The truth is, I’m curious, too. Wyatt had recently mentioned to Sylvia at a party that his grandmother is Anika Segel, a Hollywood legend from a powerful Hollywood family. I was surprised, but now I think I should have seen it. I know next to nothing about current Hollywood, but I’m a fan of the classics, and Anika Segel was one of those rare Hollywood beauties.
In other words, Segel is an important name in this town, and yet Wyatt doesn’t trade on that currency at all.
So, yeah. I want to hear the story, too.
Today, however, is not the day.
She exhales loudly. “Fine. Fine. I’ll be good.” The waitress brings our margaritas on the rocks, and she downs half of hers in one gulp. “I’m just looking to nail a juicy Hollywood story. Do you think Jane could get me on-set to interview Lyle Tarpin?”
Jane Sykes is a friend who recently had her book adapted into a movie, and Lyle Tarpin is a former sitcom star turned A-lister who’s starring in it. “One, I don’t think there is a set anymore. I’m pretty sure they’re either editing or completely done. The premiere’s just a few months away. And two, what is up with you? You just landed the weekend anchor job. I thought you loved it. What’s with the scramble to get Hollywood interviews?”
“I do love it,” she says. “But it’s all behind a desk. And it’s local news. Which is fine, but—”
“You want to do the entertainment stuff,” I finish for her. “I get it. Why not just ask Tarpin directly,” I say with a shrug. “He’s coming to Damien’s party. Dallas and Jane are, too.”
“Really? You’d be cool with that? And I can ask Wyatt then, too?”
“Wyatt too, what?” The man himself says as he slips into the booth beside me. “Hello, ladies.”
“Thanks for coming,” I say, and since I’m now thinking of his Hollywood heritage, I can’t help but notice that he has the looks that go with the pedigree. A classic, angular face. Wind-swept golden-brown hair. And the kind of build that fills out a suit quite nicely.
Seriously, the guy could totally have followed in the family footsteps.
“It’s been too long,” I add. Wyatt gives Sylvia and me photography lessons on occasion. He’s an excellent teacher, but we’ve all been so busy lately that we haven’t done a session in months.
“It really has,” he says, reaching for his margarita. “So? Wyatt, too, what?” he says again.
“I’m looking to pump up my cred at work,” Jamie says. “I thought an interview with Anika Segel’s grandson would be just the ticket.”
“Jamie!”
“What? He asked. Twice.”
I glower at her and take a gulp of my drink.
Wyatt laughs. “You know I adore you, Jamie, but no. That’s not a connection I exploit.”
“Oh.” She frowns, obviously flummoxed, and I shove a chip into my mouth to hide my amusement. Jamie is rarely flummoxed.
“But ask me again in a couple of months. I won’t talk about my family, but I may have something else going that you’ll be interested in.”
“Oh! Cool! What?”
But he just laughs.
“You’re a saint,” I tell him. “I would have just kicked her in the shins.”
“He asked,” she repeats, then turns to Wyatt. “She’s afraid if I bug you then you won’t do a favor for her. But what she forgets,” she says, now looking at me, “is that Nikki’s the kind of girl everyone wants to do favors for.”
Wyatt laughs, and I considering sliding under the table and biting Jamie’s ankles. “She has you there,” he says to me. “What’s the favor?”
I take a second, hoping my cheeks will stop burning, then dive in. “First off, I want to invite you to Damien’s surprise party. Second, I don’t suppose you’ve ever done fashion photography?”
“A bit,” he says. “I worked for a couple of years in Milan. But that was a lifetime ago. Why?”
“I was hoping you’d want to do it again? Just for old times’ sake. Actually, that’s not quite right. I was hoping you’d pretend to do it. It’s all part of a scheme to stop a blackmailing rat bastard. And I was kind of hoping you had a contact at one of the magazines.”
For a moment, he looks confused. Then a devious smile plays at the corners of his mouth revealing a set of trademark Segel dimples. “Why the hell not?” he says. “I’m always up for an adventure.”
Chapter Seven
“You’re a card-carrying saint,” Evelyn says. “You know that, right?”
