A Killer Plot (2010)

Chapter 2

Always do sober what you said youd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.

—ERNEST HEMINGWAY

Olivia turned the skeleton key in the door and paused. After so much time she wondered what sights awaited her within the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, the home of her childhood. Thirty years had passed since Grandmother Limoges had descended on Oyster Bay, swooped up her only grandchild, and installed her in one of the country’s most elite, all-girl boarding schools.

Before then, she had been an unheeded and unhindered ten-year-old girl named Livie. A girl raised by her fisherman father. Or the girl who raised herself, as some of the townsfolk whispered.

Twisting the key farther, Olivia heard the click of the lock releasing. As she eased the door open, she half-expected a rush of whiskey-tinged air and lost dreams to burst out through the crack and knock her to the ground, but only a wisp of decay escaped from within.

“Come along, Haviland,” Olivia whispered, irritated by the hush in her voice. “Run ahead and make sure there are no vermin waiting to scurry across my feet.”

Pleased to obey, the poodle rushed into the house, barking a warning to any rodents or insects that would certainly have grown bold enough to claim proprietorship over the abandoned cottage.

Dust. Olivia walked over a solid film of the stuff, formed by layer upon layer of dirt, mold, spiderwebs, and time. Glad she had had the foresight to don her rubber boots before entering the house, she took several steps into the hall and turned right into the living room.

Olivia surveyed the room quickly, trying to keep the memories of moments spent in this space at bay. Her attempts were futile, of course, and the dark gloom seeped into her being and reduced her to the motherless child who spent her days in solitude, battling feelings of perpetual trepidation and oppressive isolation.

There was not enough natural light to banish the shadows. It took the full measure of Olivia’s arrested will to wrench the faded plaid curtains right off the rods. They pooled on the floor in clouds of dust, allowing the sun to illuminate the bloodred walls, the faded green fabric on the drooping sofa, the broken rung of the wooden ladder-back chair that had once been Olivia’s assigned seat, and her father’s prized collection of maritime art.

“How I hated these,” she told Haviland, yet she couldn’t refrain from reexamining the paintings. These were not scenes of pleasure cruises on flat, cerulean waters, but schooners with rent sails or shabby fishing trawlers being tossed about in angry oceans of black waves. An element of violence permeated each picture. Even in the few paintings depicting calm skies and still seas, the hint of a dorsal fin or a low bank of menacing thunderclouds implied imminent danger.

“I hate them still,” she murmured.

Olivia returned to the central hallway, the floorboards groaning as she stepped on their warped wood. The door to the back bedroom was closed and Olivia paused with her hand on the knob. She’d buried her girlhood history beneath layers of travel, education, a razor-sharp business acumen, and by keeping her relationships casual. A few weeks of dinners in five-star restaurants, an opera or a play, perhaps an art gallery opening and then, eventually, sex. But as soon as the man indicated an interest in taking things to the next level by producing a family member for Olivia to meet or a request that they spend the night at her place instead of his, she’d break off the relationship with the swift definiteness of an executioner. Thus, unwounded and thoroughly in control, Olivia would retreat to familiar solitude.

That won’t work in this town, she thought as she stared at the shut door. They already know my secret, so I’m vulnerable here. She sighed. If truly returned to exhume the past-scatter it like ashes—and get beyond chapter five once and for all, I must start with this room.

Another breath of imprisoned air swirled around her knees as she entered her old room.

With one glance, it would have been obvious to the most witless bystander that this space belonged to a neglected child.

There was a cot pushed against the far wall—the kind of cot that folds in half and can be stored in a closet, that squeaks each time one shifts during sleep, and that has probing springs to dig into one’s back and prevent sweet dreams from ever approaching too near. There was a comforter stained by mildew, a circle of black mold on the ceiling above the bed, and a lamp stalk filled by a cracked lightbulb positioned on top of an overturned wooden crate.

A three-tiered bookshelf near the door held an assortment of wrecked books. They were used to begin with, bought at library sales or from Goodwill, and reread so often that the pages were as supple as tissue paper. Below the single window, covered by an old crib sheet embellished by faded yellowed mermaids, was a dollhouse.

