He glared down at Georgie. Thanks to Chaz’s cooking, she’d gained enough weight so those big green eyes peeping at him through a fringe of bangs had lost their sunken appearance, and her shiny brown hair curved around fuller cheeks. “I want you in my office in ten minutes.”

She opened her mouth to tell him to go to hell, but he was ready for her. “Unless you aren’t interested in seeing the script for Tree House…”

He knew he had her, and he walked away without looking back.

She kept him waiting ten minutes longer than he expected. She hadn’t used the time to change her clothes, and she still wore the outfit from their paparazzi coffee run: a bright lemon knit top with a modestly curved round neck, a tiny cropped cardigan as insubstantial as a spiderweb, and wide-cut green-and-cream mattress-ticking slacks only someone so slender could carry off. The outfit concealed far more than it revealed, which made it sexy as hell.

She made the first move in this new game they were playing by tilting her head toward the poster of Jake Koranda playing Bird Dog Caliber. “Now there’s a real man.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said so.” He squeezed a rubber exercise ball in his fist, channeling Humphrey Bogart in The Caine Mutiny. “I need a little cooperation for a change.”

She looked wounded. “What do you mean, ‘for a change.’ I’m always cooperative.” She plopped down on his couch. “Okay, mainly cooperative with other people, but still…”

“Stop screwing around and listen.” He curled the ball in his palm and pointed his index finger at her nose. “Don’t sabotage me with Rory Keene.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t you? Rory loves everything about the Tree House project except…”

“You?” She widened those gum ball green eyes. “It’s because you have a bad reputation.”

“Thanks for pointing that out.” He set the ball on his desk. “I have to make this film, Georgie. Me and nobody else. You need to convince her I’ve turned into Husband of the Year.”

“You haven’t.”

“Pretend.”

“You’re asking me for help?” Again the big-eyed Orphan Annie thing, but Georgie had always been a team player, and he figured she’d help him…after she gave him a hard time.

She put a finger to her cheek. “If I suck up to Rory for you, what do I get in return?”

“Hot sex and my undying gratitude.”

She pretended to think it over. “Nope. Not good enough.”

“I’ll let Meg stay in the guesthouse.”

“Meg’s already staying in the guesthouse.”

“Let me put it another way. I won’t hit on her while she’s staying in the guesthouse.”

“You won’t hit on her anyway. You treat her like she’s twelve.” She finally got down to business. “I want to read the script before I meet Rory this afternoon. Hand it over.”

“I told you I’d let you see it.”

“Yes, but you didn’t tell me you’d let me read it.”

“You noticed that.”

She held out her hand.

He hesitated. “You don’t exactly have the best judgment when it comes to scripts. You’re the one who made Summer in the City.”

“Pretty People, too, another stinker. And Cake Walk, which you haven’t seen yet, and which I recommend you don’t.” She wiggled her hand at him. “That’s all in the past. You’re looking at a whole new Georgie York. Give it up.”

She was no longer the pushover she’d once been, so he didn’t have much choice. He pulled the bound script from his middle desk drawer, the one she’d searched three weeks ago only to find a broken telephone. She snatched it from him before he could change his mind, gave him a cheery wave, and left.

He hated asking anybody for help, especially Georgie, and he slumped in his chair to brood. When that got him nowhere, he turned back to his computer. As good as the script had been, it still needed work, and he’d been tinkering with one scene or another from the beginning. He could imagine what Georgie would say if she learned that a high school dropout was monkeying around with Sarah Carter’s words. Or…even worse, how she’d laugh if she discovered he’d finished a script of his own.

Except she wouldn’t laugh. Unlike him, she didn’t have a cruel bone in her body, and he could even imagine her mustering up a few well-intentioned words of encouragement.

The idea stuck in his craw. He didn’t need phony encouragement from anybody, especially Georgie. He’d raised himself, screwed up his life by himself, and now he was digging out the same way. By himself.

Georgie couldn’t read fast enough, and she finished the script in two hours. It was just as amazing as the book. An incredible opportunity…and not only for Bram.

Tree House told the story of Danny Grimes, a man who’d been falsely imprisoned for sexually abusing a child. Released on a technicality, he’s forced by his father’s terminal illness to return home and face both the town and the ruthless female prosecutor, now a state senator, who hid DNA evidence to ensure his conviction. Danny’s self-imposed isolation is threatened by his suspicions that the child next door is being abused by her father. The script was powerful and heart wrenching, filled with fascinating and complex characters, none of whom were exactly what they seemed to be.

