though she still had trouble believing it herself.
Malibu. The Bu, to locals. Twenty-one miles of sand and surf and vacuous, self-absorbed celebrities like Jet Trently, looking for a Baywatch babe to even out the beauty quotient for photo ops.
On the upside, the stunning views would enhance her stay. The branches of the tall cypress trees behind the sprawling two-story house swayed in the breeze off the Pacific. The home’s architecture invited closer inspection, though its honey-mustard plaster she could live without. Still, it would be easy to spot coming back from long walks on the beach… Yes, she might get used to coastal life.
Maybe the L.A. Times needed a good reporter. Hey, she could do entertainment news as well as anyone. Isn’t that why you’re here? Silencing the snide voice in her head, she shouldered her carryon bag and wheeled the other. Everett would pay for this.
She hoped it wouldn’t take long to get situated. She needed to study her map and learn the lay of the land.
That brought a chuckle. She was about to meet him, wasn’t she?
Well, one of them, at least.
* * * *
The guitar strings vibrated, rich with the chord Jet Trently strummed. God, he loved playing. If George Harrison made his guitar gently weep, Jet could make it scream with pleasure, sigh or talk badass. Probably why his name frequently listed with Eric Clapton and Eddie Van Halen as the world’s best.
“Jet?” his manager called. “It’s time.”
Shit. Already? One of the dangers of playing. Music carried him to a beautiful place devoid of time where no stress existed. No reality.
And definitely no reality TV. Why the hell had he signed on for another season of torture? He was no actor. Yeah, so reality TV didn’t require him to be, but dealing with those crazy women they lined up definitely did. He didn’t know if he could muster the necessary enthusiasm for another few months. At the end of the last season, he’d been so relieved he could’ve gone on a real binge.
But no, he wasn’t going there again. Jeff had taught him that much. He owed his brother for saving him twice: once from the crappy New Jersey town they’d grown up in, and from becoming a total cliché, living the supposed rock star high life. At thirty-five, he wanted more than a quick lay. Was he expecting to find it in any of the season two beauties? Hell no. This gig gave him a steady paycheck and put his face out in front of the public. Reminded them who he was. How great his music had been.
Been. Yeah. Could be again. The few tunes he’d worked up this past year were crap. But workable crap. Each needed that elusive something. The indefinable quality that grabbed listeners and wouldn’t let go.
Every time he thought he almost had it, the melody eluded him again. He could practically hear his muse laughing. Like she’d taken off for Tijuana on a drunken binge and he couldn’t bribe her to come back.
“Jet.”
“Coming.” Reluctantly, he propped his guitar against the sofa, stretched up to a standing position and closed his eyes. You can do this. A few more months, then you’re home free.
Man, how good did that sound?
Descending the steps, he steeled himself. There’s no such thing.
* * * *
Wheeling her luggage up the flagstone walkway, Billie halted at the glass-enclosed foyer and pressed the doorbell.
The grapevine wreath on the leaded glass front door didn’t exactly scream rock star’s house. Odd, since the long drive and walled property would discourage drive-bys and paparazzi. Anyone wanting to spy would first need to clear the spike-topped iron fence.
A short, frumpish figure appeared through the thick glass, and the door opened. A woman, probably close to Billie’s age, peered through black-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, blond hair pulled back in a barrette. “Yes?” Her mouth puckered tight, the only indication of impatience on her otherwise blank face.
“Hi, I’m Billie Prescott from Strung Out. Here to see Stu Gilbert.” According to Everett, the manager’s goofball persona hid a shrewd businessman. Don’t anger Stu, he’d warned. He’ll cut you loose before you know what’s happened. She’d sworn she’d be on her best behavior. If Stu cut her loose, Everett might be tempted to do the same. If he hadn’t already.
“Right. He’s expecting you. Follow me.” Spinning on her heel, she glided noiselessly across the Spanish tile foyer. A feat, given the unevenness of the golden-red flooring, which continued into the hallway.
Hauling her case inside, she set it beside the golden wall, which had a mottled parchment-like finish. A faded gold chandelier hung regally over the wide space that opened to a spacious living room on the left and a large dining room to the right. In the center of the hall, a blond-wood staircase invited her gaze to the second floor landing, generously lit by the same floor-to-ceiling windows the first floor had. The embossed copper ceiling caught her eye as she walked. The house had character, if no one living in it did.
“I’ll have someone move your luggage when we know where they’re putting you. I’m Cindy, by the way. Stu’s assistant. Check with me if you need anything. Your timing’s good–Stu and Jet are meeting with the producer in the office. Go on in.” She nodded toward a closed door at the end of the hall opposite a narrow desk where she took a seat.
Maybe she’d needed to come west after all, if only to adjust her timing. “Thanks.”
The office–if it could be called one–continued the golden color scheme, highlighted by the same stunning copper ceiling. A white stone fireplace dominated the opposite wall, with a quilted English sofa to one side and a matching quilted daybed on the other, separated by twin coffee tables. Behind the daybed stood double French doors topped with arched windows to the ceiling and framed by billowing white floor-length curtains. The doors stood open to a view of the rocky bluff. Beyond, the endless Pacific Ocean glittered in the late-afternoon sun.
After slipping inside, she approached the cluster of men standing at its center.
Dressed in tight jeans and a snug black t-shirt, Jet Trently laughed as he spoke, his too-white teeth flashing. His presence injected an undeniable energy into the room. It sizzled along her nerve endings when he looked her way, electrified by his crystal blue eyes.
A man turned at her approach. “Miss, we’re having a meeting. Check in with my executive assistant.” Stu Gilbert. More like one of the Three Stooges with his wiry hair and bulbous nose. A disco version with two gold chains revealed by his half-unbuttoned shirt, heavy man-rings decorating his pudgy fingers.
Impatience had edged his tone. He thought her an intruder.
Billie affected a sharp business tone. “Already did. I’m Billie Prescott from Strung Out. My editor spoke with Mr. Gilbert about covering the show?”
Jet’s eyes widened. “You’re Billie Prescott?”
Billie had a feeling she’d just made Jet’s Lust Have list, though she had no doubt the list, if printed, would require reams of paper. If he licked his lips, she’d be out of there before he could retract his tongue. “You’re expecting me, aren’t you?”
“Billie
