What I Did for Love

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 seen when they’d driven in made up the breakfast nook. She found the coffeemaker and made a pot. So far, she hadn’t heard any screams coming from upstairs, but it was only a matter of time. She carried her mug out onto a roofed veranda with the same twisted russet columns and blue-and-white Spanish tile floor as the front entry porch. The filigreed metal lanterns, mosaic tables with curved iron legs, ornate wooden screen, and furniture upholstered in colorful Moroccan and Turkish fabrics made her feel as though she’d stepped into a casbah. Luxuriant vines, low palms, and stands of bamboo offered a sense of privacy.

She wrapped a cotton throw around her shoulders and settled in a comfortable lounge chair. The faint sound of brass wind-bells drifted through the chilly morning quiet. Bram obviously didn’t know his girlfriend well because the kind of woman who owned a house like this wasn’t going to accept having her boyfriend marry another woman, regardless of the circumstances. He was stupid to even imagine such a thing, which was odd because Bram was never-

She jolted upright. Coffee splashed on her hand. She sucked it off, then set her mug on a stack of newsmagazines and stomped inside. Within seconds, she’d climbed the steps and found the master bedroom where Bram lay facedown and sound asleep across the king-size bed. Alone.

Georgie had forgotten the most fundamental rule when dealing with Bram Shepard. Don’t believe anything he says.

She was ready to dump a cold bucket of water over his head when she thought better of it. As long as he was asleep, she didn’t have to deal with him. She went back downstairs and resettled on the veranda. At eight o’clock she called Trev, who, predictably, nearly blew out her eardrums. “What the hell’s going on?”

“True love,” she retorted.

“I can’t believe he married you. I absolutely cannot believe you talked him into this.”

“We were drunk.”

“Believe me, he wasn’t that drunk. Bram always knows exactly what he’s doing. Where is he now?”

“Asleep upstairs in a magnificent house that, apparently, belongs to him.”

“He bought it two years ago. God knows how he came up with the down payment. It’s no secret that he hasn’t been exactly fiscally responsible.”

Which was why Bram had agreed to go along with this. The fifty thousand dollars a month she’d promised him.

But Trev didn’t know about the blood money. “He’s decided you’re the ticket he needs to raise his profile. This publicity could help him get some decent parts again. He pretends not to care that he’s basically made himself unemployable, but, believe me, he does.”

She moved restlessly from the veranda into the yard and gazed back at the house. A second set of twisted columns on top of the first held up the roof of the balcony that ran across much of the top story, and more vines climbed the russet stucco walls. “He can’t be destitute,” she said. “This place is amazing.”

“And mortgaged to the hilt. He’s done a lot of the work himself.”

“No way. He’s talked some lovesick woman into paying at least some of his bills.”

“Always a possibility.”

She needed to know more, but when she pressed, Trev shut her down. “You’re both my friends, and I’m not getting involved in this, although I definitely want a dinner invitation so I can watch the fireworks.”

She had a total of thirty-eight messages and texts on her cell, with her father accounting for ten of them. She could imagine how frantic he was, but she couldn’t bear talking to him yet. April had left with her family for their Tennessee farm two days ago. Georgie dialed her number, and as she heard her friend’s voice, some of her defenses fell away, and she bit her lip. “April, you have no way of knowing that just about everything I’m getting ready to tell you is a pack of lies, so that means you can pass on the information with a clear conscience, okay?”

“Oh, sweetie…” April sounded like a worried mother.

“Bram and I met accidentally in Las Vegas. The sparks flew, and we realized how much we’d always loved each other. We decided we’d wasted too much time being apart, so we got married. You don’t know for sure where we are, but you suspect we’re still holed up at the Bellagio enjoying an impromptu honeymoon, and isn’t everyone glad that Bram Shepard has finally reformed and the world has the happy ending they didn’t get when Skip and Scooter was canceled?” Georgie’s breath snagged in her throat. “Would you call Sasha and tell her the same thing? And if Meg resurfaces…”

“Of course I will, but, honey, I’m really worried about you. I’m going to fly back and-”

“No.” The concern in April’s voice made her want to burst into tears. “I’m fine. Really. Just shaken up. Love you.”

As she hung up, she made herself face reality. She was trapped in this house for the immediate future. The public would expect Bram and her to be glued together while they were newlyweds. Weeks would pass before she could go anywhere without him. She leaned back on the veranda chaise, shut her eyes, and tried to think. But there were no easy answers, and eventually she dozed off to the sound of the brass wind-bells.

When she awakened two hours later, she felt no more refreshed than when she’d fallen asleep, and she reluctantly headed upstairs. Latin music reverberated from the far end of the hallway. On her way to investigate, she passed Bram’s bedroom and spotted her suitcase sitting in the middle of the floor.

Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen.

If she’d had to guess what Bram Shepard’s bedroom looked like, she’d have imagined a disco ball and a stripper’s pole, but she’d have been wrong. The barrel vault ceiling and roughly plastered buckwheat-honey walls defined a space that was rich, elegant, and sensual without being sleazy. Rectangular leather panels set in a bronze metal grid made up the headboard of the king-size bed, and a comfortable lounging area occupied the turret she’d spotted from the front of the house.

As she went in to retrieve her suitcase, the music stopped. Moments later, Bram appeared at the bedroom door in a sweat-damp Lakers T-shirt and gray workout shorts. Just the sight of him looking so healthy made her temper erupt. “I met your girlfriend downstairs. She fell on her knees and thanked me for getting you out of her life.”

