Married Lovers (18 page)

M
ary Ellen stayed the night. Don had not planned on her spending the night in his bed, but how could he throw her out right after they’d made love? He’d never been adept at getting rid of women after he’d slept with them. As soon as they were off the premises it was easy–don’t take their calls, don’t answer their e-mails, and never reply to their texts. But once they were snugly settled in his bed it was a different situation.

Quite frankly he preferred sleeping alone, but what could he do? Hiring professionals had worked for a short time, although the shine of paying a woman to do things that most women would give their left tit to do for free, had soon worn off.

Now it seemed he was back on the dating trail, a place he wasn’t so sure he wanted to be.

What he
wanted
was Cameron Paradise.

What she apparently wanted was not him.

But he could change her mind, couldn’t he?

With Mary Ellen snuggled up beside him, he slept fitfully, not falling off until three a.m., then oversleeping, so that when Cameron rang his doorbell at seven a.m. he was still totally out of it.

The bell rang several times before the sound got through to him. Usually Butch woke him up with a few solid licks to the face,
but Butch was outside by the pool where Mary Ellen had requested he stay.

“Isn’t that your doorbell?” Mary Ellen murmured, twining one leg over his, her warm body closing in.

“Uh, yes,” he mumbled, disentangling himself and jumping out of bed. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He almost made it to the door before realizing he was stark bollock naked. He hurried back into his bathroom, grabbed a white terrycloth robe and headed for the door again. This time he flung it open.

“I see we overslept again,” Cameron remarked.

She was standing there looking so fucking gorgeous he could barely take it. “You got me,” he said ruefully.

“Y’know,” she observed, walking past him into the house, “you really should stop with those late nights of yours, ’cause if I’m getting here at seven, I expect you to be ready for action.”

“I’m ready for action all right,” he joked, tightening the belt on his bathrobe.

She smiled slightly. “Not
that
kind of action.”

“What kind did you have in mind?” he asked, moving closer.

“Are you always such a flirt?” she said, backing away.

“Only when I’m around you.”

“Sorry that I bring that out in you.”

“Never apologize, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Hmm…I suppose you’d like me to put on the coffee before we get started.”

“How’dja guess?” he said, attempting to suppress a yawn.

“It’s becoming our routine, isn’t it?” she said crisply. “I make the coffee, you get into your work-out clothes, that cuts our time by about half an hour.”

“You wouldn’t be accusing me of slacking off, would you?”

“Never!” she said, laughing. “By the way, when
is
this event you’re hosting? The one where you expect to be in optimum shape?”

“Too damn soon,” he groaned. “I hate doing that shit.”

“Maybe I should call you when I leave my house in future, make sure you’re out of bed,” she said. “What do you think?”

“I think you’d be the best-looking wake-up service in town.”

“Only for you,” she said with a smile.

“Why?” he said, somewhat encouraged. “Are you saying I’m your favorite client?”

“No, but you are coming to our opening party and bringing a few celebrity friends. So…I guess I’m obliged to give you
some
extra perks.”

“I’ll take ’em,” he said quickly.

“Where’s Butch?” she asked, glancing around.

“Out by the pool.”

“How come?”

“’Cause that’s where he slept last night.”

“You shouldn’t leave a dog outside at night in L.A.,” she scolded. “Even a big dog. There’s coyotes everywhere. A friend of mine had her little puppy eaten by one, and that happened during the day.”

At that moment Mary Ellen emerged from the bedroom. She had put on one of his shirts and nothing else. Her hair was pinned on top of her head, and her pretty face was makeup-less.

“Oh!” she said, taken aback when she spotted Cameron. “Sorry, am I interrupting?”

Cameron glanced at Mary Ellen, then back at Don. “
Now
I understand,” she said knowingly.

Jesus Christ,
he thought.
Why couldn’t Mary Ellen have stayed in the bedroom where I left her? Why does she have to appear, parading around in one of my shirts? Fuck!

He’d wanted to make Cameron jealous, but he hadn’t wanted her to actually run into the girl he’d spent the night with.

