“It’s not a compliment.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Then why’d you thank me?”
“Just trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, I guess.”
“Don’t get all testy. You were a body beautiful, weren’t you, in spite of the getup?”
“The jacket,” he said, “was a gift from Bobby W.” Damn, he didn’t expect her to be a label reader, but he should have guessed. She no doubt dressed her husband. “Bobby’s a generous man, as I’m sure you know.”
“But you’re a Mr. Beautiful who didn’t go to pot when he hit thirty.” She poked a finger at his arm, and he automatically flexed. “See what I mean, big boy?” She flashed a Marilyn Monroe pout that made him smile in spite of his irritation.
“You should be a comedian, Rochelle.”
She tilted her head. Showed him a dimple as seductively as someone else might show her navel. “You can be my friend, Lucas. Just don’t be bad to me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You don’t want me to get the job. I know it.”
“At this moment, there is no job.”
“And when there is, you still won’t want me to get it.”
“When would that be?” he asked. “When do you think there will be a job?”
The dimple again. Hollywood was crazy to write off this woman as over the hill. The few lines in her face worked for, not against, her. “I try to think positively.”
“You really want to be a spokesmodel?” he asked. “You want to do infomercials showing you on your back, in a leotard, or less, attached to some machine?”
Her eyes went bright—anger, maybe, tears. “Since when did you become my agent?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Someone should have pointed it out, though. Being a spokesmodel for exercise equipment is a far cry from your television show.”
“You telling me Jesse isn’t doing his job?”
“I’m sure your husband’s doing a great job as your agent.” He wanted to squeeze her arm, tell her it would be okay, but he felt touching her would be like punching the wrong code into a burglar alarm, something he’d done once in Bobby W’s office. He never wanted to hear that sound again.
“You don’t respect Jesse.”
No one in the business respected her husband, but Lucas wasn’t going to say so. “Let’s not get into that,” he said.
She pressed a finger into his shoulder again. He turned, hoping to hell she wasn’t going to come on to him. “I respect Jesse’s work and what he’s done with your career. The posters were a stroke of genius.” He turned to face her. No, it wasn’t a come-on. It was desperation. “For now,” he said, “we need to get back in there, especially if you want to stay on Bobby W’s best side.”
“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” She grabbed his arm, and he looked down at the white-on-white fingernails that matchedher toes. “That’s what people think when you look the way I do, or the way you do, for that matter.”
“I don’t think you’re stupid, Rochelle.” He had to grit his teeth to get it out.
She reached for his lapels, grinned again and pulled him close to her. “You think you’ve judged and juried me, but you aren’t even close. I’m not some chick whose bust measurement is higher than her IQ. You might be looking at tits and ass, because that’s how Jesse markets me. But I’m a hell of a lot more than that.”
At that moment, staring at the energetic, face-to-face beauty of her, he wondered if he’d been wrong. He tried to give her the same fair assessment he wished others would grant him. Maybe she wasn’t just another too-thin, top-heavy opportunist, looking for Bobby W to be a sugar daddy.
“Whatever works for you,” he said.
They were still face-to-face when he heard a flinty, scraping sound from behind, and both of them backed away from each other.
The patio door flew open. Ellen burst through the door, her eyes panicked. Bobby W followed her.
