n Saturday morning Georgie parked her car just off Temescal Canyon Road, sliding in behind a dusty blue Bentley and a red Benz Roadster. With the paparazzi still asleep from last night’s club action, she didn’t have any unwelcome escorts. “You’re late!” Sasha said as Georgie got out. “Too busy smooching it up with Bramwell Shepard?”

“Yeah, that’s what I was doing, all right.” Georgie slammed the car door.

Sasha laughed. She looked incredible as always, tall and willowy in a white L.A.M.B. hoodie and gray pants. She’d pulled her straight brunette hair into a ponytail and shaded her face with a pink visor.

“Ignore Sasha.” April, the oldest and only truly sane member of her inner friendship circle, wore a black T-shirt from her husband’s last tour. “She just drove up thirty seconds ago.”

“I overslept,” Sasha said. “Young people do that.”

April was in her early fifties, with beautiful bold features, a dramatic square-jawed face, and a glow that spoke of well-earned contentment. She’d been Georgie’s stylist for years, but even more important, she was a dear friend. April tossed her streaky blond hair and gave Sasha a sweet smile. “I slept like a dream. But then I had hot sex last night.”

Sasha frowned. “Yeah, well, I’d have had hot sex, too, if I was married to Jack Patriot.”

“But you’re not, now are you?” April said smugly.

Three decades earlier, April had been a famous rock-and-roll groupie, but her notorious days were long behind her. She was now the wife of legendary rocker Jack Patriot as well as the mother of a famous NFL quarterback and a recent grandmother. She no longer worked as a stylist, except as a favor to Georgie.

Georgie tucked her hair behind her ears and slipped on a ball cap. She pulled a backpack heavy with water bottles from her car. She was the only one of them who didn’t mind wearing a pack, so she carried all the water, a calorie-burner they’d been trying to talk her out of since she’d gotten so thin, but she refused to cave.

Sometimes she wondered how women who didn’t have girlfriends coped with life. In her own life, these were the friends who never let her down, even though they were so frequently separated by geography, making these Saturday-morning hikes a rarity. Sasha lived in Chicago. April lived in L.A. but spent as much time as she could at the family farm in Tennessee. Meg Koranda, the baby of the group, was off on another of her journeys. None of them were exactly sure where.

Sasha led them toward the trailhead. She held back from her normal killer pace so Georgie, who used to be their leader, could keep up. “Tell us exactly what happened with Bram,” she said.

“Honestly, Georgie, what were you thinking?” April frowned.

“It was an accident.” Georgie yanked on her backpack. “On my part anyway. Totally premeditated on his.” She told them about her plan to start serial dating, then explained what had happened at The Ivy. She avoided mentioning her marriage proposal to Trevor, not because she didn’t trust them—unlike Lance, these women would never betray her—but because she didn’t want her closest friends to know she was even more pathetic than they realized. By the time they reached the open ridge above the canyon, she was gasping for breath.

The last of the morning chill had burned off, and they could see the coastline from Santa Monica Bay to Malibu. They stopped for a moment to take off their jackets and tie the sleeves around their waists. Sasha pulled out two candy bars and offered one to Georgie, trying to be casual about it, but Georgie declined. “I ate this morning. Honest.”

“A spoonful of yogurt,” April said.

“A whole carton. It’s getting better. Really.”

They didn’t believe her.

“Well, I’m starved,” Sasha said.

As she bit into her candy bar, neither Georgie nor April pointed out that Sasha Holiday, the founder of Holiday Healthy Eating, might want to munch on a piece of fruit or a Holiday Power Bar instead of a Milky Way. Sasha was a secret junk-food junkie, something only they knew. Not that it showed on her body.

Sasha tucked the wrapper into the bodice of her white top where it made a lump under the stretchy fabric. “Let’s think this through. Maybe seeing Bram isn’t such a bad idea. For sure it’ll distract everybody from talking about Lance and St. Jade.” She took a bite. “Plus, Bram Shepard is still the hottest bad boy in town.”

Georgie hated hearing anything even remotely complimentary about Bram. “He’s not hot at the box office,” she said. “And I’m lucky his drug dealer didn’t show up while we were eating.”

Sasha stuck the candy bar between her teeth and slipped behind Georgie so she could unzip the backpack and pull out their water bottles. “Trev told me Bram hasn’t done drugs in years.”

