he’d locked the doors against him. He felt as if his skin had peeled off, the beautiful facade he’d hidden behind ripped away to reveal all the ugliness beneath. He stumbled back to the beach, pulling off his sodden T-shirt and pressing it to his bloody elbow. He located his car keys in the sand, but Trev’s house key had been on a separate ring and was nowhere to be found. After a last futile attempt to get Georgie to answer the door, he gave up.

The paps had disappeared. Shivering and bleeding, he made his way to his car and started the long drive back home through the storm. He couldn’t imagine how he’d be able to make her understand what had just happened. She’d never believe him. And why should she? He’d even turned her desire for a baby into a bargaining chip.

The full extent of this disaster he’d brought on himself made it hard to breathe. What the hell had he done, and how was he going to fix it? Not with another phone message, that was for sure.

But after he got home, he couldn’t stop himself, and when her voice mail picked up, he let it all spill out. “Georgie, I love you. Not the way I said earlier, but really. I know it doesn’t seem that way, but I didn’t understand like I do now…” He rambled on, mixing up his words, his thoughts, trying to get it all out and failing miserably, knowing he’d only made everything worse.

Georgie listened to every syllable of his message, every lie. The words burned into her flesh, leaving bleeding tattoos behind. Her fury was boundless. She would make him pay. He’d taken away what she wanted most, and now she’d do the same to him.

That evening, after Bram was cleaned up and more clearheaded, he drove back to Malibu. The paps must have believed he was still at the beach because no SUVs loitered at the end of his driveway. He’d decided to break down the door if she wouldn’t let him in the house, although he doubted that would soften her heart. Along the way, he bought her flowers, as if a couple dozen roses would make a difference, then stopped to pick up mangoes because he remembered she liked them. He also bought her a snow-white teddy bear holding a red heart in its paws, but as he left the store, he realized that was the kind of thing junior high kids did, and he stuffed it in the trash.

As it turned out, the house was dark and her car missing from the garage. He waited around for a while, hoping she’d come back, suspecting she wouldn’t. Eventually he headed for Santa Monica, his car still full of flowers and mangoes.

When he arrived at Paul’s town house, he futilely scanned the street for Georgie’s car. The last person he wanted to face was his father-in-law, and he thought about turning around, but Paul was his best shot at getting to Georgie.

He hadn’t seen him since the night of the wedding party, and the visible hostility on his face as he answered the door eradicated any hope Bram might have been harboring that Paul would help him out. Paul’s lips thinned as he gave Bram the once-over. “The golden boy looks a little under the weather.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a rainy day. A rainy month.”

He waited for the door to slam in his face and was stunned when Paul let him in. “Want a drink?”

Bram wanted a drink too much, a sure sign that he couldn’t risk having one. “You got any coffee?”

“I’ll dig some up.”

As Bram followed Paul into the kitchen, he couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands. They felt too big for his body, as if they didn’t belong to him. “Have you seen Georgie?” he finally managed.

“You’re her husband. You’re supposed to keep track of her.”

“Yeah, well…”

Paul turned on the water faucet. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m guessing you already know.”

“Tell me anyway.”

And Bram did. While the coffee brewed, he began by telling Paul about Las Vegas, only to learn that Georgie had already filled him in.

“I also know Georgie went to Mexico because she thought she was getting too attached to you.” Paul pulled a bright orange mug from the cupboard.

“Believe me,” Bram said bitterly, “that’s not a problem now. What else did she tell you?”

“I know about the audition tape, and I know she turned the part down.”

“It’s crazy, Paul. She was amazing.” He rubbed his eyes. “We’ve all underestimated her. We fell into the same trap as the public, only wanting her to play variations of Scooter. I’ll send you a copy of the tape so you can see for yourself.”

“If Georgie wants me to see it, she’ll let me know.”

“It must be nice to have the luxury of being noble.”

“You should try it sometime.” Paul filled the mug and passed it over. “Tell me the rest.”

Bram described his visit from Rory and everyone’s reaction to Georgie’s withdrawal. “They know I’m responsible, they want her in the film, and they expect me to fix this.”

“Not a good position for a new producer to be in.”

