Impossibly Tongue-Tied (5 page)

“Excuse me, do you have something called ‘teff'?”

The girl working the concierge desk in Tommaso's glanced up reluctantly. Seeing her straight on like that, Sam suddenly realized that she had been crying, which made him doubly embarrassed for having asked for something that sounded so ridiculous in the first place.

Although she might have been as old as twenty-two, she was such a
waif
that he found it hard to call her a woman. This allusion held up even further because she was also short, what you'd call petite—particularly here in L.A., the land of the stringbean-lean Amazons who came from the world over, modeling portfolios in hand, with their dreams of wooing the Eyemo as successfully as they had the Leica. She also had a beauty mark on her cheek (a
real
one, not some temporary L.A. Fashion Week paste-on mole) and straight, short dark hair with bangs long enough to graze her large, tear-smudged, doe brown eyes.

Seeing that he felt so guilty for actually bothering her, she did something that only the best actresses in a town full of actresses had the skill to do:
completely transform herself.

With just a smile.

As if she didn't have a worry in the world, and only his needs were front and center on her mind.

As if she'd never been crying at all.

The metamorphosis was instantaneous. It was phenomenal.

Most certainly it was totally disconcerting, considering that, just moments before, he'd watched two perfect tears roll, in parallel paths, down the girl's face and onto her crisply ironed baby blue regulation BH Tommaso apron.

And it was certainly too early in the morning to be smitten by waifs.

Dammit, if only Chastity had lived up to her name
just once.

“Teff,” the waif repeated, and within a nanosecond, added efficiently, “Aisle twelve.”

Still mesmerized, he looked off in the direction in which she'd pointed. “You said aisle…what again?” The damn place was an epicurean labyrinth. But he wasn't some Beverly Hills trophy wife with time on his hands to peruse the shelves' inviting larder. He needed to get back to the
real
world, and fast.

And listen to QT blather on about something he wanted to do, in Mandarin.

Not the blather, the
project
.

“Twelve. Here, let me show you, Mr. Godwin.”

Following her lead, he tried hard not to stare at her cute rounded behind, which was clad in Tommaso's snug-fitting regulation khaki jeans. She was certainly a knockout in a town
of knockouts. So what was she doing
here
? She was too good to be standing behind a gourmet grocery store's cash register, in tears over some terrible slight.

More than likely it had to do with some boyfriend.

The bastard.

She stopped short so unexpectedly that he practically tripped over her—how he wished he had!—as she pointed to a wall of bins filled with bulk grains.

“How much would you like?” Waif tore a plastic bag from a roll. Then she took a dipper and scooped up some tiny purplish brown pellets out of some bin.

He looked down on what she was showing him.

He didn't get it. “Teff—is
this crap?
”

I can't believe that this is what Chastity is making such a big deal over. Damn, I
do
need to dump that girl…

Waif laughed. It was a sweet, husky chuckle that aroused him in a way he hadn't felt since, well, since the first time he'd seen Chastity contort herself into a
pada hastasana.

Or since he'd heard O, on the CD.

True lust.

“It's Ethiopian. Very high in calcium. And phosphorus. In fact, 150 pellets weigh as much as a single grain of wheat. Talk about taking in your bulk at warp speed.” She spoke reverently, like a docent at the Getty rhapsodizing over Boudon's bust of Marie-Sébastien-Charles-François Fontaine de Biré.

He, too, could have rhapsodized over a bust: hers, which was certainly healthy and somewhat perky—not that he wanted to stare at it, but that was necessary in order for him to read her shiny gold name tag:

Nina.

Muy apropiado.

She smiled up at him again, gloriously.

Is she flirting with me?

Alas, that fantasy was shelved, at least for a moment, when she queried, “A pound maybe?”

“Huh?”
Suddenly he realized that she was asking him how much “bulk” he thought he needed. He could feel his ears getting hot.

Christ, she probably thinks I'm constipated or something!
He groaned inwardly.

