Palm Springs Heat (5 page)

Lara’s mouth dropped open. “I guess
I take that back about the rich and the famous having better taste than
everyone else.”

Clay laughed hard. A good-natured
laugh. “You already knew that,” he said. “You had to if you were married to a
movie producer for seven years.”

“Oh, you checked me out.”

“I Googled you.” Clay shrugged.
“Actually, one of my people Googled you.”

“My ex-husband didn’t exactly make
the kind of movies that would appeal to Meryl Streep,” Lara said. “He churned
out straight-to-DVD atrocities starring actors who weren’t talented enough to
do porn.”

 “Sure. Lobo Rojo Productions.
Savage Sisters of
Simi Valley
.”

“You’ve heard of
Savage Sisters
of Simi Valley
?” Kyle’s stupid movies all employed the same formula: Mix
guns and scantily clad women and shake well. Especially the women.

“Seen it six times.”

“
Six
times?”

“Give or take.”

“All the way through?”

“You have to watch it all the way
through. The rampage at the Mulholland Drive mansion where Maura Chesterton and
the nuns are keeping the garbage man as their sex slave is classic trash
cinema—but if you don’t see the opening, it doesn’t make much sense.”

Lara was stunned. “It doesn’t make
much sense with or without the opening. Nothing in the movie makes
any
sense.”

 “Illustrates my point,” Clay
continued. “Just because you have a million dollars, or a billion, doesn’t mean
you have good taste.”

 “I didn’t mean to insult
you.”

“Don’t worry.” Clay touched her
hand reassuringly. “I’ve been insulted so much, I’m immune. People like what
they like. That’s all.”

People like what they like
.
Did this come from a deeper measure of wisdom than Lara expected? Or a deeper
pile of bullshit? This self-effacing side of Clay—the regular guy who gladly
poked fun at his fondness for stupid movies—had not shown itself as she
prepared for her mission.
Is he messing with my head?
She had to
remember why she was here.

“I was tangentially involved in the
business of making movies,” Lara said, “but it didn’t make me rich or famous. I
never even got to hang around with anyone famous.”

“Maura Chesterton.”

“Anyone who
deserved
to be
famous.”

Clay laughed. “But hey…you’re doing
it right now. From right here I can see two Oscar nominees. A Pulitzer-winning
novelist. A former ambassador to the U.N.” He nodded in the direction of a
stubby man with a bad comb-over a few tables away. “Just people. People who
have problems and disappointments and…bad taste. I could give them elegance,
but they come here to let their hair down and act silly. This place is a guilty
pleasure for people who need to kick back and blow off steam, just like
everyone else.”

Lara looked around again. Thinking
in Clay’s terms made it easier to see just people.

The waitress returned, and Lara
couldn’t believe what she deposited in front of them: Paper-lined deli baskets
holding a hot dog in a bun, some potato chips and a pickle.

“
This
is the special?” Lara
said, trying to remain open-minded.

“Actually,” Clay said, “it’s the
only thing on the menu tonight.”

“Condiments?” The waitress plunked
down a cardboard six-pack container of bottles filled with raw and sautéed
onions, sweet relish, mustard, ketchup and an exotic-looking reddish-brown
puree.

“Try some of this one,” Clay said,
pointing to the puree. “It’s called ‘Secret Stadium Sauce,’ and you can only
get it in Milwaukee. The Brewers’
owner’s from here, so I asked him to ship a batch just for tonight.”

He practically drowned his sausage
in the stuff,
then
held the bottle out to Lara.

“Really,” he said. “It’s out of
this world.”

* * *

  When they were done with
dinner—dessert was Stephen Colbert’s AmeriCone Dream ice cream served in a
miniature football helmet—Clay led Lara on a tour. It began in the kitchen,
where the well-paid staff of experienced chefs seemed to be enjoying themselves
in preparing dinners that sports teams pay teenagers and retirees minimum wage
to assemble.

“Is it always so much fun working
here?” Lara remarked.

“Yes—and why not?” the head chef
said in an accent that could have been French or Greek—Lara couldn’t tell. “It
is a great honor to be involved with such a noble cause.”

Noble cause?

“You didn’t know?” Clay asked. “All
the money we take in tonight goes to charity.”

Lara felt her face getting red.

