Two Sexy!

by Stephanie Bond

  Meg inhaled sharply—their mother would have a seizure. Her greatest fear was that her daughters would marry the wrong man. And while Michael Pierce seemed like an upstanding, successful guy, he and Rebecca had been dating for only a few weeks. What was her sister thinking?

  I know you think I’ve lost my mind, Meg, but I can’t explain how happy I am. I’d rather spend a day with Michael than a year with any other man. He has changed my life. By the time you read these words, I’ll be Mrs. Michael Pierce! I’ll call you Sunday. And I hope that Harry brings you as much luck in love as he has brought me.

  Love, Rebecca

  Meg reread the note, then stared at Harry, who sported a permanent grin and an erection that tented his pajamas pants. She remembered the party, but not this, this, this…disfigured balloon. A good-luck love charm? Her sister had obviously gone mad while working in the little fantasy world she’d created in her shop. Hadn’t Meg experienced firsthand how the fanciful place could affect a person’s thinking?

  She frowned. Quincy had asked if she’d met Harry—was he in on the myth too?

  Meg lifted her hand in a little wave. “Nice to meet you, Harry, but I have enough men in my life. Although…” She pursed her mouth and brushed a piece of fuzz from his sleeve. “My friend Kathie might think you’re cute, as long as Principal O’Banion doesn’t catch wind of you.” She smiled wryly, then wrinkled her nose and sniffed.

  Something was burning.

  She swung around—a haze of smoke penetrated the showroom. She inhaled and her lungs rebelled, forcing the smoke-filled air back up. She coughed and covered her mouth, and, in the space of two seconds, a horrible realization dawned on her—the shop was on fire.

  She ran for the phone and dialed 911, scanning for the source of the smoke. The red dressing room. An image of Taylor Gee’s cigarette flashed in her mind—dropped and smoldering all this time? It seemed likely.

  Meg’s heart heaved in her chest. She rattled off the pertinent details to the emergency operator, then slammed down the phone. She yanked a scarf from a display and tied it around her nose and mouth, then grabbed the fire extinguisher from beneath the counter. If there was one thing that every elementary school teacher knew, it was how to put out a fire.

  She pulled the ring on the canister as she ran for the dressing room, then threw open the curtain. Gray smoke billowed out—the upholstered cushions were on fire, and the bottom of the curtain had caught, but thankfully, the flames seemed to be contained. She aimed the nozzle and released a fire-choking stream of white powder at the base of the flames in a sweeping motion. The fire died rather quickly, but Meg emptied the canister to be sure.

  The smoke alarm had been triggered, blaring incessantly into the store and the fire truck roared up just as she opened the door to begin airing out the shop. She pulled the scarf down from her nose and mouth and, in between coughing spasms, explained she was watching the store for the owner, her sister, who was out of town. Then she showed them where the fire had started, and stood back as four firemen double-checked her extinguishing handiwork and rooted in the debris for the source of the flame.

  Meg was weak from the adrenaline rush, and congested from the smoke. She allowed herself to be led outside and examined, but was pronounced fine and given a glass of water to drink.

  Fifteen minutes later, two firemen emerged, producing a charred bit of something they identified as a cigarette filter. Meg closed her eyes briefly—just as she suspected.

  “Is this yours?” the older man asked with a frown.

  “No.”

  “Customer?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you see the person smoking?”

  She nodded.

  His frown deepened. “Are you aware there’s a no-smoking ordinance in public areas in this city?” For effect, he pointed to the sign posted in the window.

  She hesitated, then nodded. “But the customer was someone famous, and…” The words sounded ridiculous even to her own ears, and the man in charge seemed to agree.

  “The law applies to famous people, too, ma’am.”

  She felt like an idiot. But a lucky idiot considering Rebecca’s entire business might have gone up in flames. She removed her glasses and rubbed her scratchy eyes with forefinger and thumb. Surprise, sis, I burned your livelihood to the ground.

  The fireman stood with a clipboard, poised to write. “Do you want to press charges against the customer?”

