Punchline (2 page)

Carrying a coffee mug labeled I Am Woman, I Am Invincible, I Am Tired, Janie marched into Belle’s office and flung herself across a velvet love seat. “You aren’t going to believe what Darryl Horak is doing. I’m not sure I believe it myself. Let me ask myself this question—Janie, do you believe it? No. There, you see?”

The remaining bit of doughnut went down Belle’s throat in a hard lump. “So what’s he doing?”

“He’s shooting next summer’s centerfolds on the beach today, according to a photographer I know,” Janie began.

“No doubt in front of his house,” Belle grumbled. “So he can whisk the ladies into his bedroom without the inconvenience of taking them to lunch.”

Janie uttered a bark of laughter. “Ooh, you do hate that man! No, actually, he lives in Redondo if I remem-
ber correctly, and they’re shooting in Santa Monica. But listen! Guess who’s going to be Miss May?”

Belle shrugged. She didn’t pay much attention to which model was all the rage at the moment They came and went with the speed of magazine editions.

Janie leaned toward her with the air of a spy about to impart the formula for Big Boy’s secret sauce. “Constance Sasser,” she said. “Is this weird? Is this unbelievable?”

Belle was outraged. “Constance Sasser?” she demanded.
“Our
Constance Sasser?”

“Apparently she whipped off her thick glasses, shed her white lab coat and bingo!” Janie said. “Darryl Horak saw her potential right in our very pages, according to the grapevine. That rat!”

“Darryl Horak reads
Just Us?”
Belle scoured every issue of
About Town,
but she was powered by pure malice. “It’s—it’s offensive. She’s an intellectual. A scientist. A
theoretical
scientist, for Pete’s sake.”

A physicist at the center of controversy over her theories positing the existence of alternate universes, Constance had been the subject of a profile in
Just Us.
Belle recalled thinking that the scientist was hiding pretty blue eyes and good bone structure, but it infuriated her that Darryl Horak had noticed.

Worse, he was treating this brilliant woman like a sex object, posing her on the beach in a skimpy bathing suit for the titillation of his readers.

“What are we going to do about it?” Janie asked. “If Constance wants to take her clothes off for the masses…well, she’s a grown woman. Grown in all the right places, I might add.”

Belle didn’t fully agree. Despite her brilliance, Constance was a naive young woman.

Darryl must have snowed her with his idea, once expressed in an interview Belle had read, that women were celebrating their sexuality in a healthy way by displaying their bodies for men to ogle. But, of course, only perfectly proportioned young women with great skin were allowed to celebrate their sexuality in
About Town.

“He wants women in swimsuits?” Belle said. “Let’s give him women in swimsuits!”

T
HE SHOOT WAS
going perfectly.

They were tackling three Flaunt It centerfolds at once to take advantage of the still-warm September weather. Everything had dovetailed. It was a hot, sunny day and the beach lay beautifully empty. Jim Rickard, Darryl’s best photographer and good buddy, had been available, and they’d lined up as stunning a trio of beauties as a man could wish for.

Technically speaking, the editor of
About Town
didn’t have to be present at the shoot. Setting up the scenes was his art director’s job, and Elva Ching was good at it.

But Darryl wouldn’t miss the chance to be here. He wanted to insure that everything about his magazine was perfect.

After he’d graduated from college, he’d aimed for a career in show business, with the vague idea of getting into production. It hadn’t taken long working as a gofer in a TV studio to discover he preferred to become his own boss as soon as possible.

He also enjoyed squiring lovely women, and helping their careers, and seeing their eyes light up with gratitude. So ten years ago, as a twenty-three-year-old, Darryl had rounded up the backing from friends and family, started the magazine out of his bachelor apartment and landed in heaven.

Somewhere during the past decade, though, the pretty women had begun blurring into one another. To his sur-
prise, Darryl found he cared more about the editorial content and the visual quality of the magazine than about meeting yet another to-die-for model.

Then, a few years back, he’d started to get serious about one girlfriend. Celia, an attorney, was smart, independent and a knockout.

Everything had gone well until the two of them had started talking marriage. Then she’d changed.

Although Celia had maintained her own apartment, she’d begun spending most of her time at Darryl’s place. She restocked his refrigerator, gave away most of his liquor and began kicking him out of bed early on weekends. He had to exercise every single day, she said, or he risked dying young.

When he’d tried to argue, Celia had produced a survey from the newspaper. It said married men depended on their wives to keep them healthy, physically and emotionally.

At that point, Darryl had no longer felt healthy in either of those departments. He’d felt trapped and stifled.

Finally, Celia herself had realized their relationship was deteriorating, and had left to try her luck elsewhere. Before departing, though, she’d warned Darryl that he needed someone to look after him.

The statement had made him angry. Men weren’t overgrown kids who needed women to make them whole.

