"That girl. The one who died." She pauses at a stop sign and shifts in her seat long enough to glance at me.

"The one you said he dated? What about her?"

"I read a little bit more about it." She shrugs as I gape at her. "I was bored and I was curious. Anyway, she was asphyxiated. The coroner officially ruled it an accident, but I guess her brother's been hinting around that Stark was involved...." She trails off with another shrug.

I feel cold. "He's saying that Damien killed her?" I try to process the thought, but it won't fit into my head. I don't believe it. I can't believe it.

"I don't think he's gone that far," Jamie says. "I mean, if Damien Stark's a murder suspect, that would be all over the news, right? And it really isn't. I just found a few comments on some c.r.a.p-a.s.s gossip sites. Honestly, I didn't think anything of it. A powerful guy like Stark must field all sorts of nutcase rumors." She drives in silence for a moment, and I watch as a frown creeps onto her face.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Dammit, Jamie, what?"

"I was just thinking about Ollie. If it is just Internet bulls.h.i.t, then why would he know any of this? But if there's really something to it, then Stark's lawyers must be all over the brother, you know? Threatening libel or slander or whatever the h.e.l.l you call it. And a guy like Stark is probably pretty good at controlling the press, right?"

I remember that Evelyn said almost exactly the same thing and feel a little queasy. "I guess. Is that what Ollie told you?"

"No, no. He didn't say anything specific." She shrugs. "He's just worried about you. But honestly, Nik, it's probably nothing. Just the c.r.a.p uber-rich guys have to deal with."

"So who's the girl?"

"Some socialite type. Sara Padgett."

Padgett. I remember Ms. Peters coming into the conference room during the meeting and mentioning that name.

Without warning, Jamie slams on the brakes and I lurch forward against my seat belt. "What the h.e.l.l?"

"Sorry. I think I saw something on that street we just pa.s.sed." She thrusts the car into reverse and careens backward on the winding canyon road.

I swivel in my seat, terrified that I'll see headlights approaching. But the road is dark, and we make the turn safely. By the time I'm facing forward again and ready to chew Jamie out for being so d.a.m.n reckless, my anger is forgotten, pushed out of my mind by the sight of the incredible structure rising in front of me.

"Wow. Do you think that's his?"

"I don't know. It's not as big as I thought it would be," Jamie says. She pulls the car over to the side of the road, and we both get out and walk to the temporary chain-link fence that has been put up around the structure. A small metal plate identifies Nathan Dean as the architect. "It's his," Jamie says. "I remember that name from one of the articles. But s.h.i.t, Stark is rolling in money. Shouldn't this be a mansion?"

"No," I say. "It's perfect."

As bazillionaire houses go, it probably is small. I'm guessing it's about ten thousand square feet. But it seems to rise from the hills as opposed to being plunked down on them. Any larger and it would overwhelm. Smaller, and it would be lost. Though still unpainted and raw, the stonework only half-finished, the overall essence of the home is clear. It suggests power and control, but there's also warmth and comfort. It's inviting. It's Damien.

And I think it's spectacular.

From our spot on the road, we stand slightly above the building. Guests will enter by a driveway that slopes down, giving the illusion of entering a private valley. There are other houses nearby, but none will be visible from the property itself.

All that is visible, in fact, is the ocean. The house is finished enough that I can tell there are no windows on the side facing inland. I can't see the side facing the ocean, but after seeing Damien's apartment and his office-and after hearing his description of the portrait he wants painted-I have no doubt that the west wall is made entirely of windows.

"A million dollars," Jamie says, and then whistles. "It's like winning the lottery."

She's right. A million dollars is everything to me. A million dollars is start-up capital. A million dollars changes my entire life.

Yeah, but there's that little problem....

I slide my hand down the inner seam of the jeans I'd pulled on for our night on the town. Through the denim, I can barely feel them, but if I close my eyes I can easily picture the thick, brutal scars that mar both my inner thighs and my hips. "He wouldn't be getting what he thinks he's getting."

Her grin is wicked. "Caveat emptor, baby. Buyer beware."

And that's why I love Jamie.

I turn back to the house and try to imagine myself standing in front of those windows. The curtains. The bed. Everything as he described it-and Damien Stark with his eyes on me.

My whole body quickens at the thought, and I can no longer deny how much I want this. Damien Stark has thrown me off-kilter, and part of me wants to punish him for it. At the very least, I want to regain the upper hand. Although perhaps "regain" is the wrong word. Where Damien is concerned, I'm not sure I ever had it.

