Adored (41 page)

“Max isn’t a loser,” said Siena, stung. “He’s a director, and he has enormous talent.”

“There you go again, talent, talent, talent. Wake up, kid! The guy’s a fucking zero. He’s nothing. Nobody.” Each word was like a dagger in Siena’s heart, but some force compelled her to keep on listening. “He cheated on you, didn’t he? Went out and had some fun with that dime-a-dozen waitress. Why do you think that was?”

“I . . .” She struggled to hold back her tears. Why was Randall bullying her like this? What did he care about her and Max anyway? “I don’t know,” she stammered. “I thought he loved me.”

“Jesus, listen to yourself. Would you grow up?” said Randall brutally. “He did it for two reasons, Siena. One.” He held up his forefinger. “Because that’s what men do. All men. Sooner or later, that’s what we do.”

“Including you?” she challenged him.

“Absolutely including me.” He didn’t miss a beat. “And two.” He waved a second finger menacingly in her direction. “And this is where your boy and I differ: He did it because he’s too much of an insecure prick to deal with your success.”

She hated hearing Max’s character being shredded by this total stranger. But she had to admit, there was more than a grain of truth in what Randall was saying. Max
had
always been jealous of her success. Besides, she didn’t see why she should be defending him, after the way he’d betrayed her.

“He’s holding you back. Get rid of him.” Randall cracked his fingers for good measure, as if he’d just finished wringing something’s neck.

“I have gotten rid of him,” said Siena.

And then she did something she couldn’t really explain. She reached across and touched Randall on the cheek.

He didn’t smile or flinch. He simply held her gaze until, what seemed like hours later, he lifted her hand from his face and pressed it to his lips. To her dismay, Siena found herself fervently wishing he would put his lips all over the rest of her body too, and the sooner the better.

“I can help you,” he said at last. “I can give you what you want. But you have to do as I say. No more hanging on to the coattails of that soap-star uncle of yours.”

“Hunter? Oh no, you can’t say anything against Hunter, he’s been wonderful to me,” she protested.

“Fine. Send him a postcard. Spend Thanksgiving with him,” said Randall. “I don’t give a shit about your family life. I’m talking about your image, about the way you want to be perceived. As long as you live with him, as long as you’re joined at the hip to a guy at his level, then that’s the level people will see you at. Is that all you want to be, some two-bit TV star’s sidekick?”

“Of course not,” said Siena.

“I told you,” said Randall, moving his chair closer and placing a warm, proprietorial hand on her thigh, which Siena did nothing to remove. They both knew by now that she was headed for his bed. “I knew Duke. Pretty well, actually. I think you have a lot of your grandfather in you.”

The hand was moving achingly slowly upward. Siena felt herself sweating and her mouth parting in desire for him. Her pupils were dilated and her eyelids heavy with lust. Three days ago she’d felt like she would never look at any other man, that she and Max would be together for the rest of her life. Yet now here she was, up on some Las Vegas rooftop with Randall fucking Stein of all people, so horny she thought she might explode.

“I should mention one other thing,” whispered Randall, his face buried in her neck as his fingers deftly pulled aside the cotton fabric of her panties.

“Hmmm?” murmured Siena dreamily. The pain in her ribs and chest seemed to have magically disappeared.

“I also know your father,” said Randall, lowering his head to kiss her shoulders and collarbone before moving down to the tops of her beautiful, round, high breasts. He eased one of them out of her bra and began slowly tracing the outline of her nipple with his tongue, while simultaneously sliding two fingers deliciously slowly in and out of her. Siena moaned with delight and put a hand on the back of his bald head, pulling his face back up to hers.

“I hate him,” said Randall. “And he hates me. I hope that won’t be a problem?”

She smiled.

Randall was no oil painting. But by God, he knew how to turn her on.

“No problem at all,” she said. “In fact,
Mr.
Randall Stein . . . I think I might be starting to like you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

For the next three months, Siena’s feet didn’t touch the ground. She never went back to the beach house. After Vegas, she flew back into town with Randall and moved directly into his Malibu estate.