Olivia and her mother had built the dollhouse from a kit bought at the Five and Dime. During a rainy spring week, they’d glued, painted, and decorated the diminutive Victorian mansion. Now, its royal purple clapboard and ivory gingerbread had faded to a sickly lavender and brown.

Easing the front open, Olivia was unsurprised to find the interior riddled with spiderwebs and the carcasses of moths and beetles. The doll family had long since been removed from the house and all the furniture was gone, save for a four-poster bed and a claw-foot tub.

“Please. Be here,” Olivia whispered hopefully and then stuck her fingers into the oversized fireplace located in the formal front parlor. She grasped a faux brass andiron and pulled—the motion as familiar to her as though she’d repeated it yesterday. The entire fireplace came away in her hand, revealing a small hidden cavity. Inside, there was a square of wax paper, which Olivia unfolded in hurried movements. Holding the treasure to the dust-filtered light, she sighed with relief.

Her eyes ran over the contours of the gold starfish pendant while her fingertips unclasped the fine gold chain. She bent her head, enjoying the feel of the cool gold against the back of her neck and the weight of the starfish as it nestled into the soft depression of flesh between her collarbones.

“Mother.” She closed her eyes and cried silently for a little while. The dull ache in her heart throbbed to life and the image of her mother—tan, freckled, and laughing as she leapt through a fan of sprinkler water—appeared before Olivia’s eyes. It was one of the last times they’d been together, and Olivia remembered the ghost of a rainbow shimmering in the water’s mist, her mother’s long legs severing the colors, only to discover they’d re-formed instantaneously in her wake.

Olivia stood, thinking that her few precious memories of her mother were as ephemeral as that summer rainbow. Wiping her eyes, she brushed off the dirt clinging to her knees and pulled out her cell phone. “Enough!” she declared as she began to punch in numbers.

That woman in the food market was right, she thought. The people of Oyster Bay saved my life. They found me on that boat and cared for me until Grandmother came. Devitalizing abandoned buildings, hiring the jobless, and opening the finest restaurant this place has ever seen has made me wealthier but I’ve done nothing selfless to repay that debt.

She listened to the cell phone ring. “Oyster Bay can have this house. As soon as I’ve expunged its history.”

A man’s voice burst a greeting through her phone’s speaker and she walked out of her little girl bedroom without looking back, the only treasure left within its confines now safely hidden beneath her shirt. “Clive? It’s Olivia. Listen, I’d like you to halt your work on the King Street building for the moment. Something more pressing has come up. Can you meet me at the lighthouse keeper’s cottage right away?” She paused, listening to him ask what she had in mind.

“A total overhaul. New roof, siding, flooring, plumbing, you name it. And Clive”—she walked out of the house and didn’t bother to shut the door—“I need it fast.”

Several weeks later she called Camden Ford and offered the Bayside Book Writers the use of the banquet room of her restaurant, The Boot Top Bistro.

“Just this once,” she informed him firmly. “By your next meeting, I’ll have arranged for a more permanent gathering place.”

“Splendid!” Camden gushed. “And will your supple slave girl be making her debut at our meeting? Kamila, Queen of the Harem! Ruler of Pharaoh’s ruler.” He chuckled wickedly.

Olivia smiled at the other end of the phone. Ever since she’d put on her mother’s necklace and awoke each morning to the sounds of hammering, nail guns, shouting, swearing, and salsa music coming from the crew working on the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, she’d felt lighter in spirit than she had in years, but there were limits to how much change she could handle at once. “I think I’ll stick to eavesdropping,” she replied, though part of her longed to take a risk and open her work up to criticism. “I’m not quite ready to commit”

“I suspect you’ve said that phrase many times in your life,” Camden commented without judgment. “Darling, life is messy, but sometimes it’s fun to get a little dirty. Spread your wings, jump off the diving board, make mud pies—I’ll keep going with these clichés until you agree.”

“Save them for your book,” Olivia parried playfully and then changed the subject. “What about food?”

