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  "You'll get your names in the credits, too," Sam promised.

  After that, they couldn't throw personal information at Sam fast enough. Their loves, their heartaches, their hopes and dreams. Intimate family secrets. It was fascinating, in a twisted, voyeuristic sort of way.

  "My parents fight pretty much all the time," Fee confessed. "My mom always thinks my dad is flirting with the actresses he coaches and--"

  Sam's cell phone rang, interrupting Fee's flow. Sam checked the number.

  "Gotta take this. It's my dad. He calls me from the set all the time." This was a big fat lie, of course--a phone call from her dad was a rare thing--but it would help her dazzle the prom weenies. She put the phone to her ear.

  "Hello?"

  "Hey, sweetie." His warm voice boomed through the earpiece.

  "Hey. How's the shoot going?"

  "Really great," Jackson exulted. "I swear, we're gonna make people forget about Heston. There's been a little glitch, though. I know I told you that you and your friends could do prom here Friday night. But we're behind schedule, gotta shoot that night. I cleared you for Saturday, though."

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  Sam gripped the phone hard. This was awful news. Everything was arranged for Friday night, and she'd pulled every string she could to arrange it. What about the limo rentals and the caterers and the hotel suites? But showing Jazz and Fee any sign of panic would be the worst thing she could do.

  "Perfect, Dad."

  "Great, sweetie. Okay, gotta get to makeup. 'Bye."

  Sam hung up and sparkled in the direction of her company. "I've got the best possible news. We have to postpone prom by twenty-four hours."

  This was the kind of crisis that brought out the best in Sam. For any other high school senior, changing the night of prom with four days to go would have been a reason to join Dee at the Ojai Psychiatric Institute and not come out until Thanksgiving. Making the change would require the precision and detail necessary to undertake a hostage rescue mission in a dangerous rogue nation. Fortunately, Brigadier General Samantha Sharpe had the finances and the firepower to carry out the mission. She issued orders to the prom weenies, who issued orders to the sub-prom weenies:

  Do it. Whatever it takes.

  A detailed e-mail went to every ticket buyer. Photographers, florists, videographers, caterers, limo drivers, parking attendants, cleaning crews, hotels, and security were informed and offered whatever was necessary to change their services to Saturday night. If they

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  were already booked for Saturday night--say, for the Reseda High School prom in the lovely Reseda High School gym--they were encouraged to subcontract that job and come to the Colosseum. Sam reminded them all that they did not want to get on the wrong side of someone as powerful as Jackson Sharpe.

  There were only two things that didn't work. One was the after party; there just wasn't a cool-enough locale available. People would have to fend for themselves, except for Sam and her friends--Cammie had offered the stretch of Hermosa Beach where her father's television drama was shot.

  The other problem was Eduardo. She called him as soon as she got the prom weenies out the door. Sadly, he said, there wasn't much he could do. It wasn't like his family could change the date of the anniversary party for his parents. He'd still come to Los Angeles on Thursday to spend a couple days with Sam, but he would have to leave on Saturday morning as scheduled. He was so apologetic that Sam actually felt bad for him.

  When the depressing transatlantic phone call was done, she headed out to the redwood back deck to finish off the bottle of Cristal that had gone toward the major portion of Fee and Jazz's mimosas. She was surprised to find Parker there, taking in the view.

  "You're still here?"

  "I thought you might need a friend after that phone call."

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  She and Parker had talked briefly before she'd called Eduardo; there was no need to fill him in.

  "What the hell," she sighed, raising the champagne bottle to her lips. "I knew it was going too well."

  "He's still coming, but can't come to prom?"

  Sam nodded.

  "That isn't enough?"

  Sam offered him the half-empty champagne bottle. He took it. "No. It's not. I want everything. And so do you." She sighed as he chugged the Cristal. "You kicked ass with the prom weenies."

  "Thanks." He wiped his lips.

  She regarding him carefully. "I used to think you were a sucky actor."

  His lips tugged into a half-smile. "Oh, really?"

  "The truth is, you're 50 good that you fooled everyone into thinking you're someone you aren't. Hard to do."

