“Oh, sure,” Charlee said, then hastily leaned over and kissed Mason’s cheek. The sweet smell of her lingered on his skin.
“Remember”—Mason leaned over to whisper to her once Manny had gone on to quiz Francie and Jerry—“we don’t want to win this thing. Try to give wrong answers.”
“I was,” she protested. “I figured for sure you’d say strawberry.”
“Oh, come on, Charlee, your breasts are perfect. Not too big, not too small. Firm and pert and…”
“Mason!”
Had he shocked her? It wasn’t easy shocking Miss Streetwise P.I., but yes, he did believe she was blushing. He grinned.
Manny was back with another question and damned if she didn’t get that one right too. Even though it was a question about the nonexistent apartment they shared. By the time the five-point round was over, she’d answered all three of the questions correctly and they had more points than any of the other contestants.
Just before the assistant came over to escort the husbands offstage, Mason murmured in her ear, “Remember, answer the opposite of how you think I would answer.”
“Okay, all right.” She nodded. “I’ve got it under control.”
“Violet,” Manny said after the commercial break. “Can you tell us how old was your husband the very first time he made whoopee?”
Charlee hadn’t meant to answer with the truth. Honestly, she hadn’t. But her pride over the fact that she knew that Mason had lost his virginity in the backseat of the Bentley when he was seventeen with Blair Sydney took over and she blurted out exactly that and then belatedly slapped her hand over her mouth.
“No, Manny, that’s not correct. I’m wrong. He wasn’t seventeen.”
“Too late, Violet.” Manny winked. “You’ve already spilled Skeet’s dirty secret. He’s a late bloomer.”
Charlee cringed. Mason was going to skin her alive. She imagined how embarrassed he would be if his most private sexual history got back to his parents.
God, she was an idiot. What possessed her to tell the truth?
Perhaps she’d subconsciously wanted to pay him back for embarrassing her about her peachy breasts? Was she that petty?
“Violet,” Manny returned to her after all the other women had answered the virginity question. “What was his parents’ reaction the first time Skeet introduced you to them?”
Charlee tried to imagine meeting Mason’s parents and almost snorted out loud. No doubt the Gentrys would hate her and everything about her just as Gregory’s parents had hated her.
Think opposite of reality.
“Manny, Skeet’s parents welcomed me with open arms and even asked me when we were planning on giving them grandchildren.”
There. No way on earth would Mason get that question right.
“Ladies,” Manny said after they had answered the remaining ten-point questions. “This is it. For twenty-five points, what is your husband’s favorite food?”
Oh, getting this one wrong would be like falling off a log.
“Violet?”
“Cheeseburgers, Manny. And french fries. Skeet loves greasy fried foods.”
Feeling self-satisfied that she’d done well, Charlee leaned back in her seat and gave Mason a thumbs up as the husbands filed onto the stage.
They were a team, she realized suddenly. Charlee admitted to herself she
liked
the feeling. She’d never felt this close to anyone, save her grandmother. It had always been her and Maybelline against the world.
Until her grandmother had run off with Mason’s grandfather.
The shift in her thinking was disconcerting. All her life she had believed that she had no one on her side except for Maybelline. Certainly not her irresponsible father. And losing her mother at such a young age had only strengthened that belief.
Fool. You ‘re setting yourself up for disaster. You know better than to fall for this guy.
She knew better and yet she could do nothing to temper the sweet, mushy feelings sprouting inside her the minute Mason took his place as her pretend husband.
It’s just lust,
she assured herself.
He’s one helluva hottie and a crackerjack kisser. Nothing wrong with physical attraction as long as you don’t let it become something more.
When Manny asked Mason the virginity question and he got it right, Mason shot Charlee a look of alarm.
What in the hell ?
his expression said.
Charlee shrugged and looked apologetic. How could she explain her need to let the world know she was privy to Mason’s secret when she didn’t understand the motivation herself?
“Skeet, what was your parents’ reaction the first time they met Violet?”
Mason looked uneasy. “Well, Manny, they welcomed her with open arms and even asked when we were going to start a family.”
Ding, ding, ding,
went the bell.
