Lethal Seduction (43 page)

“You're the best,” she murmured.

Last night his wife had informed him he was the worst—lover, that is. Now this gorgeous blonde was telling him he was the best.

The best what?

Who cared? He'd score her a room if it killed him.

“H
I
.” It was Natalie on the phone, cheery as ever. “How'd it go?”

“Fine,” Madison said. “He was his usual sexist self.”

“The boxer or Jake?”

“Ha, ha, very funny.”

“So seriously, did you work anything out with Jake?”

“No. He was too busy photographing Mr. Poser.”

“Who's Mr. Poser?”

“The boxer. Who did you think?”

“Okay, okay—so I guess you're not readying yourself for a long and lustful night of great sex.”

“I guess not.”

“Then, honey,
you
are coming with me to the Kris Phoenix concert.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yeah, I think you do. You told me you had fun in Miami, why not Vegas too?”

“Because getting drunk and getting laid by some juvenile is
not
a great idea.”

“I thought the guy in Miami sounded wild.”

“He was nineteen, Nat. More your type than mine.”

Natalie raised an amused eyebrow. “Are you sayin' I'm a slut, girl?”

“We all
know
you're a slut. Let's call it like it is—you've been one ever since college.”

“Ha! If I was a guy you'd admire me. I'm just using
them
the way
they
use us.”

“I wish
I
had half your attitude,” Madison sighed. “You know I'd love to be a slut too, but somehow or other I just can't seem to cut it.”

“Bitch!” Natalie said, laughing.

“Takes one to know one.”

“Okay, okay—enough talk—I'm meeting my camera crew downstairs in approximately half an hour, and you'd better be there dressed to party, 'cause we're coverin' everything tonight.”

“I'll think about it,” Madison said, changing her mind, because maybe sitting alone in her hotel room
was
better than hitting the town with an uncontrollable Natalie.

“Forget about it,” Natalie said firmly. “You're coming whether you like it or not. Downstairs in half an hour. Look spectacular.”

•

Spago, Beverly Hills, was big, noisy, crowded and full of activity.

Chas slipped the girl at the reception desk a twenty to make sure they got good service. She favored him with a fleeting smile and said, “Sorry, you'll have to wait at the bar. Your table won't be ready for another fifteen minutes.” Then, just as she was finishing her sentence, she noticed Dexter and her attitude changed. “Mr. Falcon,” she gushed. “How
nice
to welcome you to Spago. I don't think we've seen you here before. Are you with the Vincent party?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dexter said, modestly pleased to be recognized.

“Your table's almost ready. Let me check.”

“Huh!” said Rosarita. “Seems that being an actor—however minor—counts in Hollywood.”

Trust her to be bitchy,
Dexter thought.

The girl returned a few minutes later with a gracious smile. “Follow me, Mr. Falcon,” she said, leading them out to a table on the terrace.

“Not bad,” Chas said, looking around after they all sat down. “I like this place already. It's got class.”

“Notice any movie stars?” Rosarita asked, a tad sarcastically.

“Yeah,” Chas replied. “Isn't that Tony Curtis walkin' in?”

They all turned to stare at the aging actor and his tall, blond and buxom wife, clad in a gold lamé dress that quit at the top of her thighs. Tony was wearing a velvet smoking jacket and a proud smile, it was glaringly obvious he got off on all the staring that was going on.

“Now
that's
what I call a movie star,” Chas said admiringly. “Been around since God knows when—still looks hot. Gotta young broad for a wife.
That's
a movie star, an'
that's
why we stopped off in Beverly Hills.”

“Really?” Rosarita said, bored. She couldn't take much more of this, she was too anxious about Vegas and her plans for Dexter's demise. Now that the time was drawing close, she realized what a radical move this was. Poor Dexter. He could have been a movie star too, instead of which he was on his way to becoming a corpse.

After their arrival at the hotel, she'd taken off to Rodeo Drive and spent several thousand dollars in the space of an hour—all on her father's credit card. He wouldn't get the bill for several weeks, so what did she care? Spending someone else's money was one of life's small pleasures.

Due to their plane being delayed, Matt and Martha arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes late. “Oh, my goodness,” Martha exclaimed, totally flustered. “Our flight was so bumpy I thought we might
crash.”
She threw her arms around Dexter's manly shoulders. “How's my baby boy?”

He squirmed away from his overly affectionate mother. “Don't
do
that,” he muttered, embarrassed.

“It was quite a flight,” Matt said, eyes immediately peering down Varoomba's voluptuous cleavage. “Frightened the bejesus out of me. 'Scuse my language.”

“Well, you're here now,” Chas said, ever the magnanimous host. “At the famous Spago. Whaddya think?”

