“Yeah, I can.”
“Of course you can,” Dan insisted, clucking like a mother hen. “I’m telling you, sweetie. Your real problem is you need to find yourself a pool boy or a handsome waiter. Your hormones are taking over your bloodstream. You need to get them back in balance.”
Amanda laughed at the cynical older woman’s advice. “I gave it my best shot earlier today, Dan. I’m not cut out for the quickie mentality. It’s a little too squalid for me.”
Dan gave an exaggerated harrumph. “Squalid, is it? Hey, sweetie, one person’s squalid is another person’s way of life. Mine, to be exact.”
“Sorry.”
Amanda got up off the bed and stalked out to her little second-floor balcony, drinking in the gentle Mediterranean breeze that swirled around her. The night was warm but not too hot and humid. There was no real need for the air conditioning at all, other than her own irritable wish to shut out happy sounds from the revelers at the café across the street.
Dan spoke up again. “Hey, you know what you can do for me? This is big.”
The last thing Amanda wanted to deal with now was a “big” story. No doubt, it would involve someone famous getting falling down drunk.
“What is it?”
“This might be up your alley. There’s a pre-festival event day after tomorrow—a big, sophisticated fundraiser party at Franco Battali’s villa. It’s his land they’re using for the concerts this weekend. Anyway, the party is a fundraiser for some wilderness conservation charity that Eric Greyford set up a few years ago.”
“Really?” Amanda’s interest was piqued in spite of herself.
“Yeah, you know him with all that outdoors stuff.”
“So what exactly do you want?” Amanda asked. “Specific interviews? Or a general rundown about the event?”
“General stuff,” Dan agreed. “Some brief blurbs about who’s there and what’s up with them. You up for it?”
“Sure,” Amanda sighed.
“I was going to send Zeke alone, but it’ll be better with you there to add some detail.”
Inwardly, Amanda groaned at the thought of dragging Zeke along with her to a party at an Italian villa. The man dressed like a thrift store had blown up in his face.
Dan read her thoughts. “Try to get Zeke to wear a suit. I know he has one. Tell him this Battali guy is very stylish and will have him thrown out on his ear if he shows up in jeans.”
“I’ll tell him,” Amanda agreed. “I can’t make him do it, though.”
“No, I suppose not,” Dan admitted. “Now, listen, as for your own concerns - when the festival is over, if you still want to resign, we’ll talk.”
“I will.”
“Then you’ll do it the right way. You’ll put it in writing. You’ll give at least two weeks notice. And you’ll break the news to your dad, not me.”
As if her father would care that she wanted to resign. Well, he might, at that. He didn’t like anyone who failed to adequately worship him. Amanda slumped into a wrought iron chair on the balcony and sighed. “Agreed. I’ll tell him.”
“Great, sweetie. Now go find yourself a pool boy.”
“I don’t want one. I hate all men.”
“Me too, honey. But they are handy for opening jars—and for that other thing.”
Amanda gave a short laugh.
“Listen!” Dan exclaimed. “While I have you on the phone, here’s one other thing to keep an eye out for while you’re in Capri.”
“What’s that?”
“We got an anonymous tip that Stacey’s parents are coming to Capri to see her show. And when I say anonymous, I mean that Stacey’s mother called me up and told me herself, off the record, of course.”
“Of course. And that’s a big deal because?”
“Listen, you think you have Daddy issues?” Dan drew Amanda in with her homey, gossipy tone. “Stacey’s parents are terrors. All they care about is how much cash the kid rakes in and how much of it they can get for themselves. Legally, she’s an adult now, but they’re still her business managers. Anyway, whenever they show up, she goes off the rails. This could mean lots of drunk, angry Stacey stories, and the public hasn’t seen any of those in over a year. They’re chomping at the bit for a good celebrity meltdown.”
Amanda should despise Stacey Dakota. Clearly, Eric cared for her more than he let on. Her mind drifted back to the moment he’d told her he was relieved to be refused. And then he’d started babbling about Stacey. However, while Amanda had plenty of reason to be jealous, she couldn’t look forward to the girl having a public meltdown. She understood all too well the desperate need to please a parent who never seemed satisfied. Amanda suspected she and Stacey both might be better off cutting their parents out of their lives, but it was hard to give up on the dream of a perfect family.