“That’s correct, Skeet, earning you another ten points.” Charlee offered him an I’m-so-sorry-I-screwed-up smile. Her stomach churned. Was he mad? Her anxiety level skyrocketed.
“And now, gentlemen. For that all-important twenty-five-point question. The question that can make or break you. What is your favorite meal, Jerry?”
“This is a cinch,” said Jerry, rocking back in his seat and puffing out his chest with absolute self-assurance. “My favorite food is lasagna.”
The buzzer sounded, signaling a wrong answer. Jerry blinked and shook his head. “What? What?” He glared at Francie.
“No, Jerry, your wife Francie says your favorite meal is pizza.”
“Pizza, lasagna, they’re both Italian food. Come on, Manny, cut us some slack,” Jerry begged. “Francie gets pizza and lasagna mixed up. Come on over to our house the next time she makes pizza and see for yourself.”
The buzzer blasted another raspberry.
“Sorry, Jerry, you’re out of the running.”
The next two couples managed to get the answer right, tying them up with Charlee and Mason.
“Skeet and Violet Hammersmitz, if you answer this question correctly, you’ll not only be our grand prize winner but you will have proven you know each other more intimately than any of the other fifteen couples in the contest.”
Please get it wrong,
Charlee prayed and clenched her fist.
I know you hate hamburgers.
“For a total score of sixty points, Skeet, and a two-night stay at the famous Beverly Hills Grand Piazza Hotel along with special VIP tickets to this year’s Academy Awards ceremony on Sunday night courtesy of Twilight Studios, what is your favorite meal?”
The crowd and Charlee held their collective breaths. She crossed her fingers and her toes and closed her eyes tight.
Say sushi, say Chateaubriand, say anything besides hamburger.
Because her heart hung in the balance. For the life of her she couldn’t imagine anything worse than spending the night with Mason in a luxury hotel.
Just the two of them.
All alone.
In a fancy hotel.
With champagne and room service.
Given those circumstances Charlee knew she was not strong enough to resist him or if she even wanted to. Not when all it would take to get her stripped naked was one flash from those darling dimples.
“Well,” Mason drawled in that sexy Texas way of his that never failed to set her pulse flailing erratically, “Manny, I just love cheeseburgers and french fries.”
D
irectly following the broadcast, Charlee and Mason found themselves surrounded by news media. In a blur of activity, they were interviewed and then whisked away in a limousine.
As their driver pulled out of the Twilight Studios parking lot, Charlee spied the thugs leaning against the white Chevy Malibu glaring at them.
She nudged Mason in the ribs and nodded out the window at the men. “Winning the contest was one way of getting away from those goons.”
“They’ll just follow us,” Mason predicted gloomily and sure enough, not two minutes later, the Malibu pulled up behind them in the traffic on Sunset Strip. “We’re stuck for now, but once we get to the hotel, I’ll call my family and have them wire money.”
A confident gleam sparked in his eyes as if he had everything figured out. He seemed different, more sure of himself. He sat up straighter and assumed a regal air in spite of Skeet’s hideous tourist clothes. Mason was back in his milieu.
By the time they arrived at the Beverly Hills Grand Piazza he was back to being a Gentry again, the same controlled, calculating executive who’d marched into her office on Thursday afternoon.
Gone were all traces of the open, adventuresome man who had cut loose back there in the desert. The man who had kissed her all night long on the honeymoon bus. The man who said her breasts were perfect as ripe peaches.
That was a good thing. Right?
This way, she didn’t have to worry so much about falling for him. Still she felt sorta sad that Skeet was gone for good and Mr. Straight-and-Narrow was back at the helm.
The minute the hotel valet opened the limo door, a second contingent of reporters and another perky representative from Twilight Studios were there to greet them.
The representative introduced herself as Pam Harrington and bustled them into a reception area.
“Axe all these people for us?” Charlee stared in disbelief at the milling throng gathered in the hotel ballroom and lining up for a lavish buffet.
Pam smiled. “Well, we are waiting for Oscar nominee Blade Bradford. He was supposed to be here to congratulate you on winning the game but I guess he’s running a little late.”