  He passed the Cristal back to her. "You know, if Eduardo can't take you, you should go with me."

  Go to prom with Parker? It was indecent, really, how handsome he was; those eyes, those lips ... Sam had read somewhere that humans had a nearly impossible time separating good looks from internal goodness. Looking into Parker's eyes, she could easily understand why that was true. She had to lean back to get her bearings.

  "Are you playing me, Pinelli?"

  "You're about the only one I'm not playing, Sharpe. Come on. You just lost your date, and I don't have a date."

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  Sam thought for a moment. She'd heard worse ideas. She'd have to be there for her documentary anyway, and Parker was helping her. It sort of made perfect sense. Plus, she didn't mind being seen with a guy as hot as Parker. Let the prom weenies wonder.

  "We go as friends. Right?" she offered cautiously.

  Parker casually looped an arm around her shoulder. "Absolutely. You in?"

  Sam nodded. "I'm in. Come on, we've got work to do."

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  Hipsters and Wanna-besBy the time Ben came home from his shift at Trieste, his head was pounding. The work wasn't hard, but he'd had the relentless beat of techno dance music in his ear for the past eight hours. They'd put him on the door, which struck Ben as ironic, since he wasn't even old enough to get in without a fake ID himself. Ben was supposed to be a management trainee, and the manager had decided that giving Ben a taste of the many different jobs at the club was the best way for Ben to learn.

  Trieste was the club of the moment. By ten o'clock there'd been a line of hipsters and wanna-bes all the way down Hollywood Boulevard, hoping for the nod from Ben that would admit them to the inner sanctum. Anyone who was anyone didn't have to wait, of course. Part of the job description was to know the difference.

  This wasn't always easy. Film directors notoriously looked like shit. Even some movie and TV stars looked like shit without professional makeup. Fortunately the doorman with him, Lenny Lucci, nearly seven feet of bald Italian steel who'd been working the doors of the

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  top Hollywood clubs for two decades, knew everyone. Lenny bounced full time and did movie stunts part-time. If Ben had a question about whether or not to admit someone, he'd subtly catch Lenny's eye. Lenny would barely nod or shake his head, and Ben would proceed accordingly. Like God, Lenny never made mistakes.

  Otherwise, admittance was completely at Ben's discretion, though Lenny had laid out God's rules with great clarity. Always admit hot single women. Sometimes admit hot single guys. Couples were boring, so only let in fifty percent. Ben had to admit that the power to make or break the evenings of the cute girls-- long hair, short skirts, tight tops--was a heady experience before it got a little bit disturbing, reminding him too much of Beverly Hills High's social pecking order. Take Maddy, for example. If he hadn't known her and she was in line, she wouldn't have been able to get in. The long frizzy hair, pale innocent face, zero style sense. Even after her weight loss, she'd be left on the outside looking in. He was so over that shit.

  He let himself in the front door. Thinking about Maddy made him think about Jack--and his good mood was instantly ruined. Jack was running a game on Maddy, he was sure of it. If Jack hurt her, Ben would feel responsible. He hadn't even had a chance to speak to Anna today ab
out talking to her.

  When Ben padded up the stairs and down the hall to his room, he saw that Maddy's door was wide open and the lights were on. He stuck his head in to say a brief

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  hello, but she wasn't there. There was definitely something on her computer screen, though: an image of Maddy lolling in bed, obviously naked save for a strategically deployed bathrobe. Ben's robe.

  Jack had taken the photo; he felt sure of it.

  "Hi."

  Ben whirled to find Maddy smiling at him in the hallway. For once, she wasn't wearing his clothes, just an oversize blue-and-gold University of Michigan sweat suit.

  "You're mad at me," she surmised. "Because of the pictures."

  "Nah. I am teed off at Jack, though. He's being a real dick--pardon my language."

  "No, he isn't!" Maddy insisted, wide-eyed. "He's really sweet to me."

  Because he wants something. How can I get this across to her so she'll believe me?Buying time, he suggested they go downstairs, get a drink, and hang out on the back deck. Five minutes later they were sitting outside on two handmade oak rockers that Ben's parents had had shipped back from a medical conference in Nashville. It was so quiet, they could hear crickets chirping.

