What I Did for Love (9 page)

Now he had to figure out how to turn this farcical situation to his advantage. Georgie had a thousand excellent reasons to hate him, a thousand reasons to exploit every weakness she could find, which meant he could only let her see what she expected. Fortunately, she already thought the worst of him, and he wasn’t likely to do anything to change her opinion.

He almost felt sorry for her. Georgie didn’t have a ruthless bone in her body, so it was an uneven match. She put other people’s interests before her own, then blamed herself if the same people screwed up. He, on the other hand, was a selfish, self-centered son of a bitch who’d grown up understanding he had to look out for himself, and he didn’t have a single qualm about using her. Now that he finally knew what he wanted out of life, he was going after it with everything he had.

Georgie York didn’t stand a chance.

Georgie showered and
scrounged up a turkey sandwich. She ended up in his dining room searching for a book to read. A massive round, black, claw-footed table that looked Spanish or maybe Portuguese sat on an Oriental rug with a Moorish brass chandelier overhead, but the dining room was both a place to eat and a cozy library. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined every wall except the one that opened into the garden. In addition to books, the shelves held an eclectic mixture of artifacts: Balinese bells, chunks of quartz, Mediterranean ceramics, and small Mexican folk paintings.

Bram’s decorator had created a cozy space that invited lingering, but the diverse collection showed his decorator either hadn’t gotten to know him well or didn’t care that her high school dropout client was unlikely to appreciate her finds. She carried a lushly illustrated volume of contemporary California artists over to a leather easy
chair in the corner, but as evening approached, her concentration faded. It was time to get down to business. Maybe Bram didn’t see the need for the two of them to have a cohesive plan for dealing with the press, but she understood it. They had to decide fairly quickly when and how to handle their reappearance. She put aside her book and set off to track him down. When she couldn’t locate him anywhere, she followed a crushed-gravel path through a stand of bamboo and some tall shrubbery to the guesthouse.

It wasn’t much larger than a two-car garage, with the same red barrel–tiled roof and stucco exterior as the main house. The two front windows were dark, but she heard a phone ringing from the back and followed a narrower path toward the sound. Light spilled through an open set of glass doors onto a small gravel patio that held a pair of lounges with chartreuse canvas cushions and some potted elephant-ear plants. Vines climbed the walls around the open doors. Inside, she saw a homey office with paprika-colored walls and a poured-concrete floor topped with a sea grass rug. A collection of framed movie posters hung on the walls, some predictable like Marlon Brando in
On the Waterfront
and Humphrey Bogart in
The African Queen,
but others less so: Johnny Depp in
Benny & Joon,
Don Cheadle in
Hotel Rwanda,
and Meg’s dad, Jake Koranda, as Bird Dog Caliber.

Bram was on the phone as she entered. He sat behind an L-shaped wooden desk painted a dark apricot, an ever-present drink at his side. Built-in bookcases at one end of the office held a stack of the trades, as well as some highbrow film magazines like
Cineaste
and
Fade In
. Since she’d never known Bram to read anything more challenging than
Penthouse,
she tagged them as another of the decorator’s touches.

He didn’t look happy to see her. Tough.

“I’ve got to let you go, Jerry,” he said into the receiver. “I need to get ready for a meeting tomorrow morning. Give my best to Dorie.”

“You have an
office
?” she said as he hung up.

He hooked his hands behind his neck. “It belonged to the former owner. I haven’t gotten around to converting it into an opium den.”

She spotted something that looked like a copy of the
Hollywood Creative Directory
near the phone, but he flipped it shut when she tried to get a closer look. “What morning meeting do you have?” she said. “You don’t do meetings. You don’t even do mornings.”

“You’re my meeting.” He nodded toward the phone. “The press discovered we’re not still in Vegas, and the house is staked out. We have to put up a set of gates this week. I’ll let you pay for them.”

“There’s a surprise.”

“You’re the one with the big bucks.”