He couldn’t contain himself. He began pacing the kitchen, making awkward ovals as he told Paul the rest—his trip to Mexico, the lie about Jade, and then the worst, what he’d said to her today. He let it spill out, omitting only the detail about the baby, not because he was trying to protect himself—he was long past that—but because Georgie’s desire for a child was her own secret to reveal.

“So let me get this straight,” Paul said, an ominous note in his voice. “You lied to my daughter about Jade. Then you tried to manipulate her by pretending you were in love with her. After she threw you out, you magically realized you really do love her, and now you want me to help you convince her of that.”

Bram slumped onto a bar stool at the counter. “I’m so fucked.”

“I’d say.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Yes, and I’m not telling you.”

He hadn’t really expected it. “Will you at least tell her…? Shit. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her…Ask her to talk to me.”

“I’m not asking her for a damn thing. You created this mess. You can damn well fix it.”

But how? This wasn’t a misunderstanding that could be patched up with roses, mangoes, or a diamond bracelet. It wasn’t a simple lovers’ quarrel that a few words of apology could repair. If he wanted his wife back, he’d have to do something much more convincing, and he didn’t have a clue what that could be.

Georgie came downstairs as he drove away. She hadn’t been able to stay in Malibu with Bram pounding at the door, so she’d driven here. “I heard every word.” Her voice sounded strange even to herself, so cold, so detached.

“I’m sorry, kitten.”

He hadn’t called her that since she was a child, and as he put his arm around her, she buried her face in his chest. But her fury burned so strong she was afraid she’d scorch him, and she drew away.

“I think Bram just might be telling the truth,” he said.

“He’s not. Tree House means everything to him, and I’m making him look bad. He’ll do anything to get my name on that contract.”

“Not long ago, that was exactly what you wanted.”

“Not now.”

Her father looked so troubled, she squeezed his hand—only for a moment, long enough to reassure him but not to blister his skin. “I love you,” she said. “I’m going to turn in now.” She temporarily pushed aside her rage. “Go see Laura. I know you want to.”

He’d called Georgie in Mexico to tell her he’d fallen for her old agent. She’d been stunned until she’d considered all the women he hadn’t fallen in love with.

“Are you getting used to the idea of Laura and me?” he asked.

“I am, but how about her?”

“It’s only been four days since I told her how I felt, and I’m making headway.”

“I’m glad for you. Glad for Laura, too.”

She waited until after he’d driven off before she called Mel Duffy. Jackals were nocturnal creatures, and Mel answered right away. “Duffy.”

He sounded sleepy, but she’d wake him up fast. “Mel, it’s Georgie York. I have a story for you.”

“Georgie?”

“A big story. About Bram and me. If you’re interested, meet me in Santa Monica in an hour. The Fourteenth Street entrance to the Woodland Cemetery.”

“God, Georgie, don’t do this to me! I’m in Italy! Positano. Diddy’s got this big fuckin’ party on his yacht.” He started to cough, a cigarette hack. “I’ll fly back. Christ, it’s not even eight a.m. here, and there’s another goddamn labor strike. Give me time to fly back to L.A. Promise me you won’t talk to anybody else till I get there.”

She could call a member of the legitimate press, but she wanted a jackal to have the story. She wanted to give it to Mel, who was gluttonous enough to exploit every bloody angle. “All right. Monday night. Midnight. If you’re not there, I won’t wait.”

She hung up, her heart racing, her fury seething. Bram had taken away what she most wanted. Now she’d do the same to him. Her only regret was having to wait forty-eight hours to exact her revenge.

Bram couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t eat, and he was seriously going to kill Chaz if she didn’t stop hovering. At the age of thirty-three, he’d acquired a twenty-year-old mother, and he didn’t like it. But then he didn’t like much of anything or anyone these days, especially himself. At the same time, a steady sense of resolve had taken hold of him.

“Georgie’s not doing Helene,” he told Hank Peters on Monday afternoon, two days after that ugly scene at Malibu. “I can’t talk her into changing her mind. Make whatever you want of it.”

He wasn’t surprised when, less than half an hour later, he received a summons to meet with Rory Keene. He stalked past her fleet of alarmed assistants and entered her office without waiting to be announced. She sat behind her burled wood desk, beneath her Diebenkorn painting, and ruled the world.

