A-List #8, The: Heart of Glass: An A-List Novel (A-List) Read online

  "We met senior year at Stanford. She was a serious boarder. Loved the deep stuff. Back country." He hesitated. "You sure you want to hear this?"

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  Anna nodded. "Please. Go on."

  "She went to Switzerland for spring break and hooked up with a guy on their Olympic snowboard squad. Never came back to school. Don't know what she's doing now. Know how she broke up with me? E-mail."

  Anna gulped. "That had to hurt."

  "It did." He took another long pull on his beer. "I didn't plan to fall in love with her, but I did."

  "Well, maybe love isn't something you can plan."

  Caine studied Anna's face intently. "In some ways, she reminds me of you."

  "How so?" She heard her own voice, faintly nervous.

  He smiled and looked her straight in the eyes. "She was blond like you, but it's not just the blond hair. More like . . . something in her soul. I always had the sense that she was watching herself. Like you."

  Anna was amazed that he knew this about her.

  "I do do that. And frankly, it's exhausting."

  "No kidding. I think you took that whole 'lead an examined life' thing you learn in philosophy a little too seriously," Caine teased.

  "You know what? I agree with you. That's why I have decided this summer to simply have fun. That makes sense, doesn't it?"

  "Works for me," he agreed. "And if the cops come to slip the handcuffs on you again--"

  "What?" Anna raised her eyebrows.

  Caine grinned. "I have some fur-lined ones we could try instead."

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  Body by Bohdi

  Sam was beyond irritated when Marty Martinsen called from his private jet to say that he'd just entered American airspace, and that he'd flown in from Malta due to a budget crisis on the set of BenHur. She knew it was Marty's way of telling her to vacate the Malibu beach house immediately. Sam really liked his place, and, more importantly, she'd liked being twenty miles north and west of the stepmother from hell, aka Poppy Sinclair Sharpe, mother of the month-old stepsister she hadn't anticipated ever having, Ruby Hummingbird Sinclair Sharpe.

  Why did people go insane over babies? Their appeal in general was utterly lost on Sam

  --although from time to time, she did find herself having warm feelings toward Ruby Hummingbird. Then she remembered who the baby's mother was. The best she could usually muster was studied diffidence.

  Evidently America's Most Beloved Action Hero, aka her father, didn't share her indifference. Whenever he was around his new daughter, he turned into a doting, cooing

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  wack job. He claimed to want to prioritize his family over his career--that's what he'd told Entertainment Weekly, too. This particular day, he'd even planned to leave things in the hands of his assistant director and director of photography and take the day off for "family time."

  However, Jackson had been called an hour ago and had learned via speakerphone that there was an emergency on set: his redheaded starlet, Amelia Rodgers-- playing the lead hooker in a Roman brothel--had just had an ugly on-set fight with the cinematographer, who up until forty-eight hours ago had also been her boyfriend. Now Amelia had locked herself inside her trailer and refused to come out.

  Poppy hadn't taken the news that her husband was abandoning the ship of his estate on this day reserved for the family very well. But he still got in the production helicopter when it arrived to take him to Palmdale.

  Well, at least Sam's boyfriend, Eduardo, was--

  "Hola, amiga. Como estas ahora?"

  Eduardo. He'd come up behind her, lifted her hair, and kissed the back of her neck. Instantly, Sam's pissiness with her father and the at-best-two-digit-IQ, dyed-redheaded bimbo he now called his wife melted away. She leaned her head back so that Eduardo could reach her lips. She kissed him upside down, then turned around so he could kiss her right side up.

  That this incredible, sweet, smart, and beyond-hot guy was crazed for her never failed to amaze Sam. Eduardo Munoz was five-ten, with smooth copper skin

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  stretched over taut muscles. His close-cropped hair was dark, his eyes even darker. In Lucky jeans and a plain blue tennis shirt, he had an ease in his own skin, self-contentment in a land where "look at me!" neediness tended to ooze from peoples' pores. In addition to the looks thing, Eduardo was also well read, insightful, and trilingual. Born and raised in Peru, a student of international relations in Paris, he spoke English and French as easily as his native Spanish. He could, Sam was certain, get a million girls who were thinner and prettier than she was. Yet for some unfathomable reason, the gods had smiled upon her, Sam Sharpe, a pear-shaped, far-from-perfect-looking girl who lived in a place where looking less than perfect was considered a moral affront on par with cruelty to animals.

