What I Did for Love (35 page)

Georgie didn’t answer the door, so he used the key Trev had given him. The house was quiet, but the open doors to the deck revealed an abandoned yoga mat. Trev lived on one of Malibu’s most exclusive beaches, but today the impending storm had thinned out the sun worshippers. He got rid of his shoes and walked out onto the sand. The star of a TV cop drama lounged next to his third wife while his kids dug a ditch. A container ship chugged against the horizon, and a flock of gulls cried overhead.

Georgie stood alone near the water’s edge, the wind whipping her dark hair. The same purple bikini bottom she’d worn in Mexico clung to her bottom, and her skimpy white T-shirt ended well above her waist. When had she grown so beautiful? He wanted to drag her into the house, pull off that little purple bikini bottom, and bury himself inside her.

She spotted him, but she didn’t exactly throw her arms around him as he came up next to her. He missed her oversize enthusiasm more than he could ever have imagined. “Is your heart leaping at the sight of me,” he said, “or have you wised up?”

“Some mild skittering. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Glad to hear it.” But he wasn’t glad. He wanted her to laugh and kiss him. “Let’s go for a walk.” He grabbed her hand before she could protest.

Famous faces were a dime a dozen on this stretch of sand, and no one did more than nod as they passed. One of the best parts of his relationship with Georgie was never feeling as if he needed to make conversation, but today that ease had disappeared. “Guess who’s taking cake-decorating lessons?”

“No idea.”

He told her about Chaz and Rory but didn’t mention the real reason for Rory’s visit. He stalled a little longer by going after a Frisbee that had gotten away from a couple of kids. When he returned, Georgie was sitting in the sand, her arms clasped around her knees.

He sank next to her and watched the whitecapped waves boom toward the shore. “It’s going to storm. Let’s head over to the Chart House for lunch.”

She gripped her knees tighter. “I don’t think I can stomach a cozy meal with the man who fed me to the wolves.”

He dug his heels into the sand. “I’ll take that as a positive sign that you’ve wised up about me, and this craziness is behind us.”

She snagged a strand of her hair. “Unfortunately, what they say is true. There’s a thin line between love and hate.”

Something unpleasant twisted in the pit of his stomach. “You don’t hate me, Scoot. You’ve just lost what little respect you’d started to develop.” He braced an elbow on his knee and studied the dark clouds skidding across the sky. “We made small-screen magic when you couldn’t stand me. No reason we can’t transfer that to the big screen.”

She tilted her head toward him, her funny green eyes somber. “The deadline’s passed. Jade has Helene locked up now.”

He picked up a beach stone and rubbed it between his fingers. “She’s not doing it.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

He couldn’t postpone this any longer. “Because she was never under consideration.”

Georgie sat up straighter. He pitched the stone into the waves. “I lied to you.”

She curled her hands into fists.

He couldn’t look at her. “I had all kinds of good reasons at the time.”

Her mouth twisted bitterly. “You really are a bastard, aren’t you?”

“Exactly! I told you I was!”

Flying sand stung his bare calves as she jumped up. He shot to his feet and went after her. “Think about it, Georgie. Now that I’ve shown my true colors, nothing is standing in your way. The part is yours, and after what I’ve done, you can take it without worrying about any messy emotional crap getting in your way. You should be glad I lied.”

Even as he spoke, he didn’t believe a word of it. And neither did she. “I’m going in.” She picked up her stride.

He matched her steps. “I’m…pretty sure that guy over there has a camera. We need to make out first.”

“Make out with yourself.” Her heels kicked up pinwheels of sand. He slid his arm around her shoulder, forcing her to a slower pace.

He might as well have been hugging a cactus.

The picture would get made without her. They’d find another actress, maybe not as good, but adequate. Except everyone wanted Georgie, and his job as a producer was to make the impossible happen. He couldn’t let any of them—Rory, Hank, the lowliest crew member—see that he wasn’t up to that job.

