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“Make-up flowers, Bram?”
“Georgie! Right here!”
Bram pulled her against him. “Stand back, guys. Give us some room.”
“Georgie, I heard you saw a lawyer.”
Bram shoved the burly photographer who’d gotten too close. “I said to stay back!”
Out of nowhere, Mel Duffy emerged from the swarm and lifted his camera toward them. “Hey, Georgie. Any comment about Jade Gentry’s miscarriage?”
His shutter clicked away.
Georgie felt sick. Her envy had somehow poisoned that defenseless fetus. Duffy had told them the miscarriage had happened in Thailand nearly two weeks ago, only a few days after her Vegas wedding, when Lance and Jade had been about to join up with a U.N. task force. Their publicist had just released the news, saying the couple was devastated but that doctors had assured them there was no reason they couldn’t have another child. All those phone messages Lance had left her…
Bram didn’t say anything until they were nearly home. Then he turned down the radio and gazed over at her. “Tell me you’re not taking this to heart.”
What kind of woman resented an innocent, unborn child? She was nauseated by guilt. “Me? Of course not. It’s sad, that’s all. Of course, I’m sorry for them.”
His knowing expression made her look away. She needed a gigolo, not
a shrink. She adjusted her sunglasses. “Nobody wants something like this to happen. Maybe I wish I hadn’t been quite so upset when I heard she was pregnant. That’s only natural.”
“This had nothing to do with you.”
“I know that.”
“Your brain knows it, but the rest of you is seriously screwed up when it comes to anything associated with the Loser.”
Her self-control snapped. “He just lost his baby! A baby I didn’t want to see born.”
“I knew it! I knew you’d decide you were somehow responsible. Toughen up, Georgie.”
“You think I’m not tough? I’m surviving this marriage, aren’t I?”
“This isn’t a marriage. It’s a chess game.”
He was right, and she was sick of the whole thing.
They drove the rest of the way to the house in silence, but after he’d parked the car in the garage, he didn’t immediately get out. Instead, he sat there, pulling off his sunglasses and messing with the stems. “Caitlin is the daughter of Sarah Carter.”
“The novelist?” She let go of the door handle.
“She died three years ago.”
“I remember.” Considering Bram’s past history, she’d been certain Caitlin was a bimbo, but that was unlikely, with an author of Sarah Carter’s caliber as her mother. Carter had written a number of literary thrillers, none of them successful. Several years after her death, a small press had brought out Tree House, a previously unpublished work. The novel had gradually caught fire with the public, and eventually became the darling of book clubs. Like everyone else, Georgie had loved it.
“Caitlin and I were dating when the book first came out,” Bram said. “Before it hit the best-seller lists. She mentioned that the last thing her mother had written before she died was a screenplay for Tree House, and she let me read it.”
“Sarah Carter turned the book into a screenplay herself?”
“A damn good one. I optioned it two hours after I finished it.”
Georgie nearly choked. “You hold the film option on Tree House? You?”
“I was drunk and didn’t think about what I was getting into.” He climbed out of the car looking as gorgeous and worthless as ever.
She hurried across the garage after him. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me you optioned it before the book became a best seller?”
