Kari had given me strict instructions to either smile at or ignore anyone with a camera. "Don't scowl,” Kari said. “Magazines love to use scowling pictures when they run horrible headlines about you."

So I smiled and told myself I was not allowed to rip the cameras out of their hands and clang them together like cymbals. While the shutters went off, one man asked, "Are the two of you dating?"

Yes, well, that would make an interesting story, wouldn't it? Maren was going to kill me. Kari was going to kill me even worse.

Grant shook his head like it was a foolish question. "Nope. We’re just talking about doing a duet and donating the proceeds to Sun Ridge Children’s Hospital. That's spelled: S-U-N R-I-D-G-E. It's going to be great, and we really appreciate your support in getting the word out to our fans.”

Grant took hold of my arm then, probably because I stood frozen to the spot, hands gripped at my side. He towed me the rest of the way across the parking lot to his Jaguar.

Once we were both sitting inside and I’d stopped hyperventilating enough to speak, I said, "We’re doing a duet? Where did that come from?”

He turned on the ignition and pulled out of the parking space. "You obviously still have a lot to learn about the paparazzi. The best chance you have of getting reporters not to use your story is if you tell them you want them to run it. They don’t care about helping you advertise your latest cause. Everybody has one of those. They want something scandalous.” He looked back over his shoulder to where the photographers were climbing in their cars. "My manager let all the news outlets know about the Sun Ridge fundraiser, and a total of one newspaper put a three-inch picture and write-up in the entertainment section. That was it.”

"Oh,” I said, and felt a little more relieved. Maybe those pictures wouldn’t show up anywhere.

Grant eased the car out of the parking lot and onto the street. "Of course that doesn’t mean we shouldn't do a duet. Actually, that's a brilliant idea.” He took his eyes off the road to look at me. "You want to help those kids, and this time it wouldn’t cost you anything but a little time. We could use my band. What do you think?”

I thought I had made a really big tactical mistake. I couldn't sing a duet with him. My singing voice sounded nothing like Kari’s. She could hit notes I couldn’t even swat at. "I’m already behind schedule on my next album,” I said.

He turned his attention back to the road. "It doesn't have to be soon, just sometime. Think about it. Keep your eyes open for songs that would work, and I’ll do the same, okay?"

What could I say to that? I couldn't think of a way to turn him down without sounding like I was hiding something.

"I’ll talk to my manager about it,” I said.

He said other things on the way to Maren's, but I hardly heard them. My mind was still stuck on the whole duet business. How in the world was I going to mention all of that plus the paparazzi pictures to Maren and Kari? Would they fire me right off? That's what Kari had done when Lorna had put her in an awkward situation. Was there any way I could keep it from them until May 13, when I met my father? It was still almost a month and a half away.

When we pulled up to Maren’s town house, I was still running these sorts of mental calculations. Grant put the car in park but didn’t turn it off. "Can I ask you a question?”

I grasped the door handle. "Sure."

"Are you still an item with Michael Jung?”

"No," I said, then I realized what he was really asking—he was about to ask me out, and I couldn’t say yes, even though I would have loved to see him again. It was too dangerous. "I mean, we’re taking a break, but we're still together.”

"You're taking a break?" he asked.

"Yes."

"So are you allowed to see other people during your break?”

"Um, no.” As soon as I said this I remembered Grant had seen me last night with Stefano. "Except professionally, like last night.”

He nodded. "Can I have your phone number, then? Just for professional use. I'll need to contact you when I find more out about Lorna’s book.”

He smiled at me, and despite the fact that I couldn’t encourage him, chills ran up my spine. Grant Delray wanted my phone number. I gave him my cell number, stepped out of his car, and then did a Kari Kingsley glide up the stairs to Maren’s house.

I opened the door and found Maren in the living room waiting for me. Her arms were crossed, and her nostrils flared like a wild bull.

She stepped toward me, pinching her lips together. "The director of the Sun Ridge Children's Hospital just called to pass along their thanks. The patients were thrilled by your visit.”

"They're sick little kids—” I started, but she didn't let me finish.

“It was a stupid thing to do!” she yelled, leaning until she was about six inches away from my face. Then she let out a stream of swearwords that would have put boys hanging out in a locker room to shame.

"You don’t go out in public, and you don't pretend to be Kari unless I okay it. You can't use her identity every time you think it would be fun to play celebrity. One mistake and you'll blow everything we’ve worked for. Do you understand? Do you?"

I nodded.

She took a step back, suddenly calm again. "If you play this right, you'll go home with a nice chunk of money. If you mess up, I'll deny I've ever seen you and you'll be hitch hiking to West Virginia. Do you understand?"

Yes, I did understand. All her talk in the beginning about making fans happy with visits from Kari wasn’t true. She'd hired me for the money I could bring in, and that was all.

She sent me a challenging gaze. "Since you obviously feel you’re ready for your role as Kari, you won’t mind that I added a couple of appearances to your calendar next week."

I knew she expected me to protest, but I didn't. I was ready.

* * *

We flew out to San Antonio the next day, barely speaking to each other. I didn’t tell her about the pictures the paparazzi had taken or the things I'd talked about with Grant. I didn’t want to give her any other reasons to yell at me because if she did, I’d probably quit on the spot. And I didn't want to quit.

I had six weeks left until I met my father. And I admit I got a thrill from all the attention I received as a celebrity.

But I also wanted to do this for Kari. The memory of her falling apart, sliding to the floor when she learned Lorna planned on exposing her gambling debt—I’d never seen anyone so upset before. She was my sister, and I wanted to fix it for her. If her debts were paid, there wouldn't be anything scandalous to write about.

When I got situated in the hotel in San Antonio, I texted Kari a long message telling her I was worried about her. I put in links to gambling support groups. I half expected her to get angry at me for suggesting it, but she wrote back, "Don't stress about it. I’m fine. It's just money.”

It's just money. What would it be like to have that attitude? Money was never "just money” to me. It was time, effort, opportunity, acceptance, and power. It was not printed with George Washington’s and Abraham Lincoln’s faces, but with my mother’s face, bent over the kitchen table paying bills.

Kari and I kept texting back and forth. Maren had already told her I’d gone to the hospital, and she wrote, "Thanks for doing that. Now those hospital people will stop thinking I’m totally heartless.”

Which made me even madder at Maren for getting in my face and yelling about it. Kari had been happy I’d done it.

I left out the part about the paparazzi and duet request, but texted her that Grant was finding out more about Lorna's book, which made her so happy she called to get the details.