Lethal Seduction (18 page)

The sooner she got rid of him, the better off they'd all be.

“What
happened
to you?” she'd asked one night after a particularly vigorous lovemaking session.

“You're my wife,” he'd answered. “I love you.”

“Sometimes love isn't enough,” she'd said.

“We'll see,” he'd replied.

Did he know something she didn't?

Martha was quite obviously entranced with Chas. Every word he uttered caused her to gaze at him with adoring eyes.
Major middle-age crush,
Rosarita thought. How pathetic. Chas was hardly a matinee idol.

Chas, of course, got off on the attention. In the Cockrangers' eyes he was a big man, living in a magnificent town house with a luscious girlfriend. He had many tales to tell about his colorful past in the construction business, and they ate it up. Especially Martha, while Matt couldn't take his eyes off Varoomba's tits—or Alice's as the family knew her.

Mostly, Rosarita ignored Chas' latest conquest. Her daddy might want to hang with trash, but there was no reason
she
had to be polite.

She hadn't been able to reach Joel for five days, which was pissing her off. Where was he? And even more important—who was he with? When she finally did connect and asked him where he'd been, he was most uncooperative. “Didn't know I had to check in,” he said, like she was nothing more than a casual acquaintance.

“I saw you the other night,” she said accusingly.

“Where'd you see me?”

“At Le Cirque with some skinny bitch.”

Joel chuckled. “That skinny
bitch
happens to be a famous supermodel.”

“Famous my ass,” Rosarita snorted. “What's the difference between a supermodel and a showroom girl? No difference. Supermodel is merely a word the media made up. It means nothing.
Anyway,” she added, finishing with the ultimate put-down,
“I've
never seen her before.”

Joel chuckled again. “Don't go getting jealous,” he warned. “She's too thin to be sexy. All bones and no tits.”

“Who's jealous?” Rosarita said, irritated that he would think she was.

“Wanna come by the office today?” he offered. “Maybe around lunchtime?”

Yes, she did. But the last thing she needed was for him to think she was too eager. “Depends what's on the menu,” she said casually.

“Who do
you
think should do all the eating today,” he asked. “You or me?”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “I
am
hungry,” she admitted.

“Then how about we go with a doubleheader?”

She was getting turned on already. “In your office?”

“My desk. Your cute ass. Twelve-thirty. I promise you a window seat. Like that idea?”

Like it? She loved it. “I'll be there,” she said. “Only do me a favor and tell that moron working reception to let me right in. I do not appreciate being kept waiting.”

“Jewel do something to offend you?”

“She needs firing.”

“See you later, babe.”

Rosarita quickly checked out the time. Ten-thirty. Hmm . . . if she was going to indulge in a doubleheader, she
definitely
needed a bikini wax.

Shivering with anticipation, she called the Elizabeth Arden salon and made an immediate appointment.

•

“Have you heard the news?” Silver Anderson said, peering at Dexter with heavily made-up eyes.

“What news?” he said. He'd recently arrived at the studio and was waiting to go into makeup.

“I hate to be the one to tell you,” Silver drawled. “But you
should
know. You're one of my favorites, Dexter. You try hard, and you look divine. You
will
be a star one of these days—mark my words.”

“What are you trying to say, Silver?”

“We're being canceled.”

His stomach dropped. “Canceled?” he said, dismayed. “When did you hear this?”

“I have my spies,” she said. “And naturally, being the star of the show, I hear everything first. They haven't made an official announcement, but I can assure you that within the next week you will get your pink slip. And, my dear, even though it seems positively ludicrous, so will I.”

“Jesus!” Dexter said, his stomach taking a further dive. “I thought we were doing so well. I receive at least a hundred fan letters a week.”

“And
I
get thousands,” Silver said. “However, it seems to make no difference. It's the executives at the network who make such foolish decisions, and unfortunately they're all mentally twelve. The fans mean nothing to them, they don't
care
what the audience wants.”

Dexter attempted to pull himself together and not look like this was the end of his world. “What will they replace us with?” he asked.

“Who knows?” Silver said vaguely. “Some boring teen drama full of prepubescent nobodies. It's shocking. And they're so lucky to have me.”

“I agree,” he said. “You're such a star, Silver. You're so . . . so incredible. In fact,” he ventured, “you're a legend in your own lifetime.”

She laughed. “For a moment I thought you were about to say ‘in your own mind.' ”

“What will you do?” he asked, trying to focus on her. “Go back to L.A.?”

“I might,” she said. “Or I could decide to stay in New York. I enjoy it here. Perhaps I'll even go to Europe. They positively
worship
older women in Europe. They understand that
we
are the ones who know all the secrets that make men very happy
indeed.” She gave him a long, penetrating look. “Does your wife make
you
very happy indeed, Dexter?”

He was embarrassed. He didn't care to discuss his sex life with Silver Anderson; he admired and respected her too much.

“Yeah, we have a good . . . uh . . . satisfactory sex thing going,” he mumbled.

“I bet you do,” Silver trilled. “You know, Dexter, darling,” she confided, “in the old days I
always
slept with my leading men. It was a given.”

“You did?” He gulped.

“I considered it one of the perks of the business.” A low, throaty chuckle. “And believe me—so did they. However,” she sighed, “things are different today.” She reached out a languid hand. “Come over here, Dexter, come close to me.”

He felt like a deer caught in the crosshairs of a particularly lethal weapon. Reluctantly he edged closer.

“Surely I don't scare you, do I?” Silver said, scaring the crap out of him.

“You're so . . . famous,” he managed. “Maybe I'm uh . . . y'know, in awe of you.”