“Trev’s gullible.” Georgie twisted off the top of her bottle. “No more talk about Bram, okay? I’m not letting him spoil my morning.” He’d spoiled enough, she thought.

They spent the next two miles hiking on a fire road that wound through the sycamore, live oak, and bay. Georgie relished the feeling of privacy. They reached a shallow creek bed. Sasha leaned over to stretch her legs. “I have the best idea. Let’s all go to Vegas next weekend.”

April knelt next to the water. “That town isn’t good for me. And Jack and I have plans.”

Sasha snorted. “Naked plans.”

April grinned, and Georgie smiled with her, but inside she felt the familiar pain of betrayal. Once, she’d been as certain of Lance’s love as April was of Jack Patriot’s. Then Lance had met Jade Gentry, and everything had changed.

Lance and Jade had been filming a movie together in Ecuador. Lance had played a dashing soldier of fortune and Jade was a nerdy archaeologist, definitely a stretch, considering her exotic beauty. During Lance’s early phone calls, he’d told Georgie how Jade was so absorbed in her work as a professional do-gooder that she seldom fraternized with the crew and that she spent so much time on the phone advocating for her pet causes, she didn’t always have her lines memorized.

But gradually the stories had stopped. And Georgie hadn’t noticed.

She turned to Sasha. “A trip to Vegas sounds just right. Count me in.” She imagined photos of Georgie York and her glamorous friend whooping it up in Sin City. If she followed the trip with a few months of serial dating as she’d originally planned, maybe the stories of “Georgie’s Unending Heartbreak” would finally give way to “Georgie’s Wild Nights.”

Sasha began to sing “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” Georgie made herself do a little dance. It was a good idea. A great idea. Exactly what she needed.

What do you mean you had to go back to Chicago?” Georgie hissed into her cell phone six days later. She was at a table in the Bellagio’s Le Cirque restaurant where Sasha was supposed to be meeting her to kick off their Vegas weekend.

Sasha sounded harried instead of her normal sarcastic self. “I left three messages. Why didn’t you call me back?”

Because Georgie had accidentally left her cell in her suitcase and only retrieved it on her way to the restaurant.

“We had a fire in the warehouse,” Sasha went on. “I had to get back right away.”

“Is everybody okay?”

“Yes, but there’s a lot of damage. Georgie, I know the Vegas trip was my idea. I’d never have stood you up like this if—”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine.” Sasha was cool in a crisis, but she also wasn’t the tough nut she pretended to be. “Take care of yourself, and call me when you know more. Promise.”

“I will.”

After Georgie hung up, she gazed around the hotel’s jewel-like dining room with its silk-tented ceiling and view of Lake Bellagio. Several of the diners were openly staring at her, and she realized she was once again alone at a table for two. She left a hundred-dollar bill by her water goblet and slipped out into the casino through the restaurant’s star-studded entry. She kept her head down as she walked past the Monopoly slot machines.

“I swear, you’re stalking me.”

She whipped around and saw Bram Shepard standing outside Circo, the sister restaurant to the one she’d just fled. He was predictably gorgeous in jeans and a pinstriped dress shirt with white French cuffs, a mix of casual and elegant that should have looked awful, but didn’t. The casino lighting had turned his lavender eyes into mercury. He was like one of the Seven Wonders of the World—except he’d been tarnished by too much acid rain.

“This is so not an accident,” she said.

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

“Yeah, right.” She moved quickly, trying to get away before anyone spotted them, but he fell into step next to her. “I had a benefit,” he said.

“I don’t care. Go away.”

“It was a corporate shindig. I got twenty-five thousand dollars for spending two hours at the company cocktail party mingling with the guests.”

“Not exactly a benefit.”

“A benefit for me.”

“It figures.” She knew a dozen C-list celebrities who made a living like this, but not one of them admitted it.

She walked still faster, but it was too late. They were already attracting attention, no big surprise, since last week’s lunch date was splashed all over this week’s tabloids. She’d wanted positive stories she could control, and there was nothing controllable or positive about Bram Shepard.

They passed a circular bar with a rock band grinding out a Nickelback cover. She couldn’t get away now, so she plastered on a smile. It was time she let him know her pushover days were behind her. “Let me guess,” she said as they wound through the machines. “You’re heading for the bedroom of an aging corporate mogul’s third wife. She’s paying you for extra services.”

