Lethal Seduction (48 page)

They got into an elevator that was conveniently empty. Jake moved close to her, pinning her arms above her head against the side wall. Then he began kissing her.

He was a great kisser. Long soulful kisses that made her heart beat faster.

“How many girls did you sleep with in Paris?” she murmured, mad at herself for asking, but unable to help it.

“What kind of a question is
that?”

“Just curious.”

“Sure.”

“You're right,” she said quickly. “It's none of my business.”

“How many guys did
you
have while I was busy working my butt off in Paris?”

“Not that many, actually,” she answered lightly. “Although, of course, I wasn't counting.”

“You're a bad girl,” he said, shaking his index finger at her.

“You think?”

“Yeah—you're a beautiful, bad girl,” he said, kissing her again. “The kind of girl I could easily fall for.”

“That's so sweetly old-fashioned, Jake.”

“What is?”

“ ‘Fall for.' Who ever says things like that?”

“I do,” he said, flashing the killer grin.

The elevator reached her floor, and they got out. Two fat men in matching Hawaiian shirts were arguing in the hallway, yelling at each other about a bet gone wrong.

“Evening,” Madison murmured as they passed by.

She slipped her card into her door, and they entered her room.

“Okay,” Jake said, immediately searching for a room-service menu. “What's it to be? A bottle of Dom Perignon? And some beluga caviar?”

“Do you really
like
caviar?” she asked.

“I gotta confess,” he admitted. “Never had it.”

“It's an acquired taste, you know.”

“No, sweetheart,
you're
an acquired taste. And one I can't wait to get my tongue around again.”

She felt a rush of excitement. “Compliments will get you wherever you want to go,” she said breathlessly.

And they fell on the bed, locked in a fiery embrace of laughter and passion.

“Goddamnit!”
Rosarita snarled. “This flight is so bumpy I can't
take
it!”

“Not as bumpy as our flight yesterday,” Martha remarked smugly, leaning across the aisle. “We're quite used to it now. Veteran travelers, aren't we, Matt?”

Matt grunted. He was busy studying the attractive flight attendant's legs and couldn't give a damn about the turbulence.

“Who cares
how
bumpy your flight was,” Rosarita said irritably. “If this plane goes down, our entire family would be wiped out, and then Venice would inherit everything. God forbid!”

Martha shook her head. Sometimes words came out of her daughter-in-law's mouth that were downright shocking.

Rosarita tapped Chas on the shoulder. “I hope you've arranged for a car to meet us at the airport,” she said waspishly. “I'm not getting in a cab.”

“Yeah, I arranged a car,” Chas said, scratching his chin. “An' whaddya mean—you're not gettin' in a cab? What're you—a freakin' princess?”

“I'm pregnant, Daddy.
Pregnant.
You keep on forgetting. I should be treated with care and consideration.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” she said, scowling.

Soon they would all have to treat her with extreme respect. As Mrs. Joel Blaine, mother of the heir to the Blaine fortune, she
would be
a freakin' princess. And then they'd all be sorry they hadn't been nicer to her.

•

Madison awoke slowly, rolled across the bed, threw out her arm and hit another body. For a moment she was completely disoriented, then it all came back. Las Vegas. Jake. And today was her birthday.

Happy birthday to me,
she thought wryly.

Oh God! Thirty! Suddenly she felt incredibly old.

Jake was still sleeping. She propped herself up on one elbow and watched him for a moment, unable to resist running her fingers across his chest, discovering a small scar on his right shoulder. Funny, she hadn't noticed it before, but their week of passion in New York seemed such a long time ago.

She was secretly pleased that they'd gotten together again. Last night had been everything she'd hoped. He'd made her laugh and held her close, making her feel as if they had a truly special connection. And after great sex, she'd gone to sleep in his arms, which was exactly the way it should be. So what if it wasn't a lasting thing, at least they were having fun.

He stirred slightly and opened his eyes. “Hey,” he mumbled, stifling a yawn. “Gotta feeling I'm in a strange bed.”

“What's so strange about it?” she replied, straight faced.

He smiled lazily. “Have I ever told you how sorry I am that I screwed up?”

“I think it's time you stopped apologizing.”

“Does that mean I'm forgiven?”

“Surely you noticed?”

“Oh yeah, I noticed all right.”

“Excellent.”

“And here's a promise.”

“What?”

“I won't screw up again.”

“You can do what you like, Jake—we're both free agents.”

“Now she's gonna give me the Miss Independent bit,” he said, sitting up. “You used me for sex and now it's good-bye, sailor. Is that the way it goes?”

“Good-bye,
sailor?”
she said, giggling. “Where did you come up with
that?”

“I get around, you know.”

“I'm sure.”

“By the way,” he said, reaching over to touch her face. “You look beautiful in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

“Think I'll go get my camera,” he said, jumping out of bed.

“I told you, Jake—no photographs.”

“Why?”

“ 'Cause I look horrible in photos,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“You couldn't look horrible if you tried.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“It's your birthday,” he said, pulling on his pants.

“How do
you
know?”

“Happy birthday.”

“That's right,” she groaned. “Remind me that I'm old and decrepit.”

“How old
are
you?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Can't tell you.”

“Be brave.”

“Thirty,” she confessed.

“Thirty! That's nothing.”

“To you it's nothing—to a woman it's a milestone.”

“You're talking like it's twenty years ago. Madonna is in her forties, so is Sharon Stone, and they both look damn good. So what're
you
worried about?”

“How do
you
know how old Madonna and Sharon Stone are?”

“Did a photo essay for
Newsweek
on women over forty.”