They reached the house as a crack of lightning broke over the surf. He snagged her wrist, pulling her to a stop just as she was about to climb up to the deck. “Georgie…” He had trouble getting enough air into his lungs. “I’m not quite sure how to tell you this…”

The wind blew another lock of hair over her face. She pushed it back and cocked her head. He released her wrist. “I’ve…missed you these past few weeks. More than I ever thought.” Acid churned in his stomach as she continued to stand there, patiently waiting. “Help me out here.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”

“That…I didn’t realize how much I’d gotten used to being with you until you left. The two of us…I thought it was just a great friendship, but—I don’t know how to say this.” An awning cracked in the wind. “I might be…falling for you.”

She stared at him.

“Ironic, isn’t it. Just when you’ve gotten over me, now here I am…wishing you hadn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“That lie about Jade. There was something a little desperate about it, right? I guess I didn’t want to…admit what I was really feeling.”

“What are you really feeling, Bram? You’re going to have to spell it out because I’m not getting it.”

“You know what I’m saying.”

Apparently she’d had enough of his hedging because she turned away and headed up the short flight of stairs.

“It started right here, you know,” he called after her. “Not fifteen or sixteen years ago during
Skip and Scooter,
but right here on Trev’s deck three months ago. You and me.” She stopped at the top and gazed down at him. He took the steps two at a time to reach her. “Ever since we woke up in the Vegas hotel room, we’ve been on this crazy Ferris wheel ride.” A gust of wind blew a newspaper across the deck. “I kept thinking you were the best friend I’ve ever had, but now I know it’s more than friendship.”

“It’s sex.”

He felt a flash of anger. “Sure, it’s sex, but that’s not all. We don’t have to put on false faces for each other. We…understand each
other.” He rushed on, forcing out the next part even as he hated himself for what he was about to say. “I’ve even been thinking—Just thinking. Your idea about”—a giant fist squeezed his chest—“about having a baby.” She made a soft, indecipherable sound. He plowed on. “I’m a long way from saying let’s go for it. I’m just saying that…Just that I’m ready to at least talk about it.”

She was swallowing his face with her eyes, and he wanted to yell at her, to tell her he was a liar and not to be so damned gullible. Instead, he set aside whatever shreds of honor he had left and went for the big fucking finish. “I’m…falling in love with you, Georgie. For real.”

She pressed her fingertips to her lips. A boom of thunder shook the deck. “For real?” she whispered.

Pebble-sharp raindrops stung his face, and he nodded.

She didn’t do anything. She simply stood there. And then she said his name. “Bram…” Opening her arms, she threw herself at him. She wrapped herself around his chest, slid her legs between his, and he wanted to howl at the harm he’d done…right until the moment she jerked up her knee and slammed him in the nuts. Through his agonizing wheeze of pain, he heard two words.

“You bastard.”

The roar of the wind…The stomp of bare feet across the deck…The slam of the door as she disappeared inside…And the sound of his own wrenching gasps. He clutched the edge of a stone and tried not to pass out. The door opened again and his car keys flew by, over the deck rail and into the sand.

The storm broke.

Georgie stood inside
the locked door, clutching herself to keep her insides from boiling through her skin. The rain slashed at the windows, slashed at her. Bram hadn’t changed. He was a user, as ma
nipulative as ever, pretending to offer what she most yearned for in order to get what he coveted for himself.

The storm raged outside; a fiercer storm raged inside.

Her sham of a marriage was over, and there’d be no friendly divorce. No Bruce and Demi. This public humiliation would be so much worse than the first time. And she didn’t care. Her years of posing and posturing had ended. She’d never be spunky Scooter Brown, the girl who could bounce back from any adversity with a smile and a wisecrack. She was a real woman who’d been betrayed.

And this time she’d have her revenge.

Once Bram was
able to move again, he staggered down to the sand and threw himself in the ocean. Oblivious to the angry waves and dark undertow, he prayed for the water to wash away his sins. He dove under a wave, came up, and dove under again. All his life he’d hustled and manipulated, but he’d never done anything as wicked as what he’d just tried to put over on the person who least deserved it.

He saw the wave right before it hit him, a looming tower of water. It crashed on top of him and flipped him over. He twisted, pitched, floated for an instant, then flipped again. Sand scraped his elbow, then something sharp bit into his leg. He lost his bearings. His lungs burned. The current caught him and pulled him—up, down, he didn’t know—the selfish current, following its own course without sparing a thought for its victim.

