by Zoey Dean
"You know Sam," Dee said. "She probably tried on a million outfits and decided she looked awful in all of them, due to her low self-esteem. So she didn't show up. I feel terrible about this."
"It's not your fault." Jackson rubbed his chin. His first thought was the family's appearance on Jay Leno's show that night. Dammit, Sam better not fuck it up.
"Are you saying she didn't come home last night at all?"
"No," Dee replied. "I kept checking her room."
"But she's stayed out all night before, sweetie," Poppy reminded Jackson. "Like if she's with Cammie or something."
This was true, he realized. Dee and Poppy were probably right: Sam had tried on a million outfits for the shower yesterday, decided she was fat, and blown it off. Then she'd spent the night drinking in one of the clubs she went to all the time. Maybe she hadn't made it back to the main house after that.
"Have you checked the guest houses?"
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Dee nodded. "Empty."
"How about Cammie?"
"She wasn't there, either," Dee reported.
Shit. There went his second option.
Jackson rose. "Track her down for me, okay, Dee? You know who her friends are."
Dee nodded.
"Because we're live at eight-thirty at NBC in Burbank. She has to be there."
"Don't worry, sweetie," Poppy assured him, reaching for his hand. "She couldn't possibly forget. I don't think."
"Find her, Dee," Jackson repeated.
He was already thinking of the jokes that Jay would make if he and Poppy showed up at the studio without Sam. Hell, Leno could do his whole monologue at their expense. It didn't matter that they were friends--it was Leno's job to be funny.
Jackson kissed Poppy's hand by way of disengaging and strode from the room. Why couldn't a man come home to the bosom of his family and just relax for once, goddammit. But no. It was always something. Where the hell was his daughter?
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A Date
C ammie had plans. The night before, she and Adam had come home from Coachella too tired and grungy to think about fooling around. But when Adam rang her doorbell before school the next morning and Cammie answered, her father had already left for work. Her stepsister, Mia, was off to her school in the valley; her stepmother, Patrice, was at an early morning shoot for an indie film in which she'd agreed to play a cameo; and the staff didn't arrive for another hour.
The house was empty. She couldn't have planned it better herself.
"Interesting outfit for school," Adam observed, taking in her red silk kimono.
She put a finger through his belt loop. "How about a shower?"
"How about school?"
Cammie smiled knowingly. "College tour. We went to the Claremont Colleges and got back late."
"Ah, yes, the official Beverly Hills High School
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second-semester-senior-year skip-your-classes mantra," Adam said, laughing. "Repeat after me. College tour. College tour."
"Exactly." Cammie coaxed him inside. "If you don't use it at least once every two weeks, the guidance counselor calls your house."
"Anyone else here?"
Cammie shook her head.
Adam grinned. "God, I love being a senior."
"I know something you're going to love even more." She led him upstairs to her pink-and-white splendiferous bedroom and then into the gold-and-marble bathroom with a heated floor for chilly mornings. She turned on the two-spigot shower, then took off his shirt and then his undershirt. As steam filled the bathroom, he dropped his jeans.
"You don't have a sprinkler system in here, I hope," he teased.
"Nope," Cammie said. "We can make it as hot as we want."
Down went his boxers. Off went her kimono. Then once they were inside the glass door, they kissed under the pulsing water until they were both breathless.
What was that thing they played whenever the president of the United States walked into a room or something? "Hail to the Chief"? Cammie felt like singing it at the top of her lungs. Because he was definitely standing at attention. Then they were out of the shower,
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down on the thick rug outside the stall, and--finally!-- they were going to--
"Cammie? Cammie!"
Shit, shit, shit.
Cammie recognized the voice. The bathroom door swung open.
"Oops," Dee squeaked, staring down at them with either complete embarrassment or intense interest, Cammie couldn't tell which.
"Don't say oops, Dee. Say good-bye," Cammie ordered as Adam scrambled to toss her a fluffy gold bath towel.
"But it's important," Dee insisted. She sneaked a quick look at Adam, who was fastening a matching towel around his waist. "I swear, I'll only look at you guys from the neck up."
