Tall cool one

by Zoey Dean

  "You'd have more fun with me, guaranteed," Lloyd assured her. "But we'll just hook up later. Tell you what, I'll be at the poolside bar." He hung up.

  Yuh. The only place they were doing any kind of hooking up was in his dreams.

  Forty-five minutes later, after a refreshing solo swim in the crystalline ocean, Anna was in the lobby. She'd asked for a tour of the resort; a guy in his early twenties was waiting for her. He looked Hawaiian and very handsome, with dark hair and broad cheekbones. His

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  muscular physique was clad in blue tennis shorts and a white Las Casitas shirt like the one the valets wore, except with short sleeves. He wore a name tag introducing himself as "Kai."

  "Anna Percy?" he asked, striding over to her.

  "Yes, hello. Are you my butler?"

  "No, actually. Name's Kai. I'll be showing you round." Whoever Kai was, he was gorgeous and had an Australian accent.

  "I was told to look for Regis," Anna explained.

  "Ah, yes, your butler. Apologies. I'm the surfing instructor. Filling in for your Regis."

  Anna was confused. Not in a bad way, considering how adorable this guy was. "I'm sure I can look around myself if you've got something else to do," she offered.

  "No, no, it's my pleasure," Kai insisted. "Plus I feel responsible for Regis's absence." He leaned close. "Confidentially?"

  Anna nodded.

  "I took the bloke out surfing yesterday, his day off. He'd just pounded some margaritas, and he insisted on wearing a wet suit. Once he got out there--"

  Anna laughed. "I know the rest of this story. A friend warned me about the hazards of nature and wet suits."

  "A rash so fierce it'll make a man wish for scabies," Kai declared, grimacing. "So you surf, do you?"

  "Not really." Anna was not about to share the details of her failed efforts.

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  "We've got some of the best waves between Zuma and Peru. If you'd like to give it a whirl, come on down to the Surf Shack. It's not really a shack--you can order a full meal and eat it right on the beach, at a table with a linen tablecloth. Let's shove off, shall we? Walk or golf cart?"

  "Let's walk," Anna decided.

  "Your wish is my command."

  For the next half hour, Kai showed Anna around the magnificence that was Las Casitas resort. The beach and water sports area, complete with fishing boat, kayaks, water skiing, parasailing, a scuba center, and wakeboarding. The five different restaurants--seaside buffet, sushi bar, Mexican with a roaming mariachi band, French haute cuisine, and Atkins-friendly. Two of them--the seaside buffet and the Mexican one--stayed open twenty-four hours a day. One could also order room service round the clock or hang out at the Surf Shack.

  Kai took Anna through the luxury open-air spa. It rivaled anything in New York or Los Angeles. There were four different types of outdoor massage, including a two-hundred-pulsating-jet hydrotherapy variety, eucalyptus body wraps, Diamond Perfection exfoliation, wherein the entire body was rubbed with skin-smoothing ground gems, and the very popular seaside manicure-pedicure, complete with fourteen-karat gold polish.

  Next came a walk through the two boutiques: one for goods made exclusively in Mexico, the other for very upscale designer clothes and accessories--Prada,

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  Chanel, Marc Jacobs, and the like. It was obvious to Anna that the boutique's buyer had excellent taste.

  Then they toured the sports facilities: The possibilities were endless. There was a running and biking track that made a two-mile circuit around the property, with Segway machines as a low-impact option. An Olympic swimming pool featured high and low diving boards plus two swim-up bars that Kai reported poured only premium beers and liquors. A smaller, more out-of-the-way pool ( Kai termed it "the relaxing pool") featured a man-made, perfumed waterfall. It was surrounded by a riot of Mexican flora.

  The piéce de résistance of Las Casitas, though, was the re-created crossroads of an actual Mexican village, complete with craftspeople and stores. Kai told Anna that the famous Las Casitas street party happened right there every Wednesday night.

  "Margarita fountain, lobster barbecue, dance contests, and general bacchanal. The rich and famous and splurging accountants from the world over throw off their inhibitions here in paradise. Always a good time."

  "I'm looking forward to it," Anna told Kai. "Not the accountants, but the rest of it,"

  Kai grinned. "I'm sure your escort will swat them off."

