Lethal Seduction (35 page)

She couldn't help laughing. He really thought he was going to talk his way back in. “Let
what
go to waste? We're
over,
David. Can't you understand that? You walked out on me. Remember?”

“That's just it,” he said quickly. “I walked out, now I'm back and truly sorry.”

“No, you're not,” she said, picking up her fork.

“It wasn't like we had closure,” he said, beginning to sound whiny.

“Oh, we had closure all right,” she said heatedly.
“You
married someone else.”

“It was a mistake, so let's spend the weekend together, talk it out, see if we can put everything back together.”

Typical David. His marriage didn't work out, so he thought he could step right back into her life and pick up where they had left off.

Think again, asshole.

“We can't,” she said coolly. “Because here's the thing, David—I can never trust you again. And without trust, there's nothing.”

“I never cheated on you when we were together,” he said, as if it were an award-winning feat.

She shook her head in amazement. “What do you want—a bouquet of roses?”

“That's
something,
isn't it?” he persisted. “Most guys cheat all the time.”

She'd had enough of his painful excuses, it was getting boring. “For God's sake,” she said. “You're only making this worse. Why don't you go find yourself a beauty queen with big tits? Or a schoolteacher.
Anyone
who isn't me.”

“That's nice talk.”

“Whatever you do,” she continued, “I couldn't care less. And yes,” she added, thinking this was the perfect lie to get rid of him once and for all, “if you really want to know, there
is
someone else.”

He jumped on that one. “The guy you were with in the lobby of your apartment building?”

“No, not him.”

“Then who?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

He shook his head. “Jesus, Madison, you're cold.”

“I'm
cold,” she said, refusing to hold her anger in any longer. “Fuck you, David! Fuck you big time.” She stood up from the table and glared at him. “Don't call me again, or come by my apartment building. This is it, so get it into your thick head—it's over.” And with that she strode out of the restaurant.

Saying good-bye for the final time felt extraordinarily good. It was as if he was fully exorcised, and she could put him behind her once and for all.

S'long, David. It wasn't fun.

•

While Madison was busy getting her life back on track and throwing herself into her work, Jamie was making slow progress. Every night after Peter fell asleep she decided it was time to check out his wallet again. But somehow or other she couldn't bring herself to do it; she found it too dishonorable. Besides, there was
no way
he was screwing around on her. He made
love to her every day, treated her like a queen. Okay, so he was stubborn about going to Las Vegas, but the rest of the time she could get more or less anything she wanted from him.

Monday night he called her from the office and informed her he'd be home late. She reminded him they were due to attend a dinner at Anton's.

“Shit!” he said. “I forgot. Don't worry, though, I'll meet you there.”

“Aren't you coming home to shower and change clothes?” she asked.

“I'll take a shower at the office. No need to change—I look pretty good today.”

“You
always
look pretty good,” she said, agreeable as ever. “Damn!” she added wistfully. “I hate going without you.”

“Call Maddy, she'll go with you.”

“Maddy passed on the invite. She's too swamped with work.”

“I won't be late,” he promised. “You know Anton's cocktail hour always goes on too long. I'll be there in time for dinner.”

Jamie never liked walking in anywhere on her own, and she especially didn't like taking cabs by herself at night. So after thinking about it for a few minutes, she decided what the hell—she'd be late along with Peter. All she had to do was alert Anton not to expect them for drinks before dinner.

She called Peter back at his office. The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. Remembering the main switchboard shut down at a certain time, she tried him on his cell phone. An electronic voice requested her to leave a message.

Warning signals immediately began going off in her head. If Peter was at his office, why wasn't he answering his phone?

Damn him! Now she felt suspicious again. Tonight she would definitely check out his wallet and see if the stupid condom was still there with her mark on the packet.

The moment she arrived at Anton's, he could sense her nervousness. “What's the matter, princess?” he asked. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing,” she answered vaguely. “I was thinking about
that job we have to finish in the Hamptons. Maybe
you
should take it over.”

“Why would you suggest that?”

“Because I was there two days last week, and I'm not into leaving Peter alone.”

“Pray, why?” Anton said, chuckling. “Think he'll be a bad boy?”

“Of course not,” she said sharply.

“Sorry,”
Anton said.

Now she started thinking about the previous week, when she'd spent two days in the Hamptons moving clients into their new house, which, she had to admit, looked amazing, and already was due to be photographed by
Architectural Digest.
Every night she'd called Peter at the same time, and every night he'd been at home. But how did she know that the moment she hung up he hadn't slipped out? How did she know he didn't have a girlfriend on the side?

True to his promise, Peter arrived before everyone sat down to dinner. Putting his arm around his wife, he nuzzled her ear. “Hi, gorgeous,” he whispered. “Miss me?”

“I always miss you,” she said. “In fact, I called you back, but there was no answer.”

“You know the switchboard closes down at six.”

“I tried your cell phone, no answer there either.”

He patted his pocket, not taking a beat. “The battery must be dead.”

“Then how come the service picked up?”

“I'll have to check into it,” he said. “Battery could need recharging. You know what,” he whispered in her ear. “At the same time, I'll recharge you. I'll recharge you all over our apartment.”

“Shush!” she said, giggling nervously. “Somebody'll hear.”

“Oh, yeah, that'd be a shock, wouldn't it? Two married people talking about sex.”

She laughed softly. It was all her imagination, she knew it. And yet, deep down, she had this nagging feeling of unease.

Later, when they got home, they made love, and it was as good as it had ever been.

Tonight, though, she waited until Peter fell asleep, then she slipped out of their bed and went into the dressing room.

His wallet was in its usual place. She took it off the dresser, opened it, checked out the contents and, to her chagrin, discovered there was no condom packet.

