What I Did for Love by Susan Elizabeth Phillips
“I noticed.”
“The way I grew up—if you had money, you spent it. I loved every second.”
But his pleasure had come at the expense of so many other people. She shoved up the sleeves of her sweater. “A lot of people paid a big price for your fun. The cast, the crew.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve got me there.”
“You paid a price, too.”
“And you won’t hear me complaining about it.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
His head came up. “Shit.”
“What—?”
He pulled her hard against him and crushed her mouth in a fiery kiss. One hand slipped under her T-shirt at the small of her back, the other cradled her hip. A wave caught them, and the surf swirled around their ankles. Perfect moonlit passion.
“Cameras.” He ground the word against her lips as if she hadn’t already figured that out.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her head. Had they really thought they’d have privacy, even on a supposedly private beach? The jackals always found a way in. She wondered how much the pictures would bring. A lot.
Their kiss grew hotter. Deeper. Her breasts flattened against his chest, and the tips began to tingle. She felt him growing hard.
He settled his thumb into the soft flesh along her spine. Forced his thigh between her legs. “I’m going to feel you up now.” His hand moved over her rib cage to her breast. The hand no photographer could see. He caressed her through her bra, and dirty little cesspools of illicit arousal swirled through her body. It had been a long time, and this was safe, because it was all so phony. And because it would only go as far as she let it.
His fingers traced the swells of her breasts above the cups, and he whispered against her lips, “When we stop playing games, I’m going to take you so hard and so deep you’ll want it to last forever.”
His crude words sent a surge of heat sizzling through her, and she didn’t feel one bit guilty about it. They had no personal relationship. This was purely physical. Bram could be a stud she’d hired for the night.
But a stud went home when he’d done his job, and she reluctantly extracted herself from his arms. “Okay, I’m bored.”
His fingers brushed her hardened nipple before he stepped away. “I can tell.”
The breeze lifted her hair from the back of her neck and left a trail of goose bumps behind. She pulled her sweater tighter around her. “Well, you’re no Hugh Grant, but your technique has definitely improved from the bad old days.”
“Glad to hear it.”
She didn’t like that silky note in his voice. “Let’s go back,” she said. “I’m getting cold.”
“I can fix that.”
She’d just bet he could. “About that woman you were talking to on your cell today…” She walked faster.
“Are we back to that again?”
“You should know…If I die while we’re married, all my money goes either to charity or to my father.”
He came to a dead stop. “I don’t exactly see the connection.”
“You wouldn’t get a penny.” She picked up her pace. “I’m not making any accusations, just setting the record straight in case you and the friend you were talking to on the phone start thinking about how much fun you could have living off my money.”
She was mainly being a smart-ass to irritate him. Still, Bram was broke and had no morals, so she felt marginally better for having made sure he understood there was no advantage in plotting her premature death.
His heels kicked up the sand as he closed the distance between them. “You’re an idiot.”
“Just covering my bases.”
He grabbed her hand, more like a prison warden’s than a lover’s. “For your information, there was no camera. I just wanted to get my kicks.”
“And for your information…I knew there wasn’t a camera, and I wanted a few kicks myself.” She hadn’t known, but she should have suspected.
The breeze sighed, the waves lapped. She wasn’t done antagonizing him, and she leaned against his arm. “Skip and Scooter, together in the moonlight. How romantic.”
He retaliated by whistling “Tomorrow” from Annie, just the way he used to do whenever he wanted to piss her off.
Chapter 9
Georgie waited until the next morning when she heard Bram go into the workout room. She headed for the dining room, grabbed the key she’d seen him toss into a brass dish on the bookshelves, and made her way out to his office in the guesthouse. She still couldn’t get used to Bram having an office instead of conducting his business from a bar stool.
As she moved along the gravel path, she thought about how different Bram’s sexual aggression was from what she’d experienced with Lance. Her ex-husband had wanted her to be the seductress, and that’s exactly what she’d tried to do. She’d read a dozen sex manuals and bought the most erotic lingerie she could find, no matter how much it pinched. She’d performed stripteases that left her feeling stupid, whispered male fantasies in his ear that turned her off, and tried to find inventive lovemaking locales to keep things fresh. He’d seemed appreciative and always said he was satisfied, but obviously she’d come up short or he wouldn’t have left her for Jade Gentry.
She’d worked too hard to have failed so miserably. Sex might be easy for some women, but it was complicated for her, and just thinking about the quandary she found herself in with Bram made her queasy. Bram wasn’t going to give up sex. He’d either have it with her or with someone else. Maybe both.
She’d promised herself she’d face her problems head-on, but they’d only been married five days, and she needed some time to figure this one out.
She unlocked his office and turned on his computer. As she waited for it to boot up, she began searching his bookshelves. She had to know right now whether the reunion show was a figment of Bram’s imagination or something more tangible.
She found a diverse book collection and an eclectic pile of scripts, but none of them for a Skip and Scooter reunion show. She spotted assorted DVDs ranging from Raging Bull to something called Sex Trek: The Next Penetration. His file cabinets were locked, but not his desk, and that’s where she discovered a manuscript box under a bottle of scotch. It was taped shut. The label read skip and scooter: the reunion.
