscience, okay?”

  “Oh, sweetie…” April sounded like a worried m
other.

  “Bram and I met accidentally in Las Vegas. The sparks flew, and we realized how much we’d always loved each other. We decided we’d wasted too much time being apart, so we got married. You don’t know for sure where we are, but you suspect we’re still holed up at the Bellagio enjoying an impromptu honeymoon, and isn’t everyone glad that Bram Shepard has finally reformed and the world has the happy ending they didn’t get when Skip and Scooter was canceled?” Georgie’s breath snagged in her throat. “Would you call Sasha and tell her the same thing? And if Meg resurfaces…”

  “Of course I will, but, honey, I’m really worried about you. I’m going to fly back and—”

  “No.” The concern in April’s voice made her want to burst into tears. “I’m fine. Really. Just shaken up. Love you.”

  As she hung up, she made herself face reality. She was trapped in this house for the immediate future. The public would expect Bram and her to be glued together while they were newlyweds. Weeks would pass before she could go anywhere without him. She leaned back on the veranda chaise, shut her eyes, and tried to think. But there were no easy answers, and eventually she dozed off to the sound of the brass wind-bells.

  When she awakened two hours later, she felt no more refreshed than when she’d fallen asleep, and she reluctantly headed upstairs. Latin music reverberated from the far end of the hallway. On her way to investigate, she passed Bram’s bedroom and spotted her suitcase sitting in the middle of the floor.

  Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen.

  If she’d had to guess what Bram Shepard’s bedroom looked like, she’d have imagined a disco ball and a stripper’s pole, but she’d have been wrong. The barrel vault ceiling and roughly plastered buckwheat-honey walls defined a space that was rich, elegant, and sensual without being sleazy. Rectangular leather panels set in a bronze metal grid made up the headboard of the king-size bed, and a comfortable lounging area occupied the turret she’d spotted from the front of the house.

  As she went in to retrieve her suitcase, the music stopped. Moments later, Bram appeared at the bedroom door in a sweat-damp Lakers T-shirt and gray workout shorts. Just the sight of him looking so healthy made her temper erupt. “I met your girlfriend downstairs. She fell on her knees and thanked me for getting you out of her life.”