  "It's so nice here," Maddy murmured. She took a sip of her Diet Coke. "I wish I could live here forever."

  Geez. He took a swig of his Corona. "Mad, I don't want to hurt your feelings. But ... things between you and Jack might not be what you think they are."

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  "He's your friend," Maddy said earnestly. "That's why I know I can trust him."

  Ben swiped a weary hand across his face. Geez, this sucked. What a cliché. The innocent girl from the Midwest getting taken advantage of in Hollywood by the older calculating guy. The only twist here was that Maddy wasn't an aspiring actress.

  "Tell me the truth, Mad. How many photos did Jack take of you?"

  "A few," she muttered self-consciously, staring at the redwood floor of the deck.

  Maybe there was still time to stop this runaway train.

  "I know you already invited him to your prom Saturday night, Mad. I don't think it's a very good idea."

  'What ? Then I wouldn't have a date!"

  "That might be a better idea than going with Jack," Ben opined, a bit stiffly. "You could ... go with some girlfriends, maybe."

  "That's what I used to do when I weighed three hundred pounds. And it sucked, okay? It really, really sucked. I pretended that it was fine, you know? Like I really wanted to just hang out with my friends, but inside I was dying. I used to dream of being with a cute guy. Now the dream can come true."

  If Jack took Maddy to the prom, who the hell knew what would happen afterward? Maddy would be so caught up in her dream come true that she'd probably do ... pretty much anything.

  Hold it.

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  Maybe there was something he could do. Anna's prom was Friday night; Maddy's was Saturday night. It could work. Anna was the most understanding girl in the world. She'd appreciate what he was doing for poor Maddy.

  Why not?

  "Hey, Mad? What if I got you a different date? Say ... me?" Ben asked.

  "You?" Maddy's eyes shone in the moonlight. "You'd take me to prom?"

  "Sure. As friends, but... yeah."

  "That would be ... fantastic." Then she frowned. "Won't Jack be mad?"

  "Let me worry about Jack," Ben assured her. He put down his beer. "So, this'll be a feat. Two proms in one weekend. Anna's one night, yours the next. I'd better keep my tux clean."

  Maddy impulsively jumped up from her rocker and threw her arms around Ben, kissing him on the left cheek. "I can't believe how lucky I am to have you," she told him.

  "It's no problem," Ben told her, extricating himself from her grasp and standing up. She stood too, her eyes luminous in the moonlight. "Let's call it a night, huh?" They started into the house together. "Hey, Mad, one last thing."

  "What?"

  "Whatever you thought you were doing with those pictures ... you might want to delete them from your computer."

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  Maddy bit her lower lip. "You think it's a bad idea?" "Don't you?"

  She shrugged as they walked through the breezeway. "Yeah, I think it's a bad idea," Ben told her again. "You'll sleep better. So will I."

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  The Big LSam leaned into Eduardo and he kissed her temple. It was bliss to be with him again. He had indeed flown in from France on his father's jet, a new Cessna Citation ISP, a model her father had considered before opting for his Gulfstream several months back.

  All afternoon she'd been so nervous, waiting for him to arrive. Visions of naked European sex kittens danced in her head, and they were all dancing for Eduardo. She had to find the absolutely perfect thing to wear so that he'd be happy to be with her, instead of with one of those girls named Françoise.

  She'd tried on at least a dozen outfits, but each one had seemed wrong; she'd ended up leaving them on the floor of her huge walk-in closet. Finally, she'd settled on a filmy black-and-fuchsia Roland Mouret baby-doll top--the floaty black material fell in graceful folds from just under her bust to just below her loathed hips--and dark, boot-cut Valentino jeans.

  As she was dressing, a housekeeper had brought two dozen long-stemmed red roses in an etched-glass

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  Tiffany vase to Sam's suite. The little card read, Until you're in my arms. --Eduardo.

  Take that, you naked European sex kittens! Sam was infused with a mix of relief and joy--a feeling that lasted but a nanosecond. After which she felt just as nervous and insecure as she had before.