  Escort? He had to mean Lloyd, Anna realized. That's right; this resort kept perfect tabs on all their guests.

  "Um ... for the record? The guy I arrived with isn't my escort."

  Kai's eyebrows rose. "Companion?"

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  "Only in the sense that we arrived in the same vehicle."

  Kai seemed to be waiting for further explanation, but Anna didn't really want to go into it. Then she'd have to explain why she was traveling with someone she disliked. And then it would come out that her father was trying to buy the resort. Not that it was a secret, but it could still make things awkward.

  "So, have I completed the tour?" she asked, changing the subject.

  "Hardly. Ready to visit the au naturel side?"

  "Pardon me?"

  Kai grinned. "There's a whole wing of this place that's clothing optional. You'd be surprised how much of our clientele ends up there. Accountants and all."

  "You mean a nude beach?"

  "Much more than a beach. It can be quite wild. It's the no-cameras policy, I think, that does it."

  "I don't understand."

  "This resort has a strict no-cameras policy. If we see a guest with a camera, we take it away and expose the film. If it's a digital, we take away the internal media. And we don't return it. It's in our contract. We want our guests to feel safe ... no matter what they choose to do. We've got excellent security." He pointed to the sky. "The last time some tabloid from the States sent a flyover helicopter, the Mexican government launched two fighter jets. I'm sure they scared the bejesus out of the poor fellow."

  "That seems a bit extreme," Anna commented.

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  "Hardly. The gossip rags will pay millions for a nude photo of either of the Jennifers. We have to protect their privacy."

  "Has anyone ever snuck in a camera?"

  "We had one guy try to scuba in with one."

  "What happened?"

  "If I told you, I'd have to kill you," Kai joked.

  The tour ended at the Surf Shack. Kai gestured to the Pacific; the waves were rhythmic and well spaced. "The water temp is seventy-six. Sure I can't get you out there?"

  "Not now. Maybe later. Thanks for the tour, though. It was great."

  "Definitely my pleasure."

  Kai gave her another one of those sexy, crinkly smiles. Her conversation with Danny about one-night stands suddenly flew into her head. Someone hot she'd never see again.

  Then she stopped herself. She was only seventeen years old. She'd only been with one guy, Ben. Who did she think she was kidding?

  Anna, a voice inside her said. If you aren't at least going to try it, you should go back to Beverly Hills. Now.

  "Kai?"

  "Yes?"

  Anna cleared her suddenly dry throat. "Would you like to meet for a drink later?"

  For a moment, he didn't answer, which made Anna feel like an idiot. What if he wasn't allowed to fraternize

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  with the guests? What if he wasn't attracted to her? He probably had a girlfriend. Probably ten women a day came on to him, like he was just another perk of paradise. He might even be married. How could she be so--? "I'd love to," Kai answered.

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  Tens and Near Tens

  " W ho's in charge here?" Sam asked pointedly. She'd just left her house for about an hour or two to shop for her diet at Whole Foods, and when she returned, unexpected mayhem greeted her inside the front door. Skinny men flitted around the cavernous interior hall, guiding a small nation of workers in
the fine art of hanging strands of tiny lightbulbs entwined with ropes of red and pink wildflowers. Other workers were gluing twenty-foot panels of red washed silk fabric to the stone walls in some manner that would allow them to remove said fabric without a trace. Another work crew fastened a scarlet velvet carpet runner to the slate floor. And amongst this mini-cast of thousands, not one person responded to her question.

  Suddenly Dee trotted into the hallway, trailed by a man in red monk's robes. "Can you bless this area, too, please? Thanks." Then she skittered over to Sam and enveloped her in a hug. "I was wondering when you'd get here. Isn't this going to be the best baby shower?"

  Poppy's baby shower. The next day. Sam had done

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  her best to erase it from her mind. She hadn't even bought a gift yet.

  "Wait," Sam recalled. "Isn't it supposed to be at House of Blues?"

  "Yeah. But Poppy had a dream in which Ruby Hummingbird told her that she needed to be in a more nurturing atmosphere. So we decided at the last minute to have it here. Isn't that sweet?"

  "Ruby Hummingbird makes a habit of showing up in dreams," Sam uttered, absolutely deadpan.

