Lethal Seduction (27 page)

“We're not looking for company,” Madison said, patting Kimm's hand. “We're perfectly happy . . . together.”

“Ah, I see,” Juan said, rolling his eyes at his own stupidity. “You are a couple.”

“Right,” Madison said, smiling. “A couple.”

Kimm threw her a furious glare.

A woman at a nearby table began calling for her check.

“I'll be back,” Juan said, tight leather pants taking off.

“What are you doing?” Kimm demanded as soon as he'd left.

“Giving us background,” Madison said. “This way we'll get to meet Catherine casually, and later I'll tell her.”

“So we
are
staying the night?”

“Yes.”

“Oh good,” Kimm said, full of sarcasm. “Have Juan book us a cozy double since we're a couple.”

“Hey, I only told him that so we're not bothered by unwanted attention.”

“Just two dykes on the road. Is that it?”

“Don't get touchy. Anyway, if it's action you're after, it's always easier to cruise if you're with someone. This way all your options are open.”

“Madison,” Kimm said, shaking her head in wonderment. “I'm seeing a whole new you since we left New York. You're kind of . . . a changed person.”

“No, I'm not,” Madison said firmly. “I'm a survivor. I was thinking about what you said, and you're absolutely right—I have to let go to continue. And what I've realized is that this devastating news is not going to slow me down. I'm my own person. I always have been. I've never believed those people who blame everything on their parents—you know—I'm a fuck-up because my father was a fuck-up. Or I'm a drunk because my mother was an alcoholic.” She took a deep breath. “So my father was a hit man?
Maybe.
So he murdered my mother?
Maybe.
I don't know any of these things for a fact. But I'm accepting them, and I'm beginning to realize they're not part of who
I
am.”

“Okay,” Kimm said. “We'll do this your way.”

“Thanks,” Madison said. “And who knows, you might end up meeting the woman of your dreams.”

“I'm not looking.”

“Trust me,” Madison said, smiling. “That's exactly when it happens.”

Juan returned, filled with enthusiasm. “Ladies,” he said. “I will make this night totally memorable. You will not regret staying over. Juan—he is in charge of everything.”

“H
OW WAS YOUR MEETING
?” Rosarita asked, not particularly interested, but vaguely aware that she had to keep up some kind of front.

“My agent quit,” Dexter said, his handsome face glum.

“Quit
you?”
Rosarita said, not surprised, because Dex's so-called career was going exactly nowhere.

“No. Quit the agency.”

“What now?”

“I have a new agent. A woman.”

“Oh. Attractive?”

“She seems nice.”

“Dynamic?”

“No idea. She talks a good game.”

“That's what you need, Dex. Someone who talks a good game.”

“You look rested,” he said, fully aware that she'd been in bed all day, because Conchita had told him on his way in. He considered it a good sign—maybe her body was trying to tell her something. “Did you only just get up?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” she replied, yawning. “I'm still recovering from that Chinese restaurant you insisted we eat at the other night.”

He was not in the mood to remind her again that it was a restaurant
she
had chosen.

“Annie wants me to study with an acting coach,” he said. “What do
you
think?”

“Who's Annie?”

“My new agent.”

“It's not a
bad
idea,” Rosarita said, thinking she couldn't care less what he did. Having spent the day in bed, she'd come up with a plan. And the plan was—poison!

She smiled to herself. It was all so simple. Why hadn't she thought of it before? She didn't need a hit man, she didn't need her father. Why allow other people to have something on her? No, this was a project she could undertake all by herself.

The idea had occurred to her while she was flipping TV channels and had come across an old Bette Davis movie. Poison. The ideal solution.

She was planning to poison Dex, and she was going to do it in Las Vegas!

•

Carrie Hanlon was surrounded by a makeup artist, a
body
makeup person, two hairdressers, three stylists, an editor, an assistant from the magazine and a journalist who was writing a profile on her. Carrie Hanlon gave great entourage.

