Beautiful Stranger (4 page)

“When did you get home?” she asked stiffly, carefully keeping her distance from him on the sidewalk. His arms dropped to his sides, but his palms faced her. That was almost worse than the offered hug.

“Late last night.”

Suddenly, a wave of fury swept over her. He was trying to play her. No one played her. She narrowed her eyes angrily. “I told you to be back for the party.”

He scratched the tattoo behind his ear, something he habitually did when he was nervous.

“Yeah, well, here’s the thing about that. I don’t respond well to ultimatums.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You want to go somewhere and talk?”

Cammie took the pen out of her hair so that the curls fell around her face. Even though they were still wet, she knew she looked better that way. She ignored his question about going somewhere. Whatever needed to be said could be said here. “You think it’s fine to just waltz in here the next day without even a phone call? You expect me to say that’s
okay
?”

He shrugged. “I guess I’m tired of you thinking you can lead me around like I’m your pet pooch, deciding where I have to be and when.” He reached out and touched her arm gently, oblivious to the traffic passing by on La Cienega. “I don’t even think it’s what you really want.”

She shook him off. “I told you to come back days ago.
Weeks
ago. So actually,
you’re
the one who’s leading
me
around like a dog. Taking a week of vacation a month before you start college is fine. Two weeks, even. But three? Come on.”

“You seem to be missing the point, Cam. Jeez, I mean, you sound like your father lecturing some sycophantic underling. I don’t want to be that guy.” He took two steps across the sidewalk toward her, slid his arms around her waist, and gently pulled her to him. She didn’t resist. “C’mon, let’s not do this. I missed you,” he murmured. “So much.”

His words, though, belied his arms. He hadn’t shown up in time for the party, and hadn’t called either, as some kind of power play. How
dare
he? She wasn’t the daughter of the most powerful talent agent in Hollywood for nothing. If anyone was ever going to make a power play and get away with it, it was sure as hell
not
going to be Adam.

Last night at the wrap party, she’d been humiliated in front of her friends because Adam wanted to make some kind of point. Now he thought she was just going to put up with it? That she’d just fall back into his arms?

That’s what her head told her. But then there was this little problem with her heart. Why, why, why had she allowed herself to fall for him? Loving someone gave them power over you. And the problem with that was … they could use it against you. She really couldn’t stand the feelings welling up inside of her, the anxiety and the neediness. She was sure some Dr. Fred-type shrink would say she had abandonment issues because of her mother dying when she was so young. But Cammie didn’t care. She hated, hated,
hated
the way she was feeling at that very moment. And Adam was the one who was making her feel that way.

“Know what, Adam? Tell it to someone who cares.” She flipped her hair off her face with a practiced gesture. “You don’t mean that,” he insisted.

“I never say anything I don’t mean.”

“Cammie.” Adam cupped her cheek with his large hand. Cammie knew that hand so well that she felt new calluses. Probably from a canoe paddle or a fishing rod.

It was everything she could do not to nestle into his arms, to give in to all the feelings she still had for him. But where would
that
lead? More moments of uncertainty, of her feeling vulnerable to what he might say or do. Just look at Sam, for God’s sake. She had finally found someone to feel that with, Eduardo, and now he was going to
dump
her.

She ran her hands through her own hair, and was pleased when two buff guys stepping out of Yoga Booty at just that instant tarried to check her out. Adam noticed them too, she was sure. The combination strengthened her resolve.

“I meant what I said, Adam. It’s over.”

His jaw fell open. “Come on. You’re not thinking this through.”

“And one last thing,” she added, keeping her voice cool and free from emotion. “You just blew the best thing you’ll ever have.”

Then she turned. Doing her best model walk to show off her pert and perky ass, Cammie Sheppard slung her black Kate Spade bag over her shoulder and walked away.

Whiskey Blues

“A
nna. It’s really good to see you.”

Caine stood and kissed her lightly on the lips, then sat again, motioning for her to join him on the low-slung maroon divan. They were in the Whiskey Blue bar at the W Hotel on Hilgard Avene in Westwood, just steps away from the campus of UCLA. Sam had recently told Anna that the W had become her favorite hangout—displacing even the Beverly Hills Hotel—so when Caine had called earlier in the day and suggested that they meet for a drink that night, Anna had suggested the W.