He kicked aside a wire chair shaped like a backward S. “Georgie’s not taking Helene. And you’re right. I’ve screwed up my marriage. But I love my wife more than I’ve loved anyone, and even though she currently hates my guts, I’d like you to stay the hell out of this while I try to get her back. Got it?”

Several long seconds passed before Rory put down her pen. “I guess our meeting’s over then.”

“I’d say so.” As Bram strode from her office, he knew some of what he had to do. He only wished he could figure out the rest.

Georgie parked her rented Corolla in front of a two-story apartment building just north of the Woodland Cemetery entrance, close enough so she could see Mel arrive, but far enough away to keep him from spotting her until she wanted him to. It was almost midnight, and the traffic on Fourteenth had thinned to a trickle. As she sat in the dark, she found herself remembering it all—from the moment Bram had overheard her proposing to Trev to the stormy afternoon on that same beach when Bram had declared his undying love.

The pain wouldn’t relent. She was going to tell the jackal everything. The story of Bram’s phony declaration of love would take over the tabs, then make its way to the legitimate press. The reputation he’d been working so hard to polish would be tarnished all over again. Let Bram try to play the hero after she was done with him. She’d hurt herself in the process, but she no longer cared. She was angrier than she’d ever been, but she was freer, too. Her days of letting tabloid headlines rule her existence were over. No more smiling for photographers when she was falling apart. No more posturing for the press to preserve her pride. No more letting her public image steal her soul.

A black SUV pulled up just past the cemetery entrance. She sat lower in her seat and watched in the side-view mirror as the headlights went off. Duffy got out, lit a cigarette, and looked around, but he didn’t notice the Corolla. The lies were going to end now. She’d hurt Bram as badly as he’d hurt her. It was the perfect revenge.

The jackal lit a cigarette. She’d begun to perspire, and her stomach wasn’t right. He started to pace. It was time. After tonight, there’d be no more subterfuge. She could live honestly, with her head high, knowing she’d fought back, that she hadn’t let herself become another man’s emotional victim. This was the woman she’d grown into. A woman who took control of her life and her revenge.

The jackal pitched his cigarette into the gutter and headed toward the cemetery entrance. She hadn’t counted on that. She wanted to tell her story near the safety of streetlights. A jackal in a deserted cemetery was too dangerous, and she reached for the door handle before he could go any farther. But as her hand closed around the cold metal, something cracked open inside her. Right then, she saw that the jackal inside the car was more dangerous than the one approaching the cemetery gates.

The jackal inside the car was her. This vengeful, furious woman.

She clutched the handle. Bram had betrayed her, and he deserved to be punished. She needed to hurt him, to destroy him, to betray him as he’d betrayed her. But that kind of destruction wasn’t in her nature.

She sagged back in her seat and looked at who she was—at who she’d become. The air inside the car grew heavy and stale. One of her feet fell asleep. But she stayed where she was, and slowly, she began to understand her own nature. With a furious new clarity, she knew she’d rather live with the weight of her anger, the burden of her grief, than turn herself into a creature of vengeance.

The jackal finally emerged from the maw of the cemetery, cell phone to his ear. He smoked another cigarette, gave a final look around, then climbed into his car and peeled away.

She drove aimlessly, feeling empty, still angry, not at peace, but clear about who she was. Eventually, she ended up on a seedy section of Santa Monica’s Lincoln Boulevard populated by massage parlors and sex shops. She parked in front of a brake shop closed for the night, hoisted her camera bag from her trunk, and set off down the sidewalk. She’d never been alone in a dangerous neighborhood at night, but it didn’t occur to her to be frightened.

Before long, she found what she was looking for, a teenage girl with bleached hair and burned-out eyes. She approached her carefully.

“My name’s Georgie,” she said softly. “I’m a filmmaker. Can I talk to you?”

Chaz appeared at the beach house two days later. Georgie had been sitting in front of her computer, looking at film all morning, and she hadn’t even had a shower. As soon as Aaron answered the door, an argument broke out.

“You followed me!” she heard him exclaim. “You don’t even like to drive to the grocery, and you followed me all the way to Malibu?”

“Let me in.”

“No way,” he said. “Go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere till I talk to her.”