“Want to come along? Imagine how much she’d cough up to get it on with both of us.”

“Thanks for thinking of me, but unlike you, I’m still filthy rich, so I haven’t been reduced to selling myself.”

“Who are you kidding? I saw you in Pretty People. You sold yourself to make that bomb.”

She’d tried to convince her father the movie was a mistake, but he refused to listen. Failure was starting to cling to her like bad perfume.

“You should sue whoever did your costumes for that film.” He winked at a cute Asian blackjack dealer. “They’d have done better to capitalize on your legs instead of your bust.”

“While you’re pointing out my flaws, don’t forget my pop eyes and my rubber mouth and—”

“You don’t have pop eyes. And a rubber mouth hasn’t exactly hurt Julia Roberts.”

But Georgie wasn’t Julia Roberts.

His eyes slid over her. She was tall, but he was still half a head taller. “Nice look tonight, by the way. It almost hides how scrawny you are. April must still be styling you.”

“She is.” Although Georgie had chosen this V-neck sheath, which was printed in a black-and-white Jackson Pollock–splatter paint pattern. It hung straight from her shoulders, and the black leather belt slung low around the hips gave it a flapper feel. She’d arranged her hair in long, spiky pieces around her face and accessorized with a pair of chunky bangles.

He checked out a leggy blonde who was openly staring at him. “So tell me…Is the hunt still on, or have you found a guy stupid enough to marry you?”

“Dozens. Fortunately, I came to my senses in time. It’s amazing what a little electric shock therapy will do for you. You should try it.”

He thumped her once between the shoulder blades. “I’ll say this for you, Scoot. You still know how to get yourself in those embarrassing little jams. Walking in on your tender scene with Trev was the best time I’ve had in months.”

“Which only shows how sad your narrow little life really is.”

They’d reached the crowded lobby. Its gorgeously gaudy ceiling of Dale Chihuly glass flowers didn’t mesh well with the rest of the decor but was beautiful nonetheless. The buzz began immediately, and people stopped what they were doing to ogle them. Georgie plastered on her biggest smile. One woman lifted her cell phone to snap a picture. Great. This was just great.

“Let’s get out of here.” Bram grabbed her arm and pushed her through the crowd. The next thing she knew, they were in an elevator that smelled of Jo Malone’s Tuberose. He slid a key card into a slot on the panel and punched in a floor. Their reflections stared back at her from the mirrored walls—Skip and Scooter all grown up. For the barest fraction of a second, she wondered who was watching the twins while Mom and Dad had a night on the town.

The elevator began to move. She reached around him and pressed the button for the thirtieth floor.

“It’s not even eleven o’clock,” he said. “Let’s have some fun first.”

“Good idea. I’ll get my Tazer.”

“Still as prickly as ever. You’re all shiny package, Georgie, but there’s no present inside. I’ll bet you never even let Lance the Loser see you naked.”

She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I was supposed to take off my clothes? Why didn’t somebody tell me?”

He rested his shoulder against the elevator wall, crossed his ankles, and gave her his expert bone-melting once-over. “You know what I wish. I wish I’d nailed Jade Gentry when I had the chance. That woman is pure sex.”

His comment should have devastated her, but this was Bram, so her fighting instincts kicked in. “You never had a chance with St. Jade. She picks all her men from the A-list, and Lance’s last film grossed eighty-seven million.”

“Lucky bastard. Dude can’t act for shit.”

“As opposed to your incredible box-office record. I have to admit, though…you’re looking good.” She patted her purse. “Don’t let me walk off without the name of your fabulous plastic surgeon.”

He uncrossed his ankles. “Jade called me a few years back, but I was so out of it I never called her back. That’s the real way drugs screw up your brain, but nobody ever warns kids about shit like that.” The doors opened on the twenty-eighth floor. He grabbed her elbow. “Party time. Let’s go.”

“Let’s not.”

He dragged her out. “Come on. I’m bored.”

“Not my problem.” She tried to dig her heels into the thick carpet that ran down the middle of the opulent hallway.

His grip tightened. “You must have forgotten what I overheard at Trev’s house, or you’d realize you’re basically my slave.”