“Oh, whip us up some tapas-type tidbits,” Camden ordered casually. “I’ll treat this time, since we’ll be celebrating our freedom from all things Andrew Lloyd Webber.”

They discussed the meeting time and then said good-bye, but not before Camden threatened to call Fodor’s and AAA and complain about cutting his tongue on a shard of shell found in The Boot Top’s clam chowder if Olivia didn’t agree to become a member of the Bayside Book Writers.

Olivia hissed, “You wouldn’t!”

“I won’t, because you’re going to be at the meeting. I won’t make you read this time, but consider it your only reprieve.” Olivia heard the smile in Camden’s voice. “I told you, my blond Amazon, we need one another.”

Feeling momentarily expansive, Olivia answered, “As I’m being forced against my will, then I might as well see to the drinks. I can’t sit through any more heaving bosoms without bourbon.”

“Purely medicinal,” Camden agreed readily and hung up.

A few evenings later, Olivia realized that the food she had chosen to serve the writers was completely wrong.

Michel, her chef, had outdone himself in producing a selection of succulent hors d’oeuvres. When a waiter had delivered the polished silver trays laden with black truffle canapes, smoked salmon roulades, prosciutto and gruyere pinwheels, shrimp won tons, and lamb meatballs in a pinot noir sauce, Olivia had been pleased with the artistic arrangement of the epicurean fare. But for a reason she could not fathom, the food had barely been touched by the author hopefuls gathered in the private banquet room.

Should I have served beer instead of wine? Olivia second-guessed her decision to decant two bottles of Meritage. Were the vintages too cigar box to the taste, too fruity, or overly hefty for her guests’ palates? They had barely sipped from their Reidel tumblers.

Olivia’s hands itched to be wrapped around a glass filled with half a finger’s worth of twenty-five-year-old Chivas Regal, her customary evening intoxicant. Having become rather immune to the comfort or contentment of other people (unless they were patrons of The Boot Top), Olivia found her desire to gratify these strangers unsettling.

I should have ordered Dominos and served wine in the box, she thought, growing more irritated by the moment. The silence in the room was cloying and she distracted herself by fiddling with the floral centerpiece. That done, she checked her watch again. Where the hell is Ford?

“I suppose we should tell you who we are.” The husky, melodious voice emanated from the exotic, part-Asian beauty whose black hair was now pink striped. Her dark brows were pierced with rows of silver hoops and she wore a diamond nose stud. She was attired in a short plaid skirt, a faded Hello Kitty shirt, and black leather boots. “Name’s Millay Hallowell. Twenty-four years old, artist, and bartender. I’m writing a young adult fantasy novel. You know—the spicy kind where a bunch of sheltered virgins get raped by satyrs and stuff.”

“Did I hear someone mention being ravished by goat boys?” Camden Ford inquired as he breezed into the room. “How delicious!”

A faint blush tinged Millay’s cheeks as she crossed her arms over her chest and tried to look tough.

“Doing introductions, are we? Excellent! Who’s next?” Camden gestured at the young man resembling Peter Pan.

“Um.” He looked at Olivia as his fingers mangled a gruyere pinwheel. “I’m Harris Williams.” He pushed a wave of soft hair from his forehead. “I’m into computers. I create graphics for fantasy games. I’ve got the best job in the world. Flexible hours, a good salary, and I have a lot in common with my coworkers. We’re all pretty smart but we don’t have the greatest people skills.”

“Imagine that,” Camden teased. “Go on, man, before the food gets cold.”

“Sorry. Um, I’m a sci-fi guy. My book’s about the imminent destruction of the Planet Zulton. A group of one hundred Zultons have been chosen to start a new colony on the planet Remus. Their leader is a warrior princess named Zenobia.” Noticing the confused looks of his audience, Harris hurriedly concluded. “Anyway, a spacecraft carrying convicts destined for a life sentence of hard labor crash lands on Zulton and these guys kill a bunch of the Chosen Ones. Zenobia and one of the criminals—”

“Very Flash Gordon, isn’t it!” Camden arched an eyebrow for Olivia’s benefit and then directed his attention to a flustered woman in her early thirties. “And you’ve already had the pleasure of listening to some of Laurel’s work. Give Olivia the 411 on your exciting life, my dear.”