  Maybe it was worse than cruelty to animals.

  "What was that for?" Sam asked, smiling at Eduardo.

  "Do I need a reason?"

  "Definitely not." She inhaled deeply, then took a long sip of her Inca cola, a soft drink Eduardo had introduced to her when they'd gone to Peru right after Sam's high school graduation. "Whatever you're cooking smells heavenly."

  They were near the stove in the new outdoor kitchen that Poppy had installed just outside the sliding glass doors from the main kitchen. Decked out in the various shades of red that had dominated the estate since Jackson had married Poppy, the outdoor kitchen featured a cooking console with both barbecue and gas ranges, a long

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  mahogany table shielded from the California sun by twin freestanding umbrellas, a separate bar, and a refrigerator.

  "Comida criolla." Eduardo used the name for traditional Peruvian dishes that Sam had learned to love during her week in Peru. "Papas rellenas, to start."

  "Potatoes filled with shredded meat," Sam translated. Her mouth was already watering. Normally, if she was around a cute guy, she hid her appetite, and she'd been on more diets in her life than she could count. Atkins, Weight Watchers, the Zone, the Ultra-Zone . . . she was an expert on diets. Eduardo, however, encouraged her to eat.

  As a surprise graduation present, Eduardo had flown Sam to his home country, where his father was a high-placed government official and his family owned substantial gold mining interests. Down there, Sam had found that many of the girls were actually round and pleasingly plump. Here in La La Land, they would have been considered morbidly obese. This had been culturally eye-opening for her, and the realization was both wonderful and terrible. Wonderful, because sometimes, when shopping with uber bahe Cammie or naturally thin Anna or her diminutive friend Dee Young at their favorite boutiques on Rodeo Drive or Melrose Avenue, Sam felt like one of the new white rhinos at the Los Angeles Zoo. It also felt terrible, because Sam had been so indoctrinated with a skinny-is-beautiful message that even when she looked at the girls in Peru, all she could imagine was how they'd suffer if they ever came to California.

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  "What time is your friend supposed to be here?" Sam asked.

  Eduardo glanced at his silver Rolex watch. "Any time now. And she's not really a friend--she's been recommended by our cultural attache at the consulate. She's supposed to be a brilliant designer. This'll be done in five minutes." He stirred the papas rellenas. Sam couldn't believe that he could make cooking look so sexy.

  "Mees Sharpe?"

  Sam turned toward the glass doors. One of the Russian maids that her father favored, a statuesque blond named Svetlana, with chipped-ice cheekbones, hair to her ass, and a master's degree in Russian literature from Moscow State University, was standing in the doorway to the patio.

  "Your guest," Svetlana announced in her thick, dramatic accent, gesturing to a slender woman with skin the color of honey. Her raven hair was parted in the center and fell past her shoulders. She couldn't have been older than twenty-five. She wore a wide, colorful skirt that grazed her knees, an off-the-shoulder black T-shirt, and an intricate turquoise necklace.

  "I have put rack of clothing from her in s
creening room," Svetlana added.

  "Thanks," Sam replied. The Russian woman bobbed her head gracefully and exited.

  "Hello, I am Gisella Santa Maria." The young woman crossed to Sam and extended a thin arm. Her English

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  was only moderately accented. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm very grateful that you'd even think of me."

  Sam had to look up--a lot--to make eye contact with the designer, who was much taller than Eduardo, even in flat sandals. She was graceful, gorgeous, and accomplished, but Sam breathed a bit easier now. She couldn't see Eduardo falling for a woman who was taller than he was.

  She hoped that wasn't wishful thinking.

  "Hola, Gisella, estoy muy contento que estas aqui con nosotros," Eduardo fired off, then kissed her on both cheeks. "Y estoy contento tambien que le conocerds a mi novia Sam."

  "What'd you say?" Sam had been working on her Spanish in her free time and had actually improved a lot during her week in Peru. But those words from Eduardo were too much, too fast.

