Read an Excerpt
Let's Misbehave
By Lisa Plumley ZEBRA BOOKS
Copyright © 2007 Lisa Plumley
All right reserved. ISBN: 978-0-8217-8052-7
Chapter One
"We're lost."
The announcement roused Marisol Winston from a fitful sleep. It was just as well. She'd been dreaming of Eames chairs and sample sales and minty mojitos, and the last thing she needed after the night she'd just spent was another cocktail. Even an imaginary cocktail. With lots of ice and a hunky bartender and a wallop to make a girl forget everyth ...
Zzzz.
Then: "Yup. We're definitely lost." Ugh. Marisol definitely wasn't prepared for a crisis today. She just wanted to stay in her comfy double bed in her comfy Malibu beach house in her comfy, cushy life until she got her mojo back. She'd been out late again last night, celebrating a mega-successful spree at her favorite boutiques along Third Street and Robertson Boulevard, and the last thing she needed now was a problem. She wasn't even sure she'd stashed all her finds before going out club hopping with Caprice and Tenley. That kind of carelessness meant she was slipping again, falling into that trouble zone where shopping turned into ...
Anyway. Where was she? Something didn't feel quite right.
Blearily, Marisol analyzed her situation. Her ceiling fan must have reached Mach 1, because it felt way too breezy. The light shoved way too rudely against her squeezed-shut eyelids to be coming through her bedroom window in the form of ordinary L.A.sunshine. And despite the fact that she'd snuggled tight against something soft and pillowy, she'd swear the whole place was moving. Yikes. She opened her eyes.
Oh yeah. It all came rushing back to her. She was ensconced in the passenger seat of her all-white Mercedes SL55 AMG roadster, riding with the top down, trying to survive an impromptu mid-May road trip to a distant designer outlet mall with her stepmother.
While hungover. And possibly while carrying ninety-two shopping bags already stowed in the trunk from yesterday.
If Jamie, her stepmother, caught sight of those bags ...
Why had they taken her car?
"We can't be lost." Cautiously, Marisol straightened her sunglasses, needing the refuge of their ultradark lenses but afraid of poking herself in the eye with one sharp Gucci-fied end of them. Italian designers didn't screw around. "This car has a state-of-the-art navigation system, remember?"
She pointed to the techy-looking equipment panel.
"Oh. So that's what that is. Huh. Problem solved, I guess."
Forehead puckered, Jamie scanned the stretch of I-40 ahead. She didn't look reassured at the sight of the stark plateau and scraggly bushes surrounding them, even though she'd occupied the driver's seat since they'd left L.A. two or three or ... who knew how many? ... hours ago on their way to northern Arizona. A (supposedly) fabulous new outlet mall had just opened there, and Jamie loved nothing more than discovering new frontiers.
Together they were the Lewis and Clark of retail. Outlet shopping would be their newest adventure-a novelty for sure.
Jamie shook her head. "I still say this car ought to drive us to the outlets all by itself, considering how much it cost."
"Very funny." Especially coming from a woman dressed highlights-to-pedicure in chic Matthew Williamson originals. Jamie visited Matthew's showroom whenever she jetted to London. "Did you get that one from Dad?"
"No, Marisol. I didn't. But your father isn't the only one who's worried about your-"
"Never mind. Forget I said anything," Marisol interrupted. At the age of thirty-one, she ought to know better than to pick fights she couldn't win. Also, pot? Meet kettle. She was wearing a pretty fab Stella McCartney ensemble herself. "Just wake me when we get within stumbling distance of the Dolce & Gabbana outlet, okay?"
"Okay." A pause. "Hey, are you sure you're up for this?"
"Sure. Maybe I'll pick up a few last-season handbags for my hairstylist and her assistant. They'd like that. Trish is crazy for designer stuff." She yawned. "Also, that would have been a good question to ask before you dragged me out of bed at the crack of eleven this morning. You know noon is my cutoff point."
"I couldn't wait anymore. This trip is important."
"So you said. Which is why I lurched out here with only the couture on my back, ready to brave the wilds of outlet shopping for the first time. With you. I wouldn't go into the discount zone for just anybody, you know. I'm very discriminating."
She was also, at the moment, very windblown. Highway winds whipped her hair around her face, making a wreck of her long brown layers. Marisol dragged them into an impromptu ponytail at her neck, then nestled beneath her cashmere pashmina, a shopping victory from a million seasons ago. She'd gotten twelve more just like it for her friends and one for Jamie too. Sales on gifts were the best. So was this pashmina.
Ahhh. Sleep, wonderful sleep. The only thing better than sleep was sex. And with certain people, even that was debatable.
"Really important." Jamie's voice broke through, earnest and a little ... tense. "I hope you'll remember that later."
"Um, okay." The grateful glance her stepmother threw her in reply made Marisol decidedly uneasy. "I will. I promise."
Jamie nodded, her bejeweled fingers tightening on the steering wheel. The white leather cover squeaked.
