If Jack took Maddy to the prom, who the hell knew what would happen afterward? Maddy would be so caught up in her dream come true that she'd probably do … pretty much anything.
Hold it
.
Maybe there was something he could do. Anna's prom was Friday night; Maddy's was Saturday night. It could work. Anna was the most understanding girl in the world. She'd appreciate what he was doing for poor Maddy.
Why not?
“Hey, Mad? What if I got you a different date? Say … me?” Ben asked.
“You?” Maddy's eyes shone in the moonlight. “You'd take me to prom?”
“Sure. As friends, but … yeah.”
“That would be … fantastic.” Then she frowned. “Won't Jack be mad?”
“Let me worry about Jack,” Ben assured her. He put down his beer. “So, this'll be a feat. Two proms in one weekend. Anna's one night, yours the next. I'd better keep my tux clean.”
Maddy impulsively jumped up from her rocker and threw her arms around Ben, kissing him on the left cheek. “I can't believe how lucky I am to have you,” she told him.
“It's no problem,” Ben told her, extricating himself from her grasp and standing up. She stood too, her eyes luminous in the moonlight. “Let's call it a night, huh?” They started into the house together. “Hey, Mad, one last thing.”
“What?”
“Whatever you thought you were doing with those pictures … you might want to delete them from your computer.”
Maddy bit her lower lip. “You think it's a bad idea?”
“Don't you?”
She shrugged as they walked through the breezeway.
“Yeah, I think it's a bad idea,” Ben told her again. “You'll sleep better. So will I.”
S
am leaned into Eduardo and he kissed her temple. It was bliss to be with him again. He had indeed flown in from France on his father's jet, a new Cessna Citation ISP, a model her father had considered before opting for his Gulfstream several months back.
All afternoon she'd been so nervous, waiting for him to arrive. Visions of naked European sex kittens danced in her head, and they were all dancing for Eduardo. She had to find the absolutely perfect thing to wear so that he'd be happy to be with her, instead of with one of those girls named Françoise.
She'd tried on at least a dozen outfits, but each one had seemed wrong; she'd ended up leaving them on the floor of her huge walk-in closet. Finally, she'd settled on a filmy black-and-fuchsia Roland Mouret baby-doll top—the floaty black material fell in graceful folds from just under her bust to just below her loathed hips—and dark, boot-cut Valentino jeans.
As she was dressing, a housekeeper had brought two dozen long-stemmed red roses in an etched-glass Tiffany vase to Sam's suite. The little card read,
Until you're in my arms
. —
Eduardo
.
Take that, you naked European sex kittens! Sam was infused with a mix of relief and joy—a feeling that lasted but a nanosecond. After which she felt just as nervous and insecure as she had before.
Eduardo had checked into his bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel before coming to the Sharpe estate to pick her up in his rented platinum Porsche 911 Carrera. He'd dressed comfortably in Randolph Duke black pants and a black T-shirt. It was a relief to know that Eduardo would be neither intimidated nor impressed by where she lived. His family was one of the richest in all of South America. He professed not to care that she was Jackson Sharpe's daughter. Sam believed him.
Then the doorbell had sounded, and a moment later she'd been in his arms, wondering how she could have been so jittery and crazy about being reunited with him. His general male gorgeousness nearly took her breath away all over again. Five foot nine or ten, with smooth copper skin stretched over powerful muscles. His hair was dark, his eyes even darker. He was easily as hand-some as any famous actor in Hollywood. Yet, for some reason that was unfathomable to Sam, he wanted
her
.
Now they were sitting side by side on a Persian rug at the Mor Bar in Santa Monica; they'd been at the club for almost two hours. To her surprise, he'd made reservations before they arrived—his father, a highly respected Peruvian politician from a regal Spanish bloodline, had suggested the place because it was so romantic. She didn't want to come right out and ask, in case she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion, but it seemed to mean that Eduardo had talked about her with his dad.