“What about my stuff?” She’d suddenly panicked, strapped in beside him in the back of his private G4. “I have to at least go back and get my things.”

“We’ll buy you new stuff.” Randall didn’t even glance up from
The Wall Street Journal
. “Don’t worry about it.”

Siena didn’t worry about it. After years of battling to make it on her own, first in fashion and then as an actress, it was wonderful to have somebody else make all the decisions, and better still to have them pick up her tab.

Her spirits lifted even further when she saw the Malibu house. She’d been exposed to more than her fair share of wealth and luxury in her short life, but nothing could have prepared her for the opulence of Randall’s mansion.

“Jesus Christ,” she said, clapping her hand over her mouth in awe as he led her into the palatial marble and gold atrium.

The walls were hung with enormous medieval tapestries, and priceless gold and silver urns filled with ostrich feathers stood like gleaming sentinels at the foot of the biggest, most melodramatic staircase Siena had ever seen. Even Hancock Park couldn’t hold a candle to it for sheer grandeur.

“Nice, isn’t it?” said Randall, nonchalantly chucking his briefcase onto what looked like a seventeenth-century low table, exquisitely carved with mahogany angels clinging to each of the legs.

“It’s incredible,” said Siena truthfully, not without a twinge of envy. She wanted to have a house like this. She wanted to be as rich and powerful as he was.

“You want it, don’t you?” In their very brief acquaintance, Randall had already developed an uncanny ability for reading her thoughts. “Stick with me, sweetheart.” He smiled. “Anything’s possible.”

Siena moved toward him. Standing there, surrounded by all his wealth like a Byzantine emperor, he seemed even more powerful and attractive than he had in Vegas. She stood on her toes to kiss him, but he gently pushed her away.

“Not now, baby. I have a lot of work to do after the trip.” He patted her head as if explaining something very complicated to a small child. “Why don’t you go upstairs and settle in, maybe have a nice hot bath, ease those bruises of yours. Patricia can help you.”

Before she could say a word, he had snapped his fingers and a nervous-looking Hispanic maid, in full livery, had appeared at Siena’s side, ready to escort her to the bedroom.

It was a wholly new experience for Siena to have one of her sexual advances rebuffed, albeit temporarily, and she wasn’t at all sure she liked it. However, as she was soon to discover, life with Randall Stein was to be full of new experiences.

For their first few months together, Siena felt like she was living in a dream.
The Prodigal Daughter
was released two weeks after she got back from Vegas, and largely thanks to the publicity surrounding her accident and subsequent relationship with Randall, the movie was a huge success, the runaway surprise hit of the fall.

The ensuing publicity was overwhelming. Siena, who was used to appearing on
Vogue
covers and to a certain amount of press attention, now found herself sucked into a worldwide media feeding frenzy, carefully orchestrated by Randall, who had insisted that poor old Marsha be fired within a week of his bringing Siena home, then brought in his own promotional team to handle his new girlfriend’s image.

Overnight, pictures of Hollywood’s newest golden couple were splashed all over newspapers from L.A. to London: Randall and Siena at her premiere in Tokyo; arriving in his-and-hers Armani at the New York premiere for his latest action blockbuster,
Ocean Drive,
arm in arm with Bruce Willis; Siena, looking mind-bendingly sexy in hot pants and a baseball cap, leaping up and hugging a smug-looking Randall at a Lakers game.

When the news broke in October that Siena had been cast as the heroine in Randall’s upcoming World War II drama, which was shaping up to be the biggest-budget movie of all time, the press went even further into overdrive.

Far from being intimidated, she thrived on the publicity, suddenly drawing energy and life from the flash of the camera bulbs like a plant moved from a dark corner into bright sunlight. Randall also seemed pleased at the success of his promotional efforts with his new protégée, although the “Beauty and the Beast” headlines irked him more than he cared to show. Siena soon learned that her new lover, manager, and mentor, despite all his success and power, was incredibly physically vain. He would typically wake up at five for an hour’s grueling workout with his personal trainer before getting on the phone to his brokers in New York. He was also obsessive about what he ate, and he almost never drank alcohol because he didn’t like the loss of control.

