“Shhhh!” Kathie looked around, then moved in close. “If Principal O’Banion even hears the word ‘naughty,’ she’ll start digging into my personal life.”
Meg scoffed. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Tell that to Amanda Rollins.”
“The art teacher? What about her?”
“Well, no one is supposed to know this yet, but she was fired yesterday.”
“What? Why?”
“Apparently someone saw her renting an X-rated movie at a local video store.”
Meg’s jaw dropped. “Can they fire her for that?”
“They did. She was ‘supposedly’ violating the ‘moral behavior’ code of our employment contract.”
“That’s a pretty loose interpretation.”
Kathie shrugged. “But it’s the school board’s interpretation to make. Me, I get my X-rated movies through the mail.”
Meg blinked.
“I’m kidding,” Kathie said.
Meg shook her head. “Poor Amanda. The kids love her.”
“That kind of scrutiny comes with the territory. Not that you have anything to worry about, Miss Teacher of the Year.” She gave Meg a nudge.
Meg managed a smile despite the tightness in her chest. It was supposed to be a compliment—the honor, the title—but honestly, some days she felt like an Osmond.
Her friend patted her arm. “Hey, if I don’t talk to you before you leave, have a great time in Chicago. And if you see anyone famous, get their autograph for me?”
Kathie covered every angle. “Okay, but the only celebrity I’ve ever met was a distant Kennedy relation at one of Trey’s father’s fundraisers.”
“Keep your eyes open. And try to cut loose a little, okay? Enjoy what may be your last week as an unfettered woman.”
Meg wet her lips, but the bell rang again, so she simply manufactured a little smile that matched her expression in those Teacher of the Year posters plastered everywhere. “I’m just looking forward to not hearing a bell ring for an entire week.”
And to a few days where nobody knew how perfect she was.
2
“SHE WON’T OPEN THE DOOR,” the hairdresser said, his hands jammed on his slim hips. “Do something.”
Jarett Miller closed his eyes and counted to ten. If only he could open them and be somewhere other than Los Angeles, in the ostentatious home of the most spoiled woman in the world. He opened his eyes, but the irate hairdresser still stood there, his toe tapping.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Jarett tossed aside the tabloid that featured the latest exploits of his charge, then dragged himself up from the overstuffed, overpriced sofa. His chest filled with dread with each step he took across the great room, through the hall, and up the sweeping stairs—red-carpeted, of course. Nothing less for Taylor Gee, the toast of Tinseltown, sex kitten of the hour.
As his hand slid over the garish gold-tone banister, he marveled at the differences between the lavish home she’d bought for herself and the modest home Taylor Jean Gumm had grown up in in rural West Virginia. “Bought” was a generous term, since she’d mortgaged herself into old age for the monstrosity, against his advice. But then, Taylor didn’t take advice well when it meant she couldn’t have everything she wanted.
Rosie, Taylor’s personal assistant, stood in front of the door to Taylor’s suite, hopping from foot to foot. “Please, Miss Gee, unlock the door!”
Rosie was a little round-faced woman who had plenty of nervous energy to do Taylor’s bidding. She reminded Jarett of a small dog that had gotten its tail stepped on so many times, it remained in perpetual motion. She moved aside as Jarett approached, visibly shaking. “Oh, good. She’s been asking for you.”
“Is she high?” he asked.
Rosie sighed. “I don’t think so, just depressed.”
Jarett bit down on the inside of his cheek. Taylor was beautiful, famous, and rich—from where he was standing, she had little to be depressed about. But what did he know? He was just a country boy, trapped in a town he hated as a result of a promise he’d made.
He rapped on the door sharply. “Taylor, it’s Jarett. Open the door.”
A few sniffles sounded on the other side. “No.”
He swallowed a string of curses. “You’re expected at the cast party in an hour.”
More sniffles. “I don’t want to go.”
It was a game she played that Jarett called Beg Me. He opened his mouth to play out the situation, then changed his mind. “Okay, I’ll call Peterson and ask him to make your excuses.”