The air in the dimly lit club was redolent of exotic North African spices. All the patrons doffed their shoes and sat on rugs or lolled against scarlet velvet pillows under a beet-red canopy. Giant hookah water pipes rested on each low-slung marble table. Sam and Eduardo had passed on the hookah, but they had enjoyed a Moorish feast—stuffed grape leaves, couscous, thyme-scented hot pita bread, and fresh hummus, babaganoush, and a lamb stew. It was all meant to be eaten with the fingers, washed down with the Moroccan wine Eduardo had expertly ordered, a Les Coteaux de l'Atlas Rouge Premier Cru 1999—deep ruby red with vanilla undertones.
Sam had eaten half of the grape leaves—they were delicious—and stopped there, until Eduardo fed her some lamb stew and couscous. As she snuggled close to her boyfriend and ate from his fingers, she could just make out the couple at the next table. Their lips were locked and he was half on top of her. Her skirt was up around her waist, revealing a minuscule lace thong; his hand was cupping her butt. No one in the club blinked an eye.
Eduardo followed Sam's gaze. “Too public,” he commented in his lightly accented voice, and popped the pita into Sam's mouth. “That is childish. Not my style.”
She chewed and swallowed. “Not mine, either.”
Only the cellulite-free can afford to be exhibitionists
.
Eduardo put a large, warm hand to Sam's cheek. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”
“Must be the dim lights,” Sam joked.
His eyes searched hers. “Samantha. Why is it that you cannot accept your own beauty?”
This type of conversation always made her wildly uncomfortable, and she never knew what to say. The truth? It didn't seem to be in her own interest to point out that he was the only guy who had ever found her so beautiful. If she
did
point it out, maybe he would suddenly realize that all those other guys had been right after all.
A trio of musicians on a small, raised stage began to play something bluesy in a minor key. Eduardo rose gracefully and held a hand out to Sam. “Dance?”
He eased her to her feet and held the small of her back as he led her to a small parquet dance floor near the musicians, where they joined two other couples. How easily she slipped into his arms; how perfectly they fit. For a minute or two, she swayed to the music, pressed against his chest, eyes closed.
“When I dance with you like this, it makes me sad that I will not be able to have you in my arms at your prom,” he murmured.
Prom. Damn
.
“You can't change your plans?”
He frowned. “My parents' anniversary party.”
She smiled sadly. “I understand.”
“In my family, blood is everything. Would you miss your parents' anniversary party?”
Sam was sure he meant this rhetorically, which was why she didn't answer. The bitter irony of it wasn't lost on her. She'd missed Poppy's baby shower and would have been delighted if she heard tomorrow that her dad and his new bride were divorcing.
“Maybe I should skip prom and go to Mexico with you,” Sam suggested. As soon as it was out of her mouth she wished she could take it back. It sounded like she was inviting herself to meet his family, and that hadn't been her intention at all.
“To miss your prom … I could never ask you to do that,” Eduardo insisted.
Whew
. Evidently her gaffe had blown right past him. Anyway, even if she didn't give a shit about prom, she
did
care about making her prom movie. Her directing talent was what made her different, unique, special—or at least it would one day, and the sooner the better. Sam found few things more pathetic than children of stars whose only claim to fame was riding the coattails of a rich and famous parent.
“You will go to prom with your friend Anna?”
“Anna has a date,” Sam explained, feeling increasingly sorry for herself. The music ended and Eduardo held Sam at arm's length so that he could look into her eyes.
“But this is terrible. I see you are sad. What can I do to help?”
He looked so stricken that Sam wanted to reassure him. “I'll be fine,” she insisted. “Really.”
“You will go, yes?” he prodded.
“Yes.”
“With your other friends, perhaps?” Eduardo prompted. “I can't stand to think of you alone.”
She felt torn. Part of her wanted to tell him about Parker. She doubted Eduardo would be mad or jealous, because there was nothing to be mad or jealous about. But she couldn't bring herself to say the words, maybe because she knew how her own mind raced with jealous fantasies whenever she wasn't within a hundred feet of Eduardo. Was it possible that he was the same way?
“I'll have lots of friends there,” Sam assured him. “Don't worry about it.”