She was stunned. She’d hoped Bram had made this up to needle her. He knew doing a reunion movie would be a huge career setback for her, so why did he think he could convince her to go along with it?
She didn’t like the only answer she could come up with. Blackmail. He might threaten to walk out on their marriage if she didn’t go along with the project. But dumping her would put a stop to the money train, as well as making him look like an ass, although he might not care about that. Still…She remembered the way he’d behaved around Rory Keene. Maybe he cared more about his image than he’d led her to believe.
“What are you doing in here?”
Her head shot up, and she saw Chaz standing in the doorway looking like the love child of Martha Stewart and Joey Ramone. Her housekeeper’s uniform for the day consisted of holey jeans, olive tank top, and black flip-flops. Georgie pushed the drawer closed with her foot. Since she couldn’t conjure up a reasonable explanation, she decided to turn the tables. “Better question—what are you doing?”
Chaz’s dark-rimmed eyes narrowed with hostility. “Bram doesn’t like strangers in his office. You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m not a stranger. I’m his wife.” Words she’d never expected to hear coming out of her mouth.
“He doesn’t even let the cleaning people in here.” Chaz lifted her chin. “I’m the only one.”
“You’re very loyal. What’s that about, anyway?”
She pulled a broom from a small closet. “It’s my job.”
Georgie couldn’t snoop through his computer files now, so she began to leave, but as she got up, she spotted a video camera sitting on the corner of the desk. Chaz began to sweep the floor. Georgie ex
Chaz stopped sweeping. “Don’t mess with that.”
Georgie impulsively turned the camera on Chaz and hit the record button. “Why do you care so much?”
Chaz pulled the broom handle to her chest. “What are you doing?”
“I’m curious about your loyalty.”
“Turn that off.”
Georgie brought her into sharper focus. Beneath the piercings and scowl, Chaz had delicate, almost fragile, features. She’d pulled one side of her chopped hair away from her eyes with a small silver barrette, and the other side stood out in a spiky tuft above her ear. Chaz’s hostile independence fascinated Georgie. She couldn’t imagine having that kind of freedom from caring what other people thought. “I guess you’re the only person in L.A. who doesn’t love a camera,” Georgie said. “No ambitions to be an actress? That’s why most girls come here.”
“Me? No. And how do you know I haven’t always lived here?”
“Just a feeling.” Through the viewer, Georgie could see tension tightening the corners of Chaz’s small mouth. “Most twenty-year-olds would be bored with a job like yours.”
Chaz gripped the broom tighter, almost as if it were a weapon. “I like my job. You probably think housework isn’t important.”
Georgie quoted her father. “I think a job is what a person makes of it.”
The camera had subtly altered the relationship between them, and for the first time since they’d met, Chaz looked uncertain. “People should do what they’re good at,” she finally said. “I’m good at this.” She tried to return to sweeping, but the camera was clearly bothering her. “Turn that thing off.”
“How did it happen?” Georgie edged around the corner of the desk to keep her in the frame. “How did you learn to run a house at such a young age?”
Chaz jabbed at a corner. “Just something I did.” Georgie waited, and to her surprise, Chaz went on. “My stepmom worked at a motel outside Barstow. Twelve units with a diner. Are you going to turn that off?”
“In a minute.” The camera made some people clam up and others talk. Apparently Chaz was one of the latter. Georgie took another step to the side. “You worked there?”
“Sometimes. She liked to party, and she didn’t always get home in time to go to work the next day. When that happened, I skipped school and went in for her.”
Georgie zoomed in on the girl’s face, taking advantage of having the upper hand. “How old were you?”
“I don’t know. Eleven or something.” She went over the same place she’d just swept. “The guy who owned the place didn’t care how old I was as long as the work got done, and I did a better job than her.”
The camera recorded facts. It didn’t offer an opinion about an eleven-year-old doing manual labor. “How did you feel about missing school?” The low-battery light came on.
Chaz shrugged. “We needed the money.”
“The work must have been hard.”
“There were good parts.”
“Like what?”
Chaz continued poking at the same spot on the floor. “I don’t know.” She leaned the broom against the wall and picked up a dust rag.
Georgie gave her a gentle prod. “I can’t imagine there were too many good parts.”
Chaz slid the rag over a bookshelf. “Sometimes a family checked into a room with a couple of kids. Maybe they’d order pizza or bring burgers back from the diner, and the kids might spill something on the rug. The place would be a big mess.” She concentrated on dusting the same book. “Trash and food everywhere. Sheets on the floor. All the towels used up. But by the time I left, everything would be neat again.” Her shoulder blades slammed together and she threw down the rag. “This is bullshit. I’ve got work to do. I’ll come back when you’re out of here.” She stalked away just as the camera ran out of power.
Georgie released the breath she’d been holding. Chaz would never have told her so much without the presence of the camera. As she pulled out the tape and slipped it in her pocket, she felt the same kind of rush she used to experience after she’d nailed a challenging acting scene.