“Uh, Cameron, this is Mary Ellen Evans,” he said, keeping it smooth. “Mary Ellen, meet Cameron, my personal trainer.”

“Oh,” Mary Ellen said, relieved that this tall blonde goddess
wasn’t competition. “Are you planning on working out? Can I join you?”

“Of course you can,” Cameron said, shooting Don an amused look. She knew he was furious that Mary Ellen had emerged from his bedroom, but so what? It was fun to watch Don almost lose his cool. “It’ll be a blast. I’ll put on the coffee while you two get into your clothes. We’ll have a joint session.” A long beat. “And you know what, Don?”

“What?” he said, frowning.

“I won’t even charge you double.”

Later, after an uncomfortable work-out with both women, Don met up with Ryan at The Four Seasons dining room.

“So then,” Don said, gulping down his second cup of strong black coffee, “Mary Ellen comes waltzing out of my bedroom in one of
my
shirts and nothing else, like she’s taken up residence. I was pissed, I can tell you that.”

“What did Cameron do?” Ryan asked, thinking that only yesterday he’d had breakfast with Cameron in the same place. He hadn’t called her. Couldn’t call her, especially now with Don carrying on about her as if she was the only woman in the world.

“She kind of got off on the situation,” Don admitted. “Jesus, Ryan, I think I’m really falling.”

“Yeah, you’re falling so hard that you slept with Mary Ellen.”

“It meant nothing. Cameron’s the woman for me.”

“That’s probably because you can’t have her,” Ryan responded dryly, feeling a frisson of satisfaction that Cameron hadn’t fallen into Don’s bed like most women.

“Bullshit,” Don objected. “She’s just…well, I don’t have to tell you. You met her at the party. Isn’t she something?”

Ryan nodded silently. She was something all right. She was
beautiful, and smart and caring and kind. And much as he loved Don–his best friend, his buddy, she was too good for him.

Or was he thinking that because he couldn’t have her for himself?

Man, he was confused. And he hadn’t brought up the subject of divorce with Mandy because by the time he’d got up that morning, she was busy hosting some kind of spiritual yoga class in their living room with three girlfriends.

Chanting was not his thing, so he’d made a quick exit. Now here he was with Don, and all Don wanted to talk about was Cameron.

Ryan realized that he couldn’t call her. No. Not while Don was so enamored. In all the years they’d been friends they’d never allowed a woman to come between them, and he wasn’t letting it happen now.

“Sorry,” Don said, realizing he’d been hogging the conversation like a teenage boy with a crush. “Tell me about
your
evening?”

“It was okay until Hamilton showed up with his latest.”

“Oh, shit!” Don exclaimed. “How did Mandy take
that
?”

“She was okay, really. On her best behavior.”

“How come?”

“’Cause Hamilton scares the crap out of her. She’s always edgy around him.”

A waiter approached their table, the same waiter who’d served him and Cameron yesterday. Handing them menus, the waiter greeted Ryan with a cheery, “Nice to see you again so soon, Mr Richards.”

“Thanks,” Ryan said.

“Will you be ordering the same as yesterday?”

“Uh, sure.”

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but was that lady you were with a model?”

Don put down his menu and threw Ryan a quizzical look. “A
model?” he questioned. “Have you been getting a little on the side?”

“Excuse me, Mr Richards,” the waiter said, flustered. “I shouldn’t have asked. It was most indiscreet of me.”

Somehow Ryan managed to maintain his cool.

“That’s okay,” he said easily. And to Don–“I was interviewing an actress.”

“Over breakfast?” Don said, grinning. “You old dog, I do believe you’re holding out on me!”

“
G
ood morning, Mrs Heckerling,” said Madge, Hamilton’s Scottish housekeeper who’d been with him for over twenty years.

“Good morning,” Anya replied stiffly, as she entered the spacious kitchen in Hamilton’s Bel Air mansion.

She still could not get used to being called Mrs Heckerling, nor could she get used to the way people treated her with deference and respect, as if she was someone important.

