Lethal Seduction (33 page)

“Then let's meet.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Okay, where?”

“Somewhere we can talk.”

•

They met for lunch in the refurbished Russian Tea Room, and over borscht, blinis and several white Russians, Madison let it all out.

Jamie listened sympathetically, interjecting only when it was absolutely necessary. “If this were a plot for a movie,” she said, when Madison had finished her long story, “I wouldn't believe it.”

“I know,” Madison agreed. “I'm still in shock myself. That's why I got drunk last night. And laid.”

“Was he any good?” Jamie asked slyly.

“What do
you
think?” Madison said, sipping her drink. “He was nineteen years old, for crissakes. I felt like an old lady ravishing a young boy's body.”

“Hmm . . . well, you know what they say—guys are at their hottest when they're nineteen.”

“Trust me,” Madison said, grinning. “It's true.”

Jamie laughed softly. “I'll have to give that a try one day.”

“That'll
go down well with Peter. By the way, how
are
things?”

“They're actually great,” Jamie said slowly. “Although something did happen.”

“What?”

“Remember what your detective lady told you to have me do?”

“Yes?”

“I did it. I looked in his wallet and found a condom.”

“No shit?”

“Maybe it's a male thing—like the clicker. You know, they don't feel safe unless they've got a clicker in one hand and a condom in their wallet. Not that he'd ever use it.”

“So you marked it?”

“I felt stupid, but yes, I did.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Everything's been so good that I haven't had a chance to look. And anyway, checking out his wallet makes me feel like a sneak.”

“You didn't feel sneaky when you thought he was cheating on you,” Madison pointed out, in a decidedly better mood after two white Russians and a dish of blinis.

Jamie brushed a delicate hand through her short blond hair. “I don't
want
to look,” she said.

“Could that be because you're frightened of what you'll find out?”

“No,” Jamie said stubbornly.

“Then do it.”

“Okay, I will,” Jamie said with a big sigh. “I'll take a peek as soon as he goes to sleep tonight.”

“What else has been happening?” Madison asked. “Have I missed anything?”

“Anton had another party.”

“Was Kris Phoenix there?”

“No.”

“Disappointed, huh?”

“No,” Jamie said, giggling softly.

“You wouldn't have done anything with him anyway.”

“I would if I'd caught Peter.”

“Maybe you
will
catch Peter. So then Kris Phoenix can be number one on your hit list.”

“You know, Maddy,” Jamie said sternly, “you're not a good influence.”

“Agreed. I'm not. I'm angry and wired up and all I want to do is scream. I feel like I had a family—you know, a mother and a father—then it all turned to shit before my eyes. And on top of that, there's a strong possibility that Michael, the man I've looked up to all my life, is some kind of . . . Christ, I can barely say it.”

“What?”

“Killer, murderer, hit man. Who the fuck knows. It's insane.”

“I wish I could do something,” Jamie murmured.

“A wise woman advised me how to handle it,” Madison said. “I have to let go and regard this as just another story. I have to be strong and make my own way.”

“You always
were
a bit of a loner,” Jamie remarked. “I remember college vacations, we never went to your house, you always came to stay with my family, or we'd go to Natalie's. I can only recall meeting Stella twice. And your father at graduation, well, it was almost like he didn't want to be there. He kind of sat in the auditorium all stiff backed, while Stella was glammed to the max, and every boy in the place was busy eyeballing her tits. Neither of them seemed very parentlike. They didn't take photos or give you flowers, none of that. You've forgotten, haven't you?”

“I've blocked it, I guess,” Madison said sadly.

“Big
surprise.”

“The funny thing is I still love Michael,” she said wistfully. “But that doesn't mean I have to like him.”

“What'll you do now?” Jamie asked. “Tell him you know all this stuff?”

“Maybe, one day. Right now I'm into researching my next interview. I'll go to Vegas, write a hell of a story, then perhaps I'll stay in L.A. for a while. I have to get my head together before I confront him.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I'm also thinking of going back to Miami and talking to
Catherine. If she sat down with me once, that means she
will
talk to me again. And this time I'll make sure I'm sober and together. Oh yes, and this time I am
not
planning on getting laid by some juvenile stud. The sole purpose of my trip will be to find out more about my unknown past.”

They left the restaurant and by mutual agreement strolled down to Bergdorf's, where they did some therapeutic shopping. Madison bought a sleeveless cashmere turtleneck sweater and a pair of dense, black Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. “After all,” she said, smiling ruefully. “I
am
going to Vegas. Got to look the part.”

Jamie nodded. She was frustrated that there was nothing she could do for her friend to make her feel good again. If only Peter would relent and agree to go to Vegas, but she knew he wouldn't.

They parted outside the store, and Madison flagged down a cab.

“Come by for dinner later?” Jamie suggested. “We'll send out for Chinese, rent a video . . .”

“Thanks for the offer, but no,” Madison said, climbing into the taxi. “I'm a recovering alcoholic from last night. For somebody who usually doesn't drink, believe me, I put away plenty. Besides, I have a date with my computer, and I promised my dog I'd stay home.”

“Your
dog?” Jamie said, raising an eyebrow.

“That's right.”

“He's not even yours.”

“He is by adoption.”

“Okay, crazy girl, we'll talk tomorrow.”

“It's a deal.”

R
OSARITA DIDN
'
T TELL
C
HAS
, Martha Cockranger did. She had the balls to call Chas, from wherever it was in the boondocks that she lived, and inform him that his own daughter was pregnant.

Chas got on the phone to Rosarita immediately. “Why the hell didn't ya tell me?” he exploded. “What the frig is this? I gotta hear it from some old broad I barely know?”

“What do you mean—barely know?” Rosarita said, outraged that he'd found out before
she'd
had a chance to tell him. “Martha Cockranger looks at you like she's discovered the second coming of George Clooney!”