Carrie, supermodel that she was, seemed completely unimpressed with Joel's roses. She glanced at him like he was a creature from outer space, and threw them to one of her minions.

For a moment Joel was intimidated. But then he thought,
The hell with this bitch. I'm the son of one of the richest men in the world. Why shouldn't she sit up and take notice like all the rest?

Testio—a manic-looking Italian-American the same age as Joel, with long, greasy hair and several gold stud earrings—was pleased to see him. “This is like old times,” he said, flinging his arm around Joel's shoulders. “Haven't
seen
you, haven't
heard
from you. Where you bin hiding, man?”

“Whatever happened to Miss Denmark?” Joel asked,
hoping there was no bad blood between them. It was stupid to fall out over a woman when there were certainly enough of them to go around.

“Oh,
her,”
Testio said, obviously out of love. “She turned out to be the same as all the rest. Went back to Denmark and married a farmer.”

“Who're you talking about?” Carrie asked, sitting in the midst of her entourage at the long trestle table.

“Dagmar. Remember her?” Testio said.

“Not really,” Carrie replied, picking up a lettuce leaf and nibbling at it. “She can't have been anybody.”

Carrie Hanlon was a magnificent specimen of womanhood. She was five feet ten inches tall, with a mane of tawny hair, large eyes, full lips, a straight nose and the kind of body every red-blooded American boy
wished
lived next door.

“It's been a while, Carrie,” Joel said, finding a place for himself at the table as close to her as possible.

“Have we met before?” Carrie inquired, prompting a sly under-the-table giggle from her bisexual stylist.

“Surely you remember?” Joel said. “Or maybe you were too stoned that night.”

“I don't do drugs,” Carrie said, causing her other stylist to break into insane laughter. “Coke isn't drugs,” she muttered irritably. “Coke clears the sinuses. I have very bad sinuses. Anyway, I don't do it.”

The interviewer, a thin, bespectacled man, perked up considerably. “You don't do what?” he asked, tape recorder in hand.

“Any kind of drugs,” Carrie said, widening her eyes. “I take vitamins. They keep me full of energy and make me look good.”

“No,
I
make her look so good,” muttered the Chinese makeup artist sitting at the other end of the table.

“How come you're here today?” Testio asked Joel, passing him a bottle of red wine.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Joel said, pouring himself a glass. “Figured it had been too long. Had no idea you were working with Carrie.”

“She's not easy,” Testio muttered in his ear, “but she's worth it.”

“I hope you're talking about the photos,” Carrie said, enjoying being the center of attention, although quite used to it at this stage of her career. She'd been a star model since she was fifteen.

“No,” Testio teased. “I was talking about sex.”

“I don't have sex,” Carrie said, glancing at her interviewer. “I'm saving myself for marriage.”

Testio roared with laughter.

The interviewer said, “Is that true?”

Carrie smiled her all-American–girl smile. “That's what you're going to print,” she said sweetly. “Isn't it?”

The man nodded. He was in the presence of true beauty, and it was making him a nervous wreck.

“I have a business proposition I'd like to discuss with you, Carrie,” Joel said, pouring her some wine.

“Talk to my agent,” Carrie answered, dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

“It's personal,” Joel persisted.

“I have no secrets from my agent,” Carrie said, licking her full, glossy lips with a wickedly pink tongue.

“You might want to listen to me first. Why pay ten percent when you don't have to?”

“Fifteen percent,” Carrie corrected, as if paying more was a badge of honor. “And the
reason
I pay fifteen percent is because my agent gets me the best deals in town.”

“And I thought you were smart,” Joel said, not endearing himself to her, but unable to stop.

Carrie tossed her mane of hair, turned to one of her hairdressers and began talking about a recent Beck concert she'd attended.

Joel realized he was being dismissed. He glanced at Testio, who pulled a face.

“Come into my office,” Testio said, getting up. “There's something I wanna show you.”

The two men left the table and walked into Testio's private office. The photographer shut and locked the door.

“Supercunt is some trip, huh?” Testio remarked.