He counted to three.
“No, wait,” she said, her voice plaintive, but amazingly stronger.
“I’m waiting,” he said.
“Are you alone?”
He nodded to Rosie. “Take a break. I’ll find you if she needs you.”
The woman scampered away, and Jarett pulled his hand down his face, making a mental note to have the door keyed, and to keep a key on his ring. “I’m alone, Taylor.” And nearly at the end of his patience.
After a few seconds, he heard the deadbolt turn. When the door didn’t open, he turned the knob and entered her suite.
Taylor stood in the pink-and-gold living room near a window, facing him and smoking a long cigarette. Her mane of blond hair was mussed and her mascara smudged. She was wearing high-heeled mules and a short transparent robe. And nothing else. Her limbs were long and lean, her breasts voluptuous and taut. The hair at the juncture of her thighs had been reduced to a tiny triangle to accommodate the scanty swimwear she wore on the set. A cultivated tan covered every square inch of her body. Taylor smiled lazily.
Jarett set his jaw and turned his back. “Put something on.”
“Why?” she purred. “Does seeing me like this do things to you, Jarett?”
He’d seen her naked a hundred times—Taylor was an exhibitionist who delighted in shocking people. “It only makes me wonder what’s going on in that head of yours.”
He heard her muted footsteps on the thick carpet, then she was in front of him, lifting her arms around his neck, pushing her body into his. “You know what’s in my head, Jarett. I want you.”
Taylor used to be an incredible beauty, but a year of hard partying had taken its toll, and the daylight wasn’t kind to her unmade face. Her eyes were slightly glazed, and her lips pouty. She reeked of stale smoke and perspiration. He itched to yank the cigarette out of her hand but considering her other vices, this one was relatively harmless. Sadness welled in his chest at the cliché she had become.
Jarett clasped her wrists gently, and turned her around. “Taylor, stop this childish routine.” He shrugged out of his standard black jacket and put it around her slender shoulders. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care about you, but not in that way.”
“You’re just afraid David will be mad at you if you sleep with me,” she said as she walked away. “But David knows his little sister is all grown up.”
Jarett pursed his mouth. “Let’s hope that David doesn’t get the tabloids at his missionary camp in Haiti. And it’s a good thing that your folks don’t own a television.”
She flounced down on one of the twin pink sofas. “Isn’t that a gas? I’m one of the biggest stars on TV, and my own parents have never seen my show.” She took a drag from the cigarette. “Really, sometimes I can’t believe I came from such a hick family.”
Anger sparked low in his stomach. “Don’t talk about your family that way. They’re good people.”
Her laugh was dry as she looked up at him from the couch. “I know—salt of the earth, God-fearing people. And I’m glad they took you in, Jarett, really I am. I just wish you’d stop thinking of me as your little sister. There are thousands, maybe millions of men who’d love to sleep with me, you know.”
He refrained from mentioning that a good number of them already had. She opened her knees slightly to give him another glance at what she was offering, but Jarett had developed a rather clinical attitude toward Taylor’s nudit
y. “Put your legs together, and act like a lady.”
She scoffed, but complied. “A lady? Is that what you’re holding out for, Jarett—a lady? You’re in the wrong town, old friend.”
Don’t I know it. And his lack of female companionship the last year or so had proved it. “I’m only here to look out for you,” he said finally, crossing his arms. “Although I don’t believe I’m doing such a good job.”
She grinned, took another drag, then smashed the cigarette butt into a lead crystal ashtray the size of a dinner plate. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jarett. You follow me like a goddamned bloodhound, and you keep the freaks at bay.”
He walked over to the wet bar and picked up an empty bottle of vodka. “Those freaks don’t pose nearly as much of a threat as the things you do to yourself.”
“Booze loosens me up,” she said with a sigh. “You ought to try it sometime.”
He opened a drawer that held drinking glasses and reached in the back to pull out a handful of prescription bottles. “And what do the pills do?”
