Chapter Two

I hunched behind the menu until I heard approaching footsteps and caught sight of Delia’s emerald skirt.

“He’s meeting his sister.” Disappointment dripped from her voice as she resumed her seat. “What’s with the menu? I’m not hungry yet. I’m doing fine with the olives.”

I jerked my thumb toward the door. “It’s her!”

“Who? The bimbo?” Her voice rang out in the quiet room.

My barstool wobbled as I reached out to shush her, and I teetered back and forth. “Del, keep your voice down,” I hissed. “What’s she doing here? Is he with her? Can you see without being obvious?”

She craned her neck toward the door. “I don’t see Rick. She’s with an older guy who’s wearing a toupee and a young blonde babe who’s probably a trophy wife.”

And she would know a trophy wife. Delia proclaimed in college her goal was to marry older, wealthy men. Walter was her third.

“You’re safe,” she said. “They’re going to the patio. How do you know it’s her?”

Warmth rushed to my cheeks, and I put the menu between us as I delivered a hated confession. “I checked Rick’s phone. He had pictures of her, and her name was on top in his contact file—Bobbi. Not only that, but you know how he hates programming things? He had her address listed. She lives in a gated mansion in Bel Air.”

Delia pushed the menu aside to confront me. “You went by her house?”

The memory still disturbed me. “Like a jealous teenager.”

She erupted with a raucous giggle. “Why didn’t you call me to go with you? I love that sort of shit.”

That was why I hadn’t called. I kept hoping to change my mind. I still couldn’t believe I’d stooped low enough to stalk the Bimbo. “Enough. What happened with the silver-haired god?”

Her brows danced up and down above a sly smile. “I gave him your number.”

“What did you tell him? That I’m dumped and desperate? I hope you didn’t give him my real name.” Giving false names to guys was one of the first tricks we’d played together in school.

Delia rolled her eyes. “He knew who you were, of course. He wants to meet you. His name is Miles S. Brookings.”

The name was vaguely familiar.

She leaned toward me. “As in Miles Standish Brookings?”

“Like the pilgrim? You’re lining me up with pilgrims?”

She flicked her hand at me. “Dummy! Pilgrim Development. Surely you’ve seen that name plastered on building sites from here to Riverside. His name constantly pops up in the society columns. He’s between wives so maybe he’ll call.”

“Whatever.” I slapped back at her and my hand hit my drink, tipping it over. The glass shattered as it hit the bar, and the sound reverberated like the crack of a rifle shot. Cold liquor splashed me.

“Oh, shit!” As I jerked away, I wobbled and the olive rolled toward me. I stabbed at it to keep it from falling and toppled off the stool. Somehow I managed to land on my feet, but the vision of me tottering on my stiletto sandals to save the damned olive was so ludicrous, I burst into giggles. The olive bounced harmlessly to the floor and Delia joined in until our wild laughter echoed through the bar.

Good thing the group had gone outside. I didn’t know if the girl knew me, but it would be quite a story to tell Rick about the drunk and disorderly Ex.

“Are you all right, Miss delaGarza?” Toby rushed to our aid, concern etched on his face. He handed me a wad of napkins and began cleaning up the broken glass.

“My olive attacked me,” I said, setting off another round of hysterical laughter.

Using her cocktail napkin, Delia picked up the stem of my broken glass—a wicked looking object with a sharp point at one end. “May I keep this? I might be able to use it.”

Toby flicked her a look of uncertainty but didn’t protest. Delia wrapped it in a napkin and stuffed it into her purse.

Soaked with gin, I excused myself. “Order me a fresh drink and watch for Rick. I don’t want to run into him.”

Delia pointed a finger at me, similar to aiming a pistol. “I’ll shoot the sucker on sight.”

****

Walking into the cool quiet of the restroom was like entering church. I paused, letting silence envelop me, fighting to clear my fuzzy head. Of all the places with trappings of wealth that I frequented, bathrooms in upscale restaurants never failed to amaze me. Marble walls and floors. Stalls with wood-shuttered doors. Vases filled with fresh flowers on the vanity beside piles of cloth towels and baskets of toiletries and hair sprays. A hair dryer was hooked into one edge of the basket. Did people use this stuff?

Water pooled at the edge of one of the marble sinks. Making a face, I reached over and plucked a towel from the basket and wiped it. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. For an instant I wasn’t the number one anchor in the number two television market in the country, wearing Chanel casual wear. I was young Kimmie D, in faded jeans and sneakers, scrubbing toilets in fancy restaurants to earn money to get through college.

With a shake of my head, Kimmie D vanished and I stopped wiping. I focused on cleaning the liquor off my knit shell with a damp cloth. Behind me, movement caught my eye. The woman from the Bimbo’s group stepped through the door. Beyond her, Rick’s young fiancée came into view. Bobbi. From her wild blonde hair to the blue eye shadow to the pink-and-green extra-tight, extra-short dress to her bright extra-high yellow stiletto sandals she resembled a real-life Barbie doll.