That was when Darryl’s
About Town
philosophy had come into focus. As far as he was concerned, men could manage their own nutrition and exercise. They could become wine connoisseurs without losing control of their drinking. They could develop rich personal relationships with friends and family all by themselves. And his magazine would show them how.

In the past few years, he’d run a number of articles on those subjects. But Darryl didn’t kid himself. Gorgeous women were still the lure that drew men to
About Town.

Today’s selection of models would certainly send pulses racing. Miss March, an aspiring actress named Mindy who had a mane of dark hair, made it clear she would enjoy having Darryl over for dinner any night he found himself free.

Next year’s Miss April, with long strawberry tresses and a Cockney accent, had been unable to stop in-line skating long enough to be photographed. Finally Elva had suggested shooting her in action, and so they had. In the process, Miss April had favored Darryl with an exaggerated wink that let him know she preferred not to skate alone.

And then there was Miss May. Darryl had to congratulate himself on his coup. In addition to her physical attractions, the scientist would bring international attention to
About Town.

The fact that he was thumbing his nose at Belle Martens in the process didn’t detract from his glee one whit.

He’d tried not to think about her this past month, except as an aberration in the otherwise smooth course of his life. Okay, so she looked better than he would have expected in her birthday suit. And he couldn’t erase the memory of how her breasts felt in his mouth, that mixture of firmness and yielding, those tantalizing pink nipples…

He caught himself with a jolt. He had to stop daydreaming and concentrate on business.

He forced himself to focus on Elva as she tried to sweet-talk Connie Sasser out of her shy stiffness. Their efforts would be wasted if the woman couldn’t relax in front of the camera.

For Connie, Elva had chosen a green-and-silver swimsuit cut high on the hip and low in the front. The scientist, however, tended to clench her arms at her sides, as if afraid she would spill out of the thing. She also kept her
head lowered, so that chin-length dark-blond hair fell over her face like a veil.

“The light’s going,” Jim Rickard muttered as he watched Elva try to pose Connie on a lounge chair amid an array of potted flowers. “Sun’s getting harsh.”

“She’s worth waiting for,” Darryl said.

The bearded photographer grinned at him. “Go for the intellectual type, do you?”

“I didn’t mean for me, personally,” he corrected. “I meant for the publicity she’ll bring.”

“Glad to hear you say that.” Jim checked his lens filter. “You’re the only guy I know smart enough to stay single into his thirties.”

Jim had endured a bitter divorce the previous year. Darryl didn’t pry into the gory details, but he knew Jim desperately missed his five-year-old son, Nick. It didn’t seem fair that Jim’s ex-wife, Tori, had taken the boy and moved to the East Coast, thus effectively denying Jim frequent visitation.

Besides, in the years Darryl had known the couple, Jim had made as many sacrifices for Nick as had Tori. Why did so many judges assume mothers were superior parents? As far as Darryl was concerned, men could take care of children just as well. Maybe one of these days he would write an article on the subject.

Elva put a tape of country music on the boom box, but Connie still didn’t loosen up. “I’m sorry,” the physicist said. “I don’t think I can do this, after all.”

“Sure you can.” Elva brushed straight black bangs from her forehead, a gesture of strained patience. “You look terrific. Imagine you’re alone with the man of your dreams and he’s standing there admiring you, holding a glass of champagne.”

“Or his Nobel Prize,” Jim suggested.

“Or
your
Nobel Prize,” Darryl offered.

“Or—what the hell?” said Elva.

Darryl’s first impression, from the corner of his eye, was that a busload of tourists had landed. Then he realized that not only was there no bus in sight, but the new arrivals were all female and all were wearing swimsuits.

Belle Martens was leading the pack.

“I don’t believe it.” Jim started to laugh. ‘‘Would you look at that?”

How could I help looking at that?
Darryl thought irritably.

A crowd of women, from tiny to tremendous, teenagers to senior citizens, surged toward him. Their vast variation of shapes and endowments were bared by the tiniest lot of swimsuits ever allowed to leave a store without a police escort.

Darryl counted at least twelve women. It was hard to be exact, the way they kept bouncing around. Their appearance here couldn’t be a coincidence.

Nor did he believe Belle had draped her curvaceous body with a black-and-gold string bikini in the middle of a workday just to go exercise on the beach.

She probably wanted to spoil his photo shoot to get revenge for that night of passion, which he couldn’t even remember. Damn it, he wanted at least the recollection of ripping the bra off those ripe breasts, and sliding a slip of fabric down her hips, and feeling her arms wrap around him as he buried himself inside—

“Oh, there’s Belle!” Connie cried in relief, and jumped out of her lounge chair.

Elva threw up her hands. “There goes her concentration.”

Darryl strode forward, caught Dr. Sasser by the elbow and halted her before she reached the newcomers. To Belle, he said, “Sorry, we’ve already hired our model.”

She planted herself on the boardwalk directly in front of him. The sunlight brought out the golden highlights in
her inordinately red hair and cinnamon eyes. “We’re here for educational purposes.”