“It’s understandable,” Clay went
on, acting more embarrassed than Lara felt. “It was an invitation-only event.”

“Duh,” Lara blurted. “A hot dog and
chips? What kind of dope would think…”

Clay laughed a laughing-with-you,
not-at-you laugh. “Yes, that would be crazy,” he said. “Don’t be embarrassed.
It’s my fault. I should have said something.”

“I’ve heard about this
place—everyone has—but I don’t remember anything about charity.”

“We don’t really make a big deal
out of it. Don’t want to make it look like we’re patting ourselves on the
back.”

A terrible thought struck Lara:
What if Clay Creighton wasn’t as bad as she had built him up to be?
Environmentally responsible bamboo in the elevator. Elaborate dinners for
charity. And her creeping suspicion that he really was interested in her and
not just faking it in the hope of scoring. Although she certainly wouldn’t mind
if he
was
just trying to score.

But, damn it, why can’t people
just be what they appear to be?

The tour ended in Clay’s “personal
box,” which could have held its own against the most opulent luxury suites in
the new Yankee Stadium.

“People come here to watch TV?”
Lara stared at the two gigantic high-definition TV screens hanging from the
ceiling at opposite ends of the suite.

Clay handed her a glass of deep red
wine. “I host game parties. People expect a big screen.” He clicked a remote
control and bossa nova played from speakers hidden behind the most lavishly
stocked bar Lara had ever seen. A few bottles were arranged on a tray on the
bar—the ingredients of a Centurion cocktail. Lara picked up the Fast Lane-label
Cynar bottle, but put it back down when she realized how obviously phallic it
was.

Clay fine-tuned the stereo, tweaking
the treble, then the bass, then the treble again. Lara admired his shoulders.
Good
angle.

Lara quickly looked away when Clay
turned around. “You like the seats?” he said.

Lara hadn’t even noticed she was
brushing one of the spectator seats with the back of a hand. “It’s so soft,”
she said.

“Feels like kid leather, doesn’t
it?”

Oh-oh: Another revelation on the
way.
No doubt the Clay Creighton that Lara had constructed would install
politically incorrect leather seats in his luxury box. But this “new” Clay
Creighton?

“It’s Alcantara. Man-made. Feels
great—cleans up easy,” Clay said as he moved close to Lara. “Pretty important
when you consider how crazy things can get. Go ahead, spill your wine on the
chair. It’s like a miracle fabric.”

“That’s okay. I’ll take your word
for it.”

Lara sipped the wine. It tasted
funny. Funny, as in the way good wine tastes to someone who usually drinks the
$3.99-a-bottle stuff from the discount bin at Rite-Aid.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, and worried
that she sounded surprised, like a rube who didn’t know Beaujolais
from Hawaiian Punch.

“That tartness at the back of the
mouth, it does goose you a little,” Clay said.

So it’s not just me.

The music caught Lara’s attention.
Corcovado
.
Lara had a soft spot for the song. It reminded her of warm, carefree summer
nights in her childhood.
The sun setting over the San
Gabriels.
Music drifting through the screen door.
Her father resting on the porch steps as she colored on the sidewalk with
chalk.

Lara became aware of Clay looking
at her. How long had he been doing that? And what had he been thinking while
her mind was wandering?

“The music,” she said.

“I thought you’d like it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Clay put down
his wine and cozied up to her from behind. Lara closed her eyes as his
cheek—freshly shaved—brushed against hers. Clay’s cologne smelled as good as
the wine: A balanced bouquet, outdoorsy with a hint of spice. Astrud Gilberto’s
dreamy monotone floated through the air with words about starry nights and
windows with views of the mountains and sea.

All evening long Clay had subtly
tapped wedges of doubt into chinks of Lara’s iron-clad reason. Now he worked on
her body as well, stroking her sides from the tops of her hips to just under
her arms, allowing his fingertips to venture teasingly past her breasts. Her
whole body flushed with warmth. Every muscle relaxed. Her resistance dissipated
in the silky dusk of the dimmed lights. The languor of the tropical music. The
welcome pressure of Clay’s chest against her back.

It’s too soon for this.

And then Lara spilled her wine. A
deep purple stain spread over the virgin skin of a seat cushion.