“I hope you were nice to her.”

He didn’t have the grace to apologize for his lie, but then he’d never told her he was sorry for anything he’d done. She moved in on him. “There’s no girlfriend, and there’s no apartment. This is your house, and I want you to stop lying to me.”

“Couldn’t help it. You were getting on my nerves.” He walked right past her toward the bathroom.

“I mean it, Bram! We’re in this together. No matter how much we hate it, we’re officially a team. I know you don’t understand what that means, but I do. A team only works if everybody cooperates.”

“Okay. You’ve gotten on my nerves again. Try to entertain yourself while I clean up.” He whipped off his damp T-shirt and disappeared into the bathroom. “Unless”-he stuck his head back out-“you want to hop in the shower with me and play some water games.” He deliberately smoldered her with his eyes. “After last night…I’m not saying you’re a nympho, but you sure are close.”

Oh, no. He wasn’t getting her that easily. She lifted her chin and smoldered him right back. “I’m afraid you have me confused with that Great Dane you used to own.”

He laughed and shut the bathroom door.

She grabbed her suitcase and carried it out into the hallway. Once again, the sense of being trapped made her heart race, and once again she fought to steady herself. She needed someplace to sleep tonight. She’d glimpsed a guesthouse in the back, but he almost certainly had some kind of household staff, so she couldn’t settle in that far away.

She explored the upstairs and discovered five bedrooms. Bram used one for storage, he’d converted another into a well-equipped exercise room, and a third was spacious but empty. Only the room next to the master had furniture, a double bed with an ornamental Moorish headboard and matching dresser. Light spilled in through a set of French doors that opened out onto the rear balcony. The cool lemony walls provided an appealing contrast to the dark wood and colorful Oriental rug.

Her assistant would bring over some clothes tomorrow, but until then, she had only one clean outfit left. She unpacked her suitcase and carried her toiletries into the adjoining glass block and cinnabar tile bathroom. She badly needed a shower, but when she returned to her room to undress, she found Bram stretched out on her bed in a clean T-shirt and cargo shorts with what looked like a tumbler of scotch balanced on his chest. It wasn’t even two in the afternoon.

He swirled the liquid in the glass. “Your sleeping in here isn’t going to work. My housekeeper lives over the garage. I have a feeling she’ll notice if we have separate beds.”

“I’ll make the bed every morning before she sees it,” she said with fake sweetness. “As for my things…Tell her I’m turning this into my dressing room.”

He took a sip of scotch and uncrossed his ankles. “I meant what I said yesterday. We’re doing this by my rules. A regular sex life is part of the deal.”

She knew him too well to even pretend to be surprised. “This is the twenty-first century, Skipper. Men don’t issue sexual ultimatums.”

“This man does.” He uncoiled from the bed like a tawny lion getting ready for the hunt. “I’m not giving up sex, which means I can either screw around on you, or we’ll do what married couples do. And don’t worry. I’m not nearly as much into S and M as I used to be. Not that I’ve given it up entirely…” His light mockery seemed more intimidating than the surly scorn she remembered. He took a lazy sip of scotch. “There’s a new sheriff in town, Scooter. You and Daddy don’t hold the power card any longer. We’re playing with a fresh deck, and it’s my deal.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast and disappeared into the hallway.

She took a dozen deep breaths, then half a dozen more. She’d known turning herself into a woman of purpose wouldn’t be easy. But she held the checkbook, didn’t she? And that made her up to the challenge. Definitely, absolutely, positively up to the challenge.

She was almost sure of it.

At the bottom of the stairs, Bram’s cell vibrated in his shorts’ pocket. He moved into the farthest reaches of his living room before he answered. “Hello, Caitlin.”

“Well, well…,” a familiar throaty female voice responded. “And aren’t you just full of surprises?”

“I like to keep life interesting.”

“Lucky I turned on the television last night, or I wouldn’t have heard the news.”

“Call me insensitive, but you weren’t at the top of my contact list.”

As she went off on him, he gazed out through the French doors onto the veranda. He loved this house. It was the first place he’d lived that felt like home, or at least the way he imagined home should feel, since he’d never before had one. The luxurious mansions he’d rented during Skip and Scooter had been more like frat houses than real homes, with at least four guys living with him at a time. Video games used to blare in half the rooms, porn in the others, beer cans and fast food everywhere. And women, lots of women-some of them smart, decent girls who’d deserved to be treated better.

As Caitlin ranted on, he wandered through the back hall and down a few steps into the small screening room he’d refurbished. Chaz must have watched a movie last night because it still smelled faintly of popcorn. He took a sip from his drink and sank into one of the reclining armchair seats. The empty screen reminded him of his current state. He’d blown the opportunity of a lifetime with Skip and Scooter, just like his old man had blown every opportunity that had come his way. A family inheritance.

“I’ve got another call, sweetheart,” he said as his patience ran out. “I have to go.”

“Six weeks,” she retorted. “That’s all you have left.”

As if he’d forgotten.

He checked for messages, then turned off his phone. He couldn’t blame Caitlin for being bitter, but he had a much bigger problem at the moment. When he’d heard that Georgie was going to spend the weekend in Vegas, he’d decided to follow her. But the game he’d set out to play had taken a lunatic twist he’d never anticipated. He sure as hell hadn’t planned on getting married.

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.