What I Did for Love

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.

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