  "I'll translate," Gisella interjected, "if Eduardo doesn't mind. He said he's really glad that I'm here today with you, and especially that I'm having a chance to meet his girlfriend. I think your man is besotted."

  Sam felt an involuntary smile spread over her face.

  "And we're ready to eat," Eduardo announced with a flourish.

  Gisella stepped toward the stove and sniffed the air. "Papas rellenas? It smells like home."

  "It tastes like home," Eduardo assured her, then filled the three brown earthenware plates at the wood table, opened a bottle of red wine, and poured three full

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  glasses. "The wine's from Chile. Don't tell anyone. Sam, why don't you fill Gisella in on your friends' project?"

  "There's this foundation called New Visions that helps at-risk girls here in Los Angeles. You know, low-income, busted families, that kind of thing. New Visions is putting on a charity fashion show at the county art museum. My two best friends are helping to organize it. I volunteered to help them out a little."

  Sam took a bite of the comida criolla and closed her eyes to savor the flavors--meat, potatoes, and onion dominated her palate.

  "It's very nice of Sam to do this," Eduardo added. "That's why you're here, Gisella."

  "I'm grateful," Gisella told her.

  Sam wasn't about to disabuse either of them of this notion. The truth was, though, that she felt mildly guilty about what had happened to her friends. After all, Anna and Cammie had been in Malibu to hang out with her, and if they hadn't been in Malibu, they wouldn't have been arrested in the first place. Besides, even though she knew it was ridiculous, the idea of Anna and Cammie working together on a project without her made her feel left out. So when Eduardo had mentioned there was a Peruvian designer in Los Angeles who was looking to have her clothing seen by a larger audience, Sam had magnanimously invited her to bring over some samples.

  The three of them talked and ate for a while--was everyone from Peru as charming as these two? They hadn't

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  met each other before, so Eduardo and Gisella played the Peruvian equivalent of Hollywood geography, figuring out who they knew in common. It turned out they'd been at the same wedding in Cuzco a few years ago, which they remembered because the groom had gotten drunk and hit on the bride's mother. It also turned out that Gisella was a staunch opponent of the political party of which Eduardo's father was a leader. Eduardo got a good laugh out of that. Sam was reasonably sure it wasn't a flirtatious laugh.

  Or was it?

  Shit. Why did she have to be so insecure?

  "Who are the models going to be for this fashion show, Sam?" Gisella asked, after she washed down some of the savory roast potato with the biting wine. "Have they been chosen?"

  "PacCoast Models." Sam named a hot new agency on Sunset Boulevard that had splintered off from Storm, the London agency that she'd heard was now representing Kate Moss. "It was going to be Major Models, but when my friends told me about the show, I made the call to PacCoast on their behalf. The organizers were thrilled." What the hell. She wanted Gisella to appreciate the kind of clout she had.

  "Then it will be great fun to see their models in your fashions," Eduardo said, smiling at Gisella.

  Sam studied his face. What did that smile mean, exactly?

  "Well, the organizers will have to see if your designs are good enough first," Sam said coolly. "Evidently there's some committee that votes on it." Really, Gisella needed

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  to be very clear about who the power player was in this situation--and also that said power player was attached to the tasty Peruvian morsel sitting across from her.

  "I brought my samples with me and gave them to the housekeeper." Gisella gestured inside. "Can we go and see them?"

  Sam was interested--she had an idea of what to expect. But before she could reply, Poppy appeared in the outdoor kitchen. Of medium height, with large, natural breasts, she'd just had her hair colored red and cut gamine short, which made her giant turquoise eyes look even bigger and brighter, and she was wearing yoga workout clothes. Poppy had regained her figure through daily yoga with her personal trainer and was really in excellent post-baby shape. Seeing Poppy postpartum fat, out of shape, and out of breath would have cheered Sam immensely. But unfortunately that state had lasted for like a nanosecond.

  "Omigod, Sam! What did you cook out here? It smells like meat.'" Her face went nearly as pale as her billowy white yogawear. "There is to be no meat in this household. No meat!"

  "Since when did we go meatless?" Sam asked. She deliberately stabbed her fork into a large hunk of Eduardo's savory chicken and brought it ostentatiously to her mouth.

  "Carnivore!" Poppy gasped, placing her hands over her heart as if just listening to Sam was giving her palpitations.