“I don't know, Jake,” she said, sitting up. “What have I achieved? I mean, there's this book I'm writing, yet I never seem to find the time to finish it.”

“You will,” he said encouragingly.

“No I won't,” she said, shaking her head. “Not at the rate
I'm
going. I'm always too busy running here, there and everywhere, interviewing people I don't want to interview.” A beat.
“God,
now I sound like Natalie.”

“How come?”

“She's always bitching about interviewing celebrities.”

“So do something else, something you love.”

“Easy for you to say. And how am I supposed to support myself?”

“You'll get by. I do.”

“I'm sure you're not crazy about photographing Antonio ‘The Panther' Lopez, but you're doing it for the money—right? So then you can go off and do whatever you want.”

“It's fuck-you money,” he said.

“Fuck you too,” she countered.

“Hmm . . .” he said. “Now that you've brought up the subject . . .”

“Yes?” she said, smiling.

He leaned over and grabbed her. “C'mere, woman,” he said.

“You're insatiable,” she sighed.

“Only around you.”

•

Joel Blaine prowled around the casino like a predatory animal. He'd been up all night. What was the point in sleeping? First of all, Leon had won big, which pissed him off. Then the old man had handed a stack of bills to Carrie, who'd squealed like an excited schoolgirl—it was as if she didn't have money of her own. Later she'd gone off to spend the night with Eduardo, leaving him with nothing to do.

At that point he'd run into a couple of buddies from New
York and they'd taken a cab to the best strip club in town. For two hours he'd sat there paying for lap dances. One girl after another—all silicone tits and phony smiles.

Whores. They were all whores. Otherwise, why would they be doing this? Oh yeah, sure, every one of them had their stories about a toddler at home, a dying mother—someone they had to support. Well, make your money working in a supermarket, bitch! Don't tell me your problems.

He tipped generously. Had to. He was Joel Blaine, after all. Didn't want people talking about him.

When he was finished with the strip club, he'd gone back to the casino and rolled craps for three hours, losing heavily. Then he'd gone up to his room, thought about calling a hooker but decided against it, then returned to the casino, where he'd managed to lose another bundle.

Now he was tired and disgusted. He needed a shower and was pissed off that he'd lost big
and
stayed up all night.

He wandered over to the roulette table, threw his last few hundred on number thirty-five, waited for it not to come up—and to his amazement, it did.

Shit, don't tell me my luck is changing?
he thought, cashing in.

After collecting his winnings he went to a house phone and called Carrie.

It was quite apparent he'd awakened her. “What's the matter?” she said, sounding sleepy.

“You up yet?”

A big yawn at the other end of the phone. “Not really.”

“That's a shame, 'cause we could've had breakfast with Scorsese.”

“Why can't we?”

“He's got a meeting, we'll have to catch him later. How was last night?”

She yawned again. “It was okay.”

“Anybody ever called you a dirty old woman?”

“No, Joel,” she said tartly. “And I don't expect to hear it coming out of
your
mouth.”

“Marika's pissed at you.”

“Why?”

“ 'Cause my old man's all over you. It's a good thing we're not fucking, otherwise I'd be pissed too.”

“Can I help it if he finds me irresistible. Most men do, you know.”

“Yeah, well, you'd better not cross the Asian prison guard, 'cause you'll be in trouble if you do.”

“I'm shaking in my Manolos,” she said sarcastically.

“Your
what?”

“Forget it.”

“Get dressed and meet me for breakfast.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Christ! Is everything an argument with you?”

“Seems you bring out the worst in me, Joel.”

“We should discuss the Scorsese thing, because your movie career is going nowhere. How long can you be a model? Movies are your future—I told you that before. Meet me in the coffee shop in half an hour.”

“God! You're bossy.”

“It's part of my charm.”

“What
charm?”

•

Jamie opened her eyes, groaned and realized she had a major hangover—something she was not used to. Her head was pounding, her mouth felt like a rat had crawled in there and died and every bone in her body ached.

Oh God, she thought. What did I do last night? What crazy thing did I do?

Then she remembered. Nothing. Because Kris Phoenix had a girlfriend, thank God, which meant she hadn't done anything she would live to regret.

She got out of bed and went into the bathroom, whereupon the phone rang.

“Hello?” she said tentatively.

“ 'Ello, luv.”

No mistaking
that
accent. “Kris?”

“The very same.”

“Uh . . . hi.”

“ 'Ere's the thing,” he said, getting right to it. “Amber's gone off to ride a horse. So I was thinkin'—whyn't you come by now?”

“Right
now?”

“No. Tomorra mornin'.” A beat.
“Of course
right now.”

“For?”

“Breakfast. Nothin' like a bit a' breakfast between friends.”

•

By the time their plane landed, Dexter's arm was black and blue, thanks to Rosarita clinging on to him like a leech. He had to admit that it
was
a bumpy landing, but he had his thoughts to keep him calm. And his thoughts were concentrated on Gem as he busily played the “what if” game.

What if
he said to Rosarita, “Okay, I'll give you the divorce you've always wanted, but I must have custody of our child.”

No, she wouldn't go for that. Rosarita would use their baby as a pawn.

What if
he scored a leading role in a major movie, made a lot of money and paid Rosarita off?

It still wouldn't work. She'd never give him the kid.

What if
she gave birth and later that year was run down by a truck?

No. He wasn't that lucky.

So his dream of ending up with Gem was a no go if he wanted to keep his kid. And he wanted to do that more than anything else, because being a father was the most important thing that had ever happened to him.

“How's our baby doing?” he said to Rosarita on their way out of the airport.

“What?” she said irritably.

“Our baby,” he repeated, wondering why she was always in such a bad mood. “How's our baby feeling in your tummy?”