Friends with Benefits by Melody Mayer

Hotel Bel-Air suite had belonged to supermodel Marym Marshall.

7
    Kiley tried to formulate something really arch and funny, something that would show how easily she could accept his “got together” remark. Then Tom’s truck rounded a curve and the most magnificent landscape spread out before them: Technicolor flowers lit by the setting sun, rocky cliffs on both sides, and a straight shot down to the azure Pacific Ocean in all its frothy majesty.
    â€œAwesome,” Kiley breathed. “It’s just . . . words aren’t big enough.”
    He glanced at her quickly, then back at the road. “I remember what you told me, about Scripps, and how much you love the ocean. Kinda makes whatever insanity you’re going through with Platinum worthwhile, huh?”
    â€œOh yeah.” Kiley drank in the panorama as Tom turned north on the Pacific Coast Highway, which paralleled her beloved ocean. She even turned down the music so that there would be no distraction. For quite a while there was a constant ocean view to their left. Once they reached the Malibu section of the highway, the view disappeared. All she could see was the ugly backs of wall-to-wall oceanfront homes.
    â€œSo how are people supposed to get to the beach?” Kiley asked.
    â€œThey aren’t; that’s the whole point.” Tom nodded toward the homes. “It’s called the Colony—chock-full of the rich and famous. They don’t want to share the beach. Hence, no parking, no paths, no nothing.”
    â€œJust because you own a place on the beach doesn’t mean you own the entire beach,” Kiley protested. She knew she was right because she devoured everything ever written about the ocean. “There are public-access laws. You’re allowed between the high-tide line and the low-tide line.”
    â€œTrue,” Tom agreed. “But big stars aren’t about to let the little people traipse across their property to get there.”
    â€œWell, that—that just sucks.”
    He laughed. “Fear not, O Defender of the Public Right to the Brine. There are some places where homeowners traded better beach access for the right to make their mansions bigger. There’s a good path by David Geffen’s estate—he’s Steven Spielberg’s business partner. I’ll show you sometime. Ah, here we are. Marym’s new place.”
    Tom made a sharp left turn across the PCH and pulled into a broad driveway that featured a valet stand teeming with waiting attendants. The rear of the home facing the PCH was nondescript—two stories, a few windows, nothing special.
    â€œWhere are they going to park your truck?” Kiley wondered.
    â€œSomeplace far away. I bet they’ll run a shuttle van there later.”
    A valet gave Tom a claim ticket and drove away in his truck. Tom took Kiley’s arm and led her down a narrow path on the north side of Marym’s new home. As they rounded the front of it, Kiley saw that ordinary as it had been from the street, it was breathtaking from the beach; all pale wood and twenty-foot windows reflecting the slate path that led to the ocean below. At the tallest point of a center peak was a ten-foot stained-glass angel, wings spread, as if blessing the massive house upon which it flew.
    They reached the front door, where a guy in a weathered leather bomber jacket and baggy jeans admired the sunset as he leaned against the doorframe. Kiley gulped. It was Leonardo DiCaprio. The Leonardo DiCaprio. Wait until she told Nina. She’d probably decide to work for Evelyn Bowers for nothing.
    Tom put a protective arm around Kiley and whispered to her. “Hey.”
    â€œHey, what?”
    â€œHey, you don’t need to feel freaked about being here,” he assured her.
    She made a face. “I thought I was being all cool.”
    He leaned close. “Don’t let it get around, but I’m not cool, either. I’ve just learned how to fake