Caine had laughed and accused her of becoming a bona fide Los Angeleno. Anna hadn’t denied the charge, though she knew in her heart that she was a New Yorker. Mostly.

She’d dressed simply for the occasion in a taupe silk-lined skirt and a cap-sleeve empire top she’d recently picked up at the Daryl K boutique on Melrose Avenue, a pair of Christian Dior sunglasses for the drive over—coming from Beverly Hills to UCLA meant she had to go west on Sunset Boulevard, directly into the setting sun—and just a spritz of Chanel. She’d known Caine would be coming from work, and had expected to see him in one of his immaculately tailored business suits, the better to keep his many tattoos under wraps. But evidently he’d stopped home, because he wore jeans, a tight navy T-shirt, and the distressed brown leather bomber jacket he’d told Anna he’d had since he was a freshman up at Stanford. He often talked about how he had to don “protective coloration” to work as an investment advisor with Anna’s father. If anyone found out that his second car was a Ford F-150 pickup truck instead of a Beemer, he joked that he’d probably be deported back to Oregon.

At the moment, though, his true colors—as well as his tattoos—were showing. His longish straight brown hair was greased up into a pleasantly stylized mess, framing a small stud earring in one ear. As for the tattoos, each decorative arm clearly displayed intricate designs below the rips in his leather jacket. There was one at his right bicep, another on the opposite forearm.

“I ordered a cosmopolitan for you.” He lifted the frosted glass next to his own mug of beer-on-tap and handed it to her. She wasn’t really in the mood for alcohol but didn’t want to be rude, so she just smiled, thanked him, and glanced around at the wall-to-wall people. Though it was only seven-thirty, the fashionable Whiskey Blue was already crowded with an eclectic mix of studio executives, in-the-know business travelers, and the usual smattering of drop-dead-gorgeous actors, actresses, and wannabes. The bar was as big an attraction as the clientele. Clean white geometric lines, custom-made orange bar stools, and a music mix that ran from alt to techno and back again brought in the people. There was also a black baby grand piano at one end. A big knot of people was gathered around Paul McCartney, who was in Los Angeles for a concert the next day at the Hollywood Bowl. He was playing a few familiar tunes for the thrilled onlookers.

“So, how are you?” Anna asked with a smile. In the two weeks since she’d set out the I’m-dating-you-both ground rules to him and Ben, she and Caine had seen each other four times—dinner, the movies, a speedboat ride on a friend’s cigarette boat that was kept docked at Redondo Beach, and a ride up into the Angeles National Forest in Caine’s blue truck. Each time had been just what Anna wanted. Fun and nothing more. She and Caine weren’t close yet, or at least not the way she was with Ben. But that, she told herself, was the point of dating Caine. To get to that stage with him, to keep her options—and her heart—open, to be totally sure before she made any big commitments.

“I’m good. Your dad put me on a cool new deal today. Some clients want to take over another hotel in Mexico. In Cancún, this time. Your father said you helped check out the one in Las Casitas for them.”

That was true. It had been back in February, and it had been one of the more interesting trips of her life. Sam had been with her, and in fact, it was where Sam had met Eduardo.

“Who owns the one in Cancún now?” Anna asked, taking the smallest sip of her cocktail. It was fruity, and the bartender hadn’t skimped on the alcohol.
No more than one
, she told herself.

“Trump. A whole lot of zeros involved in the deal.”

Caine took a pull on his beer. He flashed his disarming smile, then pushed the low-slung black table in front of them away a bit with his legs. “There. Much better. You look pretty.”

“Thanks.” Anna liked compliments as much as the next girl, but this one felt oddly removed, as if he were commenting on the Whiskey Bar’s décor. Strange. But all thoughts were set aside as she felt her stomach grumble. “Where do you want to go for dinner? I don’t think cocktails cover the main food groups. And I don’t care what you say about the power of olives,” she added with a grin.

Caine rubbed his chin. It was a strange gesture that Anna hadn’t seen before. “We need to talk.”

“We
are
talking.”

“About something more personal,” he corrected, reaching1 for her hand.

