Palm Springs Heat (6 page)

Lara had been on movie sets when
such scenes were being filmed, and she’d always thought it would be exciting to
be on camera that way. Not R-rated Hollywood style, with
sheets obscuring the best parts of the action, but in triple-X mode. Or maybe a
homemade sex tape. She wouldn’t actually want anyone to see it, but the thought
of other people seeing it aroused her.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Clay
said.

Lara blinked. Clay leaned safely
against the opposite wall, but she saw him everywhere in the mirrors.

“Oh, nothing. It’s been a long
day.”

The door opened to Chip’s smiling
face. “Your car is waiting, Miss Dixon.”

When Clay opened the car door for
Lara, she glimpsed the stain on the back of his shirt and rubbed it. “I still
say it’s a shame about the shirt.”

“Here,” Clay said as he undid the
buttons. “It’s yours.”

What?

“Besides, it’s cooler than when you
got here.” Clay draped the shirt over Lara’s shoulders. It was the softest
cotton Lara had ever felt.

“I guess I should say thank you,”
she said.

“The shirt’s messed up, so I
wouldn’t hold it against you if you didn’t.”

Lara reached up and touched his
bare chest. His skin was as smooth as the shirt, but the muscles beneath his
skin were firm.
I wouldn’t mind if you held this against me.

Their eyes met. They kissed. Then
she got into the car.

She rolled the window down, and the
last things she saw as the car moved into traffic were Clay’s gleaming irises.
Lara put her head back on the overstuffed seat, closed her eyes, and let images
of the evening ping through her mind.

4

After Lara left, Clay could have
stayed at Rev to hobnob with the glitterati. He had planned on spending the
night in his penthouse above the restaurant, but felt that time breezing down
the PCH in his ’29 Bugatti would clear his head. Specifically, he had to clear
his head of an image that struck him while he leaned against the wall of the
elevator at Rev, trying to look cool. He had found himself lost in a fantasy in
which Lara stood tucked into a corner, naked from the waist down, fingertips
digging into the bamboo strips on the wall, arching her back to guide his
tongue to the sweetest spot. And in his mind, he looked up and caught her
watching him from the multiple vantage points provided by the mirrored panels.

Now, as he, shirtless again,
watched the moon from the railing of the Upper Deck, Sun tickled his back with
her perfectly manicured nails.

“Hey,” she said. She let the front
of her wrap drop open and pressed against Clay.

“Is that how you’re supposed to wear
that outfit?”

“I could take it off if you don’t
like it.” She blew into his ear.

She was so tall. So slender. So
rapturously beautiful. The jet-black hair cascading down her back caught the
moonlight in silky undulations.

“You know, you’re beautiful in
about a million ways,” Clay said.

“But, apparently, not in the way
that counts most.”

One of Clay’s eyebrows went up.

“Oh, yes,” Sun said, brushing the
hair on his chest, “a girl starts to get the hint after eighteen months.”

“Don’t take it personally.”

“I know. We have a business
arrangement.”

Clay stared out at the black water.
“You know who was president when I was your age? Bush. George H.W. The first
one.”

“You prefer something with a few
more clicks on the odometer.”

I hate this part.
Despite
what Clay wrote in his blog, regardless of what his “rules” required, letting
go of a woman with whom he had shared so many experiences was more difficult
than anyone knew. He always hoped the women would be good sports about it—and
they all had been so far.
Well, there was that one.
In a way, Clay had
loved all of the women who had passed through The Rotation over the past
sixteen years.

“It’s that obvious?”

“It’s that obvious.” Sun shook her
head. “Men. You think you’re so hard. So inscrutable. But, down deep, you all
have soft, mushy centers.” She put her wrap back on. “I don’t know what’s going
to become of you, Mr. Mush, Clay Creighton, but I think it’ll be interesting to
watch.”

* * *

“Are you fucking out of your mind?”
Sushma Vishnuveda shrieked.

Clay couldn’t blame her. People
outside her office had stopped to rubberneck, so Sushma shut the door hard to
convey more than a hint of authority.