“You’ll have to get past me first.”

“Oh, puh-leeze, like you can stop me.” Chaz stormed past him and soon found the spare bedroom where Georgie had set up her equipment. She was dressed in avenger black right down to her flip-flops. “You know what your problem is?” she declared, advancing on Georgie without preamble. “You don’t care about people.”

Georgie had barely slept, and she was too drained to deal with this.

“Bram hasn’t come home from the studio for the past two nights.” Chaz continued her attack. “He’s miserable, and it’s all because of you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started doing drugs again.” When Georgie didn’t respond, some of Chaz’s fire gave way to uncertainty. “I know you’re in love with him. Isn’t she, Aaron? Why don’t you just go back to him? Then everything will be fine.”

“Chaz, stop badgering her,” Aaron said quietly as he came up behind her.

Georgie had never imagined Aaron would turn into such a determined watchdog. His weight loss seemed to have given him a new confidence. One Tuesday, when Mel Duffy’s story about Georgie’s phone call had surfaced, Aaron had gone on the attack and issued a vigorous public denial without even consulting her. She’d told him that Mel’s account was true and she didn’t care anymore, but he refused to listen.

It was easier to attack Chaz’s weaknesses than think about her own. “Here’s the thing about people who are always sticking their noses into other people’s lives. It’s generally because they don’t want to deal with their own screwups.”

Chaz immediately went on the defensive. “Everything’s just fine in my life!”

“Then why aren’t you in culinary school right now? As far as I know, you haven’t even glanced at those GED workbooks.”

“Chaz is too busy to study,” Aaron said. “Just ask her.”

“I think you’re afraid if you step outside the security of what you have now, you’ll somehow end up back on the streets.” The words were no sooner out of Georgie’s mouth than she realized she’d betrayed Chaz’s confidence. She felt sick. “I’m sorry, I—”

Chaz scowled. “Oh, stop looking like that. Aaron knows.”

He did? Georgie hadn’t expected that.

“If Chaz doesn’t study,” Aaron said, “she won’t have to worry about flunking. She’s afraid.”

“That’s bull.”

Georgie gave up. “I’m too tired to deal with this now. Go away.”

Naturally, Chaz didn’t move. Instead, she regarded Georgie with displeasure. “You look like you’re losing weight again.”

“Nothing tastes good right now.”

“We’ll see about that.” Chaz stormed into the kitchen where she stomped around for a while, banging cupboard doors, opening and closing the refrigerator. Before long, she’d produced a crisp salad and a bowl of gooey mac and cheese. It was comfort food, but not as comforting as having Chaz fuss over her.

Georgie made this big fricking deal out of Chaz borrowing one of her swimsuits and going down to the beach. “Unless you’re afraid of the water.” Georgie had said it with a kind of sneer, like she was daring Chaz to put on a suit. She knew Chaz hated showing off her body, and she must have decided this was some kind of therapy. But since she’d basically dared her, Chaz had put on the suit, then rummaged around in Georgie’s crap until she found a terry cloth cover-up to wear over it.

Aaron lay on a beach towel, reading some kind of lame video game magazine. When she’d first known him, he wouldn’t get anywhere near the water. Now he wore new white swim trunks with navy trim. He still needed to lose a few more pounds, so he shouldn’t have looked so semihot, but he’d started working out with weights, and it showed. He was also spending money for decent haircuts, plus his contact lenses.

She sat on the end of the towel, her back to him. The cover-up didn’t even reach the middle of her thighs, and she kind of tucked her legs under her.

He put his magazine aside. “It’s hot. Let’s go for a swim.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Why not? You told me you used to swim all the time.”

“I just don’t want to right now, that’s all.”

He sat up next to her. “I’m not going to jump you just because you’re wearing a bathing suit.”

“I know that.”

“Chaz, you’ve got to get over what happened.”

She poked at the sand with a stick. “Maybe I don’t want to get over it. Maybe I need to make sure I never forget so I don’t get caught up in anything like that again.”

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Simple logic. Let’s say you broke your arm again, or even your leg. Do you really think Bram would throw you out? Or that Georgie wouldn’t step in, or that I wouldn’t let you stay at my place? You’ve got friends now, although you’d never know it from the way you treat them.”