She found Bram swimming laps in the pool. She stood on the edge near the waterfall and shifted impatiently from one leg to the other, waiting for him to stop. He saw her, but he continued cutting through the water. She picked up the leaf skimmer and whapped him on the head.

“Hey!” Water flew as he spun around.

She took a deep breath. “I want to play Helene.”

“Good luck with that.” He dove under and swam for the ladder on the opposite side of the pool.

She dropped the leaf skimmer, her heart thumping with excitement. By the time she’d finished the first scene, she’d known she had to play the coldly ambitious prosecutor. This was exactly the opportunity she’d been waiting for. Playing Helene would cut through years of typecasting and give her the challenge she so desperately wanted. She strode toward the ladder. “The script is brilliant. Bone chilling, intricate, thoughtful. Everything you said it was. I have to play Helene. I mean it.”

Water sluiced down his body as he climbed out of the pool. “In case you haven’t been paying attention, I’m having a small problem getting the movie financed, so casting Helene is the last thing on my mind.”

She grabbed his towel and handed it over. “But if you do get a green light…The only reason no one ever thinks of me as a dramatic actress is because I’ve never gotten a chance to show what I can do. And don’t tell me audiences wouldn’t be able to get past the two of us in Skip and Scooter. The love story is between Danny and the home nurse, not with Helene. I know exactly how to do that part. And I’ll work for scale.”

“Bottom line, Georgie, if I can get this film made, you still won’t be playing Helene.” He rubbed the towel over his head, then draped it around his neck. “Considering my own recent lackluster career, this film needs an actress with a proven record at the box office, and let’s face it, your face sells a lot more tabloids than movie tickets.”

She refused to concede his point. “Think of the publicity value of the two of us doing a film together. Audiences will line up to see if we can pull it off.”

“We can’t.” He dropped the towel on the chair. “Georgie, this whole discussion is beyond premature.”

“You think I can’t play a complicated character? You can do it, but I can’t? You’re so wrong. I have the discipline and focus to pull it off.”

“Meaning you think I don’t.”

She didn’t want to flat out insult him, but truth was truth. “You can’t rely on tricks to play Danny. He’s bitter and tortured. He’s endured something no one should ever have to go through.”

“I’ve lived with this material for over a year,” he shot back. “I know exactly what makes him tick. Now instead of arguing, why don’t you use your brain to figure out how you’re going to convince Rory Keene that I’m a solid Hollywood citizen and that she needs to meet with me?”

Georgie used the rear gate. Rory’s white brick French Normandy mansion was grander than Bram’s home, but not nearly as welcoming. From the back, sweeping terraces overlooked the pool and formal gardens. Rory sat in the shade of the side terrace on a black wrought-iron couch covered with bright tangerine cushions. With her long blond hair pulled into a ponytail and her legs curled beneath her, Rory should have looked like a soccer mom, but she didn’t. Even in such an informal setting she projected the cool, intimidating confidence of a formidable studio executive.

She pushed aside the script she’d been reading and offered Georgie a glass of champagne. Now that Bram wasn’t the only person with something at stake, Georgie fought to keep her nervousness under control as she accepted the drink and settled into an adjacent chair. They discussed last weekend’s box-office receipts and the success of a new Jack Black film. Finally, Rory got down to the reason for her invitation.

“Georgie, this is a bit awkward…” Her steady gaze indicated awkwardness didn’t bother her much. “Ever since those awful photos came out, I’ve been telling myself to mind my own business, but I can’t do it. If anything happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.”

Georgie hadn’t expected this, and she was embarrassed. The worst of the tabloid gossip might be fading, but obviously Rory wasn’t so easily convinced. “Don’t give it another thought. Really. Everything’s fine. Now tell me about the house. I was surprised to hear you’re leasing.”

Rory took a sip of champagne, then set her flute on the table next to her. “The studio leases it. It’s our version of the White House. I have my private quarters, but we keep a separate wing for special guests-corporate VIPs, directors, producers, whomever we want to court. Right now we’re hosting some incredibly talented international filmmakers-part of a project I’m spearheading.”