Five minutes ticked by. She’d dressed exactly right for the occasion in the outfit her talented stylist had picked out for her-a black cotton sundress with wide scarlet piping at the bodice and a scatter of free-form tan and brown leaves tumbling down the short, narrow skirt. Matching ankle-wrapped brown wedges and amber earrings completed the look of casual, offbeat sophistication that suited her better than either frills or slut-clothes. She’d had the dress skillfully fit to camouflage her weight loss.

Eight minutes had passed. Rory Keene finally spotted her and gave a friendly wave. Georgie waved back. Fifteen years earlier, during the second season of Skip and Scooter, Rory had been a lowly production assistant, but now she was the head of Vortex Studios and one of the most powerful women in Hollywood. Since Georgie’s last two films had been box-office flops and her newest one promised to do even worse, she hated having someone so influential see her sitting here looking like a loser. But then, what was new about that?

She never used to be a defeatist, and she had to stop thinking like one. Except ten minutes had elapsed…

Georgie pretended not to notice the stares she was receiving, but she’d started to perspire. Being alone at The Ivy was tantamount to a public shunning. She debated flipping open her cell, but she didn’t want to look as though she had to track down her date.

Across the patio, a group of thin, painstakingly stylish young heiresses with beautiful, vacant faces had gathered for lunch. They included the vapid daughters of a fading rock star, a studio mogul, and an international soft drink tycoon. The girls were famous for being famous-icons of everything that was trendy and scrumptiously unaffordable for the ordinary women who poured over their photos. None of them wanted to admit they lived off Daddy’s money, so they tended to list their occupation as “purse designer.” But their real job was being photographed, and their leader, the soft drink heiress, rose from the table and glided like a sleek Ferrari toward Georgie.

“Hi, I’m Madison Merrill. We haven’t met.” She angled her hips for the long lenses of the paparazzi across the street, giving them a flattering view of her Stella McCartney trapeze dress. “I just loved you in Summer in the City. I don’t understand why it wasn’t a big hit. I love romantic comedies.” A crease dented her perfect forehead, and she hastily added, “I mean, I love serious stuff, too, like, you know, Scorcese and everything.”

“I understand.” Georgie offered up her perky smile and imagined the paparazzi clicking away, getting great photos of the fabulously photogenic Madison Merrill standing by an emaciated Georgie York, who was seated alone at a table for two.

“Skip and Scooter was great, too.” Madison moved a few steps back so the table umbrella didn’t shadow her face. “It was my favorite TV show when I was like nine.”

The girl was too stupid to be subtle. She’d have to work on that if she wanted to stay ahead in L.A.

Madison gazed at the empty chair. “I’ve got to get back to my friends. You could like sit with us if you don’t have anybody to eat with?” She made the statement into a question.

Georgie tugged on one of her amber earrings. “Oh, no. He got held up in a meeting. I promised I’d wait for him. Men.”

“I guess.” Madison waved at the photographers and trotted back to her seat.

Georgie felt as if a flashing neon arrow was pointing at the empty chair across the table. Thousands of men all around the world-millions of them-would give anything to have lunch with Skipper Brown, but she’d had to pick her unreliable former best friend.

Georgie’s server popped up for the third time. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to order now, Miss York?”

Georgie was trapped. She couldn’t stay. She couldn’t leave. “Another iced tea, please.”

The server disappeared. Georgie lifted her wrist and gazed pointedly at her watch. She couldn’t put it off. She had to pretend to be getting a call. It would be her date telling her he’d been in an automobile accident. First she’d pretend to be concerned, then she’d be relieved that no one was hurt, then she’d be totally understanding.

Stood Up! Mystery Man Ditches Date with Georgie

She could already see the photo of herself alone at a table for two. How could such a basic plan have backfired so quickly? She should start traveling with an entourage like every other celebrity, but she’d always hated the idea of being surrounded by paid companionship.

As she reached for her cell, she grew aware of a subtle shift in the atmosphere, an invisible electric current zipping across the patio. She looked up and her blood froze. Bramwell Shepard had just walked in.

Heads ping-ponged all over the patio, bouncing from Bram to her and then back again. He was dressed like the aimless second son of an exiled European monarch: a designer blazer-probably Gucci-great jeans that emphasized all six feet two inches of his height; and a faded black T-shirt that signified he didn’t give a damn. A pair of male models ogled him enviously. Madison Merrill half rose from her chair to intercept him. But Bram was heading right toward Georgie.

Car brakes squealed as the paparazzi dashed into the traffic from across the street to get the shot of the week, maybe the entire month, since they hadn’t been seen together since the show ended. Bram reached her table, ducked under the umbrella, and brushed a kiss over her lips. “Trev couldn’t make it.” He kept his voice low against eavesdroppers. “Unavoidable last-minute circumstances.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this!” She could believe it. Bram wanted something from her-maybe a public scene? She forced her frozen lips into what she hoped the cameras would register as a smile. “What did you do to him?”

“So much suspicion. Poor guy wrenched his back getting out of the shower.” Bram settled into the chair across from her, keeping his voice as quiet as hers and offering up his most seductive smile.

“Then why didn’t he call me and cancel?” she said.

“He didn’t want to bring up bad memories. Like the way Lance the Loser canceled your marriage. Trev’s thoughtful that way.”

Her smile broadened, but her whisper was venomous. “You’re trying to set me up. I know it.”