The woman giggled. “I don’t know about exciting, but my name’s Laurel Hobbs. I’m a stay-at-home mom with twin boys. Dallas and Dermot. They’re twenty-seven months and a real handful. You’ve probably heard us in the grocery store.” Even her laugh, high and melodious, was lovely. “I try to write when they’re napping, but it’s hard to find the time with laundry and making dinner and all the errands. The twins are at such a demanding age, but I think they’re just naughty because they’re so smart. Would you like to see a picture of them?” she asked Olivia and began fumbling beneath her chair. “I have a whole bunch in my purse.”

Olivia stared at her in horror. Camden quickly intervened before Laurel could locate her purse. “Tell our hostess about your writing, darling.”

Laurel blinked. “Oh, right!” she exclaimed with another nervous giggle. “My dream is to write romance novels. Like Nora Roberts or Danielle Steel. I’ve wanted to write books like theirs ever since I read my first romance in high school.”

Camden smiled benevolently at Laurel and then gestured at Olivia. “You’re at bat. Swing away.”

Olivia smoothed the tablecloth. She’d never told anyone but Dixie about her novel and wondered what the others would think of her story line. Taking a deep breath, she tersely explained, “My manuscript in progress is a work of historical fiction. It’s set in ancient Egypt and focuses on the struggles of a young concubine in the household of Ramses the Great.”

“The little slut!” Camden poured himself a glass of wine. “Your Egyptian vixen would fit right in with my troupe of thinly veiled fictional celebrities. Yes, indeed. I know the real man my ‘hero’ is based on well enough to be certain he would simply salivate over a piece of tanned jail bait wearing a transparent linen shift.”

Laurel gazed at the gossip writer in adoration. “I still can’t believe you’re friends with famous people!”

Camden flicked his wrist at her. “Puh-lease! We are not friends. I know more big names than you could fit in this lovely, very feng shui room, but don’t be impressed, my dear. Most celebrities are vain, vapid, and filled with vice.” He plucked a shrimp wonton from the tray and placed it delicately in the center of a cocktail napkin. “Did you catch my alliteration there, my dears? Now Olivia, tell us about you.”

“Please help yourselves.” Olivia pointed a dictatorial finger at the food trays. She waited until the writers focused on refilling their plates and then said, “I’m Olivia Limoges. I live out on the point with my standard poodle, Captain Haviland. He’s sleeping in my office at the moment,” she added when Laurel peered under the tablecloth. “I’m unmarried and childless and plan to stay that way. Now that this place”—she gesticulated around the room—“and my rental properties are up and running, I’d like to proceed with my writing.” She crossed her arms and looked at Ford. “Could you tell me more about the group’s schedule and assignments?”

“Excellent canapes, my dear.” Camden saluted her with his refreshed wineglass. “Thus far, we’ve congregated every other week, but we’ve all decided to meet weekly in order to make more progress. We each take turns having our work reviewed. Soon enough, it’ll be your turn to bring us copies of your masterpiece, Olivia.” He picked up a stack of papers from an end table. “Lucky for you, I’ve brought my pages tonight so you can take out all of your aggressions on my humble prose.” He grinned at her. “This gives you an entire week to sharpen your pencil, my dear. Don’t worry, I take criticism very well.”

Olivia sniffed.

“Oh, but don’t worry. We’re not really mean to each other.” Laurel had misinterpreted the noise as anxiety. “We say lots of nice things too!”

Millay rolled her eyes. “And that’s a waste of time if you ask me! We’ll never get better if we just sit around blowing smoke up each other’s asses. When it’s my turn, be as harsh as you want.” She pointed a slim finger at Olivia. “Bring it, sister!”

Harris, who had been stealing glances at Millay all evening, dusted the crumbs from a prosciutto and gruyere pinwheel off his long-fingered hands and reached into a plastic bag resting next to his feet. “I had this cool English teacher in high school who never used a red pen. She said the color made students feel like they had written something wrong when her main intent was to give us helpful suggestions. She wrote comments using green ink, so I bought green pens for all of us. May we do no harm!”