“You're a
very
attractive man,” Silver said, her voice getting deeper. “And believe me, I've seen
many
attractive men in my time. Oh, I could tell you stories about some of the stars I've worked with. Burt Reynolds; William Shatner; even dear old Clint. But I've never been a believer in kissing and telling. I find that simply appalling. Although . . .” A naughty pause. “If I
wanted
to tell, I'd have stories that would make Esther Williams' hair stand on end. Did you read her book? No, perhaps you didn't,” she said, gripping his hand firmly. “You don't spend a lot of time reading, do you, Dexter?”

“Uh . . . no,” he managed.

She began making intricate little circles in his palm with her index finger.

In spite of himself, he felt a sudden and unexpected stirring in his pants.

“Lock the door, Dexter,” she said in a low sexy growl. “It's time for your farewell gift.”

He tried to swallow but couldn't quite do so. Her hand was on his zipper. She was pulling it down.

Oh God! If his dad could only see him now.

•

This time Rosarita was not prepared to take any crap. She swept into Joel's reception area, barely glancing at the girl with the green nails, who happened to be on the phone. “Jewel, dear,” she said patronizingly. “Joel's expecting me. He told me to go straight in.”

“He did?” Jewel said.

Rosarita smiled. She had lovely teeth, white and even—they'd cost Chas a fortune. “Never mind, dear,” she said, and she was inside Joel's office before Jewel could so much as give her one of her insolent looks.

Joel was on the phone, his feet propped up on the desk. He was actually fully dressed.

Rosarita slammed the door behind her. “Welcome back,” she said, approaching his desk. “Incidentally, where were you?”

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Fucking my brains out in Miami,” he said with a lewd wink. “Whyn't you sit down.” He went back to his conversation. “Okay, babe,” he said into the receiver. “I'll see you later.”

Rosarita was dying to ask who was on the phone, but she was wise enough to keep her mouth firmly shut; it wouldn't be cool to push.

“How's it going?” he said, clicking off the phone.

“My in-laws are still in town,” she said. “The moment they leave, Dex and I are going through with our divorce.”

He didn't exactly jump with enthusiasm. In fact, he didn't say anything. Instead he opened his desk drawer, took out a small glass vial of coke, tipped the contents onto the desk, arranged it in neat lines, handed her a short plastic straw and said, “Take a snort, babe.”

It occurred to her that having people watch them have sex
was one thing, but doing drugs with an audience across the street was quite another.

“Should we do this with people watching?” she said.

“What makes you think anyone's watching?” he countered.

“You walk around here most of the time with your crown jewels hanging out,” she said tartly. “I'm sure you've got an avid audience.”

He roared with laughter. “You're a trip.”

“So are you,” she retorted. And then she thought,
to hell with it, a little coke for lunch. Great for the figure. No food, just coke. Excellent choice.

She took a delicate snort. He grinned at her and quickly snorted two lines. There was one line left.

“You or me?” he questioned.

“Go ahead,” she said graciously.

He did so. He had a big capacity. There was a little bit of white powder remaining on the desktop. Dampening his finger, he placed it on the leftover powder, spreading the residue on his gums.

“Take your clothes off, babe,” he said.

“Shouldn't we lock the—”

“How many times I gotta tell you?” he said, shaking his head. “Nobody comes in here unless I invite 'em.”

She was suddenly overcome with that same dirty feeling of excitement she always experienced around him. Quickly she unbuttoned her blouse and stepped out of her skirt. She'd worn a thong especially for him, and a lacy low-cut bra.

“You got any crotchless panties?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, making a mental note to buy a few pairs.

“Wear 'em next time.”

She nodded, already anticipating his rough touch.

He stood up, dropped his pants and kicked them under the desk. “Take it all off, babe, get up on the desk an' spread 'em,” he commanded.

Who was she to argue? She removed her bra, stepped out of her thong and climbed onto his desk.

“I
said
spread 'em, babe,” he said, parting her thighs. Then he crawled on top of her, employing the famous sixty-nine position.

And so the dance began.

P
ETER AND
J
AMIE DROVE
M
ADISON
to the funeral in Connecticut. She was still in shock, desperately struggling to make sense of it all. “It's surreal,” she mused, sitting in the back of Peter's BMW. “I can't quite explain it—but it's like everything is happening in slow motion.”

“I know,” Jamie agreed, turning her blond head to commiserate with her best friend.

“First of all, I find out Stella isn't my mother,” Madison continued. “And before I even have a chance to talk to her, she's . . . she's gone.”

“What exactly did Michael tell you?” Jamie asked sympathetically.

“Not much. Apparently there was a robbery, and Stella and this guy she was living with were both shot. It's so . . . awful.”

“Goddamnit!” Peter muttered angrily. “Nobody's safe anymore.”

“Did they put up a fight?” Jamie asked.

“Who knows?” Madison said, thinking how strange Michael had sounded on the phone. There had been something in his voice—a coldness she couldn't quite understand. Stella, his
adored wife of over twenty-seven years was gone, and it was almost as if he'd completely disconnected.

Death affects people in different ways,
she thought.
He'll probably fall to pieces at the funeral.

She wished for the hundredth time that she'd had an opportunity to talk to Stella—find out more about why she'd never been told the truth.

Too late now—there was no going back.

•

Michael greeted her at the door of the big country house. He was dressed in a black suit and appeared to be perfectly normal and at ease. She threw her arms around him and gave him a big hug. “I'm so sorry,” she murmured, holding him tight, tears filling her eyes. “It's such a tragedy.”

“I know,” he agreed, his voice still strange.

Before she could say anything else, he let go of her and turned to greet Jamie and Peter. She studied him for a moment, noticing that his eyes were not red-rimmed, which meant he hadn't been crying. Was it because Stella had left him for another man that he didn't seem upset? Could he be that cold?

She was beginning to wonder about the father she'd thought she'd known all these years. It was odd, but in many ways it was almost as if he were a total stranger.