Everything about Sushma’s office
conveyed more than a hint of authority. It was spartan in the extreme—from the
commanding view of the stark crags outside to the interior color scheme,
limited to black, silver and tones of gray. An outsized oil painting, a severe
study in amorphous gray shapes, tyrannized the room. A black-as-night laminated
desk glistened with a funereal quality, and two chrome-and-black-leather chairs
in front of it could have been standard issue for an interrogation room. A
wide-screen monitor hung from one corner; the desk top held only a wireless
mouse, a monitor and a black ceramic teapot on a wooden tray.

Sushma sat on the edge of her desk
and towered over Clay. “Bringing this woman to Rev was very unwise. That
horrible Lucretia Moray has it all over her Facebook page. You have a brand to
protect.”

Sushma didn’t appear at all
imposing. Born to a privileged family in Mumbai, she stood barely five feet
tall. But with her fully fleshed-out curves, there was a whole lot of sexy
packed onto her frame. She had dark olive skin and a heart-shaped face
dominated by round eyes with long lashes that made her look like Bambi when she
blinked.

But now Clay was locked in on her
scowl. Sushma was not Hindu, but she came on like the deity Shiva—a force that
could be creative or destructive, depending on the situation. Her outspoken
nature had put her at odds with many in the organization, but because Fast Lane
thrived like never before under her command, Clay deferred to her on all
business matters.

Being a brand is a pain in the
ass.

“So,” he said, “the fact that I
know Lucretia Moray’s no problem, but bringing a guest to my own restaurant is
over the line.”

“You may bring in your guests. If
they are approved. The media have been calling all day to inquire about ‘the
mystery woman.’”

“It’s different with Lara. Maybe…”
He pursed his lips for a moment. “Maybe it’s time to think about ending The
Rotation.”

“My god. Has she stolen your mind?”
Sushma leaned until her face was inches from Clay’s. “Let me spell it out for
you: The restaurants, the resorts, the clothes, the music downloads, the books,
the golf clubs, the lingerie—even that godawful brussels sprout liqueur—what do
you think happens to all that if you end The Rotation?”

“Cynar is made from artichokes, not
brussels sprouts.”

Sushma was not amused. Chastened by
her icy gaze, Clay continued. “You really believe ending The Rotation will make
everything come crashing down? Isn’t that why we introduced all this other
stuff—so we wouldn’t have to rely just on the website for income?”

“The Rotation is not just some abstract
notion. It is not some…gimmick. People equate Fast Lane with The Rotation.”

“And me.”

“Yes…and you. Do you think there is
no other place where one can find an article by Neil DeGrasse Tyson? Or a titty
shot of some French actress?” She shook her head and muttered to herself like
an angry parent, only in Hindi.

“You know,” Clay said, “I’m
actually the boss here. I think I should have a say in some of these
decisions.”

“Certainly you own the final say. I
am just a hired gun. You can do whatever you want. But maybe what you want
would be more productive if you started thinking with this head”— she poked his
temple—“instead of this one.” She punctuated her point with a flick of her
fingers to Clay’s crotch.

“I’ve been okay so far doing it the
other way. Why change now?”

“Because now your little head has
given you a truly stupid idea.”

Clay could not help but smile,
which only infuriated Sushma even more.

“That pushiness,” he said. “It’s
why
you
spent less time in The Rotation than any other woman.”

“But one.”

“Yes, but one.”

“My pushiness, as you refer to it,
also happens to be the reason this company still exists.”

“So what should I do, Signora
Consigliere?”

Sushma rolled her eyes, plunked
down into her cushy chair, pressed her hands together and pointed them at Clay
as she leaned toward him on her elbows.

Ah, the scrunched-up shoulders.
Here it comes.

“This is what I believe we should
do,” she said. “Bring this Lara Dixon into The Rotation and see how things play
out. If you still feel the same about her a few months from now, maybe we can
find a way to work it into the grand scheme of things. It is perhaps possible
that the great ladies’ man, Clay Creighton, has finally decided to settle down
with just one woman. Perhaps that will even attract a new audience. But such a
move must be thoroughly planned.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Clay said
with more than a hint of resignation.

Sushma dialed back the
aggression—and even managed to crack half a smile. “Of course I am right. Is
that not what you pay me to be?”