“Fuck!” Lara clamped her hand over
her mouth. “I’m sorry!” She felt dumb, but as she grabbed a napkin and daubed
furiously, she was thankful for the diversion.
Damn it, Lara, stay focused
on why you’re here!

Clay took her hand with the
crumpled-up napkin still in it. “You don’t have to worry about that.” He raised
Lara’s hand to his lips and kissed her wrist. “Besides, spilled wine is sort of
romantic, don’t you think?”

He looked at Lara with those
glittering golden eyes, then kissed her mouth. Fireworks blew away the quiet
nights of quiet stars.
Stay strong
.

“I guess I overreacted,” she said
when their lips finally parted. “The F-bomb, and all.”

“The F-bomb?” Clay laughed. “That’s
what’s bothering you? I haven’t had anyone apologize to me for
that
in
god knows how long.”

He moved toward Lara again. She
pulled back. “What about all those people!” She motioned toward the
still-crowded dining room.

“They can’t see us.” Clay stood,
moved up close to the window and tapped on the glass. Two couples in grandstand
seats nearby looked around for the source of the sound, obviously unable to
locate it. For good measure, Clay made a funny face and flipped off the
unsuspecting diners with a very assertive double bird.

“See? Nada. You want to try?”

Lara was laughing. “I—I can’t.”

“Sure you can!” He put his hands on
Lara’s shoulders and tugged her into position. “Let the F-bombs fly!”

Clay flipped off the couples again.
“Hey, you people! F-bomb you! Come on.”

Lara couldn’t muster even one
extended middle finger, let alone two.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Clay
said. “Hey, F-bomb you, Will Railling.”

The cable news blowhard?
“That’s not really—?”

“I don’t think so. But he looks
just like him.”

“He does!”

“Hey, Will, you fatuous bastard.”
Clay danced around with both badfingers wagging.

Lara laughed so hard she fell back
into a seat. Clay plopped into the seat next to her. The one Lara had spilled on.

“Watch out!” she said. “You don’t
want to ruin that nice white shirt.”

“Yeah. I only have thirty-seven
more just like it.” He rubbed the spill with his back. Then he looked at her
with eyes that crackled with light, like sparklers on the Fourth of July. He
moved a tendril of hair off Lara’s forehead. Lara subtly nodded to make it fall
back.

“You’re even more beautiful close
up,” Clay said.

Lara could feel her will melting
again. “You—”

“Shhh.” Clay put a finger to Lara’s
lips. “Don’t change the subject. We were talking about you.”

He ran his fingers down the length
of her hair where it had fallen over her shoulder. Then he playfully tugged on
one of the little cotton puff balls.

“This is a nice dress,” he said.
“It looks good with your hair.”

“You like dark hair?”

“Sure,” Clay responded. “On you.”

Another line?
Lara shot him
a look.

 “In general, I like hair on a
woman. It’s not necessary. But if it’s there, then dark, light. Whatever.”

“Thank you. I think.” Lara’s smile
contained an ounce of mischief.

Clay smiled. “I’m going too fast,
aren’t I?”

“I don’t mean to—”

“No, it’s just that—and this is not
going to sound good no matter how I say it—women usually throw themselves at
me.”

“You’re right. There’s no good way
to put that.”

“I’m not saying I’m some kind of
superhuman love machine.”

Lara laughed.

“It’s like an occupational hazard.”

Lara laughed harder.

“Women think they can impress me
by—”

Lara put her hand on top of his.
“Stop! You’re digging yourself in deeper.”

Clay let out a little laugh, too.

“I had a great time tonight,” Lara
said. “We could get together again soon. The weekend, maybe?”

“Yeah. I like that idea.”

They got up and headed for the
door.

“Are you
sure
those people
can’t see us?” Lara asked, looking back over her shoulder.

“Ninety-nine percent.”

Lara flipped off the dining room.

“Hey, that
does
feel kind of
good.”

* * *

Lara felt in control again by the
time she and Clay got back to the elevator. But her mind wandered. In her reverie,
he knelt in front of her. She was wedged into a corner. Naked from the waist
down. Fingertips digging into the bamboo strips on the wall. Moving subtly to
guide Clay’s tongue to the sweetest spot. And watching from multiple vantage
points in the mirrored panels.