“Oh, um,
nah
! Not
that
much…say, um…a cup?” He gave a small laugh. “It's not even for me…It's for, uh, a friend.”

She nodded sympathetically (which he interpreted to mean, “They
all
say that”), scooped, weighed, and clipped his teff stash.

Just then, the thought hit him:
Damn, does Chastity plan on us rolling and smoking this shit?

“Here you go, Mr. Godwin. Come on back with me and I'll ring you right up. I'm sure you've got better places to be.”

She handed it to him and, for a brief moment, their hands touched.

He felt a hot pulse run up his spine. His heart was racing like a Harley going down Topanga Canyon at full throttle. Hell, in his world, he was surrounded by the most beautiful women on Earth—
even Katerina McPherson
—and he'd never had
this
kind of reaction before!

He wanted to say something to her—
anything
—but all he could do was mutter “Thanks—
Nina.
” Well, at least she'd see
that he'd taken special note of her name, you know, that he was a friendly guy.

Suddenly it dawned on him that she, too, had called him by
his
name.

Twice.

And
he
wasn't wearing any name tag.

So, who was she? Had he met her at some club? Or at some party?

More than likely she'd tried and failed to get past his assistant, Riley McNaught, to beg Sam to rep her.

Maybe she was pissed off about that, and now she was stalking him.

Would a woman do something like that? Stalk an
agent
who had scorned her?

Sure, if she were desperate enough, he reasoned.

And in Hollywood, every woman was desperate about
something.

He stared at the back of her head as they made their way to her desk. Not once did she glance back, but glided as serenely as a princess until she was safely behind her counter again, where she tapped two register keys and murmured, “That will be $12.54.”

Jeez, for just a cup of this stuff? What, is it gold-plated?

Still, he handed over a twenty-dollar bill. When she handed back his change, he felt the same charge run through him as the first time they touched.

She must have felt something, too, because she moved her hand away from his—far away, in fact, putting it under the counter.

He couldn't stand it anymore. Even if she wasn't going to say anything, he had to.

“So, Nina, I've got to ask: Have we met somewhere?”

“No, not at all, Mr. Godwin.”

He had a hard time hiding his relief, but she didn't seem to notice.

“Then—then how did you know who I was?”

She blushed a deep scarlet, but this time her eyes did not turn away. “Well, you see, I read a lot of industry trade magazines.
Hollywood Reporter. Variety.
And Defamer.com, you know, online—”

He winced at that.

“—and I've seen your picture many times. And I know you represent—well, just about
everyone
who's important—and, well…I was just wondering—”

Ha! There it was, he thought. She was looking for a break after all.

And, hell yeah, he was going to give it to her. (
Come to Papa, come to Papa
…)

“Sure, Nina.” He gave her his patented Sam Godwin eat-you-up-with-a-spoon grin. “Heck, you were my angel just now. So name it. What can I do for
you?
”

“I was just wondering—” Her hand came out from underneath the counter. In it was a DVD and a head shot. He smiled knowingly, expectantly.

“—if you wouldn't mind taking a look at my husband's reel.”

Her
husband's
reel.

“You—have a husband? But…just how old
are
you?”

Her smile faded just a bit. He wasn't sure, but he could have
sworn that those big beautiful brown eyes had clouded up again, just for a second.

Yep, there it was:
desperation.

But for once in Sam's life, watching the person he was dealing with become desperate—watching
Nina's
desperation—wasn't such great sport.

No, he couldn't stand the thought of her being hurt at all.

“Twenty-four…” Her voice trailed off, as if it were a death sentence.

In Hollywood, it practically was.

Her eyes sought his, as if seeking his approval for being over twenty-one.

Legal, as it were.

Hell yeah.
Thank God
Nina was legal.

Down, tiger. She's also married. Remember?

The whole thing was so bizarre: his falling hard for some little cashier; she being a mere baby—and a married babe at that!

He looked down at the DVD. Sure, he'd watch it.

