2:51 A.M., PST
“Hey, Sam!”
Sam heard Parker calling to her, but she really didn’t want to answer him. She was facedown on the buttery Italian leather massage table in the meditation room (right off the Sharpes’ football-field-size home gym), getting what was possibly the world’s best massage from a hunk o’ burning love named Giovanni. (“Only one name is needed; I am Giovanni. Now I do the massage work. But I wish to be de film star, yes?”)
Sam had spotted Giovanni’s studly form on the dance floor at the Warner Brothers party, dancing with some pathetic case whose bad boob job looked like two igloos molded onto her concave chest. Sam had sidled over and, after one mention of the fact that she was Jackson Sharpe’s daughter, “I am Giovanni” was hers. He had masterful hands, made all the more delicious by Sam’s fantasy that they were attached to Ben. And the last thing she wanted was to be interrupted.
“Sam? Seriously, I need to ask you something,” Parker insisted.
Well, that was what she got for inviting a group of people (some of whom she didn’t even know) from the lame-ass party to come home and party with her. Since her father and the new Mrs. had gone straight from the reception to their honeymoon in Barbados, Sam knew there would be no parental objections.
Sam finally opened one bloodshot eye. “What is it, Parker?”
“Know the aquarium in the den? Well, Nude Dude just ate one of the fish. Now he says he feels sick. So he wants to know if any of ’em are poisonous.”
Nude Dude, a pretentious jerk who’d been a second unit assistant director (read glorified flunky—Sam knew all the code titles) on Jackson Sharpe’s latest film, had earned his name an hour ago when he’d walked into the Sharpe mansion, shed all his clothes, and declared, “Let the games begin!”
“If he turns blue, call 911,” Sam decreed, and closed her eyes again.
“You must to let all de tension go,” Giovanni urged Sam in his sexy Italian accent.
Oh, yeah. Going, going, gone. As Giovanni worked Sam’s upper back, each stroke wiped away another memory of this misbegotten evening. It was a good thing, too. Once Ben had departed with Anna, the night had gone rapidly downhill. Sam had drowned her sorrows with a few whiskey and waters and sobbed awhile on Adam Flood’s shoulder. She’d blamed her morose mood on the wedding; he’d believed her. At midnight he’d kissed her. Then she’d met Giovanni and remembered the massage tables in the home gym. That was when she’d decided it was time to change venues. He’d been working on her for over an hour. It was pure bliss.
“You want I do more personal massage?” Giovanni asked.
Sam didn’t even want to think about what “more personal” meant.
“No thanks. That was heavenly, though.” Sam grabbed her robe and managed to put it on without getting up, after which she dropped the towel that had covered her and hopped off the table. “I should go join my friends. You coming?”
“Of course. Giovanni is yours.”
Yuh. Giovanni was starting to creep her out.
Sam found her guests in the game room, playing drunk and stoned American Idol with her father’s million-dollar video equipment.
“Where’s Nude Dude?” Sam asked.
“Passed out in the family room,” Dee said.
“Did anyone check to make sure he’s still breathing?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” Dee realized.
Sam turned to Giovanni. “Could you go check on the guy in the family room, down that hall?”
“Giovanni knows, how you say, de CVR.”
“CPR,” Sam corrected. “Good to know. Thanks.”
Giovanni took off. Dee watched appreciatively. “He’s hot.”
And dumb as a box of rocks, Sam thought, which might just make him perfect for Dee. “He’s all yours,” Sam said.
“Thanks!” Dee hesitated. “Is he … hetero? Because you know what they say about Greek guys.”
“He’s Italian, Dee.”
“Oh. Good. I’ll just go see if he needs any help, then.” She trotted down the hall after Giovanni.
“Let’s make apple martinis!” Skye suggested, popping up from her seat and almost falling over from whatever it was she’d already ingested.
“God, they are so last century,” Damian whined. He reeled his way over to Sam. “We are in need of more alcohol.”
Doubtful, but Sam pointed the way to the bar off the indoor pool, anyway. What the hell. It was New Year’s Eve. Her father was totally unaware of how much alcohol he had on hand. And even if Poppy knew, she probably couldn’t count that high.