"Your timing sucks," Cammie declared.
Dee shrugged. "I'm really sorry. But honest to God, it's a crisis."
"Couldn't you have called?"
"No one answered. Has either of you seen Sam?"
Adam shook his head as Cammie glared at her. "That's the crisis? You want to know if we've seen Sam? Wait downstairs. We're busy. We'll be down in ... an hour."
Cammie knew that if Adam was truly a virgin, she was being optimistic, but what the hell.
"No, you don't understand," Dee pleaded, her saucer eyes growing luminous. She sat on a brocade
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stool in the corner of the bathroom. "Remember when Sam didn't show up for Poppy's shower? Well, no one has seen or heard from her since before then."
"Did you call Anna?" Adam asked.
Dee nodded. "Her cell, like a zillion times. And we've tried Sam's cell a zillion times, too. No answer."
"Well, if neither of them answers, it's a good sign. They're probably together with their cells off," Cammie declared. "That's not exactly rocket science."
"Okay, maybe," Dee responded. "But where? Jackson and Poppy and Sam are supposed to be on Leno tonight. Poppy's a wreck. It could be bad for the baby."
"If Poppy's a wreck, it's only because she thinks it could make her look bad on national TV" Cammie dropped the towel to the floor, found her kimono, and slipped it back on. "Same goes for Jackson."
"Well, it doesn't go for me," Dee insisted. "You and Sam are my best friends. Other than Poppy."
Cammie could see that Dee was genuinely worried. She decided to take some of the sting out of her voice. "I'm sure they're fine, Dee, really. My guess is they're off having a blast somewhere and they just don't want anyone bothering them."
Dee nibbled on her lower lip. "Maybe."
"Can't say I blame them," Adam added pointedly.
"Well, if you hear--" Dee began.
"You'll be the first to know," Cammie promised.
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"'Kay, thanks." Dee hugged Cammie. Then she hugged Adam, too--for a little too long, Cammie thought--and scampered out.
Cammie turned to Adam and started to shed her kimono. "Where were we?"
"¡ Hola, Señorita Cammie! listed está en casa?"
Cammie gritted her teeth in frustration and tied her kimono again. "Crap. It's the housekeeper. Here early."
"Um ... all good things come to those who wait?" Adam asked, trying to lighten the mood.
"I was thinking more: The early bird gets the worm," Cammie said, giggling at her own twisted humor. When Adam laughed with her, she gave him a big hug. "How can I not be into a guy who laughs at a line that gross?"
He tilted her chin up to him. "Did I tell you yet today how great you are?"
She smiled up at him. "You just did."
Sam hated how she looked in her tennis dress, even if it was Lilly Pulitzer. But she vowed not to dwell on the negative. She was still in Las Casitas paradise. She wasn't going to bring herself down with Beverly Hills-think.
When she got to the resort tennis shop, she was told the head pro--a former ranked player from England-- would be back shortly. Would she like to select a racket, perh
aps a Wilson H6 Hammer, the same model Serena
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Williams used? Sam nodded. If it was good enough for Serena, it was good enough for her.
"Hello, Samantha. Ready to hit?"
Sam turned toward the voice that came from the doorway. Only it wasn't the pro, despite his British accent. It was the guy who had joined them at breakfast this morning, the same guy who'd seen her naked on the beach the night before. What was his name again? Sam didn't recall. But whatever it was, decked out for tennis and carrying several rackets in a Yamaha tennis bag, he looked positively sizzling.
"You're not the real pro," Sam said accusingly. "And where'd you find out my real name? A friend in the office?"
"Your friend, Anna. I'm Eduardo, if you forgot. You must have known I wouldn't believe you are really Mary Pop--"
"And you must have figured out if I told you I was Mary Poppins, there was a good reason," Sam shot back. She knew she was being overly bitchy. But she also knew that a guy this fine who'd already seen her in her birthday suit could not possibly be interested in her. There had to be an ulterior motive.
"The pro's been detained," Eduardo explained. "Can I warm you up?"