  Meg replaced her glasses and sighed. “No, it was my responsibility. I should have told her to put out the cigarette.”

  “Her?”

  “The customer,” she said pointedly, not about to reveal Taylor Gee’s name.

  He made a disapproving noise in his throat.

  “Okay. But you’re mighty lucky the fire broke out before you left for the night.”

  Meg nodded and swallowed hard—especially considering she might have been asleep in the apartment over the shop. Her stomach rolled.

  The fireman scratched his temple with the end of a pen. “For insurance purposes, I need to know what was damaged, ma’am.”

  She shrugged slowly. “It was a dressing room, much like the other two.”

  He nodded, then scribbled on a form. “Looks like the damage is superficial—a little paint and putty, and you’ll be back in business.” Then he nodded toward the door. “But all those costumes will probably have to be cleaned to get rid of the smell.”

  Of course. She’d be forced to close the store for a couple of days. It was hard to predict how much business Rebecca might lose over her stupidity.

  “And I have to warn you,” he said, ripping off a duplicate of the report. “Your sister is probably getting reduced premiums because of the no-smoking ordinance. It’s possible that the insurance company will refuse the claim, since a cigarette was involved.”

  Meg bit down on her tongue. It would probably cost a couple of thousand dollars to repair the dressing room, and heaven only knew how much more to have every costume in the showroom cleaned. Her hard-earned savings disintegrated in her mind, but she simply couldn’t allow Rebecca to absorb the cost of Meg’s mistake.

  Another fireman emerged, holding the corner of an unidentifiable object. “Found something else, Chief.”

  Meg squinted at the charred item, then her knees weakened. From the scrap of singed fabric, a hard plastic tag dangled, showing the name of Rebecca’s shop and her account number.

  Oh, God. She must have been holding the deposit when she charged into the dressing room with the fire extinguisher. And in the confusion, she’d dropped the bag.

  Fifteen thousand dollars in cash…up in smoke.

  6

  “SO HOW’S MY LITTLE SIS?” David asked.

  As always, Jarett was torn between telling the truth and breaking David’s heart. And as always, he chose to spare his best friend. He leaned back in the stiff club chair and shot a look toward the closed door separating his hotel room from Taylor’s. “Taylor is Taylor—she’s on top of the world.”

  “I must have been bad luck,” David said with a little laugh. “She struck gold as soon as I left L.A.”

  “It was just a matter of timing,” Jarett assured him. But he wondered if David was hinting that he didn’t want to come back to L.A. after his two-year stint in Haiti was over.

  “I’m so proud of her,” David said, his voice filled with brotherly love. “Tell her I got the video tapes of the show that she sent, but the camp barely has electricity, much less a VCR.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Jarett promised, doubting Taylor would understand. He was immediately contrite—he’d promised himself that he’d stop being so cynical where Taylor was concerned. She had agreed to go cold turkey on the pills and booze, and so far, so good.

  “And thanks for the care packages, Jarett—you don’t know how much I look forward to them.”

  Jarett tried to imagine a place where a few magazines and toiletries offered such a reprieve.

  “And the cash comes
in handy, too. The children here work hard to help their families. I pay them to attend school so they can learn and still contribute to the household.”

  “Sounds rough, man.”

  “It is, but there’s so much opportunity to do good here. I’m so busy, the days fly by. I can’t believe I’ve been here almost a year.”

  “One down, one to go.”

  “Right,” David said absently. “Listen, I have to run. Tell Taylor I’m sorry I missed her.”

  “I can wake her.”

  “No, let her rest. With her schedule, I’m sure she’s exhausted.”

  Jarett bit his tongue.

  “And Jarett, I can’t say this enough—thanks for keeping an eye on Taylor. I know she can be a handful at times, but you always seemed to know how to handle her.”

  “She has all kinds of people now to handle her—her agent, her manager, her publicist.”

  “But those people are looking out for their best interests, not Taylor’s. I know I can trust you to help keep her grounded.”

  Jarett squirmed. “I do my best.”

  “I know. Thank you, brother.”