“I’m thinking once Stacey and the ‘rents get together, it’s going to be like watching a million dollar soap opera, only live and with real people,” Dan boasted.
Amanda’s conscience twinged her again. If she stayed at Fame much longer, she’d have to get the thing surgically removed. Stacey had become notorious for not showing up at rehearsals or arriving in a state of sloppy inebriation. She’d been photographed passed out in more bars than Amanda had ever visited. But all of that was a long time ago in Hollywood years.
Despite her dad’s fondness for negative stories about Stacey in Fame and his other publications, Amanda knew the singer was as popular as ever. Her new CD was climbing the charts, and she seemed to be putting on a newer, happier face. Her relationship with Eric must be the reason. At any rate, it pained Amanda to think of people like Dan rooting for a big public blow-up between Stacey and her controlling parents.
“Are you asking me to interview the parents?” She could hardly keep the disgust from her voice.
“You won’t even have to do that. Just hang around and watch the sparks fly. And rumor has it—and by that I mean, Stacey’s mom says—they’re bringing Artemisia Nash with them.”
“Who?”
“Wedding planner to the stars, sweetie. Now that could be a fun interview. You can talk to Artemisia about some of the great weddings she’s planned and how she pulls it all together. Try to scope out what she has in mind for Stacey and Eric. Boy, that marriage won’t last a year, if I’m any expert. And believe me, I am. That London lothario couldn’t be faithful to one woman for five minutes. Didn’t he make a pass at you last night?”
“No. Nothing like that. You must have misunderstood.”
“Oh. Too bad. See if you can schedule a meet with Artemisia, ‘kay?”
“Sure thing. Text me her contact info.” Amanda made some excuses and got off the phone as quick as she could. She let out a frustrated scream, then marched into her room and threw the phone down on the bed. It landed with a mild, unsatisfying whoosh that did nothing at all to placate her anger.
SIX
Eric lay on a chaise lounge at the Bagni da Maria within sight of where his friend Franco had docked his yacht for the day. Although much of Capri’s rocky shores proved inhospitable for sunbathing, in certain wide, level areas, private beach clubs had grown up over the years. Eric had always been willing to pay for the right to be left alone, but never more so than today.
Unfortunately, he doubted this area was sufficiently private. A few meters east, colorful bathing huts lined the portion of the beach open to the general public, and above Eric, on a high ledge, sat the club’s outdoor restaurant. Its location would afford any voyeur with the right tools an excellent glimpse into what went on down here amongst the beautiful people. No doubt, the paparazzi were readying their telephoto lenses, even as Eric tried to forget their existence—and the fact that he himself employed a ridiculous number of the creatures.
“My friend, you’re brooding today.”
Franco’s booming bass voice disrupted Eric’s latest attempt to shut out the world. He peered at his friend through dark-tinted sunglasses that didn’t do enough to screen ou
t Capri’s white-hot sunlight.
“I do that a lot, or hadn’t you noticed?” Eric replied. “I’m thinking of trademarking it.”
“You never used to do it at all.”
“It’s been a year for brooding, Franco.”
Eric’s friend sat up on the lounge chair beside him and leaned forward, clasping his hands between his legs. “Have you considered that it might be better for everyone if you approached this Peter Tate about selling out to him?”
Eric raised his sunglasses long enough to glare at Franco. Then he lowered them again and poked his tongue into his cheek. After a moment, he found himself calm enough to speak.
“Franco, my great-grandfather started this business. To sell it to an outsider or to even place an outsider in charge—that would be the last nail in my father’s coffin.”
“You underestimate your father’s strength, and your own,” Franco said. “You are young. You could start a new business with the money you would get from Tate. Or you could just live off of your enormous wealth, be a man of leisure.”
Eric’s mind refused to even process what Franco was saying. “Do you think money and leisure is all I care about? Do you think I’m that self-involved party animal Tate’s painted me to be in his magazines?”
