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“I’m a realist. Moon face, bug eyes, and rubber mouth, but I’m starting to like my body again, and I’m not getting implants.”
He sighed. “Nobody wants you to get implants, especially me. You don’t have a moon face. And when are you going to stop trying to camouflage your mouth and splash it with some red lipstick? I happen to have an intimate acquaintance with that mouth, and I’m here to tell you it’s spectacular.” He slid the palm of his hand along her hip. “A statement of fact, not a compliment.”
This was getting way too hot for her, so she broke the mood with a friendly suggestion. “If you want Rory to think you’re reformed, maybe you should lay off the booze.?
??
“Iced tea.”
“Yeah, right.”
She headed for the kitchen to check up on Chaz. Cobalt pottery bowls with red pepper chunks, figs and mangoes, curls of sweet onion, and wedges of fresh pineapple covered the counter. “Make sure you turn the chicken on the grill after four minutes,” Chaz told Aaron, who was arranging glasses on a tray. “No more. Understand?”
“I understood the first two times you told me.”
“Those rosemary sprigs go on top of the beef while it’s cooking.” Ignoring Georgie, she pitched a tomato she’d dropped into the sink. “And baste the scallops with the sweet chili sauce. Remember they dry out fast, so don’t keep them on the heat too long.”
“You should be grilling instead of me,” he said.
“Like I don’t have enough to do?”
Chaz seemed as bad-tempered as ever, which was reassuring. Georgie gave her a break and spoke only to Aaron. “What happened to your hair?”
“I got it cut this afternoon.” Chaz snorted, and he glared at her. “It was taking too long to dry in the morning, that’s all.”
Another snort.
“It looks great.” Georgie observed him more closely. The buttons lined up in a neat row down the front of his dark green shirt with no sign of strain, and his khakis no longer stretched so tightly across his stomach. Aaron was losing weight, and she had a feeling she knew who was responsible.
“Thanks for helping Chaz tonight,” she said as she stole a mushroom from a bowl on the counter. “If she gets too dangerous, use some pepper spray on her.”
“He’d squirt himself in the eye,” Chaz retorted. She was all attitude, but she knew Georgie had witnessed her pain, and she wouldn’t look at her.
Georgie squeezed Aaron’s arm. “Remind me to give you hazardous-duty pay when this is over.”
Meg stuck her head in. She wore a very short chartreuse tunic with blue leopard-pattern leggings and orange ankle boots. A narrow, braided jute headband had replaced the bindi on her forehead. She grinned and spread her arms. “I look fabulous! Admit it.”
She did, although Georgie knew her well enough to understand that Meg didn’t really believe it. She could wear even the most outrageous outfits with the same authority as her former supermodel mother, but she still insisted on seeing herself as an ugly duckling. Even so, Georgie envied Meg’s relationship with her famous parents. Despite the messy complexities between them, they loved each other unconditionally.
The doorbell rang, and by the time Georgie reached the foyer, Bram had let in Trevor. “Mrs. Shepard, I presume.” He handed over a gift basket piled with expensive spa products. “I didn’t want to add to his drinking problem by bringing alcohol.”
“Thank you.”
Bram took a slug of scotch. “I don’t have a drinking problem.”
Laura arrived immediately afterward, slightly breathless, her pale, flyaway hair disheveled, not exactly the portrait of a high-powered Hollywood agent, but that was why Paul had hired her. She tripped coming into the house and blanched as Bram caught her arm. “Sorry,” she said. “I haven’t used these feet all day, and I’ve forgotten how they work.”
Bram smiled. “A common problem.”
“Great news.” Laura pecked Georgie on the cheek. “You have a meeting with Greenberg on Tuesday.” Georgie’s hackles went up, but Laura had already turned to Bram. “This is a beautiful house. Who decorated it for you?”
“I did it myself. Trev Elliott helped.”
He and Laura disappeared toward the veranda leaving Georgie staring after him. Bram had picked out the Oriental rugs and Tibetan throws? The Mexican folk paintings and Balinese bells? And what about all those well-thumbed books lining the dining room shelves?
Her father showed up before she could process this new information. His lips felt frosty on her cheek. “Dad, I need you to be decent to Bram tonight,” she said as she led him through the foyer. “Rory Keene’s invited, and Bram needs her support on a project. No put-downs. I mean it.”
“Maybe I should come back sometime when you don’t feel like you have to lecture me as soon as I walk in the door.”
