Lady Boss (3 page)

Abigaile was pushy and grasping. She loved entertaining and big parties. She lived for shopping and glitzy social events. A true Hollywood princess.

Primrose – the younger and prettier of the two – had opted for a different kind of life in England, where she was able to raise her two children in what she considered a more real atmosphere.

And then there were his granddaughters' husbands. Abigaile's husband, Mickey Stolli, ran the studio, while Primrose's spouse, Ben Harrison, took care of Panther Studios' overseas operation.

Mickey and Ben also loathed each other. For the sake of business they had formed an uneasy truce. It helped that they lived on different sides of the Atlantic.

Abe had christened them the scum-in-laws. He considered them both cheating connivers who would steal everything they could.

It amused him to discuss the scum-in-laws with Inga. She hardly ever cracked a smile, although she was certainly an avid listener, missing no detail of what he imagined were the scum-in-laws' latest nefarious activities.

Abe had a loyal employee firmly ensconced on the studio lot. This was Herman Stone, an unassuming man with the useless title of Personal Assistant to Mr. Panther. Herman visited Abe once a month and gave him a rundown of studio activities. Everyone knew he was Abe's spy, therefore he was left alone and was never privy to any important information. He had a comfortable office, and an elderly secretary, Sheila. Herman and Sheila were both relics of Abe Panther's reign, perfectly harmless and absolutely unfirable until the day Abe Panther dropped dead.

Soon, Mickey Stolli hoped. For then he would have complete control and could set about getting rid of his brother-in-law, Ben Harrison.

Soon, Ben Harrison hoped. For then he was going to move back to Hollywood and grab the studio from his conniving brother-in-law's grasp.

When Abe Panther dropped, Abigaile Stolli and Primrose Harrison knew they were destined to become two of the most powerful women in Hollywood. Abe had never gone public with Panther Studios. He owned it – all one hundred and twenty glorious acres of prime land. So the girls would inherit everything.

Mickey Stolli planned to rule his inherited kingdom like the studio heads of the old days.

Ben Harrison planned to sell off parcels of the valuable land just as Twentieth Century Fox had done, and become a multi-billionaire.

The scum-in-laws. They couldn't wait, and old Abe Panther knew it.

That's why he had other ideas. Ideas that if Abigaile and Mickey, Primrose and Ben knew about, they would have committed hara-kiri in the middle of Chasens on a Sunday night.

Abe planned to sell his studio.

And the buyer he had in mind was Lucky Santangelo.

In New York Steven Berkeley kissed Mary-Lou, patted her lovingly on the stomach, and headed for the door, pausing only to ask, ‘Are we in or out tonight?'

‘Out,' she replied.

Steven groaned. ‘Why?' he asked plaintively.

‘'Cause when that baby starts to bulge, I ain't goin'
no
where, man.'

They both laughed. Mary-Lou was a glowingly pretty black woman, a few months away from her twenty-third birthday, and two and a half months away from giving birth to their first child. They'd been married nearly three years.

Steven Berkeley had skin the colour of rich milk chocolate, black curly hair, and unfathomable green eyes. Six feet three inches tall, and forty-seven years of age, he kept himself in great shape – visiting the gym three times a week, and swimming at an indoor pool every other day.

Mary-Lou was the star of a popular television sitcom, and Steven was a highly successful defence attorney. They'd met when her managers had approached his firm to represent her while she sued a low-life magazine for publishing nude photos of her taken when she was sixteen. Steven had accepted the case, won her an award of sixteen million dollars – since appealed and reduced – and married the girl. In spite of a twenty-four-year age difference, both of them had never been happier.

‘And what kind of incredibly exciting evening do you have planned for us tonight?' he asked sarcastically.

Mary-Lou grinned. Whatever it was, she knew Steven would sooner stay home. He loved to cook, watch television, and make love – not necessarily in that order.

‘We were supposed to see Lucky,' she said. ‘But her secretary phoned to say she had to go out of town. So… I called my mother and asked her to join us.'

‘Your mother!'

Mary-Lou shook her head in exasperation. ‘You
looove
my mother. Quit giving me a hard time.'