“Come, Eric.” Franco made a mild scolding noise with his tongue. “You know I do not think that of you. But you must ask yourself—why do you want to keep this business afloat? To please your father? Because you’re trying to become your brother? Those are not good enough reasons. Believe me, I know whereof I speak. When I inherited my family’s vineyards, I had to learn all these things myself. You will not be able to hold on to Greyford Publishing unless you have some real vision for what the company should be doing. And serving the memory of your brother does not constitute a corporate strategy.”
Eric stripped off his sunglasses and glared at the Italian.
Before he could speak, Franco raised a finger to silence him. “You are my friend, and so I must tell you—you are trying to fill a dead man’s shoes and it is killing you.”
Eric leapt up and tossed his glasses onto the chaise lounge. “Look, I wasn’t thinking about Greyford Publishing.”
Ironically, for the first time in months, it was true. His whole life during the past year had been a chaotic blur of funeral arrangements, corporate financial statements, festival planning, and more corporate financial statements. On and on it went, until he thought he’d go insane thinking about it all the time. The year had been long and hard, full of sacrifice and compromise and confusion. Nothing had taken his mind off the bitter loss of his brother and the potential collapse of his family’s publishing empire. Nothing had brought him any real delight all year—not until he walked into his hotel room two nights ago and found Amanda.
And how had he responded? He’d treated her like some anonymous nightclub pick-up and then tried to force himself on her after she’d already refused him once. Idiot.
He glanced out at the glittering blue water of the bay. Directly in front of him, Stacey was trying to teach one of Franco’s nephews how to build a sandcastle. He smiled at her determined but rather inept attempts. Very likely, the child could do a better job teaching Stacey, but the boy was too entertained by her efforts to interfere.
Franco came to stand next to Eric, his head tilted at a quizzical angle. “She is a lovely girl, your friend Stacey.”
Eric raised an eyebrow. “Off limits, Franco. She’s a good friend, and so are you. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“What are you suggesting?” Franco chuckled at Eric’s obvious protective streak.
“I wouldn’t want to see you use her.”
“Use her?”
“That’s what we do, you and I. Isn’t it? Use women and then forget about them. Too many people have done that to Stacey.”
Franco shook his head, his laugh deepening and growing, as though Eric had made the funniest joke in the world. “I think most of them know what they are getting into, Eric. Give the ladies a little credit.”
Everything about Franco’s attitude grated on Eric’s nerves today. Perhaps it rankled to hear his own shallow philosophy tossed back at him. “Do you ever want to stay with a woman, Franco?” he asked. “Share every part of your life with her?”
Franco’s smile vanished. “No. I made that mistake once, and I will not do anything so weak ever again. Neither should you.”
Stacey’s lopsided sandcastle collapsed for at least the third time. She threw up her hands in defeat. Turning, she glimpsed the two men standing a few yards away. “Help!” She called out in mock panic, her arms flailing over her head.
Eric and Franco laughed and ran over to her. Eric knelt down beside her in the surf and knocked the whole hideous mess over with one swoop of his hand. Franco’s nephew squealed in delight at the mess Eric made.
“That wasn’t very helpful.” Stacey laughed.
“Sometimes, the only way to fix it, is to start all over again,” Eric said.
Franco loomed above him, hands on hips. “My point exactly.”
Eric focused his attention on Franco’s nephew. “Now, tell us all about your castle. How big do you want it to be?”
As the child spoke, Eric leaned into Stacey. He put a hand on her shoulder and whispered into her ear. “You’re just inexperienced. I don’t expect The Management ever let you spend much time building sandcastles.”
“No, they didn’t,” she admitted. “But what a kick to discover I’m inexperienced at something.”
Franco bent down and picked up his nephew, swinging him in a high arc through the air. “Why don’t we give up on the sandcastle for a while, eh? This is not like an American beach. The soil is all wrong for building castles. Let’s go to the restaurant and get some cool drinks, eat some lunch. Perhaps we’ll think of a better way to build a castle if we eat. I always think better with food.”
“That’s because you’re Italian,” Eric retorted. “You think you do everything better with food.”
“Only because it’s the truth.” Franco flashed an insouciant smile. With some consternation, Eric realized it was directed at Stacey, who beamed back up at his friend.
