Reunion Girls (22 page)

Bizzie grinned. "Don't worry. I'll come up with a plan."

A thought struck him. "When are you meeting with her?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to be in on it."

Bizzie narrowed her gaze curiously.

"Gabrielle's in a very vulnerable place," he explained. "I don't think she's aware of how much she has to offer. And I really believe that if handled shrewdly, she could emerge more successful as herself than she ever was as Brown Sugar."

"How does the new Mrs. Lockhart feel about you getting this involved in the welfare of an ex-girlfriend?" Bizzie asked silkily.

Dean Paul released his arm from her shoulder. "I have no idea. But I'm sure I'll read about it in Jinx Wiatt's column."

She gave him an empathetic look. Not long ago, Bizzie had been the subject of every obvious blind item. "Ten o'clock at her hotel," she said.

"I'll be there." He rejoined the group. They began pushing through the thick crowd of cable news players, assorted models, publishing types, and the usual social suspects who would show up for the opening of a ketchup bottle if it meant free booze and hors d'oeuvres.

Dean Paul spotted Miles Weatherly, the lawyer who years ago had parlayed the O.J. Simpson trial into a steady career as a television legal analyst. Lara had been involved with him once. He wondered what had happened between them. When he witnessed Miles pretending to give one woman his attention while he checked out the ass on another, the answer for the unraveling became clear.

But his eyes were zeroed in on no ordinary ass. It belonged to Babe Mancini.

Dean Paul clocked her with his gaze. She looked beautiful and miserable at the same time. There was a drink in her hand. It didn't appear to be her first one. It didn't appear to be her last.

Babe made eye contact and took in the
Hollywood Live
entourage trailing him. She raised her glass in a mock toast and clearly mouthed two words that were anything but warm greetings.

A strong hand grabbed his arm violently. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Dean Paul stared into the angry face of Jake James. He jerked his arm free. "I tell you what, between you and your girlfriend—this is a tough room." With a tilt of his head, he gestured to Jennifer and Thumper, who were coming up from behind. Then he raised the
Hollywood Live
mike as evidence. "It's your big night, Jake. You should smile for the camera."

The realization seemed to rise up on Jake as certain as a brand-new morning. "I should've expected a a punk like you to pull something like this."

Obnoxiously, Dean Paul shoved the mike in front of Jake's mouth. "Don't worry. We're not taping yet. I assume that was just for me. Or do you want to repeat that for our viewers at home?"

Jake stood there, fuming in silence.

Jennifer and Thumper caught up.

"Let's roll," Dean Paul said.

Once more, Thumper gave him the signal.

"I'm here with the most important man at a Jake James book party. And that would be Jake James. How does it feel to be a published author?"

Jake was so pissed off that when he smiled for the camera, it had that rigid, cringe-inducing quality of an unnatural politician on the campaign trail. "It feels good. I think America's ready for a man who's not afraid to tell the truth about what's wrong with our country. I say what's on my mind, and I say it loud. That's why I called it
Put Up Your Dukes.
Because I'll stand behind every word in this book with my fists if I have to."

Dean Paul saw the opening and went for it. "You stand behind every word, but do you stand behind every image?"

Jake looked at him strangely.

"A lot of attention is being paid to this revealing cover photo of you stripped down in the boxing ring," Dean Paul began, holding up the book for the benefit of Thumper's lens. "We live in a high-tech digital age where photographs can lie. So here's your chance to address a rumor out there firsthand. Is this one hundred percent Jake James? Or is this your face superimposed on another man's body?"

It wasn't anger blasting from Jake's gaze. It was poison. He knew exactly where this was going. And there wasn't anything he could do to stop it. "Of course, it's me. Like I always say, never trust a man who doesn't power-train his mind
and
his body."

"So you're telling me there's no airbrushing at work here. This is Jake James from head to toe."

"You're damn right it is."

"Now's your chance to prove it." Dean Paul addressed the crowd already several drinks into a good time. "Who wants to see this man take off his shirt?"

There were whoops and cheers of approval.

