Glamour (39 page)

And so, slowly, the stock took shape. A lacy Parisian fan. A pair of tangerine leather strappy heels with cute white roses worked into the straps. Floris bath oils from Europe. Charbonnel and Walker chocolates. Scottish cashmere and Irish linens. Austrian silver coffeepots. It was the ultimate shopping destination, she thought, delighting when she found an original Black Forest craftsman who’d sell her a line of ornate cuckoo clocks, complete with dancing peasants, foxes, and squirrels, and a real Roman gelato maker who would fly the original stuff in to serve in GLAMOUR’s café.The store would be like a vacation for rich Americans who didn’t feel like grabbing their passports. It was paradise. Little, irrestible, gorgeous things that just called out to your wallet . . .

Sally worked like hell. She worked like an obsessive, like Jane or Haya. All Jane thought about was getting that Levin guy his money back. Haya was into finding a legacy for her kid and helping poorer women who had been dependent on a man; profit meant little to her. Sally, on the other hand, thought about her mom, her dad, style, and pride. She wasn’t selfless, not some plaster saint. She wasn’t Mother Teresa, forget
that
. Her sense of style had gotten her this far. If she could help other women, then
she
would get rich. She would get her whole life back.

While Mona worked out, sinking herself into her new fitness craze, Sally Lassiter got lost at the office. She dived into fashion, and she loved it.

Sally never thought about anything except her new job and keeping an eye on her mother, making sure she didn’t relapse. There was no time for anything else.

Certainly not for men.

“And here’s the ocean, right on the left.”

Sally nodded, conserving her breath. Great. Mom was fitter than she was, now. Showing her the new route she was taking, out to the highway and then cutting down to the beach.

“We’ll go half a mile and hit the canyons.”

“Perfect.” Sally didn’t want to talk, she was conserving her wind. She was still slim and tanned, but her endurance had gone to hell.

“We’ll cut through here, through the woods.” Mona was turning left, and Sally saw her legs moving efficiently down the sandy path. Damn, that woman had got some musculature going.... “Come on, honey!” her mom urged.

Sally blew out her cheeks. “Coming . . .”

“Aaah!”

Her mother slipped. It was so quick, Sally barely saw it coming. Mona’s ankle twisted; she fell and something cracked—Sally heard her groan, heard the nasty thud as she dropped to the ground—and Mona plummeted off the clifftop path, slicing through the scrubby plants and crumbling, sandy earth, her manicured nails futilely scrabbling for a hold, down the side of the rock.

Sally grabbed for her mother’s arms and missed. She screamed, and rushed to the side of the rock face. Mona was slipping and tumbling down the almost-sheer hill, crashing and veering; Sally could make out patches of blood on her arms and legs. She shrieked, almost hysterical, calling wildly for help, but they were out here on their own....

Mona groaned and thudded and fell awkwardly onto an outcrop of rock; she didn’t move. She was clearly unconscious. Sally felt a wash of dizziness surge through her body; black spots floated in front of her eyes.

“Oh, God! Help me!” she screamed.

“Hey.”

Sally jumped—it was the sound of a man, further down the path.

“You need help?”

“Yes! Please come! It’s my mom—”

“I’m coming,” he shouted. “Hold on.”

There was the sound of running feet and he appeared on the path, a tanned, strong-looking man with mirrored shades, a shirt, and a Dodgers baseball cap; an enthusiastic Labrador bounded along at his heels.

“What’s the problem?”

She grabbed his arm, babbling. “Oh, thank God. My mom—her ankle gave out. She went over. She’s down there. . . .”

He took one look and straightened up. “Stay right there. I have a car phone, I’ll call 911.”

“Thank you . . .”

He ran back down the path. Sally looked over; her mother did not stir. She wondered wildly if she were dead. The seconds dragged on horribly.

Eventually he came back.“Highway Patrol is sending a cruiser. I argued with them, looks like you need the Coast Guard and a chopper.They said it shouldn’t be long. . . .”

There was a shiver in the rocks; some stones, dislodged by Mona’s fall, tumbled onto her prostrate body; one of them struck her ankle; without regaining consciousness she shifted, and hung further off the edge of the lip of stone, a dead weight pointing down.

Sally sobbed. “Mom, oh, God, Mom. They won’t be here in time. She’s gonna fall. She’s gonna die.”