It was a mystery to Siena why he remained so overweight, while she could sit up in bed munching chocolate bars and still keep her flawless figure. Which, as it turned out, was just as well, as she soon found she needed the chocolate for energy. Randall might be in his fifties and in less than perfect shape, but his sexual appetites far exceeded Max’s.

For the first time in her life, Siena had found a lover whose libido more than matched her own, and she found his demands quite exhausting. He was also much kinkier than her other lovers, and especially big on making home porno movies. Despite Siena’s frequent misgivings and occasional protests, he insisted on filming her performing a variety of obscene and degrading acts. Before each performance, he would lay out on the bed a spectacular array of sex toys, restraints, vibrators, and massive black rubber dildos, like bizarre instruments of torture.

Siena’s attraction to him remained intense, although the accessories didn’t do a whole lot for her.

Afterward, he would make an attempt to be affectionate, perhaps allowing her to lie on his chest for a few minutes while he stroked her hair. As a rule, though, Randall was not good with physical contact outside of sex. He did not approve of emotional dependency, either in himself or in others.

Having been burned so badly by Max, Siena was more than happy to embrace this every-man-for-himself philosophy. She enjoyed sex with Randall for what it was—just sex—and she reveled in the fabulous lifestyle he gave her.

Claire McMahon sat in a quiet corner of the parking lot at Fry’s electronics store out near the airport.

It was five-thirty, so the place was fairly busy with after-school shoppers, mostly harassed-looking moms replacing lightbulbs or broken fans on their way home to microwave something for their husband and kids. Claire envied them. She would gladly have traded every penny she had for a happy family life and children.

She readjusted her Chanel sunglasses and glanced around nervously, still scanning the parking lot for the silver Chevy Suburban she was supposed to be meeting. She knew it was stupid, but her heart was pounding violently, and she was gripped by an irrational fear that Pete was going to drive up any minute and catch her red-handed.

This must be what it felt like to have an affair, she thought, and wondered how people ever coped with the stress. But an affair was the last thing on Claire’s mind.

For years she had given in to Pete and cut herself off completely from Siena. Because he needed her, and because she loved him so much, she had put herself through the anguish of having to sit on the sidelines and watch with the rest of the world as her daughter’s turbulent life played out in the media.

But after Siena’s accident and Claire’s terrible conversation with Pete at his office, everything had changed. It was like a lever had finally flicked deep inside Claire, and she could see with searing clarity that Pete would never, ever, change his mind. That if she didn’t do something soon, she really would lose her daughter forever.

She knew she couldn’t contact her directly. The betrayal might kill Peter, and besides, Siena had made it clear in a string of barbed and hurtful articles that she would not welcome her mother with open arms should she attempt a reconciliation.

Even so, she had to do something.

There it was. The silver Chevy, a bit on the grimy side, but with the blacked-out windows she’d been told to look for, swept into the lot and pulled into a space a few rows behind her.

She stepped out of her own Discovery and, locking the doors with trembling hands, made her way over and rapped lightly on the window of the passenger door, which instantly opened. Climbing inside, she shook hands with the man she had met only once before in his grimy office in Compton a few weeks ago. “Hello, Bill,” she said.

“Claire.”

Bill Jennings was not just black, he was jet-black, with that very dark, Sudanese coloring that made his teeth leap out of his face when he smiled, as he did now. “Don’t look so worried,” he chuckled. “You’re not doing anything illegal, you know.”

He handed her a brown envelope, which she immediately opened. Inside were seven or eight pictures of Siena, as well as a typed and bound document, detailing her daughter’s significant movements over the past three months.

“Where was this taken?” she asked, pointing to a picture of Siena, her face still looking bruised, outside the gates of a palatial-looking estate.

“That’s Randall Stein’s place,” said Bill.