Jake glared at Dean Paul as he tore off the tie. He didn't bother with the buttons on his oxford. One ferocious rip and it was raining plastic onto the floor. The realization that he had walked straight into this trap was all over his face as he paused for the final act—pulling the undershirt over his head. And then he stood there, nostrils flaring, massive chest heaving, powerful arms rippling, six-pack abs proving once and for all that the photograph hardly did him justice.

Catcalls and whistles erupted from the crowd.

Dean Paul flashed that smile again for the camera. "Ladies and gentlemen, this man will do
anything
to sell books. I'm Dean Paul Lockhart for
Hollywood Live.
Back to you, Ainsley."

Jennifer gave him a double thumbs-up.

His eyes blazed a look of triumph. "Okay, Jake, you can put your shirt back on. Some of the closeted boys are starting to sweat."

Dean Paul left him there and searched for Babe. He found her near the bar.

She was half drunk and regarded him coldly. "Congratulations. You made him look like an idiot."

"I'd like to think I had very little to do with that. Let's give Jake some credit."

"I don't know where this rivalry is going. But with two ego-driven males, it usually comes down to one thing. So take it from a girl who knows. His is bigger than yours. Sorry, Dean Paul. You lose."

"This isn't news to me, Babe. Jake's always been the bigger dick."

She grinned in spite of herself.

He smiled back. "What are you doing, Babe? Let's get out of here."

"Why? So you can make him look like a buffoon
and
walk out with his girl? That would be a real knockout punch." She looked at her empty glass, then stared helplessly at the busy bartenders.

"I don't give a shit about Jake. I care about you."

Babe laughed in his face. "Oh, my God, you're hilarious. Forget
Hollywood Live.
You should do stand-up."

Dean Paul held out his hand. "I'm serious, Babe. Let's go somewhere and talk. This guy is toxic. He's no good for you."

"And I suppose you're my white knight?"

It was as if no years had gone by at all. Babe was still that girl from college. Hurt was what she knew best. And she never let you forget it.

"Let's see . . . I could stay with him . . . or I could leave with you. I should just flip a coin. Either way I lose."

"Not this time." His fingers were almost touching hers.

Babe looked across the room at Jake James. Then she looked at Dean Paul. Tears filled her eyes. But she took his hand.

Dean Paul led her out, moving fast through the crowd. They passed Jennifer and Thumper, and he promised a rain check on dinner. Now his hand touched the door. Freedom was one push away. He turned back.

Jake James was watching them.

Babe stared at Jake for a long, heavily calculated moment. Then she raised her hand, the one that was joined with Dean Paul's. And she followed him into the night. They walked in silence for several blocks, but Babe never let go of his hand.

"Where are we going?" she asked, finally.

"My place. We can talk there. I'll make some coffee."

"What about Aspen?"

"Why is everyone so concerned about my wife?" His tone was snappish. But then he softened. "I'm sorry. It's just . . . She's out for the night."

They continued walking, lost in their own thoughts, until Babe stopped suddenly on Union Square and released his hand. "You don't have to do this. You don't have to be nice to me. After what I did . . ."

"Babe—"

"But I didn't give those pictures to Jake," she blurted. "I want you to know that. He stole them from my apartment."

Dean Paul didn't doubt her word for a second. "I believe that." He paused. "But there is the matter of the book proposal. Jake isn't responsible for that."

"You hate me, don't you?"

"No, I could never hate you. I—"

"Even if I had sold that book?" she demanded. "Because I would have. At one point my agent was talking a million dollars. Can you believe that? And you and your lawyers and your damn family screwed it all up!
A million dollars!"

"That's the price tag on what we had together?"

Even in the darkness, he could sense Babe's face reddening. She was furious. "What did we have? You just gave me a tour because you wanted some real sex and thought too much of Lara to ask her for it. Did she submit to your public-sex fantasy at that bar in Providence? Yeah, I bet! You respected her too much to pull that shit. But I was the latchkey kid from the other side of the tracks. I was barely hanging on at Brown with my student loans and my part-time jobs. So I must have been the perfect choice to be your bedroom whore. You were smooth about it, though. For a time, I actually believed that I was your girlfriend."