She clutched at the stranger.

Mona slipped a couple more inches. She was in a bad position. They could both see what gravity was doing.

“Wait there.”

“Don’t leave me,” Sally wept. But he was gone. She inched closer to the edge herself. Her mom—her mom was all she had in this world, really.When you came down to it, what did a career mean? Without Mona, Sally was lost. Had she saved her from addiction just to watch with her own eyes as her mother plunged into the sea?

But she saw no way she could climb down.The edge was too small to support them both. And since Mona was unconscious, Sally knew she couldn’t lift her. If she climbed down the rock, they would both die. . . .

“Okay.Watch my dog.”

The man was back. He had a length of rope coiled around his waist and a pair of spiked shoes on. He ran up to the nearest tree, an elm a few feet to the right of her mother, looped the rope around, and hastily knotted it; then he tied another loop, and another, around himself.

“What are you doing?” Sally asked, hesitantly.

“No harness. I’m gonna get her.”

She bit her lip.This man didn’t have the right equipment. He could slip—die.

“Watch Felix,” he said again, and slipped a length of rope between his hands.

Sally crammed her knuckles into her mouth.The elm tree did not have a wide trunk. It bent forward, leaning with his weight. He was tall, a strong, heavy guy, lean but bulky with muscle. She could see the strong muscles of his back working as he moved, quickly and with purpose, down the rock face; stones and plants gave way under his footing, but he just shifted his weight.

Mona slipped a little further.

“Hurry, please,” Sally shouted. He ignored her, and kept abseiling ; lower, lower . . . almost there . . .

There was a loud crack; the small stone ledge shifted, tilted; Mona Lassiter’s unconscious form slid inexorably forward....

And his thick, weightlifter’s arm reached out and grabbed her by the elbow....

Sally watched in horror as the elm tree buckled and doubled over, the rope fraying.The man gasped and grunted, his feet losing their grip, scrabbling to get it back as he heaved, with brute strength, her mother’s unconscious form over his back.

She ran to the tree and put her arms around it, desperately trying to hold it back. But her strength was as nothing—she couldn’t stop it bending forward.

Sally looked over the cliff. He was climbing, slowly, agonizingly so, in contrast to the way he’d dropped down, fleet and sure-footed. She could hear the grunts of pain; her mother’s weight was being supported by a single hand as he used the other one to climb. Oh, God! She was not a religious woman, but she prayed. Please let him be strong. Please let him not drop her....

After an eternity he was at the top, his face puce with effort, sweat pouring down his forehead.

“Take her,” he gasped.

Crying and laughing, half-hysterical, Sally tugged and pulled at Mona’s arms; her mother slipped off her rescuer’s shoulders and flopped forward onto the grass. She was bruised and bleeding, cut in several places, obviously concussed, but still breathing. As Sally examined her breathing, trying to loosen her shirt, wake her, the man hauled himself onto the grass and fell onto his back, panting, struggling to regain his breath.

Sally looked at him with pathetic gratitude and then winced. His palms were raw, cut and bleeding from the rope burns. His barrel of a chest was heaving, trying to get his breath, to recover from the monstrous effort.

“You saved her life,” she said. It was obvious, but she had to say it. “Thank you—thank you so much, mister.”

He opened his eyes. “Where’s my dog?”

Sally’s stomach flipped; she’d forgotten about the dog. This guy had asked this one thing of her, and she’d lost his damn dog. She looked around wildly; the dog was sitting calmly behind her, wagging its tail, as though its owner had been engaged in a shopping errand.

“Right here,” she mumbled, guiltily.

He closed his eyes again. “You forgot; it’s okay. Felix is trained.”

There was a wail of a siren in the distance, getting closer. He struggled to sit up.

“Thank God for that.” Sally was in tears from the relief.“The police are coming . . . they’ll get you both to a hospital . . . you need the paramedics.”

He looked at her for the first time. She couldn’t see the eyes behind the sunglasses, but she did register how his eyes traveled over her face, flickered over her body. A man who had looked at a lot of women.

Sally felt an answering pang of lust and dropped her gaze. An instinctive reaction, she told herself. The guy had just saved her mom. But all the same, she suddenly, fervently wished she didn’t look quite such a mess; hair sweaty from the run, eyes red with tears, no makeup, unwashed morning hair scraped back in a jogger’s ponytail.