The crowd tumbled into the bar, which was surrounded by glass, giving them a 360-degree view of the glittering lights of Los Angeles. Someone turned on the sound system. The Dave Matthews Band filled the air. Sam winced; that CD had to belong to Poppy—Sam wouldn’t have been caught dead with it. She replaced it with a hip-hop party mix—much better.
With Damian serving as bartender, an apple-martini-versus-banana-daiquiri contest ensued. Taste-testing was done on six inches of naked flesh between where Skye’s sheer Galliano shirt ended and her low-slung sequined D&G camouflage pants began.
Sam watched the crowd egging on the two guys who were licking alcohol off Skye’s stomach and felt removed from the whole scene. As far as she was concerned, this was just a variation on a film she’d seen too many times. They were young, rich Beverly Hills brats who loved to party. Like that was fresh. Why was she here pretending to have a good time instead of with the boy she loved? Why did she have to have such a big heart and have it be full of love for a guy who didn’t love her back?
Dee and Giovanni wandered back in and informed Sam that Nude Dude was still breathing. They shared an apple martini. Then Dee stripped off her clothes, made a mad dash for the indoor pool, and jumped in. Giovanni dropped trou and followed her.
Sam couldn’t help but admire Giovanni’s impressive physique. But it still didn’t tempt her.
Skye squealed as she bobbed underneath the manmade waterfall at the shallow end of the Olympic-size pool. Damian jumped in after her. En masse, the others shed their clothes and jumped in, too. Sam did what she always did—kept her underwear on. (Drunk as she might be, Sam wasn’t about to shock her friends into sobriety with a glimpse of her full-mooned ass, where-upon she imagined they’d all scream and go running off into the night like in some kind of Freddy Krueger retro-horror flick. If that happened, she’d never be able to come out before dark in Beverly Hills again.)
Nearby, Dee seemed to have dropped Giovanni in favor of Parker—they were playing some kind of “gotcha” game under the water. Giovanni seemed to be paying a little too much attention to Damian. Sam floated on her back, feeling removed from the debauchery that surrounded her. This was not at all how she’d planned to spend this evening. How many times could you get wasted and make out with some guy you didn’t really care about who didn’t really care about you, either?
“Does sperm float?” Skye asked Sam, suddenly looming over her.
Sam planted her feet on the bottom of the pool. The water came up to her shoulders. “Why?”
Skye cocked her chin; Sam’s eyes followed. Dee and Parker, of all people, were furiously making out in the shallow end.
Skye had come to the wedding with Parker. “Are you pissed?” Sam asked.
“Please.” Skye yawned ostentatiously. “I think I’ll try going gay. Guys are such shits.”
Sam got out of the pool and padded into one of the heated cabanas to towel off. She wrapped herself in the cashmere robe that hung on a door hook for guests and then came out, towel-drying her hair.
“Hey, Sam.” Adam loped over to her. He was completely dressed. “Listen, killer party. Thanks for the invite.”
“You can stay over. Everyone else will.”
“Thanks,” Adam said. “But my parents are going to freak as it is.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s past three already.”
“You’re so good,” Sam teased.
“Nah.” Adam brought his face close to Sam’s and whispered, “Hey, you okay? About before?”
About before? “Sure,” Sam replied, even though she didn’t have a clue as to what he was referring to.
“Kissing you was great, Sam,” he said, his voice low so that he wouldn’t be overheard. “Just wanted to tell you.”
That was what he was talking about? Adam had to be the nicest, sweetest guy on the planet. So why couldn’t she feel about him the way she felt about Ben?
“Thanks, Adam.” She kissed him on the cheek.
“Hey, if you need me to come help you clean up tomorrow—”
“This is why God invented cleaning services,” Sam said. “But thanks for offering.”
Adam laughed self-consciously. “Oh yeah. Sometimes I forget. At our house I’m the cleaning service. So, see ya.” He took off.
Sam walked over to a glass wall and looked at the glittering lights of Tinseltown. Soon it would be the first light of the New Year. Ben was out there somewhere, with someone else. Sam didn’t have him. And neither did Cammie, who, for some mysterious reason, had stayed at the Warner Brothers party instead of coming over to Sam’s.
No, they were both shit out of luck. Ben was with Anna. They were probably making love at that exact moment for about the tenth time. Suddenly Sam was overcome with a wish to actually be Anna.
But even with all of Sam’s money and power, that was one wish she couldn’t make come true.