She was well aware that they only regarded her as important because she’d married a very rich man–a billionaire, in fact. However, being married to Hamilton J. Heckerling was not all easy. She lived in fear that one day he would find out about her past, and abandon her like everyone else had–one way or the other. First her parents; then her surrogate family; next Serge; followed by Igor; and finally Velma–who’d vanished and left her in the hands of Joe–a man who’d made the rest of them seem like kindly amateurs.

The two years she’d spent in Amsterdam were worse than anything that had gone before. The things Joe had forced her to do were unspeakable.

Many nights she awoke in a cold sweat–imagining that she’d been exposed as a fraud and was forced to return to her old life,
a life she’d sooner die than go back to. The sad truth was that she lived with a cloud looming over her, imagining that one day someone would discover who she really was, or perhaps recognize her.

That someone had finally appeared a week ago. That someone was the American man who’d helped her escape from Amsterdam seven years ago.

It was a cruel twist of fate that the man who’d rescued her turned out to be married to Hamilton’s daughter.

Did his wife know about her?

Had he told her everything?

And if he hadn’t–would he do so now?

Anya had no idea how she was supposed to handle the situation. Should she run? Take off in the middle of the night and hope that Hamilton would not come after her?

No. That would be foolish, for surely if she vanished, Ryan would talk, and then everyone would know her dirty little secret.

It was imperative that she speak to him alone, find out if he’d told anyone. Because if he had…

I will kill myself,
she thought.
Swallow a bottle of Hamilton’s potent sleeping pills and end it all.

She’d tried to kill herself one night in Amsterdam after Joe had forced her to perform at an orgy with two lesbians, and seven drunken German men. She’d found a razor in the hotel bathroom where the orgy was taking place, and attempted to slit her wrists. But Joe had come across her slumped on the floor covered in blood. He’d kicked her as if she were a dog, and shouted that she was the most useless whore he’d ever had to deal with. Then he’d dragged her to the Emergency Room where they’d stitched her slashed wrists and sent her home.

The next night it was back to work as usual.

“Can I get you anything, Mrs Heckerling?” Madge asked, standing with her arms crossed in front of her formidable bosom.

“No, thank you,” Anya replied politely.

Madge had already decided that she did not approve of her boss’s latest wife; however, she always remained polite. This one was tricky though–not as transparent as the others. Madge was certain that this one had something to hide.

“Perhaps I’ll make my own tea,” Anya said, edging toward the fridge.

“Not necessary, Mrs Heckerling,” Madge said, blocking her way. “I’ll bring it out to you on the terrace.”

“Fine,” Anya said, realizing she was not welcome in the kitchen–it was Madge’s domain and the woman wanted her to stay out.

She wandered outside. Hamilton was sitting at the breakfast table reading the
Wall Street Journal
.

“Hi, honey,” he said, barely looking up.

She sat down and gazed out at the vast expanse of green lawns surrounded by well-tended flower beds and blossoming jacaranda bushes. In the distance she could see the blue sparkle of an Olympic-size swimming pool, and an all-grass tennis court.

She was married to the man who owned all this. She was married to a billionaire.

And did she love him?

No.

And was she planning on staying with him?

Yes.

Hamilton glanced up from his newspaper. “Has Mandy called you yet?” he inquired, peering over his horn-rimmed glasses.

Anya shook her head.

“That girl!” he muttered, irritated. “I told her to show you around, introduce you to people. She gets plenty of perks from me, and yet she can’t do one damn thing I ask.”

“Maybe she is busy,” Anya said.
Or maybe she knows who I really am and wants nothing to do with me
.

“Busy my ass,” Hamilton snapped. “Busy doing fuck all. Takes after her mother, you know.”

Anya didn’t know. She’d never asked about his previous wives. She didn’t care.

I am Mrs Hamilton J. Heckerling now
, she thought.
And that’s all that matters
.

A
nya had wished and wished so many times for someone to rescue her from the life she was forced to live. Her world was hardly worth existing in and she’d never thought she would be lucky enough to escape. Then one fateful night, God (in Whom she did not believe–but at last He came through for her) brought someone to her who changed everything.

