Hollywood Kids (10 page)

It came to her in a flash. 'Growing up in Hollywood.'

He was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke it was very slowly, making sure she understood every word. 'Not about this family, I hope.'

Why did they always end up fighting - because that's the way this conversation was headed and they both knew it.

Jordanna thrust out her jaw, ready for battle. 'Maybe. If I feel like it,' she said in her best don't-you-tell-me-what-to-do voice.

'No, Jordanna,' he said curtly.

Challenging words. 'No what?' she said quickly.

'No revelations about this family. Do you understand me?'

She wanted to tell him to go screw himself. She was quite capable of telling anyone else, anyone except her father, who was still able to reduce her to a nervous twelve-year-old. 'I've got a contract,' she lied. 'With a big publishing firm.'

His left eye twitched, a sure sign he was severely angry. 'Which one?'

'That's my business,' she said, feeling like a defiant little girl.

'How much have they paid you?'

'It doesn't matter.'

'I think you'll find it does.'

'What does
that
mean?'

He stood up, glaring at her. 'It means it better be enough to support yourself, because if you're writing a book about this family, young lady, you can get the hell out of my guest house and go live elsewhere.'

Her eyes filled with tears, but with a supreme effort she managed to keep them in check. Couldn't let him see. Couldn't let him know he could still get to her.

'Fine,' she said coolly, jumping to her feet. 'I'll go pack.'

'Do that,' he said roughly.

Fuck you, Daddy, I will.

She rushed from the room, mission unaccomplished. All she'd wanted to find out was where he'd met Kim, and look where they'd ended up, fighting as usual. When was she going to learn that arguing with her father was a no- win situation? Now she was out on her own with nowhere to go.

She hurried to the guest house and called Shep. 'I need a place to crash,' she said, speaking rapidly.

Shep sighed, he'd heard it before. 'One night? Two?'

'This time it's permanent. I can't take his control shit any more - I'm moving out for real.'

'Sure,' Shep said, not believing her.

'I mean it,' she insisted.

'You always do.'

'Can I come over or not?'

'I suppose so,' he said, not filled with enthusiasm.

She ran back and forth, piling her car full of as much stuff as it would take, jumped in, and roared off down the long driveway.

From his study window Jordan watched her go. So beautiful, so unsettled, so like her mother.

Dammit, he wished there was something he could do for her, but the truth was he had no idea what Jordanna wanted. Materially he'd given her everything possible. A place to live, a new car of her choice every year, charge cards and a generous allowance. He'd never said no to her, how could he?

For a moment his mind wandered and he thought about Lillianne - his first wife, the mother of his children, and the one true love of his life. Certifiable. Everyone had said so. When he'd signed the papers to put her away in the private clinic it was for her own protection. How was he to know she'd slit her wrists and die a miserable death, leaving him with two children to bring up on his own? Of course, he hadn't been on his own for long, marrying again had seemed like a good idea, except the children had never taken to any of his wives - a shame because he'd tried a few.

And then, as if he didn't have enough problems, his only son had killed himself - a boy with everything to live for.

The police said drugs had caused Jamie to jump from the forty-sixth floor of Jordan's New York penthouse. Jordan didn't know what to believe, his son was no drug addict, as far as he was concerned it was a terrible accident.

For a while Jordan was shattered. The press pounced on him, Jordanna had turned into a wild thing and his life was a mess. But Jordan knew better than anyone how to survive. After all, he'd arrived in Hollywood as a sixteen-year-old runaway in 1948 with no money and no prospects. Over the years he'd built himself a formidable reputation, it would take more than a few tragedies to pull Jordan Levitt down.

Within the next few months he'd sent Jordanna off to boarding school in Paris, divorced his current wife, and produced two new movies.

Kim entered his study, interrupting his thoughts. Out of all his wives Kim was the youngest and the most loving. She put him above all else, and it was damn refreshing to have a woman who cared so much for him. What did it matter that she was nearly forty years his junior, age was irrelevant.

'Curtain samples,' Kim announced, waving a swatch of fabric in the air. 'I need your opinion, darling.'