"Hey, is something else going on?" Snug in her cashmere cave, curled sideways in her seat, Marisol peered more closely at her stepmother. "You seem upset. Did Dad-"
"I'm fine! Just fine. Too much caffeine from that triple latte, probably." Jamie nodded at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf to-go cup stashed in the holder. "Isn't this exciting though?"
Dubiously, Marisol examined the windswept highway-mostly deserted. The stumpy juniper bushes on the hill ahead-mostly bedraggled. The interior of her car, with its hi-tech doodads, deluxe leather seating, and assortment of road trip supplies-mostly untouched.
They were on their way to an outlet mall in Podunkville, Arizona, and she had yet to see another living soul, much less anyone interesting (aka male). Yeah. Really exciting.
"It's awesome." No point stirring up trouble.
Something was definitely going on with Jamie though. Marisol studied her stepmother next, trying to figure out what.
All she saw was the same wavy blond hair Jamie had always had. The same California-girl salon tan and the same strong, lean arms and torso from lots of yoga. The same combination of openheartedness and realism that no younger woman could have pulled off. Jamie made fifty-five look amazing.
She was too good for Gary Winston.
Probably too good for Marisol too.
Marisol had loved Jamie almost from the moment Jamie had married her father and moved into the Winston mansion. Against all odds, Jamie had always been there for her. It had been Jamie who'd held Marisol's hand while her braces were adjusted. Jamie who'd helped her through her first date (a country club dance), first bra (a swanky couture training-bra number), and first heartache (damn you, Brandon Hollister!).
It had been Jamie who'd comforted her when her mother had married a twenty-four-year-old bullfighter in Madrid (olé!)-leaving her daughter to discover the news via the society column in Harper's Bazaar. It had been Jamie who'd supported Marisol when she'd moved from the family mansion to Malibu six years ago, Jamie who'd coaxed her tightfisted, workaholic father into releasing enough trust fund money to pay for it. It had been Jamie who'd first introduced Marisol to duty-free shopping in Europe-to all the wonders of Italian textiles while (ostensibly) on scouting trips for Home Warehouse, the family's booming chain of home-improvement super centers.
Basically, Marisol decided, she and Jamie had bonded over their shared love of loud music, Cool Ranch Doritos, and Marc Jacobs' grunge collection for Perry Ellis almost fifteen years ago, and they'd never looked back.
Which explained this. The outlet mall trip.
Still in über-chipper mode, Jamie consulted the GPS readout on the Mercedes' instrument panel, then peered down the road. A hand-painted sign marked a junction-probably offering homemade cactus jelly or Kachina dolls or other touristy bargains. A ponderosa pine blocked part of it from view. More pines marched alongside the highway too. Marisol yawned again.
"So how was last night?" Jamie asked. "Did you have fun?"
"Sure. We went to dinner at Koi, then hit a couple of parties in the hills. Tenley met someone. We drank mojitos."
They turned, jolted across a cattle guard-Marisol could tell by the cow on the sign-and continued through the pine trees along a curving blacktop road. The Arizona high country pushed closer. Wow, the Pinetop Prestige Outlets really were remote-practically all the way to the Grand Canyon. Jamie would get the jump on everyone in staking her claim.
"Well, I'm glad you girls enjoyed yourselves." Jamie sighed. "You have to make the most of every moment, you know. There's no telling when the fun will stop."
"For me? Never."
"Still ... you never know." Jamie shot her a serious look. "Someday you might get a job. Discover a calling."
A calling? She meant join the family conglomerate, Marisol knew. Spend the rest of her days helping suburbanites meet their cookie-cutter home-improvement needs. Devising new and thrilling ways to market melamine, polywood, and composite plastics. Toeing the Winston family line that had begun with her entrepreneurial grandfather more than fifty years ago and had ended-for now-with her mega-successful father.
"Ugh." Marisol made a face. She had no interest in becoming a Home Warehouse corporate drone. Her style was more town, less country. More sleek single, less sloppy family. And even though lately she had given some thought to what else she might do with her life besides scour the racks at Fred Segal, date cute boys, and party till dawn-such as open her own chichi home-furnishings boutique someday-she still hadn't quite worked out how to make her dreams happen. Or how to approach her father about financing them. Frankly, he was intimidating. "Not likely. I've never felt a 'calling' to do anything besides have fun."
Jamie frowned.
"I don't remember 'fun' being quite this debilitating though," Marisol added. Another bump. Reminded of her hangover, she groped behind her seat for her purse. "Ouch. Do you have any aspirin? I can't even find my wallet in here."
Not that that was unusual. Marisol was notoriously disorganized. Or as she preferred to think of it, famously unfettered. Thankfully, her stepmother wasn't.
"Take this." One-handed, Jamie produced a bottle of aspirin. Like the inveterate nurturer she was, she carried a whole arsenal of practical items in her Prada tote. "Go ahead and keep the bottle." She gestured. "You might need it later."
