She leaned forward, tapped the back of his smooth neck. “Whatever I do. I’m taking you with me, Christopher.”
“Gabby, please.”
“I mean it. You stuck by me when I didn’t have the proverbial pot, and you’re the only family I have now.”
“You’re my family, too.” His voice was so low and tear-choked that she could barely discern the words. She hadn’t wanted this to get emotional, but how could it be anything else?
“I want you to be able to quit your day job,” she said, “to write, the way you were when you were working for me full-time. Whatever I decide, that won’t change.”
He adjusted his dark glasses and drove in silence for a moment.
“What about Bobby Warren?” he finally asked.
“I’m going to tell him today.”
“Before or after he announces his choice?”
“Before, of course. I’ve got to take the high road.”
“I’m glad.” He turned around, his grin wicked. “I’m also glad we don’t have to spend the day on a sailboat with Bobby Warren and Rochelle McArthur.”
“Shel’s not that bad. That whole bitch thing is just an act. Can you imagine how terrifying it must be to be losing everything when you’re just approaching your prime?”
“That’s Hollywood, the ugly side of a city that’s driven by the film mentality, an oxymoron if I ever heard one.”
Her cell phone rang. “Alain, I’ll bet,” Christopher said.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a hopeless romantic, my dear?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said.
She pressed the phone against her ear. “Alain?” Goodness, she was eager to hear his voice once more.
But Alain was not the one who answered. Only Tania Marie, a frantic Tania Marie, at that.
“I went to the boat, but no one’s here,” she sobbed. “I tried to call Mr. Warren and got Ellen, his assistant. They changed the meeting place at the last minute and didn’t tell me.”
“That’s fine with me.” As Christopher pulled the car into the marina, Gabriella spotted Tania Marie, her short hair blown by the wind into a glistening black-cherry sheet. “I can see you from here.”
“Oh, I can see you, too.” Tania Marie began to wave frantically.
“Where are we going? Is it near here? If you like, we can ride together.”
Tania Marie turned, telephone smashed against her ear, and began walking down the pier in a long crinkle-pleated blackskirt, totally unsuitable for anything but a cruise ship, poor dear. “That would be so cool. It’s not far at all. Just up the 101.”
THIRTY-TWO
Rochelle
This was it, the moment of truth, according to the gospel of Killer Body.
Rochelle sat in her car and fluffed her hair. Not that the wind wouldn’t destroy it, anyway. She pressed the magnifying mirror close to her face. Shit. The sprinkles from her eyelash extender looked like dark lint on her face. She brushed at them with her finger.
Her wrinkles stood out as if they’d been painted in neon. Damned irresponsible of Blond Elvis to wait until after she’d started on the toys to mention they were hell on anyone who’d had Botox. But, as Blond had asked, in self-defense, “Would it have made a difference?”
Probably not, although she needed everything on her side, especially now. Although he couldn’t distinguish between a green or a red light at a crosswalk, Bobbo could spot the wispiest of crow’s feet or a minuscule pinch of flab in the dark.
Blond Elvis had better not have been lying about her ass, because it would turn Bobbo off faster than anything. Better to have the body than the face; the face was easier to fix.