They headed back to their table and ate some more, mostly with Eduardo feeding her. That she was with a boy who
wanted
her to eat never failed to amaze her. He held some wine to her lips to wash down a bite of grape leaves and followed the wine with a kiss. Then he dipped his finger in the wine and ran it over her collarbone and into the décolletage of her baby-doll top. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the bliss.
“I have a surprise for you, Samantha,” he whispered.
“What?” she asked, eyes still closed.
“I will be returning to L.A. in a month. For the rest of the summer.”
She opened her eyes. “Really?”
He nodded. “I will be an intern at the Peruvian Consulate here until the end of August. My father was able to arrange it.”
“That's … fantastic!”
He laughed and pulled her into his arms. “I was hoping for that reaction. Long-distance love is difficult.”
Love? He had just used the
L
word. If it were the Big L, with him here all summer, they would both have the chance to find out. All summer? It would be just like Anna and Ben.
“You are so beautiful, Samantha. I want to make love to you,” he whispered.
Whoa
. Talk about saying exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment.
She glanced downward at his Randolph Dukes and couldn't help it. As he kissed her again, she wondered what was underneath.
“Is that what you want, too?” he asked huskily.
One part of Sam was ready to head back to his hotel. Another part … the truth was, she felt shy. It was ridiculous. She'd had sex before; usually while drunk and/or high, always with all the lights off. She'd never
made love
. That seemed so much more intimate, and scary.
“I don't know,” she admitted.
His strong arms encircled her again. “We do not need to rush. You will let me know when you are ready, Samantha. A month from now, I will take you dancing and we will have our own private prom.”
She felt like looking around for the girl who had inspired these feelings in Eduardo, because it was so hard to believe it was her. She knew she should bring up Parker and prom right now, but it felt so out of sync with the moment. It would come across like some over-the-top moment from
Days of Our Lives
.
Besides, they'd have the whole summer to talk about it. About everything.
A
nna gave her car to the valet and eyed the endless line that snaked down Hollywood Boulevard on the wrong side of Trieste's red-velvet rope. Just like at New York's trendiest clubs, there was nothing about the building but the line out front to indicate that this was Hollywood's club of the moment. The outside of Trieste looked like an industrial warehouse. There wasn't even a sign, just some worn numerals above the door.
She knew she could walk right in; Ben had assured her that her name would be on the guest list. She was glad she didn't have to wait, glad she didn't have to endure the humiliating process of having someone look her over to decide whether or not she was cute enough or rich enough or famous enough to be allowed inside, but the whole thing made her uncomfortable, too.
She'd been to pretty much every club in New York by the time she was fifteen; in fact, a professional-quality fake ID had been her best friend Cyn's birthday present to her that year. Her sister, Susan, was a party girl, and Anna had gone clubbing with her any number of times. Somehow she usually ended up feeling apart from everyone else, almost as if she were outside a movie scene she was observing. Maybe it was because she was always keeping an eye on Susan. If she didn't do it, who would?
Relax. Your sister is at the Kripalu Center in Massachusetts and totally sober. Your boyfriend works here. You're fine.
“I'm a friend of Ben Birnbaum,” she told the door guy, a short, skinny guy in his early twenties with a rat-like face and dirty blond hair gelled to a point atop his head. He was dressed all in black—black T-shirt, black jeans, black jacket, black wingtips sans socks. A huge bald man stood next to him.
“Now you're a friend of mine,” the skinny guy told her with a deviant grin, his large front teeth bucking over his lower lip. He motioned her forward.
“Hey, you didn't even check to see that she's on the guest list!” a girl in line yelled, pointing a savage index finger at Anna. She had a pumpkin-shaped head and wore her dark hair in some variation of a mullet. Her short, thick legs were encased like sausages in skintight jeans; her enormous breasts spilled out of a cheap red-sequined T-shirt.
“Take a look at her,” the doorman commanded. “She's on the list even if she isn't on the list. And you, Great Pumpkin? You might as well go down the block to Bar-Bar. There's no line there, if you catch my drift.”
Anna wanted to kick the obnoxious rat-faced man in his black-clad shins. But she settled for a whispered “You are an ass” in his ear as she slipped into the club, and felt better for having done it.