Oh,
now
she understood. He didn’t want to discuss dinner. He wanted to discuss what would happen
after
dinner. As in,
Why don’t we get horizontal so we can get to know each other better?

“I’m not really ready for something more … personal,” Anna replied smoothly.

He looked puzzled for a moment. “Wait, you think I’m trying to get in your pants?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

He shook his head. “Although I’m sure it would be a lovely experience,” he added wryly. “But what I wanted to talk you about was …” He looked down at their entwined hands and then back up into her eyes. “Anna, this has to be our last date.”

Now that
really
made no sense. “But—but why?”

“I really was okay with the dating thing,” Caine began. “You wanted to pull back and give yourself some room to breathe, figure things out—that was fine by me. But … you remember I told you about a girl I dated at Stanford? Bernadette?”

“The snowboarder,” Anna recalled. Caine had told her about a girl who had been with him at Stanford. Hadn’t she gone to Switzerland or someplace like that?

“Amazing girl.” Caine got a faraway look in his eyes as he spoke of her. Anna felt herself bristling. Did he have to talk about his ex and her fabulousness while he was sitting with her, holding her hand?

She knew it wasn’t fair of her at all. It had been her idea to date both Caine and Ben, so surely they both had the right to do the same. And when she’d been with Ben last, at the wrap party, the feelings she’d been having for him weren’t exactly middling. If she were honest with herself, if those feelings continued, she might have had to initiate this conversation with Caine herself.

“You heard from Bernadette?” Anna ventured.

“She’s leaving Switzerland and coming back to the States. She got a job with the athletics department at UCLA.”

“And she wondered whether you might want to try again,” Anna guessed.

“Something like that.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “But she wants it to be exclusive.”

Oh. So
that
was why he couldn’t date her anymore. Well, he certainly had gone back to Bernadette pretty easily. Which meant he couldn’t be all that into her. Which kind of hurt, she had to admit. But a bruised ego was hardly fatal—and nowhere near as bad as a broken heart. Caine wasn’t her boyfriend, and had never been her boyfriend. Not the way Ben had. She’d thought he might become that someday, when they got to know each other better, but what right did she have to expect him to hang around for a “maybe”?

“I’ve had a great time with you, Anna,” Caine continued. Finally, he let go of her hand. “You’re fantastic. I hope you realize that.”

“Oh, daily,” Anna joked. She was already mentally picking herself up and dusting herself off. That she would no longer be seeing Caine began to sink in, and the bad feelings of a moment ago were gone, replaced by a newfound clarity. The competition in her mind was over. The challenger—Caine—had withdrawn. Only Ben remained. It made things easier. So much easier. Because, really, hadn’t it always been about Ben, all along?

Anna simply smiled at him. She and Caine had had a lot of fun. But he moonlighted at a bar where he wore jeans, fireman’s suspenders, and precious little else. Could a guy like that actually be her boyfriend? It was a better concept in theory than in practice.

“So I take it you’re okay with this,” he surmised.

“I am. Any words of wisdom before your broken-hearted former not-quite-girlfriend heads back into the cold, cruel world?”

He took another long pull on his beer. “First of all, you’re not brokenhearted. I can see that in your eyes. Second of all, Ben is going to be happiest dude in California when you tell him. Which brings me to third of all. I think he’s wrong for you. So don’t take this as a sign that you should jump into his arms.”

“Wait, you’re breaking up with me
and
telling me the other guy is wrong for me? Wow.”

Across the room, Paul McCartney rose from the piano and embraced a gamine-faced blond woman half his age. Anna thought it might be his daughter, who was a fashion designer. This she only knew because Sam had insisted that Anna buy a pale pink Stella McCartney sheath dress the last time they’d been at the Beverly Center.

“What do you and Ben have in common?” Caine suddenly asked. “Consider that rhetorical. Bernadette and me? We both love an adrenaline rush. We’re both rebels who know how to fit in when we have to, to get ahead. You and Ben? What’s the real common ground?”

“Great sex?” Anna asked.

Whoa. It had slipped out of her mouth before she could edit herself. She could feel her cheeks redden. Maybe she was becoming more L.A. than she had realized. Even so, she backpedaled furiously.