“Deduct it from the fifty-thousand a month I’m paying you.” She gazed toward the poster of Don Cheadle. “We need to make plans. First thing tomorrow we should—”

“I’m on my honeymoon. No business talk.”

“We have to talk. We need to decide—”

“Georgie! Are you out here?”

Her heart sank. One part of her wondered how he’d managed to find her so quickly. The other part was surprised it had taken him this long.

Shoes crunched on the gravel path outside the guesthouse, and then her father appeared. He was conservatively dressed as always in a white shirt, light gray trousers, and tasseled cordovan loafers. At fifty-two, Paul York was trim and fit, with rimless glasses and crisp, prematurely gray hair that caused him to be mistaken for Richard Gere.

He stepped inside and stood quietly, studying her. Except for the color of his green eyes, they looked nothing alike. She’d gotten her round face and stretchy mouth from her mother. “Georgie, what have you done?” he said in his quiet, detached voice.

Just like that, she was eight years old again, and those same cold green eyes were judging her for letting an expensive bulldog puppy get away during a pet food commercial or for spilling juice on her
dress before an audition. If only he were one of those rumpled, overweight, scratchy-cheeked fathers who didn’t know anything about show business and only cared about her happiness. She pulled herself together.

“Hi, Dad.”

He clasped his hands behind his back and patiently waited for her to explain.

“Surprise!” she said with a fake smile. “Not that it’s really a surprise. I mean…You had to know we were dating. Everybody saw the photos of us at Ivy. Sure, it seems fast, but we practically grew up together, and…When it’s right, it’s right. Right, Bram? Isn’t that right?”

But her bridegroom was too busy reveling in her discomfort to chime in with his support.

Her father studiously avoided looking in his direction. “Are you pregnant?” he asked in the same clinical voice.

“No! Of course not! This is a”—she tried not to choke—“love match.”

“You hate each other.”

Bram finally uncoiled from his chair and came to her side. “That’s old history, Paul.” He slipped his arm around her waist. “We’re different people now.”

Paul continued to ignore him. “Do you have any idea how many reporters are out front? They attacked my car when I drove in.”

She briefly wondered how he’d found her back here, then realized her father wouldn’t let a small thing like an unanswered doorbell stop him. She could see him now, tramping through the shrubbery and emerging without a single hair out of place. Unlike her, Paul York never got ruffled or confused. He never lost his sense of purpose, either, which was why he found it so difficult to understand her insistence on taking a six-month vacation.

“You need to get control of this publicity immediately,” he said.

“Bram and I were just discussing our next step.”

Paul finally turned his attention to Bram. From the beginning, they’d been enemies. Bram hated Paul’s interference on the set, especially the way he made sure Georgie never lost her top billing. And Paul hated everything about Bram.

“I don’t know how you talked Georgie into this charade,” her father said, “but I know why. You want to ride on her coattails again, just like you used to. You want to use her to advance your own pathetic career.”

Her father didn’t know about the money, so he was uncharacteristically off the mark. “Don’t say that.” She needed to at least pretend to defend Bram. “This is exactly the reason I didn’t call you. I knew you’d be upset.”

“Upset?” Her father never raised his voice, which made his disgust all the more painful. “Are you deliberately trying to ruin your life?”

No, she was trying to save it.

Paul rocked on his heels just as he used to when she was a child and she didn’t have her lines memorized. “And here I thought the worst of this mess was over.”

She knew what he meant. He adored Lance, and he’d been furious when they split. Sometimes she wished he’d just come out and say what he really meant, that she should have been woman enough to hold on to her husband.

He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so disappointed in you.”

His words bit to the quick, but she was working hard at being her own person, so she made herself manufacture another bright smile. “And just think, I’m only thirty-one. I have lots of years to improve my record.”

“That’s enough, Georgie,” Bram said, almost pleasantly. He let his hand slip from her waist. “Paul, let me lay it out for you. Georgie is my wife now, and this is my house, so behave, or you’ll lose your invitation to visit.”