"Thanks." Gratefully, Marisol chased three aspirin with a swig of iced coffee, then tossed the leftover pain relievers in her bag. She slumped in her ergonomic leather seat again.
Ahhh. The salesman had been right. This car really did cradle you. Maybe not $150,000-plus worth of cradling, but still. It was nice. And cuddly. And she needed all the cuddly comfort she could get today. Her temples throbbed with a killer headache. Her ears rang. Her tongue felt fuzzy. She'd swear her knees were still wobbly from last night too.
Her knees. Wobbly!
Sheesh, she wasn't that old. She was in her prime! A simple night of ordinary club hopping should not have this effect on a smart, fun, happening woman like her. So what if there was a whole new batch of quasifamous twenty-something socialites cluttering up her favorite nightspots? The editors of W magazine had named Marisol Winston the Hot Heiress of the Moment, hadn't they?
Although come to think of it, that glossy spread had been published almost six years ago now....
Jamie glanced over and tsk-tsked in the motherly way she had, effectively diverting all of Marisol's gloomy thoughts.
"You've got low blood sugar," she diagnosed. "It's affecting your mood. You should've had some turkey jerky, like I said. My nutritionist just started marketing her own brand. Try it." She waggled the snack bag on the sleek console between them, sending up a meaty aroma.
Marisol stared at the bag. Geez. Her own brand? Even Bree "The Terminator" Jones had more ambition than Marisol did.
But hey, so what? She didn't yearn to be the jerky queen of L.A. County. "Please. Stop. Coyotes are following my car now."
"You'll need a new car soon anyway. I know you just bought this one, but-to no one's surprise-it isn't exactly practical." From beneath the last unBotoxed eyebrows in California, Jamie cast her a meaningful look. "I should have come with you. You can't even fit a baby seat into a tiny roadster like this."
Oh God. First the realization that she was an over-the-hill slacker. Now this. Well-meaning lecture number twelve.
Marisol held up her hand to ward off what was coming next. Too late. Her stepmother was off and running. This was her latest obsession, ever since her book-club posse had started bringing pictures of their grandchildren to meetings.
"-no backseat at all," Jamie rattled on cheerfully, "not to mention room for a diaper bag. They have such cute ones now too-with masculine styles made just for daddies, even. You're lucky. Daddies are so much more involved these days than in-"
Marisol groaned. "Please stop calling them 'daddies.'"
"Why? That's what you'll need, you know. A daddy. A man to father your children-"
"Come on! I'm already queasy."
"One good man is all you need," Jamie announced with relish. "One who will slip you the big salami."
"Oh. My. God."
"Okay, fine. I read that last part in my April book-club selection. It was very gritty." Red-faced, Jamie waved her hand. "What I mean is, you just need one man who understands you-who understands why you don't like Sundays and why you do like wrapping paper. Why you don't like to be alone and why you give the best hugs ever. Just for instance. That's all I'm saying."
Awww. Jamie was so wonderful! Momentarily (and despite the salami comment), Marisol felt downright misty. She did want a guy like that. A stand-up guy who wouldn't let her down. A guy who would love her and cherish her and-
Hang on. One measly hangover and she'd gone all schmaltzy? What the heck had been in those mojitos?
She snorted. "As if."
"What are you, thirteen years old again? It's true."
Marisol shook her head. "I've been there, done that. None of those guys were keepers."
"Well, in your heart of hearts, you know there's someone out there for you. All you have to do is find him." Jamie eyed the custom-designed steering wheel dubiously. "Although once you do, I'm not sure you could fit behind this thing while pregnant. It's just too small."
"Stop. Just stop, okay? There's nothing you can say that will change my mind. I'm not the 'kid' type. Just try taking a first-grader to a club. They get carded every time."
"Marisol!"
"Kids don't like spas." Marisol ticked off the drawbacks on her fingers. "Or shopping or sashimi-"
"Admittedly, three of your favorite things. But-"
"-and they're noisy and whiny and grimy." Marisol examined the pristine white leather seat beneath her trendy white skirt. Kids? In her life? No way. It just didn't add up. "Thanks, but no thanks. Even you didn't get suckered into having any babies. You just had me. And I eventually grew up."
"Hmmm. 'Grew up' is debatable."
"Aside from which, giving you grandbabies would put a serious crimp in my madcap lifestyle." No matter how unsatisfying it's become lately. Wait, did she really just think that? Shaking her head, Marisol made her voice sound as stern as possible. "And no more dragging me into Baby Benetton either."
"But those tiny sweaters are so adorable!"
"Enough." Ahead, a welcome diversion caught her eye. As they drove closer, a series of low-slung buildings came into view, with meandering landscaping, au natural colors, and façades of river rock and peeled logs. Très rustic. Maybe too rustic. All the same ... thank God. Especially if their arrival put an end to the babies-and-kids talk. "Look. We're here. Bargain hunting, here we come!"
Excerpted from Let's Misbehave by Lisa Plumley Copyright © 2007 by Lisa Plumley. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