She was redecorating his house and doing an excellent job. It was costing, but whoever said women came cheap?

He stood up, towering over his young bride. 'Come here, little one,' he said, opening his arms.

Kim ran into his embrace, and they stood entwined while Jordanna zoomed down Sunset in her white Porsche, tears streaming down her face as Jimi Hendrix blasted full volume on the tape deck.

The next day a composed Jordanna Levitt sashayed into Cafe Roma, nodding at a few acquaintances, taking in the action, checking out the usual group of Italian out-of-work actors who gathered at a corner table comparing testosterone levels, job opportunities, and how many girls they'd fucked.

Cheryl was already there, sitting at a table drinking coffee, studiously making copious notes on a yellow legal pad.

I'm not late, am I?' Jordanna asked, glancing quickly at her Cartier Panthier watch.

'Nope,' Cheryl replied, putting down her pen. 'I was here early. Had to interview a girl, a gorgeous blonde fresh in from Dallas.'

'Christ!' Jordanna exclaimed. 'You're even beginning to talk like a pimp. Did you inspect her teeth?'

Cheryl allowed herself a small smile. 'Sensational teeth.'

'I was being sarcastic,' Jordanna said sternly.

'So what else is new?' Cheryl replied, adding more Sweet 'n' Low to her coffee and stirring it vigorously.

Jordanna shrugged. 'Nothing much. I moved out.'

'Again?'

'This time for real.'

'Well...' Cheryl said. 'I guess I have to tell you the big scoop.'

Jordanna couldn't wait. 'Yes?'

Without further ado Cheryl gave her the news. 'Your stepmother was a whore,' she said, relishing every word.

Jordanna blinked. 'Excuse me?'

'Actually we don't call them whores,' Cheryl added nonchalantly. 'Party girls is the politically correct way of referring to them.'

Jordanna frowned. 'Are you f-ing with me?'

'Would I do that?' Cheryl asked innocently.

'I certainly hope not. This is way too serious to joke about.'

Cheryl began explaining. 'I found her in Donna's files. Kimberly Anna Austin from San Diego. She worked for Donna a good six months, then she met your father and that was it, retirement city.'

Jordanna was in shock, it was just too bizarre. 'Are you sure it's the same girl?'

'Absolutely positive. Donna was very thorough. She kept a complete dossier on every girl who worked for her, including a photo.'

Jordanna drummed her fingers on the table. 'Can I see it?'

Digging into her purse, Cheryl produced a glossy photograph and handed it over.

Jordanna studied it. Oh yes, it was Kim all right. Little Miss Sweetness and Light. Boy, had she gotten lucky, landing a man like Jordan Levitt.

'Yes, it's her,' Jordanna said slowly. 'Oh, shit! What am I supposed to do, tell him?'

'Knowing your father, I have a feeling he wouldn't appreciate it,' Cheryl replied. 'Talk about a blow to the male ego.'

'I can't
not
tell him.'

'He'll find out eventually - let him do it on his own time, believe me, you don't want to be involved, it'll only embarrass him.'

'I suppose you're right,' Jordanna replied, torn between the desire to reveal Kim's little game, and yet not wanting to be the one to hurt her father.

Why not?

Why yes? He's never done anything to intentionally hurt me.

Ah, but he has hurt you. In fact, he's just thrown you out.

'You're not going to tell anyone about this, are you?' she asked, knowing what a big mouth Cheryl had.

'I run a clean business,' Cheryl said, very full of herself. 'My clients are assured of discretion and privacy at all times.'

'He's not your client,' Jordanna pointed out.

'He could be,' Cheryl replied knowingly. 'Once Kim is history.' Taking a sip of coffee she added, 'I have some really lovely girls, you know. If you come across any would-be clients, send them my way. I'll pay you commission.'

'You're unbelievable!'

'Thanks for the compliment.'

It was early in the morning when Mac Brooks picked up the phone and called Bobby Rush. He'd spent the previous evening arguing with Sharleen. She hadn't wanted him to call Bobby direct, she'd preferred that he do the dance of a thousand agents. But Mac wasn't in the mood for all that agent crap, half the time they caused deals to fail, and he wanted this one to fly.