Clay shrugged.

“I’m not sure it’s what Lara would
want,” he said. “But I’ll give it a try.”

* * *

As soon as Clay left, Sushma got on
the phone.

Turnbow answered. “Yes, Ms. V?”

“Perhaps you can explain to me what
the fuck happened at Rev last evening.”

“Ma’am?”

“Do not play dumb with me.”

“Bergmann called me as soon as he
got word about Mr. C’s guest.”

“So you knew in advance.”

“Yes, but not much. I had to hustle
to get down there in time.”

Sushma’s eyes narrowed. “Why was I
not told?”

“I thought I could handle it.”

“Afterward.”

“Mr. C specifically asked me not to
tell you.”

Sushma ground her teeth. The look
on her face said she wanted to rip out someone’s throat. Most likely Turnbow’s.
Or Clay’s. She composed herself by straightening her blouse and patting her
hair. “All right, then,” she said in a calm, but dangerous, voice, “now
I
am telling you to find out everything there is to know about this Lara Dixon.”

“I’ll have my people start the
usual check as soon as possible.”

“I suggest you start sooner than
that. By my clock, you have already missed the deadline by, oh, twelve hours.”

She hung up the phone by flinging
it against the wall.

* * *

Meanwhile, a zillion miles away
from Malibu, in the tiny, hot Fairfax
district offices of HardCoreGrrrls.com, Gina fiddled with her chrome lighter
and laughed. “I’d say you’re better at this game than you might think,” she
said.

“It’s not like it’s easy,” Lara
replied.

“Yeah, but he gave you his shirt.
His
wine-stained
shirt.”

“That is kind of a romantic
gesture.”

“Fucking molten hot lava romantic.”
Gina lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and held the smoke for a long time. “Clay
Creighton’s turning out to be every bit the cool, charming bastard everyone
says he is.”

“You don’t think he meant it?”

“Meant it how?” “Like how he wants
to fuck your brains out?”

To put it delicately.
“I
suppose,” Lara said, “I thought it would be good to play it cool.”

“Oh, it was. Always leave them
wanting more. So what’s next?” Gina carefully sculpted the ash of her
cigarette, twisting it slowly on the edge of the translucent amber ashtray on
her desk.

“I’m not sure. He said he’d call me
this weekend.”

“You’ve got clothes for whatever?”

“There’s the lemon yellow dress.”

“With the white stripes and the…” Gina
slashed the air with her cigarette-holding hand to indicate a V neck. “Good.
For daytime. What about the evening?”

“I think I’m set, no matter what.”

“Maybe it’s a good time to unleash
the crimson dress,” Gina said with a naughty grin.

Lara loved the crimson taffeta
shift. It screamed flaming hot sex. She had never owned one that color before,
and when she tried it on, she got a kick out of looking into a mirror and
seeing a Woman in Red. The yellow dress was pretty, like something the nice
girl next door would wear on a ’60s TV show. But the crimson dress? That one
was right out of
Mad Men.

“We’ll see,” Lara said.

“Okay, then. Keep me up to date.”

Lara got up to leave.

“And keep doing whatever it is
you’ve been doing,” Gina continued. “You seem to be on to something.”

Lara paused. “I’ve never been good
at playing hard-to-get.”

“What, you were voted Class Slut in
your high school yearbook?”

“I just don’t want to, you know,
push it too far. I don’t want him to lose interest.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Gina
said as she ground out her smoke. “I don’t get the idea Clay Creighton is the
kind of man who easily gives up on things he really, really wants. And he seems
to really, really want you.”

* * *

On a glorious Saturday morning,
Lara sat with a cup of strong coffee on her postage-stamp-size back porch
wearing an oversize T-shirt and men’s boxers that served as her pajamas. She
rested her laptop on her knees and revisited the history of The Rotation. Since
it began sixteen years earlier, The Rotation had had thirty-eight members. The
average time it took to cycle through was fifteen months, though a woman named
Virginia Warren lasted only six weeks. The website gave no hint as to why the
woman with the pointy, little chin, smiling innocently from behind a tangle of
lemony curls, left so soon.