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.