He broke through the surface, glimpsed the shore, then got sucked beneath again by the undertow. She’d become his conscience, his mistress, his guardian angel, his best friend. She’d become his love.

His body shot toward the light—a shimmering glow visible only in his head. He gasped for air, went under, plunged to the bottom. He loved her.

The current caught him and tossed him again, a useless scrap of human flotsam whose life’s mission had been to please only himself.

The image of her face came to him, swept him up, seized him, and dragged him until his feet touched bottom. His elbow was bleeding, his leg, his heart. He staggered to shore and collapsed in the sand.

She’d
locked the doors against him. He felt as if his skin had peeled off, the beautiful facade he’d hidden behind ripped away to reveal all the ugliness beneath. He stumbled back to the beach, pulling off his sodden T-shirt and pressing it to his bloody elbow. He located his car keys in the sand, but Trev’s house key had been on a separate ring and was nowhere to be found. After a last futile attempt to get Georgie to answer the door, he gave up.

The paps had disappeared. Shivering and bleeding, he made his way to his car and started the long drive back home through the storm. He couldn’t imagine how he’d be able to make her understand what had just happened. She’d never believe him. And why should she? He’d even turned her desire for a baby into a bargaining chip.

The full extent of this disaster he’d brought on himself made it hard to breathe. What the hell had he done, and how was he going to fix it? Not with another phone message, that was for sure.

But after he got home, he couldn’t stop himself, and when her voice mail picked up, he let it all spill out. “Georgie, I love you. Not the way I said earlier, but really. I know it doesn’t seem that way, but I didn’t understand like I do now…” He rambled on, mixing up his words, his thoughts, trying to get it all out and failing miserably, knowing he’d only made everything worse.

Georgie listened
to every syllable of his message, every lie. The words burned into her flesh, leaving bleeding tattoos behind. Her fury was boundless. She would make him pay. He’d taken away what she wanted most, and now she’d do the same to him.

That evening, after
Bram was cleaned up and more clearheaded, he drove back to Malibu. The paps must have believed he was still at the beach because no SUVs loitered at the end of his driveway. He’d decided to break down the door if she wouldn’t let him in the house, although he doubted that would soften her heart. Along the way, he bought her flowers, as if a couple dozen roses would make a difference, then stopped to pick up mangoes because he remembered she liked them. He also bought her a snow-white teddy bear holding a red heart in its paws, but as he left the store, he realized that was the kind of thing junior high kids did, and he stuffed it in the trash.

As it turned out, the house was dark and her car missing from the garage. He waited around for a while, hoping she’d come back, suspecting she wouldn’t. Eventually he headed for Santa Monica, his car still full of flowers and mangoes.

When he arrived at Paul’s town house, he futilely scanned the street for Georgie’s car. The last person he wanted to face was his father-in-law, and he thought about turning around, but Paul was his best shot at getting to Georgie.

He hadn’t seen him since the night of the wedding party, and the visible hostility on his face as he answered the door eradicated any hope Bram might have been harboring that Paul would help him out. Paul’s lips thinned as he gave Bram the once-over. “The golden boy looks a little under the weather.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a rainy day. A rainy month.”

He waited for the door to slam in his face and was stunned when Paul let him in. “Want a drink?”

Bram wanted a drink too much, a sure sign that he couldn’t risk having one. “You got any coffee?”

“I’ll dig some up.”

As Bram followed Paul into the kitchen, he couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands. They felt too big for his body, as if they didn’t belong to him. “Have you seen Georgie?” he finally managed.

“You’re her husband. You’re supposed to keep track of her.”

“Yeah, well…”

Paul turned on the water faucet. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m guessing you already know.”

“Tell me anyway.”

And Bram did. While the coffee brewed, he began by telling Paul about Las Vegas, only to learn that Georgie had already filled him in.

“I also know Georgie went to Mexico because she thought she was getting too attached to you.” Paul pulled a bright orange mug from the cupboard.

“Believe me,” Bram said bitterly, “that’s not a problem now. What else did she tell you?”

“I know about the audition tape, and I know she turned the part down.”