He had a strong feeling
Thriller Eyes
was destined to be a winner, and he was definitely interested in directing it. The agents could get into it
after
he'd made a verbal commitment - that way they couldn't do too much damage.

Bobby answered his own phone - a good sign because there was nothing worse than having to plough through an entourage every time you needed to reach the star.

'Hey, Bobby,' he said. 'It's Mac Brooks. Remember that high-ticket ride we were talking about? I've decided to take it with you, so, all I need to know is, when do we get started?'

Michael had never felt more helpless in his life, and it wasn't a feeling he enjoyed. His gut instinct told him Bella was all right, but the reality was he couldn't find her and it was making him frantic. When he finally reached Rita's aunt in New York she knew nothing, she still had the same old address for her niece with whom she was not close.

'How about her girlfriends?' Michael asked, referring to three big-haired Brooklyn blondes with loud mouths and bad attitudes whose names escaped him.

Rita's aunt promised to try and track them down. Two days of silence and he knew he had to do something fast before he went nuts.

He dropped by and visited Lily again, taking her flowers, hoping the attention might loosen her memory.

It didn't. She still couldn't remember anything.

He went downstairs to Rita's apartment and sat on the couch for a while. He'd already searched the place thoroughly, looking for a clue, anything to help find her. He remembered when they were married Rita used to hide things - money, her few bits of jewellery, letters from old boyfriends he wasn't supposed to know about. She'd always chosen odd hiding-places like ceiling light fixtures and the bottom of vacuum bags. He'd searched this apartment thoroughly, but decided to do it again for luck.

He started in the kitchen, graduating to the poky little bathroom, methodically sorting through everything, including a plastic bag full of dirty laundry.

Rita favoured lacy lingerie, there was a ton of it, push-up bras, thong panties, old-fashioned stockings and pantihose in many colours.

Ah, memories... The first time he'd gone out with her he should have known she was trouble, but somehow or other his hard-on had gotten in the way of rational thought and all had been lost.

Michael Scorsini had married Rita Polone on a cold December morning three weeks before Christmas. She'd worn a white satin dress studded with faux diamonds and cut way too low at the front.

He'd worn a dark suit and a dazed smile.

Rita was four months pregnant.

He was drunk.

Since she had no family, his had turned out in force. Brother Sal, smirking proudly as he tried to cop more than a look down the bride's revealing neckline. His mother, Virginia, a thin nervous woman who never stopped chain-smoking. His stepfather, Eddie, fat and old, plagued with arthritis. Plus a scattering of relatives and friends.

Michael remembered frantically dry humping his bride in the rented limo on the way to their honeymoon hotel. He and Rita were so hot for each other they couldn't wait.

When his hard-on finally faded he'd decided it was time to sober up. Rita no longer held the same fascination.

Now Rita had vanished with his kid and he felt like he was drowning. No clues. Nowhere to look. And the cops had nothing.

Lighting up a cigarette, he blew smoke rings towards the ceiling and focused his mind.

Rita used to love dancing. Saturday nights she'd get all dressed up, they'd hire a babysitter and hit the town. In his drinking days he'd made out pretty good on the dance floor. Once he stopped boozing it didn't work out.

'You won't take me, I'll go with the girls,' she'd threatened, daring him to argue.

He was perfectly happy staying home in front of the TV watching a ball game while Bella slept peacefully in the other room.

Was Rita still dancing on Saturday nights?

If she was alive she was still dancing.

The thought of foul play sent a chill through him. He had a daughter out there somewhere and he was determined to find her.

Stubbing out his cigarette, he took one final look around and headed back to the Robbins' place.

Kennedy was on time, she prided herself on always being punctual.

Bobby Rush was late. His publicist, Elspeth, an angular redhead in her forties with too many freckles and a bad nose job, offered no excuses.

Kennedy sat on a couch in the outer office and steamed as an hour passed. At eleven o'clock she said, 'Are you sure he's coming?'

'I can't do more than tell him,' Elspeth replied in a not-too-pleasant voice. She'd been on the phone for most of the hour conducting a low angry conversation with someone who was obviously her husband or boyfriend.