Claire frowned. Like everyone else, she had read about Siena’s liaison with Stein, and the thought of it made her shudder. Claire had met him only once or twice, but she remembered Randall as a thug and a bully, albeit a charming one at times. Pete had always despised the man, and Claire couldn’t help but wonder if Siena had taken up with Randall as some sort of revenge for Pete’s abandonment. If this was a cry for help, Claire was listening.

“Thanks for these,” she said, gathering up the photographs and putting them carefully back in the envelope. “I’ll wire the money to your account on Monday then, shall I? And we’ll meet again next week?”

He nodded, and she got out of the car.

“Try not to worry,” he said kindly. He couldn’t imagine how he’d feel if his daughter were shacked up with a guy older than he was. “She seems in good shape right now. And I’ll let you know right away if anything significant happens.”

“Thanks.” Claire smiled.

Bill was a kind man. But he didn’t know how much of a lifeline he was becoming to her.

One gray morning in November, Siena sat in the conservatory at Malibu, having a leisurely breakfast on her own.

Since becoming Randall’s girlfriend, she had gotten used to eating in pampered isolation. He was always either in the office or down at the studios long before Siena emerged from bed. Even on weekdays, she didn’t have to leave the house till nine, as they rarely started shooting any of her scenes before ten. Working on one of Randall’s movies was a whole lot different from working for that slave driver Muller.

But today was a Saturday, so she was looking forward to indulging herself guilt-free and lingering over her blueberry muffin and latte till midmorning.

“Have you seen this?”

Randall, looking excited in his weekend uniform of khaki linen pants and a black Gucci shirt, his hair still wet from a post-workout shower, burst into the room and slammed the
L.A. Times
down in front of Siena, scattering muffin crumbs everywhere.

“Seen what?” she asked, unsmiling, annoyed that her peace had been so rudely disturbed. “Shouldn’t you be in the office?”

“Take a look,” said Randall, ignoring her and pouring himself a cup of coffee from the freshly filled caffetiere. “It seems old Minnie McMahon finally gave up the ghost last night.”

Siena picked up the paper and stared at the headline:

MINNIE MCMAHON, WIFE OF LEGENDARY DUKE, DIES AT AGE EIGHTY-THREE.

Below this stark announcement was a picture of Duke and Minnie on their wedding day, looking at each other and laughing. The picture shocked Siena almost as much as the headline—she couldn’t remember her grandparents ever being remotely happy together. How odd to think that they must have been, once.

Putting down her coffee shakily, Siena turned to pages four and five, where a montage of pictures caused her to catch her breath.

There was a small shot of the old Hancock Park house where, it appeared, Grandma Minnie had died peacefully in her sleep. Siena had studiously avoided driving anywhere near the old neighborhood since moving back to L.A., and she didn’t have any pictures of her own, so this was the first time she’d seen it in years.

She touched the image in wonder, tracing the outline of the house and the big lawn where she and Hunter and Max used to play. It made her want to cry.

Below were more pictures of Duke and Minnie at various public functions, as well as one of her parents, smiling on either side of a very frail-looking Minnie. Siena felt her heart tighten painfully as she looked at her mother’s face. It was thinner and slightly more wrinkled than she remembered it, but fundamentally, Claire looked the same: kind, nervous, and a little bit lost.

Looking at the picture, Siena felt an avalanche of longing and loss hit her in the chest. She was stunned.

“I had no idea the old bat was still going,” said Randall with typical insensitivity. “There’s very little about you in there, unfortunately. Something in the obituary about Hunter and his mother, though. Caroline, isn’t it? Couple of the other papers even got onto her in England for a quote. She’s married to some lord or something now, I gather.”

“Hmmm?” Siena was miles away, lost in painful memories.

“Anyway, baby, I’ve been thinking about how we should spin it,” Randall continued, buttering himself a piece of toast, apparently oblivious to her anguish. “You need to call that dumb-fuck uncle of yours.”

“What?” Siena put down the paper and looked at him, eyes brimming with tears of grief and anger. “What the hell are you
talking
about, Randall? My grandmother’s just died, okay?”

“So?” he said through a mouthful of toast. “Don’t try to tell me you gave a shit about her. When did you last speak to the woman? Five years ago? Ten?”