  He was touched and honored that David considered him a brother. If the Gumms hadn’t taken him in as a foster child and blended him with their own family, he had a good idea where his juvenile delinquent ways would have landed him. “You’re welcome. Take care of yourself.”

  “I will. And I’ll call when I can.”

  Jarett hung up the phone, filled with remorse. He didn’t really have it so bad—guarding a beautiful celebrity, attending glamorous events, jet-setting to exotic locations. In fact, he suspected at least a million guys would gladly trade places with him. He’d made a promise to Taylor, and to her family, when he agreed to accompany her to L.A. to follow her dream. And he wasn’t the kind of man who reneged on a promise when he got fed up. He nodded curtly, silently renewing his pledge to stick it out another year with Taylor, until she was more in control of her life.

  He checked his watch—three hours until Taylor was expected at the benefit, but her publicist had ordered that she look wonderful, and be on her best behavior. The children’s charity was a pet project of Mort Heckel, the president of the network airing Many Moons, and Mr. Heckel would be in attendance. Taylor had never met the man, so she was expected to make a good impression. And a little goodwill would go a long way to help her slightly tarnished reputation. Rosie had come along to help coordinate the hairstylist, the makeup artist, the wardrobe. In fact, he suspected she would be on the scene any moment.

  He pushed himself up and walked to the door that separated the rooms. “Taylor,” he said, rapping lightly. “Time to wake up.”

  He waited a few seconds, then opened the door and slipped inside the darkened room. The low buzz of Taylor’s snoring sounded from the bed where she lay on her back. She had her days and nights mixed up, a side effect of the pills she’d been taking, he supposed. She was clad in pale pajamas, wearing a sleep mask over her eyes. Her wild hair was spread over the pillow, her mouth slightly ajar. The public would probably be surprised to know that the “it” girl of television snored. He smiled ruefully. Asleep, Taylor was childlike, almost angelic. A little like Meg Valentine.

  The sweet shopgirl hadn’t been far from his mind since they left the costume place. Any shrink would probably tell him he’d projected onto the innocent woman all the things in life he thought he was missing out on. Meg Valentine didn’t deserve to have that kind of burden dumped on her pretty head.

  “Taylor,” he said softly, reaching for the bedside lamp. But when the light came on, the first thing he saw was the bottle of pills, open. He scanned the prescription label. “Take one every eight hours as a sleep aid.”

  Oh, God. Frustration crowded his chest. He shook Taylor’s shoulder.

  She groaned and moved her head side to side.

  “How many sleeping pills did you take, Taylor?” When she didn’t respond, he shook her harder. “Taylor, tell me—how many did you take?” he repeated.

  A knock on the door sounded. Rosie.

  He strode over and yanked open the door. The little moon-faced woman jumped back. He shepherded her inside and closed the door. “Where in the hell did she get these?” he demanded, holding out the bottle.

  Rosie moved from foot to foot. “I don’t know.”

  He jammed his hand into his hair. “She’s asleep and I don’t know how many she took.”

  “It looks like a new prescription,” Rosie offered.

  He squinted at the label—it was. Taylor had had it filled yesterday, before they left L.A. And after she’d promised him she’d stop. The pill count read “12.” He dumped the tiny white pills into his hand and counted ten. “She took two.”

  “Then she’s going to be out for a while,” Rosie said, biting her nails.

  “She can’t be,” Jarett said. “She has to go to this benefit tonight and meet the president of the network.”

  “Short of having her stomach pumped,” Rosie said, “I don’t know what you can do. Even if you manage to get her on her feet, she’ll be a zombie.”

  “I’m going to call Peterson. Try to get her under a cold shower, will you?”

  Rosie blanched, but rolled up her sleeves.

  Jarett went back to his room to call Taylor’s agent, cursing under his breath with every step. She’d done it this time.

  But his anger couldn’t compare to Mac Peterson’s.

  “What? I can’t believe she could be so bloody dim. You have to do something, Jarett.”

  “Rosie’s working with her now, but I don’t know how lucid she’ll be.”