Hey, how bad could it be?

He took it out of her hand and got stung again by the ice-cold heat of her touch.

It's already bad enough, guy. She has a husband, remember?

As he watched the relief flow back into her face, and that angelic smile grace her lips once more on his behalf, he was convinced that his initial instincts were right:

That whoever the bastard was, he didn't deserve her.

It wasn't until Sam was halfway down Sunset that he realized he'd left the teff on the counter.

 

“
Ooooh,
I want
you!
”

Sam looked up to find Katerina McPherson—the most recent victor of
GQ
's “Every Man's Wet Dream” contest—standing in his doorway and salivating over what he was watching on his video monitor:

Nathan Harte's reel.

Because Uma was in town, Quentin had skedaddled on time, leaving Sam with a few minutes to peruse the tape prior to Katerina's traffic-stopping, fashionably late appearance in ICA's offices. Looking at her now, he understood very well that it wasn't just Katerina's long, tousled tendrils that flowed down to the small of her back almost to her well-toned, sky-high ass, or the long, come-hither lashes over those deep-set aquamarine eyes, or those exquisitely chiseled cheekbones that put a rocket in the average Joe's pocket. Nor was it just the way in which her 37CC breasts were miraculously cantilevered, like the headlights on a vintage Jeep CJ-6, over that diminutive waist of hers.

Nope, it was none of that.

It was, however, the look on her face right now, that very moment, that bespoke the hidden desire of any man who saw it and eagerly read its openly blatant meaning:

“I could eat you up alive…and you'd love every moment of it.”

What was making her lick her collagen-plumped lips at that very moment was the tall, blond, and incredibly handsome Nathan Harte—all six-foot-two inches of him: broad chest, washboard abs, dimpled chin, curly locks—caught in a close-up as he emoted soulfully on a poorly lit set to a fidgety Betacam.

Which made Sam think: Imagine how millions of women would react to him in a film made by a
real
director, with a
real
script, and with a
real
budget!

Obviously he'd read Katerina's mind. Hovering so close to him that he almost choked on her signature fragrance (
Forbidden, by Kat,
of course), Hollywood's current princess said the one thing she needed to say to make it clear to Sam that her newest obsession—Nathan—should be his as well:

“He'd be just
perfect
for my project with Hugo, don't you think?”

Why, of course he did, Sam assured her. It was almost as if she'd read
his
mind. However, it was still Hugo's final decision, remember? And already Hugo had put out feelers to Russell and George and Brad and Matt, all of whom were
chomping at the bit
to costar opposite her—

Kat pursed her lips into that patented petulant pout that had been described by
Esquire
as “an instant erector set for big boys” and murmured, “But Hugo
will
do this for me, right? I mean, for the sake of the movie…”

To infer helplessness (an endeavor truly worthy of an Oscar if the woman deemed the most ruthless in Hollywood could pull it off), Kat let a glossy, Shu Uemura–coated nail meander from the collar of Sam's shirt to a point just above his nipple. Stopping there, she licked her upper lip and added, “Just think of the fun we could all have on
that
set…”

“Katerina, I think it's only fair to warn you that Nathan Harte is happily married—”

Poking him hard with her talon, she laughed demurely. “Sam, you're such a
cute prude!
This is Hollywood, remember? Where marriage is an illusion.”

She had a point there.

Turning back to the monitor, he suddenly felt sorry for Nina.

Even more so, he felt sorry for Nathan.

Still, he'd call the kid first thing in the morning to give him the good news: He was going to be represented by Sam Godwin, and he was going to star in Katerina McPherson's next movie.

 

Sam Godwin's stucco beach cottage sat kitty-corner on the Pacific Coast Highway, where it intersected Sea Lane Drive. Because this was the four-lane highway's closest point to Malibu beach, it afforded the cottage some highly coveted frontage on this dream-laden stretch of sand. A solid wood door, surrounded by a high stucco gate, hid the house itself from view.