Blade Bradford, huh? Blade was her grandmother’s least favorite actor. She’d done makeup on him back when she worked for Twilight. Even though Maybelline wasn’t one for trashing people, she’d only had bad things to say about the Oscar-winning actor.
And because of Maybelline’s unhappy experiences in Hollywood, Charlee herself had never been starstruck. As her granny was fond of telling her, movie stars put on their pants one leg at a time, just like everybody else.
Pam cast a nervous glance at her watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go make a couple of phone calls. Help yourself to the buffet.”
“Ah,” Mason said after Pam had bustled away, his tone suggesting he’d just died and gone to heaven. “Caviar.”
He went straight for the black fish eggs.
Fish eggs. She should have known that would be his favorite food.
Blech! She looked at the salmon pâté, the foie gras, the oysters on the half shell, and the sushi rolls spread out across the elaborate buffet.
She was hungry but not
that
hungry. She settled for a dry wheat cracker and ended up having to guzzle half a glass of champagne to wash it down.
Charlee snagged one of the tuxedo-clad waiters by the arm. “By any chance you wouldn’t happen to have a jar of Skippy chunky peanut butter hidden away somewhere in the kitchen, would you?”
The waiter rolled a haughty expression down the end of his nose. “Madam, this is the Beverly Hills Grand Piazza.”
“And?” Charlee one-upped his hoity-toity look with her own particular brand of a hard-edged stare she’d perfected in the dark alleys of Vegas.
He squirmed under the intensity of her glare but maintained his snooty countenance and added a flippant head toss. “I’m afraid we do not stock Skippy chunky peanut butter.”
Charlee was about to tell the guy to pluck the stick out of his ass when Mason glided over and smoothly intervened.
“But I’m sure you carry some brand of peanut butter. So run off to the kitchen and get some for the lady,” he said pointedly in his most superior tone.
Apparently his commanding voice and the way Mason set his facial features overrode Skeet’s garish outfit. Even when it was disguised in Cheap-o-Mart duds the waiter recognized aristocracy when he saw it.
“Yes, sir”—the waiter bowed contritely—“I will bring the lady her peanut butter.”
“Thank you.” Mason smiled like a shark on chum patrol.
“You didn’t have to stick your nose in.” Charlie sank her hands on her hips, irritated that he had gotten results from the wormy waiter where she’d failed.
“You looked like you needed the help.”
“It must be nice,” she said sarcastically, “having people fall all over themselves to do your bidding.”
“Why are you mad at me? I got the peanut butter you wanted.”
“I should have been able to get my own peanut butter off that lippy waiter.”
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“Am I?”
“This is Beverly Hills.”
“Meaning?”
“Different things work in different worlds.”
“What are you talking about?”
“If I’d waltzed into Kelly’s bar and ordered caviar what do you think would have happened?”
“Good point,” she conceded.
The waiter reappeared, rushing over with a fat dollop of peanut butter centered on a leaf of butter lettuce and riding atop a fine bone china plate.
“Is Madam pleased?” he asked her, but his eyes were on Mason.
“Madam is very pleased,” Mason assured him. “You will be be commended to your supervisor.”
The waiter nodded and hurried off.
“You’re really great at this greasing-the-palm stuff, aren’t you?”
“Makes the world go round, babe.”
“Babe? Oh, horrors. Better watch out, you’re slipping back into Skeet vernacular,” she said.
“Thanks. I appreciate the warning.” He flashed her an intriguing expression she couldn’t interpret, but it made him look kinda sexy. Charlee downed the rest of her champagne in a desperate hope it would make him look less attractive.
Bad move.
He only looked cuter through the sweet sheen of high-dollar bubbly. When a waiter offered her another glass of champagne, she took it, even though her head was already helium-balloon floaty.
She could quaff a quart of rotgut whiskey just fine but champagne shot straight to her head. The more expensive the brand, the faster she succumbed.
According to Maybelline, Charlee’s mother had been the same way and Bubbles adored bubbly so much she had even named herself after it. Judging from the way her head was reeling, the effervescent stuff must have set Twilight Studios back a pretty penny.
By the time the food was gone and Blade Bradford still hadn’t appeared and the grumbling reporters began to clear out, Charlee was seriously regretting that second glass of champagne.