Her words lashed out at him like a whip. They hurt so much that he turned away from her. The emotion rose up suddenly. It lodged painfully in his throat. And then the tears came to his eyes. God, he was crying! A woman had never made him cry before. He spun to face her.

Babe took one look at the water in his eyes and simply froze.

"Jesus Christ, Babe. How could you ever think that about me?"

She didn't answer him.

"I respected you. God, there was a time when I worshiped you. Babe, you made me feel like a man. I didn't know what sex was until I met you. After our wild nights, I wanted to send letters of apology to all the girls from high school. Even Lara, too." He laughed and wiped away his tears.

Babe laughed, too.

"Every relationship is different, you know? Lara and I . . . I don't know. It was strange. Right away we were as placid as a comfortable married couple. Does that make any sense?"

She nodded intently.

"I don't mean for that to sound negative. What we had was beautiful. But then I started developing feelings for you . . . And . . . it was altogether different. From the start we had intense sexual fireworks. You brought out that part of me. And I've always been grateful to you for that. We had our own kind of magic." He opened his arms to embrace her.

Babe fell into him and held on as if for life. Now she was crying and laughing at the same time. "And all this time I thought I was just an easy lay."

Dean Paul held her face in his hands and gazed into her eyes with real affection. "You're so beautiful, Babe. You're so special, too. Jake isn't worthy." The urge to kiss her proved overwhelming. When his mouth met hers, their lips parted in unison. It was soft and wet, tongues engaging in a brief dance. And then he withdrew.

"That was nice," Babe said. She took his hand again. "Do you still want to go back to your apartment?"

"Yes." He squeezed her hand and led her down the block, wondering all the way home if the whole lot—Lara, Babe, and Gabrielle—would have been better off never having known him.

They took the private freight elevator that opened to the floor of his loft. As it journeyed up, he could hear booming music. The turgid rock and roll of Imagine Dragons, in fact. At first, he thought a neighbor was having a major blowout. But when the elevator creaked to a stop and he lifted the door, the real story became clear.

The party was happening in his apartment.

He stepped into his living room and searched the drunken throng for a familiar face. Oddly, they were all vaguely recognizable. Aspen had submitted him to endless hours of
Survivor—
highlights from every year, though she always declared her own season the best and most dramatic.

Dean Paul spotted her dancing with an alumnus whose name escaped him. He marched over and broke up the suggestive gyrations. "What the hell is this?"

It took Aspen a few seconds to focus. She was drunk out of her mind. But sober enough to understand that he had brought Babe home. "What? I can't have a party, but you can walk in here with your ex-girlfriend? You didn't think I'd be here! Well, I've got a better question. What the hell is
that?"

An equally drunk castmate got in his face. "Man, this place is awesome! How much is your rent?"

Dean Paul stepped around him. "Aspen, I'm going to take Babe home, and when I get back, I want these people out of here and everything in its proper place." He glanced around at the wasted losers milling about. They were all living on yesterday's fifteen minutes of fame. "You didn't say anything about a party."

Aspen's red eyes blazed the worst kind of inebriated defiance. "And you didn't say anything about bringing one of your ex-sluts up for a quickie. I guess we're even."

He stormed back to the elevator where Babe stood waiting.

"Maybe you should stay," she said. "I'll catch a cab."

"No. I need some air. Let's go."

They were silent until reaching the sidewalk.

"I don't think it's a good idea to go back to my apartment," Babe said. "I fought with Jake. You fought with Aspen. It's too easy. And it's not right."

"You shouldn't be alone tonight."

"I'm fine."

He shook his head. "You shouldn't be alone. I know someone else who shouldn't be, either. Come with me." Raising his right arm, he stepped into the middle of the street and aggressively hailed a taxi.

"Where are you taking me?" Babe asked.

"Just get in." He tumbled inside after her and told the driver to take them to the Waldorf-Astoria.

Traffic was light. They went through the Park Avenue tunnel and were there in less than ten minutes.

Dean Paul took Babe's hand and piloted her into the lobby and straight to a bank of guest phones. He asked the operator to connect him to Gabrielle Foster's suite.