She sucked in her breath.

“Really?” Paul’s lip curled.

“Really.” Bram headed for the doors. But just before he got there, he turned back, performing the old false exit as flawlessly as he’d done it in a score of
Skip and Scooter
episodes. He even started off with the identical dialogue. “Oh, and one more thing…” That was when he went off script, and he did it with a smile. “I want to see Georgie’s tax returns from the last five years. And her financial statements.”

She couldn’t believe it. Of all the—She took a step toward him.

An angry flush spread over her father’s face. “Are you implying that I’ve mismanaged Georgie’s money?”

“I don’t know. Have you?”

Bram had gone too far. She might resent the way her father attempted to control her, and she definitely questioned his judgment in choosing her latest projects, but he was the only man in the world she trusted completely when it came to money. All kid actors should be lucky enough to have such a scrupulously honest parent guarding their incomes.

Her father grew more outwardly calm, never a good sign. “Now we get to the real reason for this marriage. Georgie’s money.”

Bram’s lips curled with insolence. “First you say I married her to advance my career…Now you think I married her for her money…Dude, I married her for
sex
.”

Georgie rushed forward. “Okay, I’ve had enough laughs for tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow, Dad. I promise.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“If you give me a couple of minutes, I can probably come up with a good punch line, but for now, I’m afraid that’s the best I’ve got.”

“Let me show you out,” Bram said.

“No need.” Her father strode toward the door. “I’ll leave the same way I came in.”

“No, Dad, really…Let me…”

But he was already crossing the gravel patio. She sank into a saggy brown couch right underneath Humphrey Bogart.

“That was fun,” Bram said.

She clenched her fists in her lap. “I can’t believe you questioned his integrity like that. You—the go-to guy for financial mismanagement. How my father handles my money is my business, not yours.”

“If there’s nothing to hide, he won’t mind opening the books.”

She shot up. “I mind! My finances are confidential, and I’m calling my lawyer first thing tomorrow to make sure they stay that way.” She’d also have a private talk with her accountant about disguising the fifty thousand a month she was paying Bram from her father. “Household expenses” and “increased security” sounded a lot better than “blood money.”

“Relax,” he said. “Do you really think I’d know how to read a financial statement?”

“You were deliberately baiting him.”

“Didn’t you enjoy it just a little bit? Now your father knows he can’t order me around the way he does you.”

“I run my own life.” At least she was trying to.

She expected him to debate the point, but he flicked off the desk lamp instead and nudged her toward the door. “Bedtime. I’ll bet you’d like a back rub.”

“I’ll bet I wouldn’t.” She stepped outside as he pulled the doors closed behind them. “Why do you keep pushing this?” she said. “You don’t even like me.”

“Because I’m a guy, and you’re available.”

She let her silence speak for itself.

The
next morning Georgie carefully made the bed she’d slept in by herself and went downstairs. In the kitchen, she found a young woman standing at the counter, her back to the door, a colander of strawberries in front of her. She had dyed black hair clipped short on one side, but jaw-length and jagged on the other. Three small Japanese symbols tattooed on the back of her neck disappeared into a sleeveless gray T-shirt, and big safety pins secured a long hole in the side of her jeans. She looked like a 1990s punk rocker, and Georgie couldn’t imagine what she was doing in Bram’s kitchen.

“Uh…Good morning.” Her greeting went unacknowledged. She wasn’t used to people who didn’t suck up to her, and she tried again. “I’m Georgie.”

“Like I wouldn’t know that.” The girl still didn’t turn. “This is Bram’s special protein breakfast drink. You’ll have to fix whatever you want for yourself.” The blender roared to life.

Georgie waited until the motor went quiet. “And you are—?”

“Bram’s housekeeper. Chaz.”

“Short for?”

“Chaz.”