Sam frowned. "How do you know that the pro's been detained?"
"I asked."
Sam put her hands on her hips. "You asked?"
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"Correct."
As Sam considered, Eduardo held open the door to the pro shop. Well, why not? A few minutes of warm-up with this guy and hopefully he'd blow his cover. Though when she gave him a nod, his smile did light up the shop. Maybe he was being genuine with her. He'd have to be a pretty amazing actor to fake that kind of joy.
Sam followed him out to one of the resort's immaculate grass courts, picked up some new balls from an instructor's basket near the net, and went back to the baseline.
Though she liked the game, had taken a lot of lessons when she was younger, and had a private hard court out behind her father's mansion, Sam didn't play much tennis. She'd never been particularly good at it. So it seemed a miracle that she was able to return nearly all of Eduardo's balls, on both the forehand and backhand sides. It felt great, running around the court, smacking her shots with confidence, inhaling fresh ocean air instead of the polluted Los Angeles variety. She didn't realize until she was ready to quit that the pro hadn't showed up at all.
"Let's call it," she said to Eduardo after she'd ripped a dazzling forehand past him at the net.
"Good idea." Eduardo flipped the two balls in his pocket toward the rear fence and wiped his brow with the bottom of his shirt. Sam was charmed by this earthy gesture. "You gave me a workout."
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"Where'd you learn to play like that?" she asked, realizing that he'd barely made an unforced error during their time on the court.
"Lima." He opened the door in the chain-link fence and ushered her off the court.
"Lima?" she echoed. "As in Peru?"
"Exactly. Are you in a hurry?"
She and Anna were still going shopping in La Trinidad. But that was two hours from now. "Not really," she admitted.
Eduardo smiled. "I was hoping that would be your answer. Do you like surprises?"
"Depends."
The snort of a horse--no, two horses--from behind the tennis pro shop got Sam's attention. Then a young man who worked for the resort came into view, leading two gorgeous bay horses, saddled up.
"Do you ride?" Eduardo asked.
Sam nodded, her eyes still on the horses. "Sleep-away camp in Maine when I was twelve. I had a crush on the equestrian--wait. Why am I telling you that? What are these horses doing here?"
"I thought perhaps you'd enjoy a trot down the beach."
Sam was trying to let this sink in. "You had them bring horses."
"Precisely. There's something I'd like to show you. All right?" He held a hand out to her.
She didn't know what his game was, but he was
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gorgeous, the horses were gorgeous, and this day in paradise was gorgeous.
What the hell, she figured, and took his hand. Let's go for a ride.
A fifteen-minute gentle canter north on the beach from the resort brought them to an unspoiled expanse of palm trees and brilliant white sand. Sam thought that Eduardo had wanted to show her a glorious deserted beach. Fair enough. But instead of stopping, Eduardo urged his horse into the ocean--it splashed through the calm, foot-deep brine toward a small island a few hundred yards away. Before Sam could say anything or do anything, her horse plunged into the warm water, too.
A minute or two later, they were ashore; Eduardo led the way through the underbrush to a hoof-beaten trail and then to a clearing. Sam's mouth dropped open when she saw what was in the center of the clearing: a linen-covered table for two, with wicker chairs and a beach umbrella shielding it all from the sun. On the table was a pitcher each of iced margaritas and lemonade, tostadas, fresh oysters on the half shell, a basket of baked rolls, right out of the oven--the wonderful odor wafted through the air--and giant, succulent strawberries.
"Urn, do you have a hidden love for romance novels?" Sam marveled, eyeing the lavish spread.
Eduardo chuckled and dismounted his horse, hitching
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the animal to a tree. Then he held out a hand so Sam could dismount; he secured her horse, too, before holding a chair out for her. "Sit, please. I will tell you the whole story."
She sat, still in a state of shock. "When did you arrange all this?"
"I told you, I've been to Las Casitas many times. It's a wonderful resort. The staff can accommodate almost any request, as long as it is reasonable."
"And apparently at Las Casitas a beach-side smorgasbord for two complete with horses is reasonable." Even Sam was disarmed by the opulence. He nodded.