  "She's preparing us for her arrival," Dee said, missing Sam's sarcasm. "Besides, Baba Yaga has blessed the entire house, room by room. We tried to get a rabbi from the Kabbalah Center, but no one would volunteer. We even called Chabad. No luck."

  "Well, you got... Baba," Sam intoned, as the spectacled bald guy in the diaphanous robes went from corner to corner of the hallway, shaking a silver beacon filled with smoking incense. "He looks like he knows what he's doing."

  "Excuse me," said an older man in workman's coveralls. "Coming through!"

  Sam and Dee had to edge against the wall to make way for him and his helper, who were carrying a ten-foot-high framed photo of naked Poppy, in profile. Sam saw the photo as it went by: Poppy's head was turned toward the camera, her arms wrapped around her very pregnant belly. A single ruby-throated hummingbird flew overhead.

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  "Um ... whose idea was that?"

  "Mine," Dee said proudly. "What, you don't like it?"

  Sam gritted her teeth and ignored Dee's question. "Look. I'm going to have the cook make me a soy shake and a salad. You hungry?"

  Dee patted her nonexistent stomach. "Nah. I just had half a sweet potato and I'm superstuffed. I'm only eating orange food today."

  Whatever. Sam wandered into the kitchen and gave her instructions to the cook but then caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored refrigerator. The mirror was a dieting ploy of her father's--in an interview with People he'd explained how every time he went to the refrigerator to get something to eat, his reflection would guilt-jerk him into leading man shape.

  I am so not leading lady shape, Sam thought. I'm still fucking fat.

  She told the cook to cancel her order. Then two more workers came into the kitchen and started moving around furniture. It gave Sam an instant headache, and she knew she had to escape. The alternative was homicide.

  Sam dug her new cell phone out of her jeans pocket--platinum coated, with her initials encrusted in diamonds. It had been delivered last week from Tiffany, courtesy of her father. She pressed speed dial.

  Cammie was having a crisis.

  No one could tell by looking, of course. She sat at the bar of the Spider Club in Hollywood, sipping her cranberry

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  martini and awaiting Sam's arrival. She knew she looked fantastic in her Gucci denim miniskirt and Boy Scout shirt that looked like it belonged to her little brother--if she had a little brother. But it had been designed, in fact, by a former porn star named Lydia Cherry, who made mock scouting and bowling shirts for a boutique on Beverly Boulevard. Cammie had chosen it to match the interior of the club: a striking red lighting scheme, oversized Chinese lanterns suspended from the ceiling, and Spanish-Moorish tiling on the floor and around the doorways. Acid green walls, golden bar stools, a huge mirror from the 1950s behind the bar, and an arachnid theme in the artwork. And that was just the dance area--there was an indoor smoking patio as well.

  Spider Club was private, but Cammie had been offered a free membership the week the club had opened, on the theory that hot girls hanging out would help ensure that the club was a hit. The club concierge tracked her favorite drink; the cranberry martini had arrived without her having to ask for it.

  Cammie took a sip--perfect--and watched a hot young model-turned-actor whose last movie had tanked slip out the door with an older actress. It was rumored that she had had so much work done by Dr. Birnbaum, plastic surgeon to the stars (Ben Birnbaum's father-- formerly her Ben, then for about a millisecond Anna's Ben, and now probably doing-half-the-girls-at-Princeton Ben), that she had a zipper all the way from her butt to her neck, due to the massive removal of hanging skin.

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  Cammie figured the couple was going next door to Avalon, where they would pretend they wanted privacy while in actuality they'd put on a spectacle. First they'd make out on the dance floor. Then she'd give him a topless lap dance and hope it would make the rumor rags because they were both desperate for publicity.

  Cammie took another sip of her drink. Sam had called that afternoon to ask Cammie if she wanted to go clubbing. It had been a salve to Cammie's bruised ego. So were the guys all checking her out. For kicks, she was keeping a running tally of how many had mentally undressed her. Five. Eight. Eleven. It boosted her self-confidence, which had been recently been slipping like a Telemundo actor's bad hairpiece. How could the hottest girl at the hottest high school in the hottest city in the world be in love with a boy who couldn't get it up for her? Why wasn't Adam Flood calling her day and night, pining for her, insane for her, when every other male of wet-dream age went deaf and dumb--but never blind--in her magnificent presence? And the most pressing question of all--

  If Adam had been with Anna on that beach, would he have been ready, willing, and very able?