Georgie got the message. Chaz hated her and didn’t want to talk. Trust Bram to have a housekeeper who looked like she’d stepped out of a Tim Burton film. Georgie started opening cup
board doors, looking for a mug. When she found one, she carried it over to the coffeepot.

Chaz turned on her. “That’s Bram’s special blend. It’s only for him.” She had heavy dark eyebrows, one of which was pierced, and small, sharp, very hostile features. “The regular stuff is in that cupboard.”

“I’m sure he won’t mind if I have a cup of his.” Georgie pulled the carafe from a high-end coffeemaker.

“I only made enough for one.”

“Probably best to make a little more from now on.” Ignoring the poison darts being shot at her, Georgie took an apple from a Mexican Talavera bowl and carried it, along with the coffee, out to the veranda.

She drank half a cup of his coffee—it was delicious—and then checked her messages. Lance had called again, this time from Thailand. “Georgie, this is crazy. Call me right away.”

She deleted the message, then phoned her publicist and lawyer. Her evasiveness about what had happened over the weekend was driving them nuts, but she wasn’t telling anyone the truth, not even the people she was supposed to trust. She used the same script on them that she’d tried out on her personal assistant yesterday when she’d made arrangements for him to start packing up her things. “I can’t believe that you of all people didn’t figure out Bram and I were dating. We did our best to keep it quiet, but you can usually see right through me.”

She finally worked up the nerve to phone Sasha. She asked about the fire, but Sasha brushed her off. “I’m taking care of it. Now explain what’s really going on, not that cockamamie bull April told me about you and Mr. Sexy getting nostalgic over
Skip and Scooter
reruns.”

“That’s my story, and we’re all sticking to it, okay?”

“But—”

“Please.”

Sasha finally gave in. “I’ll let it go for now, but on my next trip to
L.A., we’re going to have a long talk. Unfortunately, I need to stay in Chicago for a while.”

Georgie always anticipated Sasha’s L.A. visits, but she was more than happy to postpone what she knew would be a dogged interrogation.

She didn’t bother calling her agent. Her father would handle Laura. Trying to earn his love was like being on a perpetual hamster wheel. No matter how fast she ran, she never got any closer to the goal. One of these days, she had to stop trying. As for telling him the truth…Not now. Not ever.

Bram came out onto the veranda, finishing the dregs of something pink, thick, and frothy. As she took in the way his T-shirt clung to those unfamiliar muscles, she decided she liked his old heroin-chic look better. At least she’d understood that. She watched a final strawberry morsel disappear into his mouth. She wanted a foamy pink breakfast shake, too. But then, she wanted a lot of things she couldn’t have. A great marriage, kids, a healthy relationship with her father, and a career that would improve with age. Right now, she’d settle for a well-orchestrated plan to make the public believe she’d fallen in love.

“Vacation time’s come to an end, Skipper.” She rose from her chair. “The weekend’s over, and the press is demanding answers. At the least, we have to plan for the next few days. The first thing we need to do is—”

“Don’t upset Chaz.” He wiped a pink foam bubble from the corner of his mouth.

“Me? That girl is a walking, talking rude machine.”

“She’s also the best housekeeper I’ve ever had.”

“She looks like she’s eighteen. Who has a housekeeper that young?”

“She’s twenty, and I do. Leave her alone.”

“That’s going to be a little hard to do if I’m living here.”

“Let me spell it out. If I have to make a choice between you and
Chaz, Chaz wins hands down.” He and his empty glass disappeared back inside.

They were sleeping together. That would explain Chaz’s hostility. She hardly seemed like his usual sex bunny, but what did Georgie know about his current preferences? Not a thing, and she intended to keep it that way.