  Eduardo had checked into his bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel before coming to the Sharpe estate to pick her up in his rented platinum Porsche 911 Carrera. He'd dressed comfortably in Randolph Duke black pants and a black T-shirt. It was a relief to know that Eduardo would be neither intimidated nor impressed by where she lived. His family was one of the richest in all of South America. He professed not to care that she was Jackson Sharpe's daughter. Sam believed him.

  Then the doorbell had sounded, and a moment later she'd been in his arms, wondering how she could have been so jittery and crazy about being reunited with him. His general male gorgeousness nearly took her breath away all over again. Five foot nine or ten, with smooth copper skin stretched over powerful muscles. His hair was dark, his eyes even darker. He was easily as handsome as any famous actor in Hollywood. Yet, for some reason that was unfathomable to Sam, he wanted her .

  Now they were sitting side by side on a Persian rug at the Mor Bar in Santa Monica; they'd been at the club for almost two hours. To her surprise, he'd made reservations before they arrived--his father, a highly respected Peruvian politician from a regal Spanish bloodline, had

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  suggested the place because it was so romantic. She didn't want to come right out and ask, in case she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion, but it seemed to mean that Eduardo had talked about her with his dad.

  The air in the dimly lit club was redolent of exotic North African spices. All the patrons doffed their shoes and sat on rugs or lolled against scarlet velvet pillows under a beet-red canopy. Giant hookah water pipes rested on each low-slung marble table. Sam and Eduardo had passed on the hookah, but they had enjoyed a Moorish feast--stuffed grape leaves, couscous, thyme-scented hot pita bread, and fresh hummus, babaganoush, and a lamb stew. It was all meant to be eaten with the fingers, washed down with the Moroccan wine Eduardo had expertly ordered, a Les Coteaux de 1'Atlas Rouge Premier Cru 1999--deep ruby red with vanilla undertones.

  Sam had eaten half of the grape leaves--they were delicious--and stopped there, until Eduardo fed her some lamb stew and couscous. As she snuggled close to her boyfriend and ate from his fingers, she could just make out the couple at the next table. Their lips were locked and he was half on top of her. Her skirt was up around her waist, revealing a minuscule lace thong; his hand was cupping her butt. No one in the c
lub blinked an eye.

  Eduardo followed Sam's gaze. "Too public," he commented in his lightly accented voice, and popped the pita into Sam's mouth. "That is childish. Not my style."

  She chewed and swallowed. "Not mine, either."

  Only the cellulite-free can afford to be exhibitionists.161

  Eduardo put a large, warm hand to Sam's cheek. "Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?"

  "Must be the dim lights," Sam joked.

  His eyes searched hers. "Samantha. Why is it that you cannot accept your own beauty?"

  This type of conversation always made her wildly uncomfortable, and she never knew what to say. The truth? It didn't seem to be in her own interest to point out that he was the only guy who had ever found her so beautiful. If she did point it out, maybe he would suddenly realize that all those other guys had been right after all.

  A trio of musicians on a small, raised stage began to play something bluesy in a minor key. Eduardo rose gracefully and held a hand out to Sam. "Dance?"

  He eased her to her feet and held the small of her back as he led her to a small parquet dance floor near the musicians, where they joined two other couples. How easily she slipped into his arms; how perfectly they fit. For a minute or two, she swayed to the music, pressed against his chest, eyes closed.

  "When I dance with you like this, it makes me sad that I will not be able to have you in my arms at your prom," he murmured.

  Prom. Damn.

  "You can't change your plans?"

  He frowned. "My parents' anniversary party."

  She smiled sadly. "I understand."

  "In my family, blood is everything. Would you miss your parents' anniversary party?"

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  Sam was sure he meant this rhetorically, which was why she didn't answer. The bitter irony of it wasn't lost on her. She'd missed Poppy's baby shower and would have been delighted if she heard tomorrow that her dad and his new bride were divorcing.

  "Maybe I should skip prom and go to Mexico with you," Sam suggested. As soon as it was out of her mouth she wished she could take it back. It sounded like she was inviting herself to meet his family, and that hadn't been her intention at all.