He leapt out of his chair and promptly handed out packets containing two green ballpoint pens to his fellow writers.

“Thank you, Harris. You are so sweet.” Laurel emitted a vibe of maternal approval. “I’d much rather be criticized in green than in red. I always dress my son Dermot in green. Dallas wears blue a lot. I’m afraid red would get them even more worked up than usual. It’s such an energizing color. Why, we were practically banned from story time at the library after the day I dressed them both in red overalls!”

After accepting Harris’s gift, Camden passed out copies of his chapter for review. “Now, I’m going to break protocol and refuse to read aloud tonight. Olivia here has an announcement to make and after she does, we’re relocating to the bar to celebrate. No work this evening, my darlings! Tonight, we make merry!”

All eyes turned to Olivia. “Yes. Well. You all know where the lighthouse is, correct? Out on the point?” she added for Camden’s sake. “The cottage is on my family’s ... I mean, my land, and it’s currently being restored. It won’t be totally ready for another week or so but we can hold our future meetings there. At no charge, of course.”

Camden led the group in a round of delighted surprise, and as the writers thanked Olivia, she waved them off. Warmed and slightly embarrassed by their gratitude, she suggested they follow her to the bar.

“See? You’re not quite the Wicked Witch of the South,” Camden whispered in her ear.

“Good evening, Gabe.” Olivia ignored Camden and focused on The Boot Top’s handsome bartender instead. “These folks are ... my friends.” How odd to be calming them that, she thought. “Please be certain to put their drinks on my tab.”

The bartender, a young man in his late twenties with a deep tan and an attractive, all-American face, nodded in acquiescence. After serving Laurel a Manhattan, Gabe poured a generous amount of Chivas Regal over a few asymmetrical blocks of hand-chiseled ice and set the tumbler down in front of his employer.

Originally positioned at the far end of the bar, Millay slid away from Harris and jumped up onto the stool next to Olivia. “I didn’t expect this place to be so hip,” she commented, taking a slurp of beer.

Olivia bristled. “Why not? Because I’m so advanced in years?”

“Huh?” Millay missed the note of sarcasm. “It’s just that my parents love coming here. It’s where they go for their special occasions, you know?” She gestured around the wood paneled bar. “They both teach at the community college and can only afford a place like this once in a while. After seeing what you charge for beer, I can see why. The year-rounders in Oyster Bay aren’t exactly loaded. How do you stay in business?”

Pleased to note that the restaurant was nearly full, Olivia took Millay’s question seriously. “There are quite a few tourists here tonight. We’re always busy from May to October, especially since that famous article about Oyster Bay’s appeal appeared in Time. In the winter, things will slow down, but as you said, people come here for birthdays and anniversaries and such. We also host Christmas parties for many local businesses. And we cater.”

She looked around at the glazed ochre walls, which were covered by enormous paintings of wine bottles, at the pristine white cloths, and the terra-cotta hued napkin fans on the few unoccupied tables. Votive candles shone through cylinders of dark amber cut glass made in Indonesia. The same shade of amber formed a thick stripe of paint on the walls and seemed to subtly box in the diners, creating an atmosphere of warm elegance with a hint of exclusivity.

“Interesting,” Millay replied and Olivia couldn’t tell whether she was sincere. “But don’t you think you should consider some cooler music? This soft jazz stuff reminds me of the dentist. I do like the name though. Boot Top. I dig boots.” She lifted both her ankles so that Olivia could admire her lace-up, stiletto-heeled, leather footwear, but Olivia was distracted by the arrival of an unfamiliar middle-aged man.

“Two fingers of Glenfiddich. No ice, please,” he told Gabe in a pleasant baritone.

Millay noticed the newcomer in the mirror behind the bar and pivoted in her seat. “What about you?” She grinned flirtatiously. “Do you like my boot tops?”

The stranger smiled at her but didn’t take his lead gray eyes from her face. “I believe the boot top in this case refers to the russet line on the walls.”

Looking perplexed, Millay didn’t respond, but Olivia locked eyes with the man and said, “Are you familiar with nautical terms Mr.... ?”