Aaron Wiggins, her
personal assistant, arrived half an hour later. She held the front door open so he could wedge through with her biggest suitcase and some outfits on hangers. “It’s a war zone out there,” he said, with the relish of a twenty-six-year-old still obsessed with video games. “Paparazzi, a news crew. I think I saw that chick from
E!
”

“Excellent,” she said glumly. Aaron had been her personal assistant since her previous P.A. had defected to Lance and Jade’s camp. He was nearly as wide as he was tall—probably three hundred pounds and barely five feet nine. His wiry brown hair surrounded a roly-poly face decked out with nerd glasses, a long nose, and a small, sweet mouth.

“I’ll have the rest of your clothes packed up by tomorrow,” he said. “Where do you want these?”

“Upstairs. Bram’s closet is full, so I’m turning the room next door into a dressing room.”

Aaron was out of breath by the time they reached the top of the stairs, and his black man-purse had slipped down to the crook of his elbow. She wished he’d take better care of himself, but he ignored her hints. As they passed Bram’s bedroom, he peeked in, then came to a stop. “Sweet.”

The sound system had caught his attention, not the decor. “Mind if I set these down and take a look?” he said.

Knowing how much he loved gadgetry, she couldn’t refuse. He
deposited her clothes and suitcase in the next room, then returned to study the electronics. “Awesome.”

“A party, babe?” a silky voice said from the doorway.

This produced a geek snort from Aaron. “I’m Aaron. Georgie’s P.A.”

Bram arched one of his perfect eyebrows at Georgie. Personal assistants tended to be cute young women or well-turned-out gay men. Aaron didn’t fit either category. She almost hadn’t hired him, even though her father had recommended him for the job. But during their interview, the smoke alarms in her house had shorted out, and he’d fixed the problem so effortlessly that she’d decided to give him a chance. He’d proved to be cheerful, smart, scarily well organized, and not particular about the tasks she assigned. He was also as low on self-esteem as he was on drama, and he never thought to ask her for favors, like getting him into a trendy club or hot restaurant, something her past P.A.s had taken for granted.

Lots of guys like Aaron had moved to L.A. from their midwestern hometowns with dreams of doing special effects in Hollywood only to discover those jobs weren’t easy to come by. Now Aaron worked as her P.A. and ran her Web site. In his free time, he played video games and ate junk food.

Aaron shook Bram’s hand, then gestured toward the sound system, which rested in a rough-hewn cabinet with doors that looked as though they’d come from a Spanish mission. “I’ve read about these. How long have you had it?”

“I put it in last year. Do you want a demo?”

While Aaron explored the gadgetry, Georgie investigated the empty room around the corner where she’d decided to set up her office. Eventually Aaron joined her, and they decided what pieces of furniture she needed from storage. After they’d made plans to close up her rental house and drafted a letter for her fan Web site, Georgie told Aaron to cancel the various meetings and appointments
she’d intended to get out of the way before she left for her six-month vacation.

She’d planned to travel in Europe—staying away from big cities to drive around the countryside. She’d envisioned poking into small towns, hiking on ancient pathways, and maybe, just maybe, finding herself. But her journey of self-discovery had taken a far more treacherous path.

“I finally understand why you’re taking six months off,” Aaron said. “Good plan. With nothing on your schedule, you’ll be able to enjoy a long honeymoon.”

Some honeymoon.

She and Lance had stayed in a private villa in Tuscany that had looked out over an olive grove. Lance had gotten restless after a few days, but she’d loved the place.

She’d barely thought of her ex-husband all morning, which had to be a record. As Aaron got ready to leave, Chaz came through the foyer, and Georgie introduced them. “This is Aaron Wiggins, my personal assistant. Aaron, Chaz is Bram’s housekeeper.”

Chaz swept her black-rimmed eyes from Aaron’s wiry hair to the straining buttons on his checked dress shirt to his pudding tummy and black, wedged-sole sneakers. She curled her lip. “Stay out of the refrigerator, okay? It’s off-limits.”

Aaron turned red, and Georgie wanted to slap her.

“If I have to make a choice between you and Chaz, Chaz wins hands down.”