She’d been the target of too many of Bram’s cat-and-mouse games not to see where this was headed, and she didn’t like it.

He steered her around a corner. “Do you have any idea how much money I could make selling the story of sad, desperate Georgie York begging a man to marry her?”

“Even you wouldn’t do that.” Except he might.

“I guess it depends on how good a slave you are. I hope you’re wearing some sexy underwear because I’m in the mood for a lap dance.”

“I’ll make a phone call for you. There are a lot of desperate girls in Vegas.”

He rapped on a door with the back of his knuckles. “I’m only admitting this to you, Scoot, but I’m pretty much shit-faced from all those martinis they were pouring down my throat. Since I want to be cold sober for your lap dance, I’m sticking to club soda for the rest of the night.”

He didn’t look shit-faced, but she’d learned from past experience that he could consume vast quantities of alcohol before he slurred a single syllable. He was probably messing with her mind about the lap dance, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t conjured up something just as evil to use as blackmail. She could have a big problem on her hands, and she needed to figure out fast how to cope with it.

The door opened, and he swept her into a spacious private suite filled with marble, gilt, fresh flowers, and some very young, very beautiful women only slightly outnumbered by men. Judging by their height, most of them seemed to be basketball players except for a couple of unctuous-looking agents wearing pricey suits, expensive watches, and anxious expressions hanging out in the corner.

“It’s Scooter!” One of the basketball players rose to his feet and flashed a couple of gold teeth. “Damn, girl, you look good. Come on over here and have a drink.”

“Your adoring public.” Bram made a sweeping gesture, then headed for the bar where the women perched.

With only an empty hotel room waiting for her and plenty of women to claim Bram’s attention, she decided she could safely stick around for a while. Besides, she wouldn’t let Bram see her run. She soon discovered most of the men in the room played for the Knicks. The one who’d called her over turned out to be a goofball, but his teammate was a charmer. Kerry Cleveland had sexy dreadlocks, long dark eyelashes, and an infectious enthusiasm. Halfway through her first chocolate martini, she began to enjoy herself. She didn’t have to worry about cameras snapping away, and Bram was too preoccupied with the pretty young things hanging all over him to bother her.

Sometime around two in the morning, the party moved to a private gaming room, where Kerry taught her to play craps. For the first time in months, she was having fun. She’d just made her initial bet when Bram appeared at her side. “You do realize those are five-hundred-dollar chips.”

“I do, and I don’t care. You’re way too uptight.”

“I don’t think you’re uptight, Bram.” A lethal-looking redhead with a cigarette voice tried to drape herself around him, but he shrugged her off and announced he was playing, too.

When it was Georgie’s turn to roll, Bram placed his chips on the Don’t Pass Line. She threw the dice. A cheer went up as she rolled a winning six and five. Only Bram had bet against her.

“Too bad,” she whispered. “I know money’s tight for you, but I’ve heard male prostitutes can make a fortune if they find the right clients.”

“Always looking out for me.”

“That’s what friends do.”

The redhead kept trying to get Bram’s attention, and he kept ignoring her. She finally disappeared, only to return with two fresh martinis. She pressed one in Bram’s hand, but as she lifted the other to her lips, he took it away from her and handed it to Georgie. “Maybe this will loosen you up.”

The redhead looked so undone by his rejection that Georgie would have felt sorry for her if she hadn’t been so pushy. Bram rolled the dice and came up with a seven. So far, he’d broken even, while Georgie was down a few thousand. She didn’t care. This was fun. She sipped her martini and cheered Kerry on when it was his turn.

Time slid by, and the world began to whirl into a kaleidoscope of color. The dice bounced against the table’s edge. The stick swept across the green felt. The chips clicked. Suddenly, everything was beautiful, even Bram Shepard. They’d once created small-screen magic. Surely that counted for something. She rested her cheek against him. “I don’t hate you anymore.”

He draped his arm around her shoulder, sounding as happy as she felt. “I don’t hate you, either.”

Another beautiful minute ticked by, and then, for no reason at all, he pulled back. She wanted to protest as he walked away, but she felt too good.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him approach the redhead. He looked angry. How could he be mad on such a beautiful night?

The dice clicked and clicked again. Bram reappeared at her side. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

That was the last thing she remembered until the next afternoon, when she made the mistake of waking up.