‘Sure I
looove
your mother,' he mimicked, ‘only I
looove
my wife even better. Why can't we spend a quiet evening at home, just you and me?'

Mary-Lou stuck out her tongue and wiggled it at him. ‘That's all you ever want to do.'

‘Anything wrong with that?'

‘Get outta here, Steven. Go to work. You're
such
a nag.'

‘Who, me?'

‘Good
bye
, Steven.'

He continued to defend himself. ‘Is it a criminal offence to want to be alone with my wife?'

‘Out!' Mary-Lou said firmly.

‘One kiss and I'm history,' he promised.

‘
One
kiss only,' she said sternly.

One kiss turned into two, then three, and before either of them could help it they were back in the bedroom pulling off each other's clothes and falling breathlessly on the bed.

Making love to Mary-Lou was a sweet wild ride of mutual passion. Steven tried to be gentle with her, he was frightened of hurting the baby. Mary-Lou didn't seem to care, she was full of exuberant love, pulling him close, wrapping her legs around his waist, rocking and rolling until she climaxed with a series of little screams.

By the time they were finished he was ready for another shower and late for an appointment.

‘Not my fault,' Mary-Lou said primly as he raced from the house.

‘Not your fault!' he yelled, running for his car. ‘Face it! You're an uncontrollable sex machine! How am I ever expected to get any work done?'

‘Will you shut
up!
' Mary-Lou hissed, standing at the door wrapped in a silk kimono, her pretty face alive with pleasure. ‘People will
hear
you!'

At the office, Jerry Myerson, his closest friend and partner in the law firm of Myerson, Laker, Brandon, and Berkeley, waited impatiently in the reception area. ‘You're late,' Jerry reprimanded him sharply, tapping his watch as if he were anticipating an argument.

‘I know,' Steve replied, straight-faced. ‘Had to make love to my wife.'

‘Very funny,' Jerry snorted. He was a forty-eight-year-old playboy bachelor with the unshakable belief that once you got married your hard-on shrivelled up and died forever. ‘Let's go,' he said impatiently.

It wasn't often that Jerry Myerson and Steven Berkeley made house calls, though sometimes there were exceptions. The client they were on their way to see was an extremely rich woman called Deena Swanson. Deena was married to billionaire Martin Z. Swanson, President and owner of Swanson Industries – an all-powerful organization that owned major New York real estate, hotels, cosmetic companies, and publishing firms.

Martin Z. Swanson was Mister New York, a charismatic man of forty-five with unlimited power and an insatiable thirst for even more. Deena had parlayed her position as his wife into one of importance. Early on she had hired a press agent to make sure she was known as much more than just the wife. From social butterfly and fashion plate, she had risen to fame, lending her name to everything from perfume to her own line of designer jeans. She figureheaded Swanson Style, one of her husband's many companies. For five million bucks a year Deena made sure the name Swanson was always in the columns.

The Swansons had been married ten years. They suited each other. Deena's appetite for even more fame, money, and power was just as voracious as her husband's.

When Deena Swanson had called and requested their presence, Jerry was delighted. The firm had been representing her for several months on minor matters, but Jerry figured being summoned to her home meant things were definitely looking up: maybe they were going to get her husband's account. He liked that idea a lot.

‘Why do I have to come along?' Steven grumbled as they sat in the back of Jerry's chauffeured town car on their way to Deena's Park Avenue apartment, one of the Swansons' three permanent residences.

‘Because we don't know what she wants,' Jerry replied patiently. ‘It could be simple. Maybe it's complicated. Two minds are better than one.' A pause, and then a sly, ‘Besides, the rumour is she likes her coffee black.'

Steven narrowed his eyes. ‘What?' he said sharply.

Jerry was unperturbed. ‘You heard.'

Shaking his head, Steven said, ‘You're an asshole, Jerry. Sometimes I don't think you ever took it out of college.'

‘Took what out of college?' Jerry inquired innocently.

‘Your fucking brains.'

‘Thank
you
.'

The car stopped at a red light. Jerry studied two girls crossing the street. One, a bouncy redhead, really got his attention. ‘Do you think she sucks c—'

‘Don't even say it,' interrupted Steven grimly. ‘Y'know, Jerry, you should get married and stop behaving like a dirty old lawyer.'