That night, she found the world’s most disgusting sandwich waiting for her: a towering monstrosity constructed with slabs of bread, thick wedges of meat, rivers of mayo, and half a dozen slices of cheese. She pulled it apart, fixed herself a simpler sandwich, and ate alone on the veranda. She didn’t see Bram for the rest of the evening.
The next day Aaron handed over the new issue of Flash. One of Mel Duffy’s balcony photos graced the cover along with blaring headlines:
The Marriage That Shocked the World!
Exclusive Photos of Skip and Scooter’s Honeymoon Bliss
In the picture, Bram held her in his arms, her gauzy white skirt draping his sleeves, the two of them gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. Her wedding photo with Lance had appeared on this same cover, but the genuine newlyweds hadn’t looked nearly as love-dazzled as these phony ones.
She should have felt good. There were no pity headlines, only rapturous copy.
Georgie York’s fans were stunned by her shocking Las Vegas elopement with former Skip and Scooter costar, bad boy Bramwell Shepard. “They’ve been secretly dating for months,” Georgie’s BFF April Robillard Patriot said. “They’re delirious with happiness, and we’re all overjoyed.”
Georgie sent a silent thank-you April’s way and skimmed the rest of the article.
…publicist dismisses stories of a bitter feud between the Skip and Scooter costars. “They were never enemies. Bram cleaned up his act a long time ago.”
What a lie.
Friends say the couple has a lot in common…
Other than mutual hatred, Georgie couldn’t think of a thing, and she tossed the magazine aside.
With nothing productive to do, she wandered into the living room and picked some dead leaves off the lemon tree. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bram go into the kitchen, probably for a refill. She didn’t want him to think she was deliberately avoiding him, even though she was, so she pulled her cell from her pocket and called him. “You won this house in a poker game, didn’t you? It explains so much.”
“Like?”
“Great decorating, beautiful landscaping, books with words and not just pictures. But, never mind…Skip and Scooter need to make another public appearance today. How about a coffee run?”
“Okay with me.” He wandered into the dining room, his phone cupped to his ear. He wore jeans and a vintage Nirvana T-shirt. “Why are you calling me as opposed to talking to me directly?”
She switched her own phone to the other ear. “I’ve decided we communicate better from a distance.”
“Since when? Oh, I remember. Since two nights ago when I kissed you on the beach.” He leaned against the doorframe and eye-smoldered her. “I can tell by the way you’ve been looking at me. I turn you on, and that scares the hell out of you.”
“You’re gorgeous, and I can be something of a slut, so how could I help myself?” She cradled the phone closer to her ear. “Fortunately, your personality totally cancels out the effect. The reason I’m calling you—”
“Instead of walking across the room and talking to me face-to-face…”
“—is because this is a business relationship, and—”
“Since when is a marriage a business relationship?”
That made her mad, and she flipped her phone shut. “Since you conned me into paying you fifty thousand dollars a month.”
“Good point.” He pocketed his own phone and wandered toward her. “I hear the Loser didn’t give you a penny in the divorce.”
Georgie could have gotten millions in guilt money from Lance, but for what? She hadn’t wanted his money. She’d wanted him. “Who needs more money? Oops…You do.”
“I have some calls to make,” he said. “Give me half an hour.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans. “One mor
She flipped open the box and saw a three-carat cushion-cut diamond. “Wow. A fake diamond to go with a fake husband. Works for me.” She slipped it on.
“That’s a bigger stone than the ring you got from the Loser, the cheap bastard.”
“Except his was real.”
“Like his wedding vows?”
Some self-delusional part of her still wanted to believe the best of the man who’d left her, but she suppressed the urge to leap to Lance’s defense. “I’ll treasure it always,” she drawled as she slipped past him and went upstairs.
She consulted April’s three-ring binder and chose cotton poplin pants and a ruched, moss green top with small puffy sleeves. She added Tory Burch ballet flats but bypassed the three-thousand-dollar designer purse April recommended. Fans didn’t realize those obscenely expensive purses their favorite celebrities carted around so carelessly were freebies, and Georgie had gotten fed up with being part of the conspiracy to make ordinary women overspend on an “it” bag that would be replaced by another “it” bag before their credit cards came due. Instead, she dug out a funky fabric purse Sasha had given her last year.
She did her hair, fixed her makeup, and had to choke back her resentment when she went downstairs and saw Bram standing in the foyer wearing exactly the same jeans and Nirvana T-shirt he’d had on earlier. As far as she could see, he hadn’t done one thing to get ready for the photographers, and even more aggravating, he hadn’t needed to do anything. His beard stubble was as photo worthy as his crisp, rumpled hair. Another sign of Hollywood’s conspiracy against its female celebrities.
He fingered the card tucked into an extravagant flower arrangement sitting on the credenza. “How did you and Rory Keene get to be such buddies?”
“Is that from her?”
“She wishes us the best. Correct me if I’m wrong, but she seems to take a special interest in you.”