Bram faked amused laughter. “Talk about paranoid. And ungrateful. Even though Trev was writhing in pain, he didn’t want to make you sit here by yourself. You might not know this, Scoot, but everybody in town already feels sorry for you, and Trev couldn’t stand embarrassing you even more than you’ve embarrassed yourself. Which is why he called me.”

She rested her cheek in her hand and gazed at him with counterfeit affection. “You’re lying. He knows how I feel about you better than anyone.”

“You should be thankful I was willing to help you out.”

“Then why did you show up half an hour late?”

“You know I’ve always had trouble with time.”

“Bull!” She grinned for the cameras until her cheeks ached. “You wanted to make a big entrance. At my expense.”

He kept smiling, too, and she tilted her head and laughed, and he reached across the table and chucked her under the chin, and it was Skip and Scooter all over again.

By the time the server appeared, the crowd of photographers on the sidewalk had spilled into the street, and her stomach was a mass of knots. Within minutes these photos would be popping up on computer screens all around the world, and the circus would pick up steam.

“Crab cakes for Scooter here,” Bram said with an elegant flick of his hand. “Scotch on the rocks for me. Laphroaig. And lobster ravioli.” The waiter disappeared. “God, I need a cigarette.”

He picked up her hand and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. Her skin burned at his unwelcome touch. She felt a callus on the bottom of his finger and couldn’t imagine how it had gotten there. Bram might have grown up in a rough neighborhood, but he’d never worked hard in his life. She came up with a merry laugh. “I hate you.”

He took a drink from her iced tea glass and let the chiseled edges of his mouth curl into a smile. “The feeling’s mutual.”

Bram had no reason to hate her. She’d been the good soldier while he’d single-handedly ruined one of the best sitcoms in television history. During the first two years of Skip and Scooter, he’d only occasionally misbehaved, but as the years passed, he’d grown more uncontrollable, and by the time Skip and Scooter’s on-screen relationship had begun to turn romantic, he cared about nothing but having a good time. He spent money as fast as he earned it on fancy cars, a designer wardrobe, and supporting an army of hangers-on from his childhood. The cast didn’t know from one day to the next whether he’d show up on the set drunk or sober, whether he’d show up at all. He totaled cars, trashed dance clubs, and shrugged off any attempts to curb his recklessness. Nothing was safe from him, not women, reputations, or a crew member’s drug stash.

If he’d been playing a darker character, the show might have survived the sex tape that had surfaced at the end of season eight, but Bram played buttoned-down, good guy Skip Scofield, youthful heir to the Scofield fortune, and even the most loyal fans were outraged by what they saw. Skip and Scooter was canceled a few weeks later, earning him the wrath of the public and the hatred of everyone connected with the show.

Their meal dragged on until Georgie couldn’t bear it. She set down her fork next to her dismantled, uneaten crab cake, studied her watch, and tried to look as if Christmas Day had unfortunately come to an end. “Aw…Too bad. I have to go.”

Bram speared the final bite of his ravioli and thrust his fork in her mouth. “Not so fast. You can’t leave Ivy without having dessert.”

“Don’t you dare prolong this farce.”

“Careful. You’re losing your happy face.”

She choked down the ravioli and pasted her smile back on. “You’re broke, aren’t you? My father invested my money, but you squandered yours. That’s why you’re doing this. No one will give you a job because you’re unreliable, and you need publicity to get back on your feet.” Although Bram still worked, he only got minor parts these days, playing morally weak characters-a cheating husband, a lecherous drunk-not even meaty villains. “You’re so desperate you have to piggyback off my press coverage.”

“You’ve got to admit it’s working. Skip and Scooter together again.” He lifted his hand for their server, who hurried over. “We’ll have the pecan shortcake with hot fudge sauce. Two spoons.”

When the server was gone, she leaned forward and dropped her voice even lower. “How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways. I hate thee for making my childhood miserable…”

“You were fifteen when the series started. Not exactly a kid.”

“But Scooter was only fourteen, and I was naïve.”

“I’ll say.”

“I hate you for embarrassing me in front of the cast, the crew, the press, in front of everybody-with your stupid practical jokes.”

“Who knew you’d keep falling for them?”

“I hate you for all the hours I spent sitting around the set waiting for you.”

“Unprofessional, I’ll admit. But you kept your nose buried in books, so you should thank me for your superior education.”

“And for your sleazeball behavior that got us canceled and cost me millions.”

“You? What about the millions I cost myself?”

“At least I can feel good about that.”

“Okay, my turn…” His smile had a silky edge. “You were a stuck-up little prude, sweetheart, and a big-time tattletale. Whenever you had the tiniest gripe, you made sure Daddy Paul ran to the producers and raised a stink. His little princess had to have everything her way.”

Her mouth remained curled, but her eyes flashed outrage. “That is so not true.”

“And you were a selfish actor. You always had to stick to the script, no room for improvisation. It was suffocating.” He chucked her under the chin again.

She kicked him hard on the inside of his calf where no one could see. He winced, and she patted his hand. “You only wanted to improvise because you didn’t have your lines memorized.”

“Whenever I tried to push the show out of its comfort zone, you sabotaged me.”

“Disagreement isn’t sabotage.”

“You trashed me in the press.”

“Only after your sex tape!”

“Some sex tape. I had my clothes on.”

“She didn’t!” Georgie reinforced her own slipping smile. “Say what you really mean. You hated that I made more money than you and that I had more star power.”

“Oh, yes. How could I forget your memorable turn on Broadway as Annie?”