“McNulty. Flynn McNulty.” Flynn stood in order to shake hands with Olivia. “My knowledge of maritime matters is limited, but I believe that a boot top is the painted line just above the waterline on a seafaring vessel. Am I at least near the mark?”

“You’re spot-on, Mr. McNulty.” Olivia examined him over the lip of her tumbler.

Flynn assessed her simultaneously. “Another whiskey drinker?” He raised his glass in a salute. “I may actually be able to live in this town after all.”

Millay snorted, a noise that seemed incongruent with her beauty. “It’ll take more than booze to make Oyster Bay look good. Where did you live before?”

“Just outside of Raleigh in the Research Triangle Park area. I’m retiring from cubicle land in order to open a book-shop here. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do and an aunt of mine was kind enough to leave me a small inheritance. I read about the town’s building boom, and since the closest Barnes and Noble is over fifty miles away, I figured this was as fine a place as any to risk it all.”

Olivia tried to ignore the quickening of her blood. A bookstore was her idea of paradise, but she’d preferred to browse in other people’s shops in place of opening one of her own. She turned to tell Camden the news but saw that he was too engaged in flirting with the bartender to be diverted by anything she could say.

“Did you say something about books?” Harris inquired, seeking to join their conversation.

“Shelves of them. I’m out tonight to celebrate. My shop, Through the Wardrobe, will open its doors this Saturday. I was planning on a hugely publicized grand opening in about two weeks, but my stock arrived sooner than expected.” He shrugged. “Now I’ll just hang up some balloons and count on word-of-mouth advertising.”

Millay pulled a face. “In this town, you’ll get more word-of-mouth than you can stand, believe me.”

“It’s so awesome that you named your place after a C.S. Lewis novel!” Delighted, Harris finally tore his eyes from Millay’s shapely legs and gave the newcomer his full attention. The two men launched into a discourse on the multifaceted subject matter tackled within The Chronicles of Narnia.

Clearly displeased over being ignored in favor of C.S. Lewis, Millay poked Flynn in the fleshy part of his thigh. “You might be stocking our books someday, you know. We’re all writers.”

“In that case, I’d better learn everyone’s names,” Flynn replied gallantly.

By the time the assembly had consumed three rounds of drinks, they were thoroughly convinced their fellow writers would completely devote themselves to their upcoming editorial responsibilities, giving each of them the forward push needed to complete a saleable novel. Even Olivia, who thus far had only warmed to Camden, found herself believing that joining the writer’s group might be a step in the right direction toward becoming a social human being.

“I’m feeling so inspired by this meeting!” Laurel squealed excitedly as she bid everyone farewell. “But Steve will be waiting up for me. It’s bad enough he had to babysit while I hung out at a posh restaurant drinking Manhattans.” She hiccupped and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. “I hope he lets me come to our next meeting at Olivia’s cottage,” she said from behind her palm. “I’ll have to detail his truck in exchange for being able to go out four nights in one month!”

“Don’t forget to critique my chapter!” Camden called after her and then stroked his smooth chin thoughtfully. “Do you think she’s serious about not being allowed to attend?”

“Or having to detail her husband’s truck?” Olivia glanced at Laurel’s vacant stool and frowned. “I’m greatly relieved to have no one telling me what to do.”

Shortly following Laurel’s departure, Flynn also left and the exuberant fellowship among the remaining writers seemed to deflate. Soon afterward, Harris and Millay drained the remains of their glasses and headed for home—or in Millay’s case, the beginning of her nine to two o’clock shift at Fish Nets.

Camden kissed everyone on both cheeks, chiding them about being punctual and fulfilling their homework assignment by critiquing his chapter, and then turned back to Olivia.

“I think things went well, don’t you?” And then, before she could answer, “Good God, it’s Blake Talbot! And hanging onto his ropy arm is his latest conquest, Heidi St. Claire. Oh, am I ever at the right place at the right time!” He rubbed his hands together with relish. “Miss St. Claire is quite lovely in person, most unlike the freshly scrubbed, severely dressed character she plays on television.”