  Without saying a word or even being in her presence, somehow Anna Percy had managed to screw her over again.

  "Hi, sorry I'm late," Sam said, sliding onto the gold leather seat next to Cammie. "Did you happen to notice that like half of our class is in the next room at Twyla Bonet's birthday party? Mischa Barton's in there,

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  too. She's Twyla's cousin, I think. Can you believe Twyla didn't invite us?"

  Cammie drained her martini. "And I would care because ... ?"

  "Because we always get invited everywhere."

  "Everywhere important. "

  A young bartender with a shaved head discreetly slid a Cosmopolitan in front of Sam. "No thanks, Remy. A Diet Coke."

  He whisked the cocktail away.

  "Don't tell me you quit drinking." Cammie scoffed.

  "No, I'm--" Sam stopped mid-sentence.

  "What?" Cammie pressed. She hated it when Sam didn't tell her everything.

  "Never mind. Anyway, I had to escape the Poppy and Dee show. They're all atwitter over Poppy's shower tomorrow. I suppose you'll be there. Ugh. I don't want to think about it. How's it going with Adam?"

  "Ah, here's a subject near and dear to my heart," Cammie murmured, sipping her drink. "Not to mention many other parts of my anatomy. The boy's a stallion."

  Sam looked surprised. "Adam?"

  "Yes, Adam. I mean it, Sam. I can barely walk. "

  "Gee, he seems like he'd be such a gentle--" Sam began.

  "What can I tell you? I bring out the beast in men." Remy set a Diet Coke with lime in front of Sam and another martini for Cammie, who raised her glass at him. "Here's to unbridled lust."

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  "Right back 'atcha," the good-looking bartender replied.

  "You had lust with Ben, too," Sam reminded Cammie.

  Cammie flashed her patented cat-got-the-canary grin. "Would you like to know how good Adam is? He makes me ask, 'Ben who?'"

  The DJ fired up some Beanie Man and the girls went to dance. Boys instantly surrounded them. As
usual, though, the ones who came on to Sam were never more than six-point-five on the heat-o-meter that put, say, Orlando Bloom at nine-point-nine. Or if they were higher than six-point-fivers, it was only because they recognized Sam and wanted to suck up to her in hopes of ingratiating themselves with her famous father.

  After a couple of songs, Sam signaled to Cammie that she wanted to return to the bar. But Cammie merely waved and kept dancing, gratified to see that she was surrounded by tens and near tens, with a few nines who had an inflated view of their own good looks.

  If only Adam could see her now.

  Back at the bar, Sam nursed her Diet Coke. If she'd hoped that an evening with Cammie would pull her out of her funk, seven minutes on the Spider Club dance floor had destroyed that notion.

  "Hey, Sam!"

  A guy so handsome that he didn't look real slid onto the stool next to her. His short, spiked black hair set off sexy deep-set green eyes, and he wore the regulation

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  young-actor November-to-March uniform of low-slung blue jeans, black button-down shirt, and white T-shirt underneath. She knew him, vaguely. Lars Something-or-other. He'd played a fresh-scrubbed young cop in a Jackson Sharpe film called Street Hero. Sam recalled he'd died in the teaser before the credits. She'd seen him recently in an underwear ad in the Los Angeles Times. Evidently, the acting thing wasn't working out.

  "Wow, you look great!" he told her.

  What an asshole.

  "Thanks, Lars."

  "So, what have you been up to?"

  "I'm having a sex change." Sam said first thing that came into her head.

  "Wow, cool," Lars said, nodding, which proved Sam's point. He hadn't heard her, didn't think she looked great, and didn't care a flying fuck about her. "So listen, I've gotten into Scientology. It's the bomb, really. It's helped my acting like you wouldn't believe."

  "Uh-huh."

  "You should check it out--go to the Dream Center building in Hollywood; you can see it from the 101. They're really good people. Tell your dad I sent him my regards, okay? Tell him Scientology really helped me get in touch with my core. I'd love to read for him for his next project."

  "Right. As soon as I get home," Sam lied. "In fact, if he's asleep when I get home, I'll wake him and tell him, okay?"