Olivia Goldsmith - Bad Boy

OLIVIA GOLDSMITH

BAD BOY

To Nunzio Nappi As long as I can sit in the front seat

Cover

Title Page OLIVIA GOLDSMITH BAD BOY

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Olivia Goldsmith

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

The sky was the same gray-white as the skim milk Tracie poured into her coffee. But that was what she loved about Seattle. It definitely wasn’t Encino, where the sky was always a glorious blue, as empty of clouds as her house had been empty of people. As an only child with parents in “The Industry,” Tracie had spent too many hours staring at that sky. No more empty blue for her. It made her feel as if she should be happy when she wasn’t. Here in Seattle, any happiness against the overcast arc above seemed a reward.

Before Tracie had come here to college, she’d considered East Coast schools, but she wasn’t brave enough for them. She’d read about Dorothy Parker, Sylvia Plath, and the Seven Sisters. Uh-uh. She knew, though, that she wanted out of California and far enough away from home that weekend visits wouldn’t be possible. Unlike the heroine in a fairy tale, she couldn’t say that her stepmother was wicked. Just passive-aggressive. So she’d picked the University of Washington, and the bonus had been that, aside from a pretty good journalism school, she’d made good friends, gotten a decent job, and fallen in love with Seattle. Not to mention that when the music scene got hot, she’d found a string of drop-dead-sexy guys. Of course, Tracie admitted to herself as she took her first sip of morning caffeine, Seattle was famous for its bad boys, good coffee, and Micro Millionaires. And, staring up at the cloud-filled sky, Tracie Leigh Higgins considered herself an aficionado on all three.

Sometimes, though, she thought she had them in the wrong positions: Maybe she ought to quit the bad boys completely, cut back on the coffee, and start dating the Micro Millionaires. Instead, she got serious with bad boys, guzzled lattes, and only interviewed and wrote about Micro Millionaires.

Tracie looked up at the sky once more. Her boyfriend, Phil, was giving her problems again. Maybe I should quit coffee, date the Micro and Gotonet guys, and write novels about the bad boys, she thought, and considered the idea as she stirred a little skim milk into her brew. She considered one of the chocolate and yellow-cake muffins, but then she scolded herself because they were addictive and she was off them for good. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Tracie realized it was either the thought of giving up Phil or writing a book that made her so upset she craved comfort. Did she have the courage to quit her day job to write books? And what did she have to write about? Too embarrassing to write about her ex-boyfriends, she decided. Tracie loved the quiet time she spent each morning reading out-of-town papers and staring out the coffeehouse window, but she’d be late if she didn’t get moving. She had another Nettie profile to write. Boring.

She took another sip from the cup and glanced at her watch. Wait. Maybe I should quit bad boys and write about coffee … It was all too confusing this early in the morning. She was a night person. She couldn’t sort out life issues this early in the day. She’d wait until next New Year’s to make some resolutions. Today, she had a deadline. She had to finish the article about one more Seattle Techno Wunderkind.

Then she’d see Phil.

Tracie tingled at the last part of her thought and picked up the coffee, which was now an almost-undrinkable temperature. She took a last gulp anyway and wondered if she could leave work early to get her hair done before seeing Phil.

She pulled out a Post-it notepad and wrote, “Call Stefan for a c,w & bd,” then gathered her purse and backpack and walked to the door.

But as Tracie walked down the Times hallway, she was stopped by Beth Conte, eye-roller extraordinaire. “Marcus has been looking for you,” Beth hissed. Even though Tracie knew Beth was a drama queen, her stomach took a little dive, and the coffee in it didn’t like the plunge. The two of them kept walking toward Tracie’s cubicle. “He’s on the warpath,” Beth added unnecessarily.

“Is that term politically correct?” Tracie asked Beth. “Or would it be considered a slur on Native Americans?”

“Putting Marcus in any ethnic group would be a slur on them. What is he, anyway?” Beth asked her as the two of them hurried along the corridor. “He’s not Italian-American. I know that,” she added, putting up her hands as if to defend her own ethnic background.

“He sprang from Zeus’s forehead,” Tracie conjectured as they turned the last corner and entered her cubicle at last.

“‘Zeus’s forehead’?” Beth echoed. “Is Marcus Greek? What are you talking about?”

Tracie took off her raincoat, hung it on the hook, and stowed her purse under the desk. “You know, like Diana. Or was it Athena?”

“Princess Diana?” Beth asked, wrong and one beat behind, as usual.

This was what happened if you talked Greek mythology with Beth before 10:00 A.M. (or after 10:00 A.M.). Tracie took her sneakers off, threw them under her desk, and rooted around for her office shoes. She was about to explain her joke when the doorway to her cubicle was darkened by Marcus Stromberg’s bulky form. Tracie pulled her head out from under her desk and hoped he hadn’t had more than a few seconds look at her butt. She pushed her feet into her pumps. Facing Marcus barefoot was more than she could bear.

“Well, thanks for the lead,” Beth squeaked, and slipped out of the cubicle.

Tracie gave Marcus her best I-graduated-cum-laude smile and sat down as coolly as she could. She refused to be cowed by Marcus. He wasn’t so tough. He was a much smaller bully than all the men that her dad worked with back in L.A. He wasn’t even as big a bully as her father. Just because Marcus had hoped one day to be Woodward or Bernstein and had wound up only being Stromberg was no fault of hers.

“How kind of you to drop in,” Marcus said, looking down at his wristwatch. “I hope it didn’t interfere with your social schedule.”

Marcus had a habit of acting as if she considered herself some kind of debutante. “You’ll have the profile by four,” Tracie told him calmly. “I told you that yesterday.”

“So I recall. But as it happens, I also need you to do a feature today.”