“She certainly is,” Joel agreed. “Thing is—I need her for something.”

“Yeah? Lots of luck,” Testio said, absentmindedly stroking his crotch.

“No, I'm serious. My father is under the impression I'm bringing her to Vegas for the upcoming championship fight. I'll look like a dumb ass if I don't show up with her. What am I gonna do?”

Testio shrugged. “Your problem, not mine. Wanna do some blow?”

“Why not?” Joel said, although he wasn't in the mood.

“I've got a thought,” Testio said, going for his stash, which he kept in a locked black leather Gucci overnight bag. “There
is
one thing that our Carrie likes better than anything.”

“What's that?”

“Boys.”

“Boys?”

“Yeah, her scene is fifteen-year-old boys.”

“You gotta be shittin' me.”

“I know—it's crazy,” Testio said, putting down several lines. “There you have this incredibly gorgeous twenty-three-year-old supercunt, and she only gets off on fifteen-year-old boys. I had this teenage intern working for me last summer—thought Carrie was gonna slice him up and eat him for dinner. So here's your answer—all you gotta do is find her a hot fifteen-year-old. And, oh yeah, I forgot—she likes 'em to be Puerto Rican and built like a brick shit house.”

“I don't fucking believe this,” Joel said.

“Believe it,” Testio said, snorting a line of coke. “Carrie's been successful for so long she lives her life like a man. Knows what she wants and goes after it. So get her what she wants, an' I'm sure you can persuade her to go with you.”

“You make it all sound easy,” Joel said, nonplussed. “Where am I supposed to find a horny, good-looking fifteen-year-old Puerto Rican
boy?”

“Try Madam Sylvia's,” Testio said casually.

“Who's Madam Sylvia?”

“Where have
you
been?” Testio said, snorting a second line of coke. “Madam Sylvia's is an escort service for rich women. If you've got the cash, they've got the kid.”

“Then how come Carrie doesn't go straight to this Madam Sylvia?”

“ 'Cause she can't. Too famous. Somebody has to do it for her,” Testio explained, snorting a third line. “I'm telling you, Joel, this is what she wants. Find it for her, and believe me—she's all yours.”

•

Now that Dexter was home, Rosarita decided to go out, she had no desire to sit around making conversation with the husband she was soon going to be rid of.

“Where are you going?” Dexter asked.

“Barney's,” she said, although her plan was to visit a few bookstores and start doing research on various poisons. She'd decided that a hotel in Vegas, where they'd be surrounded by people, was the perfect place for her to do the deed. She had in mind something simple like arsenic or strychnine—a poison that would work fast and not throw suspicion on her. In Vegas anything could happen.

“I'll come with you,” Dexter offered.

“No you won't,” she answered quickly. “I'm choosing outfits for Vegas, and you'll get in the way.”

“I'd like to see what you're planning to wear.”

“You will. When I've decided. Right now I'm only at the looking stage.”

Rosarita was a big spender. Because of this, Chas still took care of her credit-card bills. “I don't make the kind of money you're used to,” Dexter had told her early on in their marriage.

“I realize that,” she'd snapped back at him. “I'll get my father to pay.”

So Chas still continued to settle her sometimes exorbitant bills.

Rosarita swept from the apartment, claiming she'd be back in an hour.

Dexter was well aware that this meant at least three hours. Now that he did not have the studio to go to every day, he was at a loss. He missed the camaraderie of shooting a TV series. He missed being treated like a star on the set. And he especially missed the reassuring presence of Silver Anderson, who'd given him the sense that he was at least working with a true professional. Even though she'd behaved in such a vulgar way at the end, he still couldn't
help
missing her.

He wandered around the spacious apartment, thinking about his future and what it held. Annie had assured him she would call him later with the address and number of the acting coach she had in mind. “Go see him,” she'd said. “Do what Johnny Depp did; study and study hard. Now Johnny Depp is considered a
real
actor, not just another pretty face. And
that's
because he studied his craft with a
professional.”