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  "You went away to Malibu for more than a week, Sam." Poppy stated. "During that time, our household shifted to vegetarian. Preferably raw, whole foods in their natural state. Nothing that has a heart, everything from the earth. Meat is very toxic. Ruby Hummingbird needs to grow up in a home free of all toxins. She's extremely sensitive."

  Sam swallowed a bite of the roast chicken and forked up another extra-large piece. "No, seriously. People have been eating meat for tens of thousands of years. Don't you think that if it was really toxic, the human race would have died out by now?"

  "Look at the state of the world! Of course I believe it," Poppy insisted, chin jutting forward. "I've done a great deal of reading." She regarded Gisella. "Hello. I'm Poppy Sharpe."

  "I'm Gisella." The Peruvian girl nodded. "Nice to meet you, Poppy."

  Poppy smiled, and then turned back to Sam. "I will now have to have the meat toxins explunged from this kitchen, Sam," Poppy fumed. "Because of you."

  Sam tried to hide her smile. Did Poppy just say ex-plunged?

  "Excuse me? What's going on? I'm smelling some bad karma in here."

  A tall and very buff guy drifted up behind Poppy, wearing identical yoga workout clothes, except his were sky blue instead of snow white. He looked to be in his late twenties and had long, straight chestnut brown hair

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  parted in the middle, piercing blue eyes, and a Fu Manchu moustache.

  "Easy on the rhetoric," he cautioned Poppy, in a voice as soft and calm as a spring shower. "What a baby learns before it can speak will stay with it for life. This is the time for imprinting positive patterns that can last a lifetime."

  "You are so right, Bodhi. This is the stepdaughter I was telling you about. She really, really needs your help." Poppy pointed right at her, and the guy gave Sam a serious

  up-down, up-down, and the slightest disapproving shake of the head at what he saw.

  "I'm Bodhi Gilad. From Body by Bodhi. I'm sure you've heard of me. I was in Inner Fitness magazine last month. I could help you get into the best shape of your life, Sam. If you're willing do the work."

  "I think Sam is perfect exactly as she
is," Eduardo opined. As if to prove his point, he snaked an arm around one of her shoulders. Sam was thrilled.

  "And I would defer to the expert, were I you. First the mind must be healed," Bodhi explained. "Then the body will follow."

  Poppy looked at him with something approaching reverence. "That is so true," she said softly.

  "It all comes from the spiritual core. Your spirit, mind, and body must be united."

  "Uh-huh," Sam chirped, amused. It was so much easier to take Poppy and Bodhi with Eduardo's arm around her shoulder "Bodhi, how much do people

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  pay you for those scintillating tarot card health bulletins?"

  "Why must you always trash what you don't understand, Sam? Bodhi just happens to be the deepest, most brilliant man I have ever met in my life. And you should see him in shavasana position. It's a thing of beauty." Her relentless stepmother gazed up at him, her eyes shining.

  Sam looked from Poppy to Bodhi and back to Poppy again. She knew that look. She'd seen it on starfuckers so many times before.

  Holy shit. Was Poppy doing him? Was the Pop-Tart cheating on her father?

  No. Jackson could put up with a lot. Poppy wasn't the sharpest piece of cutlery in the drawer. But her father was smart. He knew that about her when he married her, apparently. Yet if there was one thing that Jackson Sharpe demanded--from his coworkers, from his family, from his fans--it was loyalty. He had taken a long time to remarry after divorcing Sam's own mother. Even with his own penchant for dalliances on his movie sets, a cheating spouse would crush him. Then it would anger him. Then

  --well, who knew what he'd do?

  Suddenly, Poppy seemed to get flustered, as if remembering just who her audience was. "Well, when your father gets home, I plan to put him on Bodhi's plan for healing and health, too. Or should I say, if your father gets back home."

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  Bodhi shook his hair out of his eyes. "When a couple's yin and yang lacks unity, it's a spirit-killer."

  "I know," Poppy said sadly. "But he's always busy, always on the set--"

  The yoga instructor nodded knowingly. "Jackson wants the Oscar. He craves the Oscar, the recognition from his peers. So temporal. So fleeting. So foolish. Who won the Best Actor Oscar in 1988, for example? No one re--"