Chas calmed down and chuckled. “Can I help it if I got that effect on broads?”

“Daddy, stop it,” Rosarita said bad temperedly. Her father always
had
been a conceited son of a bitch, and as he grew older his ego seemed to be getting bigger than ever.

“So,” Chas said. “You're knocked up, kiddo. Ya gotta bun in the box. This'll make things right between you an' Dex.”

No, it won't,
she thought grimly.
But then again, I'd better play it cool. After all, Chas knows my original plan, and since he isn't prepared to cooperate, I can't let him in on what I'm about to do next. Let it all come as one big surprise.

“Ya given Venice the good news?” he inquired.

“I wasn't planning on making a public announcement,” she answered testily. “I don't want anybody knowing until we get back from Vegas.”

“Whyzatt?” Chas demanded.

“Because my doctor insists I should take it easy and keep it to myself. In case you're unaware, the first few weeks of pregnancy are an extremely delicate time.” Her voice rose. “Call that Cockranger bitch and warn her to shut her big, fat mouth.”

“Too late for that,” Chas wheezed, indulging in a short coughing fit. “Ya better talk to your old man.”

“Fine,” Rosarita said, happy to place the blame on Dex. “It's all
his
fault.”

Where
was
her soon-to-be-deceased husband anyway? She hadn't seen him, which could be because she was still in bed and had no intention of getting up anytime soon. She was allowed to pamper herself, wasn't she?

After saying good-bye to Chas, she buzzed Conchita.

“Is Mr. Falcon around?” she asked when Conchita entered the bedroom.

“Out jogging, miss,” Conchita said, diligently straightening the drapes.

“Tell him when he comes in that I'd like to see him. And bring me some toast and . . . I think I'll have hot chocolate today.”

“Ah, very good for the baby,” Conchita said with a knowing smirk.

“Excuse
me?” Rosarita said haughtily. “What do you mean, ‘the baby'?”

“Madam is pregnant.”

“How do
you
know?”

“Mister told me.”

Oh God, she was going to ream Dex's ass when he came home—his big, dumb, soap-opera ass.

How had she ever gotten stuck with such a jerk? He honestly thought it was
his
baby she was carrying, and now the idiot was announcing it to everyone who'd listen.

No fucking way. She was carrying Joel Blaine's baby, and one day she'd be free to tell the world.

•

Dexter did double duty on his jogging time. Now that he didn't have to report to the studio every morning he could concentrate on other things, such as health and fitness. His physical appearance was number one on his list, as it had to be—after all, the way he looked was his biggest asset. Matt had developed a large gut, and Dex considered it disgusting. He would
never
allow himself to go to seed the way his dad had. He hoped it didn't run in the family; he'd sooner kill himself than look like that.

He thought about Silver and her script. She'd announced that
she
would make him a star. He wished he had a dollar for everyone who'd promised him that.

Not quite believing her, he'd taken her script and hurried home to his pregnant wife.

“What did the old witch want?” Rosarita had asked.

“Nothing important,” he'd said, and later, when Rosarita was in bed drooling over Don Johnson in
Nash Bridges
on TV, he'd gone into the living room, settled into a comfortable armchair and read Silver's script in one sitting.

It was pure genius! It had everything! Love, sex, violence, tragedy—and at the core of it all, a passionate love triangle involving a man and two women.

Silver was right, the role of Lance Rich was a star-maker. Dexter wanted in.

He was so excited that he'd immediately decided to phone Silver and ask her what the deal was. Did she own it? Was she planning on producing? Was it a movie movie, or a TV deal?

So many questions. But by the time he'd finished reading and was ready to ask, he realized it was too late to call.

He'd rushed into the bedroom to share his excitement with Rosarita, only to find her snoring soundly, the TV still playing.

Now it was morning and he was out jogging, pounding his
way through Central Park, sweating profusely, fired up with enthusiasm. He couldn't wait to get home and call Silver. She must think he was right for the script, otherwise she wouldn't have given it to him to read. But he had to know the deal.
Did
she have the power to give him the role? That was the burning question.

No point in calling his agent yet; he'd have to wait and see.

Yes. Slow and easy—that was definitely the way to play it.

•

Meanwhile, back at the apartment, Rosarita kicked the duvet off the bed, and lay there staring at the ceiling, fondly remembering her previous day's tryst with the oversexed Mr. Blaine. God he was a horn-dog! He knew how to do it to her like no other man ever had.

While she was being serviced by Joel in front of the window in a suite at the Four Seasons, she could have sworn she'd spotted a group of people gathered in one of the rooms across the way. Of course they
would
gather, wouldn't they? She and Joel put on a show like no other.

The truth was they were perfectly matched. Oh, yes, she knew that when they weren't together he dated supermodels and actresses—she'd read all about him in the gossip columns. But what did that matter when he'd met his soul mate? And she
was
his soul mate. No doubt about it.

Conchita brought her hot chocolate and dry toast on a tray. “Couldn't you have put jam on it,” she complained, sitting up, a frown on her face.

“Too much sugar not good for Missus now that Missus pregnant,” Conchita said.

“When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it,” Rosarita snapped.

Conchita muttered something rude in Spanish under her breath and marched from the room.

Shortly after that little exchange, Dexter returned home. Rosarita had to admit that he looked ruggedly handsome in his
red tracksuit and Nike running shoes. Too bad he was such a loser.

“Morning,” he said, a great big smile plastered all over his face.

“Hi, Dex,” she answered.

He bent over to kiss her. “Don't,” she said, turning her cheek. “You're all sweaty. Go take a shower.”

He was dying to share his news about the script, but he decided to shower first and tell her after.

He stood in the shower, singing loudly as he soaped his body. He was happy. Why shouldn't he be?