‘Married?' Jerry's voice filled with undisguised horror. ‘What makes you think I'd ever be that stupid?'

Every so often Steven wondered how their friendship had endured since college… They were so different, and yet he couldn't imagine a more loyal and supportive friend than Jerry Myerson. Jerry had seen him through so much – including a disastrous marriage to a wild Puerto Rican dancer named Zizi, his many years as a crusading assistant D.A., and finally the long years painstakingly trying to find out the identity of his father. When he'd finally discovered his father was the infamous Gino Santangelo, Jerry had congratulated him.

‘Hey – now you've got one white ball and one black,' he'd joked. ‘The man can play in both courts. Not bad, Steven. There's a little larceny in you after all.'

The discovery was a shock, but life went on, and Steven weathered the revelation. With Jerry's help he threw himself into his work, deciding to specialize in criminal law. He'd discovered his vocation and loved it. Soon he developed quite a reputation as one of the best defence attorneys around. He was the first to admit that without Jerry he certainly wouldn't be a partner in one of the most successful law firms in New York. Jerry had supported him all the way. So what if he conducted his personal life like the ideal
Playboy
subscriber? Underneath his sexist front the man had heart, and that's what really counted.

Deena Swanson was a coolly attractive woman with chiselled features, dead blue eyes, and very pale red hair cropped in a thirties bob. She was one of those women of indeterminate age – white pulled skin without a line in sight, perfect makeup, and a slim figure clad in a tailored grey skirt and an expensive silk shirt. Steven figured her to be anywhere between thirty and forty, it was impossible to tell. What he could tell was that she didn't look happy.

She greeted them with a limp handshake, receiving them in a spacious living room filled with African artefacts, sculpture, and fine paintings. Above the mantel hung an impressive oil painting of Mr. and Mrs. Swanson, she clad in a pink ball gown, and Martin Swanson sporting a white tuxedo. Both faces wore the same expression – bland indifference.

A Lebanese houseman hovered, waiting to take their order for coffee before backing respectfully from the room.

Deena indicated they should sit on an overstuffed couch, and when they were settled she said in her slightly accented voice, ‘The meeting we are about to have must be absolutely confidential. Am I assured of this?'

‘Of course,' Jerry replied quickly, offended she might think otherwise.

‘My husband is not to know of this conversation either.'

‘Mrs. Swanson, you are a valued client. Whatever you say to us is strictly for our ears only.'

‘Good.' She crossed impressive silk-clad legs and reached for a thin black cigarette from a silver box.

Jerry leaped to attention with his lighter.

Deena drew deeply on her cigarette, stared first at Jerry then at Steven, and said, ‘I don't believe in wasting time. Do you?'

‘Couldn't agree more,' replied Jerry, ever obliging, and quite attracted to this cool, expensive-looking woman, even though she wasn't his usual type.

Deena silenced him with a look. ‘Kindly hear me out,' she said imperiously. ‘No interruptions.'

Jerry's back stiffened. He wasn't used to being spoken to as if he were hired help.

Deena began to speak again, oblivious to his hurt feelings. ‘Gentlemen,' she said calmly, ‘it has recently come to my attention that one of these days I might be obliged to commit the perfect murder.'

A heavy silence hung over the room while Deena paused for a long moment, allowing her words to register. When she was satisfied they had, she continued. ‘If this situation ever arose, and I failed in my attempt to make it perfect, I would naturally expect you, as my attorneys, to do everything in your power to defend me.' A long white finger, decorated with a huge diamond ring, pointed straight at Steven. ‘
You
. I would want you to defend me. I understand you're the best.'

‘Now
wait
a minute,' Steven interrupted heatedly. ‘I can't—'

‘No,
you
wait a minute,' she snapped, a woman used to getting her own way. ‘Allow me to finish.' She glared at them both, dead blue eyes daring either of them to interrupt again. ‘A retainer of one million dollars was transferred into your company's account today. All you have to do, Mr. Myerson, Mr. Berkeley, is to be there
when
and
if
– and I emphasize the
if
– I need you.' She gave a brittle laugh, before adding with slow deliberation, ‘For all our sakes, we should hope that day never comes.'