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Bram just stood there, his hand on the door, his shirt buttoned wrong, and his jaw wired shut. He was leaving it up to her. This time she wouldn’t let the jackals get the best of her, and she plastered on her Scooter Brown smile. “It’s nice to have your grandmother’s blessing. But what for?”
Duffy was overweight, with ruddy skin and an unkempt beard. “I’ve seen a copy of your marriage license, and I talked with the guy who performed the ceremony. He looks like a seedy Justin Timber-lake.” Duffy continued to shoot as he spoke. “It’ll be all over the wires within an hour, so you might as well give me the story. I promise I’ll send you a great wedding present.” He shifted his angle again. “How long have you been—”
“There’s no story.” Bram whipped an arm around Georgie’s waist and yanked her back into the building.
Ignoring trespassing laws, Duffy caught the door before it closed and followed them in. “Have you talked to Lance? Does he know about this?”
“Back off,” Bram said.
“Come on, Shepard. You know the score as well as I do. This is the biggest celebrity story of the year.”
“I said back off.” Bram lunged for Duffy’s camera.
Georgie, with the ounce of sanity she had left, grabbed his arm and held on. “Don’t do it!”
Duffy quickly stepped back, took one final shot, and ducked out the door. “No hard feelings.”
Bram shook her off and started after him.
“Stop it!” Georgie blocked the door with her body. “What good will smashing his camera do now?”
“It’ll make me feel better.”
“That’s so you. Still trying to solve problems with your fists.”
“As opposed to smiling at any asshole who points a lens in your direction and pretending life’s just peachy?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “The next time I decide to deck somebody, stay out of my way.”
A busboy came into the hallway, forcing her to stifle a hot retort. They headed for the service elevator and rode up in furious silence. When they reached the suite, he kicked the door open, then whipped his cell from his pocket.
“No!” She snatched it from his hand and raced with it to the bathroom.
He rushed after her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She tossed the cell in the toilet before he could grab it back. He pushed her aside and stared down into the tank. “I cannot believe you did that.”
Scooter had once accidentally dropped Mother Scofield’s ancestral photo album into the garden fountain, then spent the rest of the show trying to cover her tracks. In the end, Skip had saved her by taking the blame. That so wasn’t going to happen this time. “You’re not calling anybody until we figure this out together,” she said.
“Is that right?”
Her chest heaved, and she focused all her anger on him. “Do not screw with me. I’m an American icon, remember. Lance barely got away with it, and he was Mr. Squeaky Clean. You’re not, and you won’t.”
His clenched-jaw reflection in the mirror wasn’t reassuring. “We’re going with my original plan,” he said. “In exactly one hour, your publicist and the one I’m about to hire are going to release a statement. Too much liquor, too much nostalgia, remain good friends, bullshit, bullshit.” He stalked out of the bathroom.
She went after him as she’d never gone after Lance. “A bubble-headed pop star might be able to get away with a Vegas marriage that lasts less than twenty-four hours, but I can’t, and neither can you. Give me some time to think.”
“No amount of thinking is going to make this little scrape go away.” He headed for the phone next to the couch.
“Five minutes! That’s all I need.” She pointed toward the television. “You can watch porn while you’re waiting.”
“You watch porn. I’m finding a publicist.”
She tore around the couch and once again slapped her hands over the phone. “Do not make me toss this one in the toilet, too.”
“Do not make me tie you up, lock you in a closet, and toss in a match!”
Right now that didn’t sound so horrible. And then—
An impossible idea came to her.