“It’s crazy, Paul. She was amazing.” He rubbed his eyes. “We’ve all underestimated her. We fell into the same trap as the public, only wanting her to play variations of Scooter. I’ll send you a copy of the tape so you can see for yourself.”

“If Georgie wants me to see it, she’ll let me know.”

“It must be nice to have the luxury of being noble.”

“You should try it sometime.” Paul filled the mug and passed it over. “Tell me the rest.”

Bram described his visit from Rory and everyone’s reaction to Georgie’s withdrawal. “They know I’m responsible, they want her in the film, and they expect me to fix this.”

“Not a good position for a new producer to be in.”

He couldn’t contain himself. He began pacing the kitchen, making awkward ovals as he told Paul the rest—his trip to Mexico, the lie about Jade, and then the worst, what he’d said to her today. He let it spill out, omitting only the detail about the baby, not because he was trying to protect himself—he was long past that—but because Georgie’s desire for a child was her own secret to reveal.

“So let me get this straight,” Paul said, an ominous note in his voice. “You lied to my daughter about Jade. Then you tried to manipulate her by pretending you were in love with her. After she threw you out, you magically realized you really do love her, and now you want me to help you convince her of that.”

Bram slumped onto a bar stool at the counter. “I’m so fucked.”

“I’d say.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Yes, and I’m not telling you.”

He hadn’t really expected it. “Will you at least tell her…? Shit. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her…Ask her to talk to me.”

“I’m not asking her for a damn thing. You created this mess. You can damn well fix it.”

But how? This wasn’t a misunderstanding that could be patched up with roses, mangoes, or a diamond bracelet. It wasn’t a simple lovers’ quarrel that a few words of apology could repair. If he wanted his wife back, he’d have to do something much more convincing, and he didn’t have a clue what that could be.

Georgie came downstairs
as he drove away. She hadn’t been able to stay in Malibu with Bram pounding at the door, so she’d driven
here. “I heard every word.” Her voice sounded strange even to herself, so cold, so detached.

“I’m sorry, kitten.”

He hadn’t called her that since she was a child, and as he put his arm around her, she buried her face in his chest. But her fury burned so strong she was afraid she’d scorch him, and she drew away.

“I think Bram just might be telling the truth,” he said.

“He’s not.
Tree House
means everything to him, and I’m making him look bad. He’ll do anything to get my name on that contract.”

“Not long ago, that was exactly what you wanted.”

“Not now.”

Her father looked so troubled, she squeezed his hand—only for a moment, long enough to reassure him but not to blister his skin. “I love you,” she said. “I’m going to turn in now.” She temporarily pushed aside her rage. “Go see Laura. I know you want to.”

He’d called Georgie in Mexico to tell her he’d fallen for her old agent. She’d been stunned until she’d considered all the women he hadn’t fallen in love with.

“Are you getting used to the idea of Laura and me?” he asked.

“I am, but how about her?”

“It’s only been four days since I told her how I felt, and I’m making headway.”

“I’m glad for you. Glad for Laura, too.”

She waited until after he’d driven off before she called Mel Duffy. Jackals were nocturnal creatures, and Mel answered right away. “Duffy.”

He sounded sleepy, but she’d wake him up fast. “Mel, it’s Georgie York. I have a story for you.”

“Georgie?”

“A big story. About Bram and me. If you’re interested, meet me in Santa Monica in an hour. The Fourteenth Street entrance to the Woodland Cemetery.”

“God, Georgie, don’t do this to me! I’m in Italy! Positano. Diddy’s got this big fuckin’ party on his yacht.” He started to cough, a cigarette hack. “I’ll fly back. Christ, it’s not even eight a.m. here, and there’s another goddamn labor strike. Give me time to fly back to L.A. Promise me you won’t talk to anybody else till I get there.”

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.

Before long, she found what she was looking for, a teenage girl with bleached hair and burned-out eyes. She approached her carefully.

“My name’s Georgie,” she said softly. “I’m a filmmaker. Can I talk to you?”

Chaz appeared at
the beach house two days later. Georgie had been sitting in front of her computer, looking at film all morning, and she hadn’t even had a shower. As soon as Aaron answered the door, an argument broke out.