She drew back when she saw me. For an instant we stood frozen like a snapshot. The girl moved first, tossing back her head, like a defiant rearing horse. Her blonde mane flew in all directions before settling back around her narrow skull. She stepped into one of the stalls and closed the wooden door.

I stood my ground. I wasn’t going to let these two chase me out. I focused on drying my top with a soft towel.

Bobbi’s petite friend approached the vanity. She was in her mid-thirties, with a pixie haircut and gold hoop earrings that were too large for her small face. Her tanned face looked untouched by makeup, except a hint of blue eye shadow. She wore a sleeveless white cotton blouse with beige trim that showed off small, freckled shoulders. Matching capris clung to short, muscular legs. I’d seen the outfit at Neiman’s carrying a two-thousand-dollar price tag. Thick gold and gem-studded jewelry dripped from her wrists and fingers. Delia was wrong. This woman was no trophy wife. She’d been born to money and wore it like a gilded cloak. Pixie and Barbie were pure California thoroughbreds.

The woman nodded at me with a nasty thin-lipped smile. “Looks like you’re having a good time.”

My anchor smile came forth, though my lips were numb. I was tempted to tell the joke about being attacked by my olive, but instead I turned to gather my purse from the counter. It hung open and a lipstick tube spilled out. I reached for it but my visual acuity had grown impaired and I missed.

The woman caught it as it rolled off the counter. With a throaty laugh, she handed back the golden tube. “Had a few too many?”

“I’m fine,” I lied. I took the lipstick and turned to the mirror to prove it. The hazel eyes that stared back looked glazed and the high cheekbones Delia admired were flushed. For a moment I feared the woman could see through my perfectly made-up face to the unwaxed brows of Kimmie D.

I took my time reapplying lipstick and powdering my nose in deliberate motions. I wasn’t Kimmie. I was the Queen of L.A. TV.

Ask Toby.

The door flew open, revealing Delia. She looked from me to the Pixie, sizing up the woman like a rival gunfighter.

Here it was. Showdown in the Geneva John.

Delia, whom I considered the Doc Holliday of bathroom brawls, fired first.

“I hate women who go to the bathroom in pairs, but I couldn’t wait any longer.” She took cover behind the door of a stall, leaving me on the open battlefield armed only with my lipstick.

Pixie fussed with her hair, ignoring me, but she shot back, aiming her voice toward the Bimbo’s stall. “Bobbi, is the wedding announcement in this week’s paper or the next?”

Aha! Aiming at the heart. I ignored her to let her know she’d missed her intended target.

“Next week, I think.” Bobbi the Bimbo’s voice was small, an uncertain potshot.

“I’m so pleased Rick talked you into registering at David Orgell. It is the place for brides.” The Pixie was determined to wound. She faced me point blank. “Don’t you agree?”

The Beverly Hills jewelry store with its array of china and silver, plus an exquisite jewelry collection, was one of Rick’s favorite places. My gaze fell on the platinum diamond-studded bracelet on my wrist and the diamond and sapphire ring on my right hand.

Wait. I had weapons and some pretty damn lethal ammo. I held up my hand to let the light catch the glitter of diamonds, like an explosion from a firing gun. “Absolutely. My old boyfriend bought both of these there.”

A barrage of dual flushing drowned the Pixie’s response, but she appraised my jewelry with glittering eyes. She knew who the boyfriend was.

Direct hit.

Delia’s grin was pure malice as she stepped from her stall and discharged a rapid-fire round. “Didn’t you tell me he bought you something there last week?”

“This?” I touched the delicate pendant at my throat in reflex. All eyes traveled there. It was like dropping a cache of dynamite. We all knew who bought it and Delia’s words made it clear he’d given it to me since becoming engaged.

The Pixie’s catty smile froze, and her tanned face blanched as Bobbi stepped out of her stall. The girl’s wide eyes rested on the diamond pendant. The confident confection who’d tossed her blonde hair vanished. She crossed her arms and hugged herself, as though taking a direct hit to the mid-section. Her eyes wore a wounded look that penetrated my insides worse than a bullet.

What was I doing? This kid had probably never done battle like this. Delia and I were old hands at bathroom shootouts. This was Billy the Kid facing a farm boy experimenting with his first set of pistols.

I closed my purse and marched out of the restroom without waiting for Delia to go in for the kill.

She stomped out behind me. “Damn bitches! Maybe we should bomb the wedding and wipe them all out.”

Del believed in big-time revenge, having once spray-painted a lover’s Rolls Royce. She’d destroyed another boyfriend’s marriage out of spite and socially demolished her first husband’s ex-wife. Vengeance soothed her, but I didn’t have the stomach for issuing pain, despite my loud proclamations against Rick. I’d wounded that girl but I felt like I was the one bleeding as I struggled to walk a straight line back to the bar.