  Peterson sighed. “Well, we both know that no one expects her to be brilliant as long as she looks good for the cameras. But Mort Heckel expects her to be there. I’m not exaggerating, Jarett, when I say that this could be the difference between Taylor’s contract being renewed, and her character stepping into an elevator shaft. He’s caught wind of the rumors, and he doesn’t want a diva on his hands.”

  Jarett massaged the bridge of his nose.

  “Do whatever you have to do to get through this evening,” Peterson said, his voice grave. “I’ll be at your hotel first thing in the morning to have a serious talk with Taylor about her future in this business.”

  Peterson hung up, and Jarett let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Hopefully Peterson could talk some sense into Taylor in the morning, but meanwhile, he had to think fast and pray hard.

  Using his cell phone directory, he paged Taylor’s official physician—a woman who refused to write gratuitous prescriptions. A few minutes later she returned his call. Jarett told her the situation and read the name of the drug from the bottle, and the strength in milligrams.

  “Fluids will speed the drug through her system, but you have to have her cooperation for that. Otherwise, she’s simply going to have to sleep it off,” the doctor told him. “She should be okay by morning. The good news is that if two pills knocked her out, she’s not too far gone to come back with a little determination and rehab.”

  “I’m trying to convince Taylor she needs to kick this thing before it ruins her life.”

  The doctor sighed. “I applaud your efforts, but Taylor is going to have to come to that realization herself. Hang on and I’ll give you the name of a discreet clinic in Chicago, just in case she decides to get help before she comes back to L.A.”

  Jarett wrote down the information and thanked the doctor, then returned to Taylor’s room, ever hopeful. Rosie had managed to get Taylor into the shower, but Taylor slumped against the tile wall, head lolling, eyes closed, still wearing her pajamas. Her faithful assistant propped her up under the stream of water, soaked to the skin herself. Rosie looked at Jarett. “She’s not waking up—should we call a doctor?”

  “I just did. She’s not in danger, but she’s going to have to sleep it off.”

  “What about her appearance tonight?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Maybe she’ll wake
up in time to make a late entrance.”

  He helped Rosie get Taylor out of the shower, and averted his eyes while the older woman removed the wet pajamas, toweled Taylor’s limp body dry, and wrapped her in a terrycloth robe with the hotel’s insignia. He carried Taylor back to the bed and tucked the covers around her. She sighed in her sleep and curled into a ball.

  Jarett shook his head, wondering if and how he could save her from herself. He handed the prescription bottle to Rosie. “Flush these, and go through her things. If she brought anything with her stronger than aspirin, flush it too.”

  Rosie balked. “I’m not allowed to touch Miss Gee’s things.”

  “I’ll take full responsibility.”

  Rosie wrung her hands. “She’s in trouble, isn’t she, Mr. Miller?”

  He nodded. “But we’re going to help her.”

  “She can be so sweet sometimes,” Rosie said, leaning over to brush Taylor’s wet hair back from her temple. “It’s almost like there are two of her.”

  Jarett nodded, but his mind raced ahead to this evening’s event. How was he going to cover for Taylor this time? Say she had the flu? Had fallen and sprained her ankle? One part of him wanted to let her stumble and learn a valuable lesson, but another part of him wanted to prevent her from making a foolish mistake that could affect the rest of her career. And possibly, the rest of her life.

  Suddenly, he looked up at Rosie, who was headed toward the bathroom with the pills. “I’m sorry, Rosie what did you say?”

  Rosie shrugged. “I said she can be so sweet sometimes, it’s almost like there are two of her.”

  Two of her. Jarett’s heart beat faster as his brain tested the validity of the preposterous idea that occurred to him. Peterson’s words came back to him.

  No one expects her to be brilliant as long as she looks good for the cameras.

  It couldn’t possibly work…could it? With the right wig, makeup, clothes…Nah, they could never get away with it.

  Then he looked back at Taylor, who made a mewling sound in her sleep. David’s words rang in his ears. On the other hand, he had to at least try. And Mort Heckel had never met Taylor in person….