Sam cocked one eye at him. "What if I'd said no?"
Eduardo shrugged. "Brunch for one, I guess, alone on this beautiful island. It wouldn't have been bad. But here we are. Two of us. Much better. Please."
He gestured toward the food. As in: Please eat. This was getting more surreal by the minute. Boys in Beverly Hills never told her to eat.
Sam reached for a crusty roll. "It's still hot."
Eduardo smiled. "As requested. The catering staff is very thorough."
Uh-huh. Sam figured she was dreaming, because things like this just didn't happen in real life. But as long as she was in this fantasy, she might as well enjoy it. She buttered the roll, took a bite, then slipped an icy fresh oyster into her mouth. Fabulous.
As they ate, Eduardo told her about himself. He was the eldest son of a prominent Peruvian politician. He
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came from a large family that lived in a huge villa outside of Lima; he had been educated at Andover in Massachusetts, then at boarding school, and at Oxford in England. Now he was studying art at the Sorbonne in Paris.
"Basically, you're from a royal Peruvian family," Sam summed up, biting into a strawberry.
"Peru has changed. It's a democracy now," Eduardo told her. "But close enough. Some say my father will be the next president. So tell me about you, Mary Poppins."
"Let's stay with you for the time being." Sam swallowed the strawberry and reached for another. "And let's drop the bullshit, though I must admit that it is clever bullshit. Here's my version. You're a screenwriter wannabe from God knows where. Any moment now, you're going to reach in your tennis bag for the spec you always carry, the one you think should star my father. In fact, no one could play the role but my father. How am I doing?"
Eduardo reached for an oyster and motioned for Sam to open her mouth. Why she did it, she didn't know. He slid the oyster down her throat. "What are you talking about?" he asked while she chewed it.
Sam licked oyster juice from her lips. "You expect me to believe that you don't know who I am?"
Eduardo shrugged. "A girl named Samantha who is very suspicious of me for reasons I cannot quite fathom."
Jeez ... he was
really clinging to his story. On the
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off chance that he was telling the truth, Sam cautiously began to offer some truth of her own. That she was the daughter of the great Jackson Sharpe. "But you already knew that," she concluded.
"No, I didn't." Again he looked utterly guileless. "Of course, I've heard of your father. Being his daughter must be troublesome, from time to time."
"Yes," Sam admitted honestly. "It is. I'm a suck-up magnet."
"I have the same issue in Lima. Anyone who wants a favor from the government wants to be my friend. That's why I never minded being sent away to school. Are you still angry that your friend shared your name with me?"
"No," she decided. "I'm not."
How could she stay mad at him? He seemed so nice. And interesting. And thoughtful. And hot.
Sam spread her arm wide. "I still can't believe you planned all this. Did you buy off the tennis pro, too?"
Eduardo looked sheepish. "Let's just say I arranged for him to be unavoidably detained. I couldn't figure out another way to spend time with you."
"It worked."
"Good. The only thing is, I wish we had met earlier, Sam. Tomorrow I must return to Paris."
She was amazed at how awful that made her feel. It wasn't like she knew him.
"Oh, well," she finally said, reaching for the last strawberry. "This was fun."
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"Actually I was hoping that you'd have dinner with me tonight. At the French restaurant? They make a wonderful epaule d'agneau. "
"Translation?"
"Braised mutton shoulder. With a wine list that's unparalleled."
Sam made a face. "I'll skip the mutton. But, yes, it sounds great." She felt shy ... even more shy than she'd been in the water last night.
"Wonderful." Eduardo beamed at her. "Then it's a date."
Sam couldn't believe what was happening; that this incredible guy had taken one look at her--a naked her--and had decided to pursue her. She made one last stabbing test at his sincerity.
"You know, my friend Anna speaks fluent French," Sam commented. "I guarantee she knows what wine goes with what dish. She probably studied it. Maybe we should invite her, too."
Eduardo shook his head emphatically. "I'd prefer to have you all to myself."
"Oh."