“I know!” Stacey leapt up, brushing off her hands. “We could borrow some ice buckets from the restaurant while we’re up there. We could use them to pack some wet sand and pebbles down really hard. How about that, Giulio?”
Franco’s nephew bobbed his head up and down in eager approval.
Eric shook his head. “The vultures are going to be lurking up there, you know.”
“Come on, I’m used to them swarming on me.”
“I’m not,” Eric growled, but he stood and followed the others over to the staircase cut into the rocky side of the hill face.
***
“Man, that was a good one!” Zeke raved. “Look through my lens. Come on and look!”
He untangled the strap from his ponytail, then passed the camera, with its huge telephoto lens, over to Amanda. At first, peering through it, she couldn’t figure out what was so fascinating. She saw a tall, swarthy man with short brown hair, who was swinging a little boy up into the air.
“I see a good-looking Italian guy playing with his kid, Zeke.”
“Aim it down and to the left. Look who he’s with, and look what they’re doing!”
Zeke’s voice went up a couple of octaves, he was so gleeful. Amanda shifted the camera lower and then she saw them. Her heart sank. There was Stacey Dakota in a bathing suit so skimpy she might as well not be wearing one at all. Tiny little scraps of rust brown material barely covered her breasts and bottom. Eric’s arm rested across her shoulders and his head was pressed right up against hers, as if he was nuzzling her. Amanda’s heart gave a sharp lurch. As she watched, the man pointed up the hill, in the general direction of the seaside restaurant where Zeke and Amanda were ensconced.
Stacey stood up and spoke to the tall man with the child. Then she looked down at Eric. He rose, brushing back som
e errant locks of his dark hair. Turning, he faced directly into the camera lens. The sight of his nearly naked body left Amanda reeling and breathless. His chest was bare and smooth, covered by a network of rippling muscles. A dark, narrow line of hair trailed down from his navel, disappearing into the blue and white color-blocked swim trunks he wore. Every inch of him was tan and toned and perfect, and it could all have been hers last night. If only she hadn’t balked and run away. And did she have to get snide and insulting to him on top of it all? Why don’t you treat your business the way you treat women? Geez. Someday, she’d learn to keep her mouth shut and maybe then she’d find success in her career and her love life.
As she sat under the shady awning of the beach club’s restaurant, contemplating her disastrous performance last night, Eric and his friends began to move towards the staircase leading up to the restaurant. Amanda foisted the camera on Zeke.
“I think they’re coming up here!” She leapt to her feet and then sat back down. “What should we do?”
“I’ll keep snapping away, and you see if you can get a quote from Stacey.” Zeke seemed to be in one of his more cheerful moods today. He patted her on the back. “You can do this.”
A cluster of photographers and reporters for other publications had been lounging in the rear of the restaurant, at the bar.
“Hey, you guys!” Zeke called to them. “Celebrity sighting—they’re headed this way!”
Photographers scrambled to take up good positions for shooting photos. TV and radio reporters gathered up their microphones and crowded near the entrance. A restaurant manager made a vain attempt to quell the excitement but eventually threw up his hands in frustration. Amanda cringed at the sight of all of them swarming into position like sharks lining up to feed. She fervently wished she could warn Stacey and Eric away from the place, feeling nothing but sympathy for their plight.
But then, moments later, when Eric’s group strolled into the restaurant, all her pity vanished in a hot wave of resentment. Stacey waved to the crowds of reporters like the old pro she was. She clutched at Eric’s wrist and pulled him along beside her. He hadn’t even put on a shirt, and Amanda’s mouth went dry at the sight of his perfect body so close to her own. At least he smelled of suntan lotion today. If he’d been sporting his familiar scent of sandalwood and cedar while wearing that little clothing, Amanda might have collapsed right at his feet. As it was, she barely managed to pull herself together a few seconds before he saw her. Instantly, his startling blue eyes registered his dismay. In the shady confines of the restaurant, he slipped on his sunglasses and turned away, as if he loathed the very sight of her. The blatant condescension infuriated her.
Love Capri Style Page 8