“She’s only a girl!” Olivia declared. “Really, Camden, she can’t be more than sixteen.”

“Just eighteen, but this girl, this rising star from Iowa, is about to burst onto the Hollywood scene like a supernova! By this time next year, there’ll be Heidi St. Claire dolls, a Heidi St. Claire clothing line, and a Heidi St. Claire fragrance. I am clairvoyant about these things!” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I saw the trailers for her upcoming movie releases. She’s going to win armloads of awards for her role opposite Russell Crowe. Remember this conversation come Oscar night!” Camden eyed the young woman discreetly using the mirror behind the bar. “Oh! Olivia, darling! They’re here to have dinner. Can we please sit down at that little two-seater behind them? We can have coffee and dessert and I can eavesdrop to my heart’s content? Pul-lease!”

“Don’t they know who you are?” Olivia asked as she nodded at the maître d’. She gestured at the table behind the couple and allowed her suave employee to place a napkin on her lap with a flourish.

Camden perused the dessert menu. “Of course they don’t know me,” he whispered. “Blake Talbot, like everyone in Hollywood and across our little blue planet, believes that I am a woman named Milano Cruise, remember? Shall we partake of the chocolate crème brûlée?”

Olivia only needed to raise her eyes and a waiter instantly appeared. She ordered Camden’s dessert along with two decaffeinated cappuccinos.

“Now the trick,” Camden whispered, “is for us to pretend to be engaged in an important and intimate conversation. We lean in like so, and we move our lips every now and again, and we nod. Nodding’s good. And then, we listen to every word they say.”

Although she was skeptical of Camden’s plan, Olivia was too interested in discovering more about a member of the Talbot family to offer any dissent. As she concentrated on stirring cinnamon curls into her cappuccino, she overheard Heidi pleading with Blake.

“But I want this to be official.” Her plaintive tone was distinctly juvenile. “If you come to my screening, then we’ll be in all the magazines. It’ll make a huge statement. My mom and stepdad will see that you’re serious about us, and of course you’ll sell a bunch of CDs just by being in People. Come on, Blakey. Do this for me.”

“Heidi.” Blake spoke her name with an undercurrent of scorn. “It’s not like I haven’t been in People before. Besides, I told you that I need to keep up the appearance of being single. Girls don’t want to listen to the tunes of some whipped loser. They like to dream, to hope that they’d have a chance with me. I’ve gotta stay a fantasy. Being your boyfriend doesn’t fit with that whole picture. Don’t you get that?”

Heidi’s disappointed sigh seemed to blow across the room. She raised a flute filled with the restaurant’s finest champagne to her lips but then placed it on the table again. “It’s not fair.” Olivia could imagine her pursing her pretty lips. “But I can’t keep lying to my parents. You know how close my mom and I are. What if she calls Lila’s house? What if—” “Look. I’m going to meet with some people late tonight and then, tomorrow morning, we’re outta here. The Gulf-stream is all gassed up. We’ll climb aboard, pop a bottle of Moët, and...” Blake mercifully lowered his voice to an inaudible whisper, which was followed by a theatrical squeal from Heidi’s side of the table. “After one night in Vegas, we’ll be back in LA. You’ll be home in time for dinner.”

Olivia leaned toward Camden, whose gaze was fixated on the painting behind her shoulder. He waved a spoonful of crème brûlée in the air with his right hand. “Delicious!” he suddenly pronounced.

“He obviously doesn’t care about her at all. Poor girl,” Olivia murmured to Camden, shooting a sideways glance at the young man. She had to admit he was good-looking in a scruffy, rebellious sort of way. His black hair, dark eyes, and square jaw certainly lent him a masculine air, though he was far too reedy for Olivia’s tastes. However, she could see that other women in The Boot Top were also casting covert looks in his direction, for there was a magnetism about Blake Talbot, a mixture of conceit and coarse beauty, that most women found destructively fascinating.

Camden was unsympathetic to Heidi’s plight. “He never cares about any of them. Deep down, they all know it too, but we all deceive ourselves, do we not?”

“That we do,” Olivia agreed. “And you’ve got foam on your lip.”

