out he was going to the gift shop too. “This hotel is beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked, as if she hadn’t just made a total ass out of herself.
Brilliant conversationalist that she was, she nodded.
“And the food. Killer.”
She nodded again.
“Do you work out?” Tom asked, as if he and Kiley had been carrying on a friendly little chat. “Because they’ll give you a free pass to the Century Club in Beverly Hills.”
“I don’t do gyms,” Kiley said. “I swim.”
“Hey, in my book, that’s working out.”
Right. Of course it was. She sounded like an imbecile.
“You know, I can show you the indoor pool, if you like,” Tom offered. “The outdoor one is kind of overrun with ‘check me out’ types. But if you want—”
“Oops. I . . . just remembered. I left something back in my suite.” Kiley turned and fled. She didn’t stop until she was safely back inside suite 401, where her mom was sprawled on the couch watching Good Day L.A. Kiley recognized one of the hosts from a syndicated TV dating show.
“That didn’t take long,” her mother commented.
“I changed my mind.”
“Okay, sweetie.”
“Right.”
Kiley went into her bedroom and closed the door. She was met by an antique mirror over her dresser; she couldn’t help but study her reflection. Reddish brown hair caught up in a ponytail. Average height, average weight, average, average, average. Maybe she looked cute when she wore Heather the slut’s clothes and piled on the makeup. But that wasn’t the real her.
Still, she couldn’t help it. She leaned toward her reflection and tried out some of the dialogue she’d heard through the wall the night before.
“Ohhhh. Oh, yes.”
God. She felt like an idiot and she looked like an idiot. But she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to have a boy carry her away to the place he’d taken that girl last night. A boy, say, like Tom.
9
Thwack.
“Stretch at top of serve, Oksana!” Anya yelled. “Stretch at top!”
Lydia lay on a chaise longue clad in a bikini the size of three postage stamps. She had a Stoli 007 in hand—the moms, as she had come to think of her aunt Kat and her spouse, Anya, had a very European attitude toward drinking, which was just fine with Lydia. At the moment, she lay twenty feet from an aquamarine swimming pool shaped like a tennis racquet. A hundred feet beyond that was the tennis court where Anya was coaching seventeen-year-old Oksana Kharlamova, currently seeded sixty-first in the world. Both Russian natives were so used to speaking English that they were conducting the lesson in their adopted tongue.
Lydia stretched and practically purred with satisfaction. Though she’d been back in the USA for a mere twenty-four hours, her eight and a half years in the rain forest already seemed like a bad dream. Oh sure, the airplane’s approach to LAX had been surreal—instead of thrilling her, the city sprawl from the ocean to the eastern horizon had given Lydia the willies. But Kat had met her plane and there was no reason to battle baggage claim, since all Lydia’s worldly possessions fit neatly into the threadbare backpack she’d carried on board.
After getting caught up on the family gossip, and telling Kat a bit about her life in the Amazon, Lydia had fallen asleep on the ride home. Kat hadn’t awakened her until they were in the driveway of her home in Beverly Hills; Lydia had stepped from the limo to find herself in front of a boxy white stucco mansion. It featured four massive pillars playing sentry to elegant gold-inlaid double front doors.
This was Kat and Anya’s home. Now,
her
home.
Immediately, she was shown to the guesthouse where she’d be living, a cozy one-bedroom place just steps from the back door of the main mansion. Kat offered food, but all Lydia wanted was more sleep. She fell out instantly, on a king-sized oak bed with a lavender silk canopy.
Six hours later, she awakened, ravenous.
She went to the main house to
Brilliant conversationalist that she was, she nodded.
“And the food. Killer.”
She nodded again.
“Do you work out?” Tom asked, as if he and Kiley had been carrying on a friendly little chat. “Because they’ll give you a free pass to the Century Club in Beverly Hills.”
“I don’t do gyms,” Kiley said. “I swim.”
“Hey, in my book, that’s working out.”
Right. Of course it was. She sounded like an imbecile.
“You know, I can show you the indoor pool, if you like,” Tom offered. “The outdoor one is kind of overrun with ‘check me out’ types. But if you want—”
“Oops. I . . . just remembered. I left something back in my suite.” Kiley turned and fled. She didn’t stop until she was safely back inside suite 401, where her mom was sprawled on the couch watching Good Day L.A. Kiley recognized one of the hosts from a syndicated TV dating show.
“That didn’t take long,” her mother commented.
“I changed my mind.”
“Okay, sweetie.”
“Right.”
Kiley went into her bedroom and closed the door. She was met by an antique mirror over her dresser; she couldn’t help but study her reflection. Reddish brown hair caught up in a ponytail. Average height, average weight, average, average, average. Maybe she looked cute when she wore Heather the slut’s clothes and piled on the makeup. But that wasn’t the real her.
Still, she couldn’t help it. She leaned toward her reflection and tried out some of the dialogue she’d heard through the wall the night before.
“Ohhhh. Oh, yes.”
God. She felt like an idiot and she looked like an idiot. But she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to have a boy carry her away to the place he’d taken that girl last night. A boy, say, like Tom.
9
Thwack.
“Stretch at top of serve, Oksana!” Anya yelled. “Stretch at top!”
Lydia lay on a chaise longue clad in a bikini the size of three postage stamps. She had a Stoli 007 in hand—the moms, as she had come to think of her aunt Kat and her spouse, Anya, had a very European attitude toward drinking, which was just fine with Lydia. At the moment, she lay twenty feet from an aquamarine swimming pool shaped like a tennis racquet. A hundred feet beyond that was the tennis court where Anya was coaching seventeen-year-old Oksana Kharlamova, currently seeded sixty-first in the world. Both Russian natives were so used to speaking English that they were conducting the lesson in their adopted tongue.
Lydia stretched and practically purred with satisfaction. Though she’d been back in the USA for a mere twenty-four hours, her eight and a half years in the rain forest already seemed like a bad dream. Oh sure, the airplane’s approach to LAX had been surreal—instead of thrilling her, the city sprawl from the ocean to the eastern horizon had given Lydia the willies. But Kat had met her plane and there was no reason to battle baggage claim, since all Lydia’s worldly possessions fit neatly into the threadbare backpack she’d carried on board.
After getting caught up on the family gossip, and telling Kat a bit about her life in the Amazon, Lydia had fallen asleep on the ride home. Kat hadn’t awakened her until they were in the driveway of her home in Beverly Hills; Lydia had stepped from the limo to find herself in front of a boxy white stucco mansion. It featured four massive pillars playing sentry to elegant gold-inlaid double front doors.
This was Kat and Anya’s home. Now,
her
home.
Immediately, she was shown to the guesthouse where she’d be living, a cozy one-bedroom place just steps from the back door of the main mansion. Kat offered food, but all Lydia wanted was more sleep. She fell out instantly, on a king-sized oak bed with a lavender silk canopy.
Six hours later, she awakened, ravenous.
She went to the main house to
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