“I made Georgie eat, didn’t I? And you shouldn’t have said that to her about how I was afraid of flunking.”

“You’re smart, Chaz. Everybody knows it but you.”

She picked up a broken shell and ran the sharp point over her thumb. “I could have been smart, but I missed too much school.”

“So what? That’s what a GED is for. I told you I’d help you study.”

“I don’t need help.” If he helped her, he’d figure out exactly how much she didn’t know, and he’d stop respecting her.

But he seemed to understand what she was thinking. “If you hadn’t helped me, I’d still be fat. People are good at different things. I was always good in school, and it’s my turn to do you a favor. Trust me. I won’t be nearly as mean about it as you were with me.”

She had been mean to him. Georgie, too. She stretched out her legs. Her skin was pale as a vampire’s, and she saw this one little place she’d missed when she’d shaved. “Sorry.”

She must not have sounded like she meant it because he wouldn’t let it go. “You’ve got to stop being so rude to people. You think it makes you look tough, but it only makes you seem sort of pitiful.”

She launched herself off the towel. “Don’t say that!”

He looked up at her. She glared back, her arms rigid at her sides and her hands fisted.

“Stop the bullshit, Chaz.” He sounded tired, as if he’d gotten bored with her. “It’s time for you to grow up and start acting like a decent human being.” He rose slowly to his feet. “You and I are best friends, but half the time I’m ashamed of you. Like that bullshit with Georgie. Anybody with eyes can see how bad she’s feeling. You didn’t have to make it worse.”

“Bram’s feeling just as bad,” she retorted.

“That doesn’t justify the way you talked to her.”

He looked like he was ready to give up on her. She wanted to cry, but she’d kill herself first, so she tore open the cover-up and threw it down in the sand. She felt naked, but Aaron only looked at her face. When she’d been on the streets, the men had hardly ever looked at her face. “Are you satisfied?” she cried.

“Are you?” he asked.

She wasn’t satisfied with much of anything about herself, and she was sick of being afraid. Leaving the house made her nervous. She was scared to take her GED. Scared of so much. “If I’m nice to people, they’ll start to take advantage of me,” she cried.

“If they start taking advantage of you,” he said quietly, “stop being nice to them.”

Her skin prickled. Did it really have to be all or nothing? She thought of what he’d said earlier, that she had friends who’d watch out for her. She hated depending on other people, but maybe that was because she’d never been able to. Aaron was right. She did have friends now, but she still acted like she was alone in her fight against the world. She didn’t like knowing he thought of her as a mean person. Being mean wouldn’t save her from anything. She studied her feet. “Don’t give up on me, okay?”

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m too curious to see how you’re going to turn out when you grow up.”

She looked back up at him and saw this funny expression on his face. He wasn’t looking at her body or even taking his eyes off her, but she was aware of him in a way that made her feel…itchy or thirsty. Something. “Are you ready to swim yet?” she said. “Or do you want to stand here all day psychoanalyzing me?”

“Swim.”

“That’s what I thought.”

She raced for the water, feeling almost free. Maybe it wouldn’t last, but for now it felt good.

Georgie edited film during the day and wandered around the more squalid streets of Hollywood and West Hollywood at night, with only her camera and her famous face for protection. Most of the girls she approached recognized her and were more than willing to talk into her camera lens.

She discovered a mobile health clinic that served street kids. Again, her fame paid off, and the health care workers let her ride with them each night as they offered HIV and STD testing, crisis counseling, condoms, and disease prevention education. What she saw and heard during those nights left her heartsick. She kept imagining Chaz among these girls and thinking about where she’d be without Bram’s intervention.

Two weeks slipped by, and he made no attempts to see her. She was exhausted to the point of numbness, but she couldn’t sleep more than a few hours before she jerked awake, her pajamas damp with sweat, the sheets twisted around her. She desperately missed the man she’d believed Bram to be, the man who’d harbored a caring heart beneath his cynical exterior. Only her work and the knowledge that she’d done the right thing by not giving up her soul for the sake of revenge kept her from despair.

Since the paps weren’t prone to lurk in the neighborhoods she visited, no photos of her popped up. Even though she’d ordered Aaron to stop feeding the tabloids his stories of marital bliss, he kept on doing it. She no longer cared. Let Bram deal with it.