Heidi continued her argument as Olivia and Camden fell silent again. “Why can’t I meet your friends? I don’t want to be in that beach house all by myself at night. I came out here to be with you.” Her pout was as extreme as a toddler’s.

“These men are not the kind of people you’re used to,” Blake answered flatly, grabbing the bottle of champagne from the silver ice bucket in the center of the table. He filled his glass to the brim and then jammed the bottle back into the chilled bucket without offering to replenish his date’s empty flute. “You wouldn’t fit in.”

“Just because I play a minister’s daughter on TV doesn’t mean I am one! You have no idea what I’ve lived through. I haven’t told you everything about my life!” Olivia and Camden found Heidi’s indignation amusing and they both smiled and nodded as though one of them had just received the punch line of a rousingly good joke.

“Well, you sure don’t act like a choir girl between the sheets,” Blake said huskily. “If everyone knew how wild Miss Junior Idaho or Indiana or whatever redneck state you’re from really was, you’d be on the cover of all the magazines.”

“Shut up!” Heidi hissed. “Oh, let’s just go. I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Oh, babe,” Blake purred. “I’m just messing with you. You know I think you’re the most smoking-hot chick in the whole world.”

“Notice he didn’t mention brains,” Olivia commented.

Camden smirked. “Or anything about her burgeoning talent.”

Unaware of the acute attention being paid to her, Heidi slipped her thin arms into a white silk cardigan and then folded the garment across her high breasts. “Then why won’t you introduce me to the guys?”

“The guys are not like my bandmates, Heidi,” Blake growled. “They’re not my posse—they’re a bunch of ex-con fishermen and knife-carrying scumbags who’ll do anything for a buck. Got it?”

“Then why are you hanging out with that sort?” Heidi asked and Olivia was pleased on behalf of her gender that the young woman had finally exhibited a hint of intelligence.

“Let’s just say I’m making an investment in my future.” Blake waved his hand in the air, rudely signaling for the check. “That’s the end of the subject, Heidi. We’re going.”

“Well, I just hope you’re not buying drugs,” Heidi said with a sulk. “I don’t approve of them, and besides, there’s plenty of those back home.”

“Right, like you’re such an expert on the subject.” Blake was openly derisive. “You’re not the one who has to rock your ass off in front of thousands of people. You get to sit around between takes, getting manicures and drinking mocha soy lattes.”

“No matter how much pressure I’m under, I’ll never take drugs!” Heidi whispered as she stood. “So I hope that’s not what your big, secret meeting at that gross bar is all about. If rumors about drugs or anything illegal affect my reputation, I’d be kicked off the show and my marketing value would go way downhill. I’m supposed to be a role model. Don’t you care about my future? I have two films debuting this summer!”

Blake grabbed her roughly by the arm and propelled her past Olivia and Camden’s table. “It’s not drugs, babe, so get off your high horse. It’s something much more dangerous than that,” he muttered darkly. “And since I’ve gotta protect your precious rep, I won’t tell you anything else, except that my plan is going to make me a shitload of money.”

Camden stared after them, a greedy gleam in his eyes. “I wonder what bar he could be referencing?”

“If Heidi thinks it’s gross and fishermen hang out there, then there’s one likely choice. Blake is conducting his illicit business at Fish Nets. The establishment where Millay works.”

“Olivia my dear, after we’re done with our dessert, how would you like to—”

“Not a chance,” Olivia cut him off. “Later this evening, after we’re done here, I will be in my lovely house, clad in a pair of silk pajamas, cocktail in hand, watching Masterpiece Theater. I confess to having enjoyed myself tonight, but I have no intention of spending a single minute in a foul-smelling bar filled with men whose cologne is a mixture of smoke, sweat, and fish or with women whose clothes are either three sizes too small or veritably see-through. Nothing you say will convince me to change my mind.” She placed her empty mug against its saucer with a firm clink. “I will never set foot in that disgusting place.”

“Never say never,” Camden said with an expressive wink.

Olivia felt an inexplicable tinge of anxiety as she headed into the kitchen to collect her thoroughly gorged poodle.