“As long as Aaron’s working for me,” Georgie said firmly, “he has free run of the house. I’ll expect you to make him comfortable.”

“Good luck with that.” Chaz flounced away with the watering can.

“What’s with her?” Aaron said.

“She’s having a little problem adjusting to the fact that Bram’s married. Don’t take any crap from her.” It was good advice, but Georgie had a hard time imagining mild-mannered Aaron holding his own against Bram’s viper-tongued twenty-year-old housekeeper.

After Aaron left, Georgie went outside, looking for Bram. They had plans to make, and he’d put her off long enough. She followed the gurgle of water to a small, irregularly shaped swimming pool tucked away in a private nook behind swaying grasses and a live oak. A four-foot waterfall splashing over shiny black rocks at one end added to the sense of seclusion.

She moved on and found him locked in his office. He was talking on the phone again, and when she rattled the handle to get in, he turned his back on her. She tried to eavesdrop through the glass but couldn’t make out what he was saying. He hung up and started pecking away at his keyboard. She couldn’t imagine what Bram was doing with a computer. Come to think of it, what was he doing out of bed before four in the afternoon?

“Let me in.”

“Can’t,” he called out without breaking rhythm. “I’m too busy looking up ways to spend your money.”

She didn’t take the bait. Instead, she started singing “Your Body Is a Wonderland” and tapping out a bass line on the glass panes until he couldn’t stand it any longer and finally ambled over to open one door. “This better not take long. Those hookers I hired will be here any minute.”

“Good to know.” She stepped inside and nodded toward his computer. “While you’ve been drooling over pictures of naked cheerleaders, I’ve been working on our reentry into the world. You might want to take notes.” She sat on the saggy brown couch underneath Marlon Brando and crossed her legs. “You have a Web site, right? I wrote a letter from both of us to post for our fans.” She lost her train of thought as Bram propped his elbows on his desk. Skip had a desk, not Bram. Skip also had a good education, a sense of purpose, and a strong moral fiber.

She pulled herself back together. “Aaron made dinner reservations for us tomorrow night at Mr. Chow. It’ll be a zoo, but I think it’s the fastest way for us to—”

“A letter to our fans and dinner at Mr. Chow? There’s some powerful original thinking. What else’ve you got?”

“Lunch at the Chateau on Wednesday, then dinner at Il Sole on Thursday. There’s a big Alzheimer’s benefit in a couple of weeks. A charity ball is right after that. We eat, we smile, we pose.”

“No balls. None.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Have you talked to a doctor?”

His smile curled like a snake’s tail over shiny white teeth. “I’m going to have a great time spending that fifty thousand you’re paying me every month to endure your company.”

He had no shame. She watched him prop his feet on the edge of his desk. “That’s it then?” he said. “Your plan for how we make a splash? We go out to eat.”

“I suppose we could follow your example and pick up a couple of DUIs, but that seems a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“Cute.” He dropped his feet to the floor. “We’re throwing a party.”

She’d almost been enjoying herself, but now she regarded him suspiciously. “What kind of party?”

“A big, expensive party to celebrate getting married, what the hell do you think? Six weeks from now, maybe two months. Long enough to get out the invitations and build anticipation, but not long enough for the public to lose interest in our great love story. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You thought this up on your own?”

“I’m pretty creative when I’m wasted.”

“You hate anything formal. You used to show up barefoot for the network affiliate parties.” And so gorgeously dissipated every woman in the room had wanted him.

“I promise I’ll wear shoes. Get your guy to find a good party planner. The theme is obvious.”

She uncrossed her legs. “What do you mean, the theme is obvious? It’s not obvious to me.”

“That’s because you don’t drink enough to think creatively.”

“Enlighten me.”

“
Skip and Scooter,
of course. What else?”

She came up off the couch. “A
Skip and Scooter
theme? Are you nuts?”

“We’ll ask everybody to dress in costume. Either like the Scofields or the Scofield servants. Upstairs or downstairs.”