No goddamn condom in his wallet.

Where was it? What had he done with it? Had the son of a bitch
used
it?

The fact that it wasn't there blew her mind. This wasn't the way things should be. She was furious, her suspicions were correct.

The bastard was screwing around on her.

She hurried into the bathroom and opened the clothes hamper. Burrowing around in it, she took out the shirt he'd had on. She picked it up and pressed it to her nose.

Yes, she could swear there was a trace of perfume, and it certainly wasn't hers.

Damn him!

I've got to play this cool,
she thought.
I cannot accuse him unless I know for sure.

It was too late to call Madison, yet she was desperate for her advice.

Nothing she could do until the morning, so eventually she got back into bed and fell into a troubled sleep.

In the morning, as far as Peter was concerned, she was her normal self.

As soon as he left for the office, she called Madison. “Remember that detective you told me you hired?” she said. “I need to meet her. And I need to meet her today.”

I
T TOOK
D
EXTER A FEW
days, but eventually he was able to secure a meeting with Mortimer Marcel. Mortimer, who kept very luxurious offices on Park Avenue, suggested he drop by at five to see him.

Dexter arrived on time. Mortimer greeted him sitting behind his elegant antique desk. Stationed beside him was his faithful black lover, Jefferson, who obviously did not trust his paramour to be alone in Dexter's company. There had always been an edgy atmosphere between them. Jefferson was extremely jealous of Dexter—whom he considered a rival of sorts.

Dexter greeted them both, and they all exchanged the usual, “You're looking wonderfuls.”

“I hear your soap has been canceled,” Jefferson couldn't wait to say. “Does that mean you're coming back to try and score another underwear campaign?”

Dexter managed a smile. “I got so many other things going on,” he said. “My new agent is confident we're about to sign on for something big.”

“Excellent news,” Mortimer said, while Jefferson merely glared. “Now, what can I do for you?” Mortimer asked, sitting up extremely straight, looking every inch the fashion maven in a
pale-blue sports shirt with a crisp white collar and impeccably pressed beige linen pants.

“Well . . .” Dexter began. “I'm sure you've heard of Silver Anderson.”

“Who hasn't?” Jefferson sniffed, running a hand over his shiny bald head.

“I actually had the honor of working with her on my soap,” Dexter said.

“The one that was just canceled?” Jefferson interjected.

“That's right,” Dexter said, wishing that Jefferson would butt out or get lost. It was painfully obvious Mortimer's boyfriend was not pleased to have Dexter back on the scene.

“What
about
Silver Anderson?” Mortimer asked, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he spoke.

“As I'm sure you know,” Dexter said smoothly, “Silver Anderson is a legend in her own lifetime.”

“She's also an old drama queen,” Jefferson snorted. “Well past her sell date.”

“Age doesn't make any difference,” Dexter said, maintaining his cool. “Silver's still a great beauty, with a world-famous name.”

“I get your point,” Mortimer said impatiently. “Now enlighten me about this meeting.”

“Silver has a script she's optioned.”

“We're not interested,” Jefferson said, rolling his eyes.

Mortimer shot him a dirty look. “Continue,” he said to Dexter.

“She has this script, and it's quite something,” Dexter said, getting nervous now. “She gave it to me to read, and I suggested that maybe I could come up with an investor rather than her taking it to a studio.”

“Bullshit,” Jefferson screeched. “What you mean is the studio won't put up the money—right?”

“Silver wants to keep control of this project,” Dexter said, ignoring his enemy. “It's a very special script, so she's decided to look for an investor who'll come up with the money to get the film made.”

“How does that involve me?” Mortimer inquired, vaguely interested. “Does she want me to design the clothes?”

“No,” Dexter said. “Although that's a terrific idea. And with Silver in the movie, imagine the publicity.”

“Ha!” Jefferson sneered. “The last thing Mortimer Marcel needs is publicity. He's as famous as Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren
and
Tommy Hilfiger put together. Publicity—I hardly think so.”

“It occurred to me,” Dexter said, still ignoring Jefferson and directing all his energy and enthusiasm toward Mortimer, “that it might be a way for you to branch out into the film business, which I'm sure has always intrigued you.”

“The movie business is shit,” Jefferson offered. “You put money into
that
cesspool and you gotta have brain surgery.”

“Will you shut the fuck up,” Mortimer said, finally snapping. “This is
my
meeting, Jefferson.
Mine,
not yours. So be quiet, or if you can't manage that—go and do something useful.”

Jefferson scowled.

“Would you be prepared to meet Silver Anderson?” Dexter asked, pressing on. “Allow her to outline what she has in mind?”

“I don't see why not,” Mortimer said. “I'm surprised she isn't a client.” He tapped his fingers together. “I could design her something wonderful. Bob Mackie, move over!”

“Bob Mackie!” Jefferson screeched in horror. “Pu . . . leese!”

“Set it up, Dexter,” Mortimer said, favoring his lover with a spiteful look, because
nobody
told Mortimer Marcel what to do. “And we'll see where it goes from there.”

•

Meanwhile, across town in the underground parking lot of the Federal Building, Rosarita and Joel made fast, reckless love.

“You realize what would happen if we were caught?” Rosarita said, enjoying every decadent minute as she lay spread-eagled and half naked on the backseat of Joel's Bentley.

“Yeah, I'd be headline news,” Joel said, bareassed and happy as he pumped away.

“What about me?” Rosarita said, wriggling into a more comfortable position. “I'm married to a celebrity.”

Joel roared with laughter. “Come
on,”
he spluttered. “You're not calling that hunk of meat you're married to a celebrity, are you?”

“He was on a soap for almost a year,” Rosarita said huffily. “He has a well-known face.”