On a Friday three weeks after her breakup with Bram, Aaron called and told her to log on to Variety. When she did, she saw the announcement:

Casting has been completed on Tree House, Bram Shepard’s film adaptation of Sarah Carter’s best-selling novel. In a surprise move, Anna Chalmers, a virtually unknown indie actress, has been signed for Helene, the demanding female lead.

Georgie gazed at the screen. It was over. Now Bram no longer had a need to convince her of his undying love, which explained why he hadn’t tried to talk to her again. She forced on her sneakers and took a beach walk. Her defenses were down, and she was exhausted, or she wouldn’t have let herself drift into a sitcom world where Bram would show up at her door, throw himself on his knees, and beg for her love and forgiveness.

Disgusted with herself, she headed back to the house.

The next morning her phone rang while she was at her computer. She dragged herself out of her stupor and squinted at the display on her cell. It was Aaron. He’d flown to Kansas for the weekend to celebrate his father’s sixtieth birthday. She cleared the muzziness from her voice. “How’s the family reunion?”

“Fine, but Chaz is sick. I just got off the phone, and she sounded really bad.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She wouldn’t tell me, but she almost sounded like she was crying. I told her to find Bram, but she doesn’t know where he is.”

Not in Malibu, Georgie thought, trying to win me back.

“I’m worried about her,” Aaron went on. “Do you think…”

“I’ll drive over,” she said.

As she pulled out onto the highway, the sitcom began to play again in her head. She saw herself walking into Bram’s house and discovering balloons everywhere. Dozens of them floating at the ceiling with their ribbons drifting in the air. And she saw Bram standing in the middle of them, his expression soft, anxious, tender.!!!“Surprise!”

She punched the accelerator and pulled herself back to reality.

Not a single balloon floated in the empty, quiet house, and the man who’d betrayed her was nowhere in sight. With the paparazzi once again staking out the end of the drive, she’d left her car at Rory’s and slipped through the back gate. She set down her purse and called Chaz’s name. There was no response.

She made her way through the empty kitchen into the back hallway and up the stairs to Chaz’s apartment above the garage. She wasn’t surprised to find it simply decorated and scrupulously neat. “Chaz? Are you okay?”

A moan came from what seemed to be the only bedroom. She discovered Chaz lying on top of a crumpled gray quilt, her knees pulled to her chest, her face pale. She groaned as she saw Georgie. “Aaron called you.”

Georgie hurried to the side of the bed. “What’s wrong?”

She clutched her knees tighter. “I can’t believe he called you.”

“He was worried. He said you were sick, and obviously he was right.”

“I have cramps.”

“Cramps?”

“Cramps. That’s all. I sometimes get ’em like this. Now go away.”

“Did you take anything?”

“I ran out.” Her words were nearly a wail. “Leave me alone.” She turned her face into the pillow and said, more softly, “Please.”

Please? Chaz must really be sick. Georgie fetched some Tylenol from Bram’s kitchen, made a cup of tea, and carried it back to the apartment. On her way to the bedroom, she saw a GED workbook open on the coffee table along with a couple of used yellow pads and pencils. She smiled, her first one of the week.

“I can’t believe Aaron called you,” Chaz said again after she’d taken the pills. “You drove all the way from Malibu to give me some Tylenol?”

“Aaron was pretty upset.” Georgie set the bottle on the bedside table. “And you’d have done the same for me.”

That drew Chaz out of her misery. “He was upset?”

Georgie nodded and held out the hot, sugared tea. “I’ll leave you alone now.”

Chaz pulled herself up far enough to take the mug. “Thanks,” she muttered. “I mean it.”

“I know,” Georgie said as she left the room.

She picked up a couple of things she’d left behind, being careful not to even glance in the bedroom. As she came back downstairs, a wash of golden afternoon light splashed through the windows. She’d loved this house. Its nooks and spaces. She’d loved the potted lemon trees and Tibetan throws, the Aztec stone fireplace mantel and warm wooden floors. She’d loved the bookshelf-lined dining room and brass wind-bells. How could the man who’d designed such a welcoming home have such an empty, hostile heart?

And that’s when he walked in.