She blanched, then recovered with a glib smile. “The pills give me a boost of energy when I need it, that’s all.”
“You’ve been needing a boost a lot lately.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You have been keeping an eye on me.”
He set the pills aside, then walked over and eased down on the couch opposite her, hoping that some part of the small-town girl he remembered remained to reason with. “Taylor, I think after the trip to Chicago, you should check yourself into a rehab clinic.”
She frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not like I’m an addict or anything.”
“Good. Then it should be easy for you to give up the pills and the booze. You’re on hiatus from the show, so it’ll be a good time to get some rest and to get clean.”
“No way—the tabloids will have a field day.”
“You haven’t seen today’s headlines—they’re already having a field day. That stunt you pulled at Zago’s restaurant the other night has everyone speculating about what you’re hooked on.”
She scoffed again. “Can’t a girl dance on a table without everyone thinking she’s on drugs?”
“But you were on drugs.”
“Jarett, for heaven’s sake, you make it sound like I’m a coke head or something.”
“Or something,” he said, nodding.
“The doctor gave me those pills,” she said, her eyes bright.
“Some of the doctors you’ve been dealing with are little more than drug dealers,” he said quietly.
“Peterson called this morning, and he said the network is getting concerned about your behavior.
He said one more stunt, and your career could be on the line.”
“Peterson isn’t the only agent in town,” she said lightly.
“Taylor, listen to yourself. You jumped through hoops to sign with Peterson’s agency—he’s one of the best and you know it. He’s the reason you got the part on Many Moons.”
She sat up, scowling. “I got myself that part.
No one could play Tess Canton the way I do.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. But you’re letting the character take over your life.
And it’s not pretty.”
Her face screwed up in anger and she bounced up from the couch, his jacket swinging around her. “Oh, so now you don’t even think I’m pretty?” She started crying.
Jarett sighed and held up his hands. “I didn’t say that. Of course you’re pretty. You’re beautiful, Taylor.”
She managed a smile through her tears. “You think so?”
“Yes,” he said levelly. “Now, are you going to the cast party, or are you going to disappoint your fans?”
She inhaled, then sighed prettily. “I’m going to the cast party.”
“Good.” He stood up.
“Do you have to go, Jarett?” Her face crumpled, and his chest squeezed at her desperate tone.
He wished he could help Taylor, but his sympathy didn’t extend to having an empty physical relationship with her. He’d promised his best friend, David, that he’d take care of his sister until David returned from Haiti to step in. In addition to the bond they’d forged when David and Taylor’s parents had taken him in as a teenager, he and David had joined the Air Force and trained side by side for four years. They were closer than most brothers, and Jarett would gladly have put his life on the line for David. Although some days, he thought the two-year promise he’d made to his friend would be the death of him.
“I have to get a car lined up for tonight,” he said with the best smile he could muster. “And another guard to help me keep the, um, freaks at bay.”
“Okay. Do you want your jacket back?” she teased.
“I’ll get it later,” he said breezily, backing away before she could take it off and offer it to him.
She sighed. “What would I do without you, Jarett?”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” he said sincerely, then handily changed the subject.
“Your hairdresser is downstairs ready to have a stroke.”
She drove her hands into her wild, white-blond hair. “Okay, send him up—tell him I’m jumping in the shower.” A yawn overtook her and her entire body seemed to deflate with fatigue.
“No pills tonight,” Jarett said with a pointed look.
“No pills,” she agreed, although her voice was less than convincing.
He left her suite and found Rosie to let her know that Taylor was back on track for the time being, but as he walked downstairs, Jarett’s booted feet were heavy. He had a bad feeling that Taylor was going down the same path many ill-fated starlets had taken before—drugs, alcohol, and ultimate destruction if she didn’t get help soon.
He felt guilty as hell that her infatuation with him seemed to be driving her closer to the edge.
In reality, he knew Taylor struggled with low self-esteem. She craved approval, especially from her intensely religious family. At times, it seemed as if she behaved so outrageously just to get their attention.