"Caveat emptor," I repeat. And then I squeeze Jamie's hand and smile.

15.

On Sunday, I am forced to face the most basic truth of my life: If I don't spend a few hours washing clothes, I'll be going to work naked.

"Carl would like it," Jamie says, when I tell her why laundry is my plan for the day.

"I'd rather not test that theory. You coming?" I have a laundry basket tucked under my arm and am leaning against her bedroom door. She looks around at the mishmash of clothing strewn across her floor and says cautiously, "I think most of this stuff is actually clean."

I shudder. "How is it that we're friends?"

"Yin and yang."

"Do you have any auditions next week?"

"Two, actually."

"Then rewash all that stuff, and I'll help you fold and iron. Because you are not going to an audition covered in cat fur." As if she can tell that I'm talking about her, Lady Meow-Meow lifts her head. She's curled up on a pile of black material that looks suspiciously familiar. "Is that my dress?"

Jamie flashes a guilty smile. "One of the auditions is for s.e.xy Girl in Bar and there's three lines of dialogue. I was going to have it dry-cleaned."

"Yang," I say wryly. "Come on. Let's go see if the machines are free."

The laundry room is connected to the pool deck, and once both our loads are going, we snag two lounge chairs. As I'm settling in, Jamie runs back upstairs without explanation. A few minutes later she returns with a tote bag slung over her shoulder and a bottle of champagne in her hand.

"We have champagne?"

She shrugs. "Got some at the store yesterday." She lifts her shoulder and glances down at the tote. "And orange juice." She untangles the metal cage, then places her thumbs and deftly wiggles the cork. A moment later, I'm jumping at the sound of the pop and then the tw.a.n.g of the cork slamming into the metal sign prohibiting gla.s.s in the pool area.

"Awesome," I say. "Did you think about cups?"

"I thought of everything," she says proudly, and proceeds to unpack the juice, the cups, a bag of chips, a jar of salsa, and a small plastic bowl.

"I love Sunday," I say, taking the mimosa that Jamie hands me and holding it up in a toast.

"No s.h.i.t."

We settle down on our lounge chairs, sipping and talking about nothing in particular. Fifteen minutes later, I've finished my drink, Jamie's finished three, and we've made a blood pact to go to Target that very afternoon and buy a coffeemaker that brews coffee instead of swill.

That's apparently all the conversation Jamie can stand, because she closes her eyes, tilts back her head, and starts to soak up the sun.

I, however, am antsy.

I shift around on the lounge for a few minutes, trying to get comfortable. Then I give it up and go upstairs to fetch my laptop. I've been fiddling with a pretty simple iPhone app, and I run what I've coded so far through the simulator before settling into the fun part. But in the end I spend only a half hour or so with coding, declaring objects, synthesizing properties, and creating various subcla.s.ses. The day is just too lazy for even easy programming work. Besides, the glare from the sun makes it hard to see the screen. I shut down my computer and head back into the apartment, this time returning with my camera.

The pool area is not beautiful, but the cracked concrete and splashes of water make for some interesting close-ups. A flowering plant I don't recognize grows near the fence, and I grab a few petals and toss them in the pool, then lay on my stomach, trying to get a shot of only flowers and water, with no hint of concrete from the pool or the deck.

After a few dozen shots, I turn my attention to Jamie, trying to capture on film the way she looks at peace, in such contrast to her usual frenetic persona. I actually get some amazing shots. Jamie's got the kind of face that the camera loves. If she ever gets a break, I think she has a chance of actually getting work as an actress. But getting a break in Hollywood is about as common as, oh, being offered a million dollars for your portrait.

I almost laugh out loud. Now there's someone I'd love to photograph. I close my eyes and imagine light and shadow falling across the angles of that amazing face. A hint of stubble. A slight sheen of sweat. Maybe even his hair slicked back after a dip in the pool.

I hear a faint noise and realize it's me, moaning softly.

Beside me, Jamie stirs. I sit up straighter, trying to shake off the fantasy.

"What time is it?" The question's rhetorical, as she's picking up her phone to check the time even as she asks. I glance at the display. Not quite eleven. "I told Ollie he should come hang with us today," she says, her voice a little groggy. "I mean, it must suck with Courtney out of town, and I thought he had a good time last night, didn't you?"