I’m still feeling the margaritas as I sit with Evelyn Dodge on her back balcony watching the moonlight sparkle on the waves crashing on the beach below. It’s the view that introduced me to Los Angeles. And re-introduced me to Damien, and I can’t help but smile as I remember how that party ended up playing out. Me in the backseat of a limo, and Damien’s voice wreaking havoc with my senses. Not to mention my body.
Evelyn chuckles. “I know that expression. You’re thinking of your husband, and my words are just floating away into outer space.”
I flash an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I was just remembering that party you threw to show off Blaine’s artwork.”
“Ah, yes,” she says. “The party that started it all. Well, I can’t fault you for thinking of that night. But I damn sure can’t understand why you want to help that bitch with a stick up her ass.”
“Carmela? She grows on you,” I say.
Evelyn snorts. “Like mold.” That’s why I love Evelyn. She hasn’t the faintest idea how to mince words.
She shifts in her chair, her lips pursed together as if she’s searching for something. “I suppose she’s tolerable, now that I don’t have to see her every goddamn day. That little bitch was quite the prima donna back in the day.” Evelyn was Damien’s sports agent back when he was dating Carmela, so I can only imagine the stories she could tell.
“Oh, I’m sure she still is,” I say, and Evelyn barks a laugh. “But she and I have come to an understanding. She keeps her hands off Damien and I keep my heel out of her ass.” I flash a smile. “It works for us.”
Evelyn snorts. “Now you’re talking.”
“Seriously, though, her manager’s a raging prick. And I want to make sure those pictures of Damien and Jamie don’t ever get released and Bertrand has the fear of god pounded into him. Or at least the fear of Damien and legal and financial demise. Will you help?”
She turns around, looking at a serving cart that sits on the patio behind us. “Of course I’m in.” She sighs. “Damn the boy, he didn’t leave one goddamn ashtray.”
She pulls out a cigarette and lets it hang unlit between her lips. “Blaine’s determined that I give up smoking.”
“I thought you’d already given it up.”
“Well, yes. But not in my own house when he’s not even in the damn country. What exactly do you need me to do?”
It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about the Carmela problem and not about smoking. “Honestly, I just need you to come up to Santa Barbara on Friday. With Charles, too, actually,” I add, referring to Damien’s attorney, who’s also one of Evelyn’s good friends.
Evelyn leans back in her seat. “All right, Texas. Spill. What exactly are you up to? And what the hell do you need me and Charles for?”
“Actually, where Carmela’s concerned, you’re kind of a diversion. I want you in Santa Barbara for Damien’s surprise party. I just don’t want him to know why you’re really there.” I smile, feeling pleased with myself. “So I’m giving you guys a part to play in the Bertrand smackdown. But it’s all part of a double-blind.”
“I always knew you were clever, Texas. And this will keep those pictures of Damien out of the tabloids?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Then you know you can count both me and Charlie in.”
I nod. I know how much she and Charles Maynard did to protect Damien’s reputation back when he was still on the tennis circuit. A hell of a lot more than his father ever did, that’s for sure.
“And Blaine’s invited to t
he party, too, of course,” I add.
She grinds her unlit cigarette into the tabletop as if she were stubbing it out. “Well, you can give his slice of birthday cake to someone else. The boy’s in Asia for the rest of the month.”
“Seriously?”
“He’s the featured artist at one of Beijing’s premier galleries. After the opening he’s going to Shanghai and then Hong Kong and Tokyo.”
“That’s really great for him,” I say.
“He’s kicking ass and taking names, that boy.” She smiles when she says it, but some of the pride I’ve heard before is lacking in her voice. “From what I see, your career’s taking off, too.”
“I’m trying,” I admit. “I’m finishing a proposal right now for a Texas-based corporation with a global presence. It’s the biggest job I’ve gone after.” I think about the ghost of my mother I saw at the Beverly Center, and feel a quick stab of apprehension—and of anger. Because what should be an exciting opportunity is now tainted with dread simply because of my memories of that woman.