An American man who was about to get married. An American man who saw into her damaged soul, and decided it was his job to help her. He’d paid for her freedom, she knew that much. Not as much as Joe would’ve liked, but her savior had threatened him with the police, and since he had connections at the American Embassy, Joe had backed down.

Anya didn’t know the details. All she knew was that the American man had arranged to get her to a safe house where a kindly couple looked after her, and then months later she was given the right papers and sent to New York where she was set up with an organization who helped girls in trouble. They put her up in a girls’ hostel, and got her a job with a family, where she went to work as a day-time au pair. Her duties were light house cleaning, and taking care of a six-month-old baby. She could barely take care of herself, let alone a baby.

The young couple she worked for were nice. The father didn’t
seem to expect sex, and the mother was pleasant. They were both at work all day.

Anya was dizzy with everything that had happened. One moment she was a sex slave in one of the most decadent cities in the world. Then within months she was looking after a baby in New York–a dazzling fast-paced city that terrified her.

The girls’ hostel she was staying at was clean and comfortable. The other girls in residence were a mixed group. Anya kept to herself, she went to work every morning at eight, returning to the hostel at five. After dinner every night she sat in the Recreation Room staring at the TV until it was time for bed. American TV was quite a revelation, so many pretty faces, so many nice clean houses filled with happy families. And even if they weren’t happy, even if they were fighting and screaming at each other, they always ended up happy. Life on TV was very satisfying.

One of the other residents–Ella, a black girl with a mass of frizzed hair, large breasts and plenty of attitude–kept on attempting to start a conversation. Ella reminded Anya of the girls at Madam Olga’s, she had so many questions.

“Where you comin’ from?”

“Talk to me, girl.”

“Your family kick you out?”

“Ever done drugs?”

“We need t’ get our asses outta this fuckin’ prison.”

Ella never shut up.

“You’re so fuckin’ quiet,” she said to Anya one day. “I can’t get nothin’ outta you.”

Anya continued staring at the TV. It was her drug. She was addicted.

“How much they payin’ you at your job?” Ella asked, sitting down beside her. “’Cause where I work the cheap bastards are payin’ me shit to babysit two screaming brats. An’ ya gotta know–this place is a racket. They take us girls in who got themselves in trouble, then they send us out t’ work as cheap fuckin’ labor. An’ didja know that
when we hit eighteen they’re gonna throw us out on our asses? Didja know that?”

Anya shook her head. She didn’t know that
.

“Mind you,” Ella ruminated, “I was livin’ on the fuckin’ street before some fuckin’ do-gooder dropped me off here. So mebbe I ain’t got too much to complain ’bout. Least I got a damn bed t’ sleep in.”

Anya continued to stare at the TV. A homely-looking man with a wide plastic smile was giving away cars and fridges and all kinds of luxury goods. Girls in gold evening gowns fluttered around him like exotic birds, while plainer-dressed plump women jumped up and down, screaming with delight as they won things. Anya was fascinated
.

“How’d you get here?” Ella wanted to know. “Didja run away from home same as me? I had a step-dad come bargin’ inta my room every night t’ get him some juicy pussy. That happen t’ you?”

Anya thought of the family who’d taken her in when she was eleven; the father of the house who’d sexually molested her night after night while his wife tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. Then she recalled the night the soldiers had invaded the house and killed every one of them–except her. Somehow she’d been spared. For what? More horrors to come
.

“Well?” Ella demanded. “What’s
your
fuckin’ story?”

Anya shrugged. She’d learned not to say too much, it was safer that way.

“You’re a quiet one,” Ella muttered. “Ain’t ya got
nothin’
t’ say?”

“Yes,” Anya said at last, pointing at the TV. “How can I get on a show like that? I would like to win things too.”

Ella shrieked with laughter. “Wouldn’t we all like t’ get ourselves soma that shit. But we ain’t gonna get nothin’ stayin’ here.”

“Then what should we do?” Anya asked, her face quite serious
.

Ella shrugged. “I dunno. You got any skills?”

“Skills?”

“Somethin’ you’re way good at.”

“Yes,” Anya said, nodding wisely for one so young. “Sex. I am very good at sex.”