"He looked to be," I say. "But you're the girl who can force anyone to have a good time on a dance floor."

"Ha! I was so not forcing him. That boy may not admit it, but he likes to dance." She peels off her T-shirt to reveal a pink bra that she apparently a.s.sumes will pa.s.s as a bathing suit top. "Do you think he'll come?"

I shrug. As much as I love Ollie, I don't really want brunch company. Going out would mean getting dressed. Staying in would mean cooking. "Call and ask."

"Nah. It's no big deal. If he comes he comes." She sounds suspiciously nonchalant.

I take a sip of my mimosa and shift on the chaise so I can see her better. "He wants me to wear a tux at the wedding," I say, stressing the last word. "Because I'll be his best man. When he gets married."

"Oh please, Nikki. I am not banging Ollie. Quit worrying."

"Sorry," I say, but I'm genuinely relieved. "Sometimes I think you need these little reminders."

"But were you serious about the tux? Because that's just so eighties. Or maybe the seventies? When did Annie Hall come out? That's the movie where Diane What's-Her-Face wore the men's clothes, right?"

"Diane Keaton," I say. "Annie Hall, and it's cla.s.sic Woody Allen from 1977. Honestly, James, it won Best Picture. How can you not know this? You're the one who wants to work in Hollywood, not me."

"I want to work in Hollywood now. Not before I was born."

I'm sure there's a great comeback lurking out there-something about Saw: Part 27-but before I can articulate it, my cell phone rings. Jamie shoots me a smug look, satisfied to have gotten the last word.

I glance at the caller ID, silently swear, then push the b.u.t.ton to answer the call. "Mother," I say, forcing myself to sound glad to hear from her. "How did you-" I see Jamie's guilty expression and know exactly how she got my number. I cough and backtrack. "How did you get so lucky to call when I actually have time to talk?"

"h.e.l.lo, Nichole," she says, making me cringe. "It's Sunday morning. You should be at church trying to meet a nice man, but I had a feeling I'd catch you at home." For my mother, religion is on par with The Bachelor.

I can tell she's waiting for me to say something, but I never know what to say to my mother, and so I stay quiet. I'm actually proud of myself for managing the feat. It's taken a lot of years for me to reach this level of defiance. And being fifteen hundred miles away helps, too.

After a few moments, she clears her throat. "I'm sure you know why I'm calling." Her voice is low and serious. Have I done something? What could I have done?

"Um, no?"

I hear her suck in air. My mother is a stunningly beautiful woman, but there is a small gap between her two front teeth. A scout for some New York modeling agency once told her that the gap added character to her beauty, and if she wanted a career as a model, all Mother had to do was pack her bags and move to Manhattan. My mother eschewed the idea, stayed in Texas and got married. A proper lady was interested in a husband, not a career. But she never got the tooth fixed, either.

"Today is Ashley's wedding anniversary."

I feel Jamie's hand close over mine and realize that I'm clenching the arm of the chaise so tight it's a wonder the metal doesn't crumble. How typical of my mother to remember my dead sister's anniversary when she hardly ever bothered to remember her birthday when Ashley was alive.

"Listen, Mother. I have to go."

"Are you dating anyone?"

I close my eyes and count to ten. "No," I say, but an image of Damien fills my mind.

"Does that no mean yes?"

"Mother, please."

"Nichole, you're twenty-four years old. You're beautiful-a.s.suming you haven't gotten even bigger in the hips-but you're not getting any younger. And with your-well, we all have flaws, but yours are so extreme, and-"

"Jesus, Mother."

"I'm simply saying that at twenty-four you need to be thinking about getting on with your life."

"That's what I'm doing." I lock eyes with Jamie, silently pleading for rescue.

Get rid of her, Jamie mouths.

Like that's easy ...

"Mother, seriously, I have to go. There's someone at the door." I cringe. I'm a terrible liar.

Jamie scrambles off her chaise and sprints to the far side of the pool. "Nikki! Some guy's at the door! Holy f.u.c.k, he's gorgeous!"

I clap my hand over my mouth, not sure if I'm mortified or thrilled.

"Well, I'll let you go, then," my mother says. I can't tell if she actually heard Jamie. I think I hear a tiny bit of excitement in her voice, but I might just be imagining it. "Goodbye, Nichole. Kiss-kiss."

That's all it's ever been. Never I love you. Just kiss-kiss, and then she hangs up before I can even answer.