What I Did for Love

“Unprofessional, I’ll admit. But you kept your nose buried in books, so you should thank me for your superior education.”

“And for your sleazeball behavior that got us canceled and cost me millions.”

“You? What about the millions I cost myself?”

“At least I can feel good about that.”

“Okay, my turn…” His smile had a silky edge. “You were a stuck-up little prude, sweetheart, and a big-time tattletale. Whenever you had the tiniest gripe, you made sure Daddy Paul ran to the producers and raised a stink. His little princess had to have everything her way.”

Her mouth remained curled, but her eyes flashed outrage. “That is so not true.”

“And you were a selfish actor. You always had to stick to the script, no room for improvisation. It was suffocating.” He chucked her under the chin again.

She kicked him hard on the inside of his calf where no one could see. He winced, and she patted his hand. “You only wanted to improvise because you didn’t have your lines memorized.”

“Whenever I tried to push the show out of its comfort zone, you sabotaged me.”

“Disagreement isn’t sabotage.”

“You trashed me in the press.”

“Only after your sex tape!”

“Some sex tape. I had my clothes on.”

“She didn’t!” Georgie reinforced her own slipping smile. “Say what you really mean. You hated that I made more money than you and that I had more star power.”

“Oh, yes. How could I forget your memorable turn on Broadway as Annie?”

“While you were ditching school and hanging out on street corners.” She propped her chin on the back of her hand. “Did you ever get that high school diploma?”

“Well, well…Isn’t this interesting?”

They’d been so absorbed in their argument, they hadn’t noticed the tall, cool blonde approaching their table. Rory Keene, with her classic French twist and long, patrician features, looked more like an East Coast socialite than a powerful studio executive, but even during her single season as a lowly production assistant on Skip and Scooter, she’d been a little intimidating.

Bram shot to his feet and planted a cool kiss on her cheek. “Rory, it’s great to see you. You look beautiful, as always. Did you enjoy your lunch?”

“Very much. I can’t believe the two of you are sitting at the same table without a loaded weapon.”

“Mine’s in my purse,” Georgie said with a Scooter grin.

Bram curled his hand around Georgie’s shoulder. “Water under the bridge. We made peace a long time ago.”

“Really?” Rory slipped her purse higher on her arm and gave Bram a long, hard stare. “Take care of Georgie. This town has a limited supply of nice people, and we can’t afford to lose one of them.” With a nod, she turned away and headed across the patio.

Bram’s smooth smile faded. He glared down at Georgie. “When did you and Rory get to be such good buddies?”

“We’re not.”

Without excusing himself, he headed across the patio after Rory.

Being with Bram was as draining as ever, and Georgie welcomed having a few minutes to recharge. The dessert arrived. Her stomach rebelled. She averted her eyes and thought about the day her father had given her the pilot script for Skip and Scooter. She’d had no idea her life was about to change forever.

The show’s silly premise had been perfect sitcom fare. Scooter Brown was a spunky fourteen-year-old orphan who showed up at the luxurious Scofield mansion on Chicago’s posh North Shore. Scooter was trying to stay out of foster care by locating a stepsister who’d once worked there, but the stepsister had long since disappeared. With no place to go, Scooter had hidden out at the mansion only to be discovered by stuffy, fifteen-year-old Skip, the heir to the Scofield fortune. He, along with the servants, became unwillingly involved in a plot to hide her from the Scofield adults.

No one had expected the show to last more than a season, but the cast had exceptional chemistry, and the show’s writing staff had come up with inventive plots. More important, they’d managed to deepen the core characters beyond their initial stereotypes.

Georgie gave Bram a vicious smile. “Finished sucking up to Rory?”

“I went out to buy cigarettes.”

“Sure you did.”

“To buy cigarettes and suck up. I like to multitask. Is our lunch from hell finally over?”

“Before it even began.”

Bram insisted on waiting inside with her until the valet brought her car. She braced herself, and, sure enough, as soon as they hit the sidewalk, the jackals surrounded them. Bram slipped a supposedly protective arm around her shoulders-she wanted to bite it off-held up his hand, and gave the cameras his dazzling smile. “Just a couple of old friends getting together for lunch,” he said over their shouts. “Don’t make anything more out of it.”

“You guys are supposed to hate each other.”

“Have you buried the hatchet?”

“Are you dating?”

“Georgie, have you talked to Lance? Does he know you’re seeing Bram?”

Bram assumed an unhappy expression she knew was totally phony. “Give us a break, guys. It’s only lunch. And don’t pay any attention to those rumors about a Skip and Scooter reunion show. It’s not going to happen.”

Reunion show?

The paps went nuts.

“Is there a script?”

“Has the rest of the cast signed on?”

“When are you going to shoot?”

Bram muscled her through the crowd to her car. She tried to slam his fingers in the door, but he was too quick. As she pulled away, she made herself smile and wave to the cameras, but the moment she was out of sight, she let out a scream.

There was no reunion show, rumored or otherwise. Bram had made it up to punish her.

Chapter 3

On Saturday morning Georgie parked her car just off Temescal Canyon Road, sliding in behind a dusty blue Bentley and a red Benz Roadster. With the paparazzi still asleep from last night’s club action, she didn’t have any unwelcome escorts. “You’re late!” Sasha said as Georgie got out. “Too busy smooching it up with Bramwell Shepard?”

“Yeah, that’s what I was doing, all right.” Georgie slammed the car door.

Sasha laughed. She looked incredible as always, tall and willowy in a white L.A.M.B. hoodie and gray pants. She’d pulled her straight brunette hair into a ponytail and shaded her face with a pink visor.

“Ignore Sasha.” April, the oldest and only truly sane member of her inner friendship circle, wore a black T-shirt from her husband’s last tour. “She just drove up thirty seconds ago.”

“I overslept,” Sasha said. “Young people do that.”

April was in her early fifties, with beautiful bold features, a dramatic square-jawed face, and a glow that spoke of well-earned contentment. She’d been Georgie’s stylist for years, but even more important, she was a dear friend. April tossed her streaky blond hair and gave Sasha a sweet smile. “I slept like a dream. But then I had hot sex last night.”

Sasha frowned. “Yeah, well, I’d have had hot sex, too, if I was married to Jack Patriot.”