“I’m not staying.” He stood up.“Your mom will be okay, once she’s checked out.”

“Are you a doctor?” She didn’t know why she asked him that; she just wanted him to stay.

“No. But I see a lot of sports injuries.” Finally, he took off the shades; and Sally, already red, blushed scarlet.

Along with the muscled body and square jaw, she now saw a pair of light gray eyes, unusually pale, like wolf eyes in the dark skin.

“Now you recognize me,” he said, without false modesty.

“I—yes.” She tried to cover her confusion. “You—on the cover of that magazine.”Why was it coming out so stuttery? She felt like a moronic sports fan.

“Sports Illustrated.”
He grinned. “You really had no idea, did you?”

“I didn’t.You’re Chris Nelson.The baseball player.”

Sally wasn’t a fan, but she knew about Chris Nelson, the shortstop for the Dodgers. Single-handedly turning the team around. An All-Star. A megastar, in this city; even Hollywood types sucked up to him.

“Yeah, well, do me a favor. Don’t tell anybody about this. I don’t need the publicity; the press will just dog me for weeks.”

“I won’t.”

“I would stay to check on your mom, but I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“Thank you, again.” Sally bit her lip. She couldn’t ask anything more of the guy.To do so now would look like she was just another one of the girls that tried to crash practice wearing the shortest skirts. “We’ll be good once the cops get here. And . . . you know, you’re a hero.” It had to be said; her blush deepened.

“That’s cute.” He winked at her, and Sally’s stomach flipped over. “Long time since I’ve seen a girl blush.”

“Your hands are all messed up.”

“Yeah, well. My shoulder’s practically dislocated.”

“I think your trainer is going to put out a hit on me,” Sally joked.

“John Tepes will, if I miss the series against the Yankees,” he said.Tepes was their manager.“But don’t worry. I’ll come around and save you.”

The siren sounded closer. He stood up, and Sally was ashamed of herself for feeling such a bitter pang of disappointment while her mom lay feet away, knocked out.

“Your name is Sally Lassiter, right?”

She jumped out of her skin. “How . . . do you know that?”

He smiled. “Papers. My girlfriend showed me a picture. She bought some T-shirts in your store; looked hot on her.”

Girlfriend. Right. Of course. Like a hot superstar athlete like him was going to be single.

“Thanks, Mr. Nelson.”

“I think it’s Chris, after all that. Good-bye, sugar. Felix!”

He whistled, and the dog sprang from its sitting position and followed him, bounding, down the hill.

Sally was still sitting staring into space when the troopers arrived, a couple of burly men with guts that would have done credit to Santa Claus.They would have been zero help.

“She’s okay—we’ll get her to Malibu Memorial Hospital. What happened here, ma’am? How did you get her back?”

Sally told the story, leaving out Nelson’s name.They whistled as they grabbed her mother by the shoulders and ankles and staggered down the path with her.

“Some story,” the other one said. “Some guy.”

Yeah,
Sally thought, regretfully.
Some guy.

Mona had suffered little more than a concussion, a broken arm, and some bad bruising; it was almost a guilty relief for Sally to have her tucked away in hospital for a few days. She tried to fling herself into her work.The baseball player had disturbed her, profoundly, and she woke in the mornings restless from half-forgotten erotic dreams.

But now she was aware of him, she was reminded of him everywhere: on the news, flicking through the channels, whenever she saw a fan in a Dodgers shirt. An undisclosed “injury” had put him on the disabled list for a month’s recuperation. Nelson on the DL was the talk of L.A.

Sally waited fearfully for something to happen, for the story to break; if the cops had traced his cell call or something . . . half the sports fans in L.A. would be picketing their new store.

It didn’t happen.

She got on with her job. Designing. Buying. Making GLAMOUR a statement.

She had a vision, and the other two girls let her go with it. GLAMOUR.The name said it all. Every shopping trip would be a vacation. Something to justify their sky-high prices.

Maybe Laetitia Berry would come and shop there.

Laetitia, or Letty, as the press called her. Former Miss Minnesota and now sitcom star. Tall, slim, African-American, with flawless ebony skin, a retroussé nose, and blindingly white teeth. She shopped at only the best stores, drove a Maserati, and, as Sally was finding out, had been dating Chris Nelson for about a year. There was a pregnancy rumor. The gossip rags said they were getting married.