He also suspected that her preoccupation with him was rooted in the fact that she couldn’t have him. She knew her family would be scandalized if the two of them became involved. But he wasn’t willing to sleep with her just to prove his theory. Instead he held out hope that someday she’d meet a decent guy who would make her feel good about herself. To date, however, all her boy friends had been first-class losers.
But the worst part of the entire situation was that, at one time, he had fancied himself to be in love with Taylor. When he and David had joined the Air Force to travel the world, Taylor had been a gangly girl of twelve. When they returned to Wheeling, West Virginia, she was a voluptuous woman of eighteen. He’d been enchanted by her, and Taylor had made no secret about the fact that she’d waited for him. But the Gumms had trusted him completely, so he’d set aside his feelings and discouraged her advances.
When Taylor announced that after graduation, she was going to L.A. to become an actress, Mr. and Mrs. Gumm were horrified, especially since they’d tried to shelter their daughter from the ways of the world by banning TV and rock and roll music from their household. But when they realized their stubborn little girl was not to be denied, they agreed to let her go, as long as David and Jarett went along to look after her.
From the get-go, Jarett had hated L.A., but he was more worldly than either David or Taylor, so he’d stayed to make sure nobody got into trouble. The three of them had shared an apartment. He and David had gotten work in the security business, and took turns accompanying Taylor to auditions. She’d landed enough modeling shoots and commercials to keep her spirits high. David, on the other hand, was miserable. So when his father had presented him with a two-year missionary opportunity in Haiti, David had happily left Taylor to Jarett’s charge.
Nobody knew that Jarett had been miserable, too. Taylor was coming into her own as a woman and tempting him at every turn in the close quarters they shar
ed. At the same time, some of the less pleasant aspects of Taylor’s personality were also coming to light—she had a cutting tongue, a dirty mouth, and was prone to outlandish tantrums when she didn’t get her way. And when Jarett had made it clear they wouldn’t be lovers, she’d retaliated by bringing a string of bozos back to their apartment.
But she’d continued to perform well, and on one of Jarett’s security jobs, he’d had the occasion to do a favor for Mac Peterson, a first-class talent agent. The man had agreed to interview Taylor, and had taken her on. When she’d landed the role of Tess Canton on Many Moons, Taylor became an overnight sensation. Publicity agent Sheila Waterson came on board to manage Taylor’s public appearances, and Jarett had taken over her personal security. Her photo was now one of the most downloaded images on the Internet, and one of her swimsuit posters was the number five bestselling poster of all time.
They had created a monster, it seemed.
Jarett signaled the flustered hairdresser to go on up to Taylor’s suite, then walked to the phone to call Peterson. “Taylor’s going to the cast party,” he assured the man on the line.
“Thank Gawd,” Peterson said, his British accent seemingly more pronounced today. “Do you think you can keep her away from the booze?”
“I’ll try.”
“And everything else?”
“Again, I’ll try. But I can’t be with her every second.”
“Seeing as how I’ve been on the phone for the last hour covering her tracks for that nasty little table dance she did at Zago’s, I think you’d better stay as close as possible. Ditto for the Chicago trip, Jarett. She’ll be under the network’s microscope. No more see-through frocks.”
He sighed. “Fine time for Sheila to be out of town.”
“Sheila’s managing too many high-maintenance personalities. I’m counting on you to handle Taylor until Sheila returns from Mexico with her kleptomaniac rock star.”
“You know I’ll do my best.”
“Yes, I do, Jarett. Taylor’s bloody lucky to have you.”
He thanked the man, then hung up. An ache had set up at the base of his skull. He walked to the window of the opulent living room and looked out over the cramped, arid landscape—houses sat on every possible inch of ground, and crisscrossed power lines ruined what might have been a passable view. The only color relieving the sea of red tile roofs were dots of blue—swimming pools. The people in this neighborhood preferred concrete to grass.
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