“Really?” He eyed her bikini with deliberate provocation. “I hope you didn’t pay much for that. There’s hardly any material in it.”

“Precisely my point.” She folded her arms, which had the effect of emphasizing her cleavage. In contrast to Dr. Sasser, Belle appeared to possess no shyness whatsoever. “We want the public to see that real women come in all shapes and sizes. That you can be desirable at two hundred pounds or ninety. Big hips, small busts—who cares?”

At that moment Darryl wished that Belle did indeed weigh two hundred pounds, or better yet had opted for a hood and a large potato sack. She had no right to torment him with the body that had insisted on sneaking into his fantasies ever since their night together.

He said a silent prayer of thanks for the fact that he’d thrown a sport coat over his jeans and oxford shirt. Hopefully it was hiding his irrepressible male response.

“Where did you get this crowd, anyway?” he asked.

Belle shrugged. “My editors and I called everybody we know. The response was amazing.”

“I’ve got a great idea.” Elva Ching indicated the giggling group of visitors, who were linking arms and teaching Connie to line-dance to a song on the tape. “Let’s put them all in, the way they requested.”

Before Darryl could respond, Jim snatched up his camera and began shooting. “Yeah, they finally broke the ice with Dr. Sasser. This is great stuff! And get a load of that babe over there—what a trip!”

This last remark referred to a tiny woman who must have spent at least eighty summers in the sun to have achieved such a deep shade of bronze on her abundant wrinkles. A bikini hung lifelessly from her hips and chest, but the animation on her face more than compensated.

Darryl contemplated dragging Belle into the picture as well, but she stood too far away. The editor of
Just Us
clearly had no intention of appearing in an
About Town
centerfold.

A few minutes later, Jim and Elva declared themselves satisfied and began packing their equipment. The women stopped dancing and wandered off.

Belle wore the mildest expression Darryl had ever seen on her face. He might even have thought she was in a good mood, if he had not known such a thing was impossible.

“I guess we both won,” she said. “You got Connie and we made our point.”

“I don’t plan to make a habit of breaking even’ he retorted.

He expected an equally acerbic response, but Belle was frowning at something down the beach. “What do you suppose they’re doing?”

Shading his eyes, Darryl made out a small TV camera crew. Across the minicam was lettered Channel 17 News. It was a station known for pursuing celebrity gossip.

The jeans-clad cameraman was following a woman in a sleek business suit, with short chestnut curls and pale predatory eyes. He recognized her as reporter Kate Munro.

Then he noticed the camera swinging toward himself and Belle. “What the hell?” he said.

“Quick!” She ducked behind him. “Shield me!”

“Why?” He tried to twist so he could see her, but she kept eluding him. How could a woman be so tiny and so forceful at the same time?

“Channel 17 is into shock news,” Belle answered. “I don’t know what brought them here, but the sight of me in a bathing suit will set their evil hearts dancing.”

“They’re probably here to get shots of Connie,” said Darryl, and marched over to warn Dr. Sasser to get
dressed. He couldn’t help grinning at the furious noises issuing from behind him, as Belle was left without cover.

While Connie threw on her robe, he kept the reporter busy talking about how he and his staff chose their centerfolds. He never missed an opportunity to publicize his magazine.
About Town
had to compete for ads, rack space and subscribers with not only other men’s magazines but also women’s publications like
Just Us.

He wondered if Channel 17 broadcast as far as the desert east of Los Angeles, where a megamall was under construction. Darryl had met with the marketing director recently about cosponsoring an “About Town” opening weekend next June.

It would be a huge splash, with celebrities, TV tie-ins, and fashion shows throughout the mall. The publicity for the
About Town
name could mean increased ads and circulation. However, the marketing director was talking with the publisher of
Just Us
as well.

That gave Darryl one more reason to monopolize the Channel 17 camera until its team finally departed. You never knew who might see the broadcast.

“It probably was Dr. Sasser they were interested in,” he announced to Belle as he returned. “But they might show a few shots of you, just for comic relief.”

She didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she stood with her back to him, staring at a row of newspaper vending boxes.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” She swung to face him, startled.

“You were looking at something.”

“Nothing. The stock market.”

“On the front page?”

“The Dow’s up,” she blurted, then called an enthusiastic farewell to her departing friends.

If there was nothing important in the papers, why did she keep standing so that she blocked his view? Darryl angled closer.

She stood her ground, waving vigorously at the group of women who were almost out of sight.

He reached toward the box on the right, which held the
Los Angeles Times.
He could read part of its headline, something about a peace conference, which he didn’t think was of much interest to Belle. Or to him, either, at the moment, but he pretended great fascination.

As he peered at the headlines he leaned right over Belle, backing her body into the row of interconnected news boxes. Recoiling from the hard shapes behind her, her soft and nearly naked curves pressed against Darryl.