“Exciting!” Martha said, sitting down. “Oh, my goodness—do I spy Tony Curtis?”

“You bet your pretty little rump,” Chas said, as if he'd personally arranged for the movie star to be there.

Martha fluttered her eyelashes. “I
love
Tony Curtis,” she said reverently. “I always have.”

“Mom, get ahold of yourself,” Dexter said in a stern voice.

“Would it be all right if I went over and asked him for his autograph?” Martha inquired.

“No,” Rosarita said quickly, putting a stop to such nonsense. “You want us to look like a bunch of dumb tourists?”

“Isn't that what we are?” Matt questioned cheerfully. “Dumb tourists.”

Rosarita shot him a filthy look.

Chas perused the menu. “Everythin' looks good enough to eat,” he said with a bawdy chuckle.

“You're so funny,” Varoomba trilled, snuggling closer to him, almost falling off her chair.

Oh, for God's sake!
Rosarita thought.
Don't be so obvious; it's pathetic.

“I'm cold,” she complained, pulling her new seven-hundred-dollar Pashmina wrap around her bare shoulders.

“Stop with the naggin',” Chas said. “Everywhere we go ya gotta nag. Wassa
matter
with you?”

“I told you,” she said tartly. “I'm spoiled. And
you
did it to me, so don't start bitching about it now, it's a little too late.”

“What do you recommend?” Dexter asked the waiter, who was hovering by their table, looking bored.

“Everything's good, sir,” the waiter replied, springing to attention.

“Enough with the menu crap,” Chas said, shoving his menu at the startled waiter. “Bring out plenty of your best starter stuff.”

“Can I have a smoked-salmon pizza?” Varoomba piped up. She had dressed for the occasion in a buttercup-yellow, plunging-neckline girly dress and very high heels.

“What's a smoked-salmon pizza?” Chas demanded.

“We call it the Jewish pizza, sir,” the waiter explained. “Smoked salmon, cream cheese with just a touch of caviar.”

“Never heard such crap,” Chas growled. “A pizza is a pizza—cheese, tomato an' pepperoni.”

“You've got to try this one,” Varoomba encouraged. “I had it last time I was here.”

“You mean ya bin here before?” Chas said, not pleased. “In this restaurant?”

“I told you I was in Beverly Hills for a week,” she murmured, thinking how nice it would be if he ever listened to a word she said.

“Yeah? Who with?”

“Just a friend,” she replied evasively. Wouldn't do to tell Chas
too
much about her somewhat colorful past.

And so the evening progressed.

Rosarita was thinking,
The sooner I get to Vegas, the sooner I can get the deed done, and the sooner I'll be a free woman.

Dexter was thinking,
I wonder what Gem is doing now? Do I cross her mind at all? Does she even realize what an incredible connection we had?

Chas was thinking,
I hope my dumb maid has packed up Varoomba's things, 'cause she's
really
gettin' on my ass. Tits or no tits, this broad is history.

Varoomba was thinking,
Grams better behave herself in Vegas, 'cause if she does, I got a good chance of getting Chas to make it legal. And about time too.

Martha was thinking,
Tony Curtis, Tony Curtis, Tony Curtis. Oh my God! He used to be so handsome, and he still is.

Matt was thinking,
I wonder if Varoomba sucks Chas' dick. Yeah, she looks like the kind of bad girl who does a dirty thing like that.

And then it was pizza all around.

•

Joel didn't know whether to be pissed or pleased. Carrie had bonded so well with Leon that the two of them had not stopped talking the entire journey. At first Marika had been delighted. Here she was in the presence of a world-famous supermodel, and the supermodel was being charming to both her and Leon. But after a while it occurred to her that most of Carrie's attention was directed toward the multibillionaire, and that she and Joel were out in the cold. This seemed to amuse Joel, but by the time they landed in Vegas, Marika was furious.

“These stupid young girls,” she hissed at Joel, her newfound ally. “They think they're such superstars.”

“Well, Marika,” Joel replied as innocently as he could, “I guess they are, 'cause they're treated like goddesses wherever they go, and it's obvious Leon likes her—I haven't seen him this happy in a long time.”

Marika's eyes narrowed to thin slits. She was livid that Joel now had something over her.

Meanwhile, Carrie was enjoying the lifestyle. Private planes were definitely for her. And so were multibillionaires. She found Leon Blaine quite interesting in spite of his being old. He was nut brown, thin and fit—thanks to daily tennis. Extreme power made up for youth; she'd discovered
that
early on in her career.

Yes, she'd take Leon over Joel any day. But for
real
pleasure, she'd take Eduardo. Oh, how she
loved
the smell of a very young body. To her it was the ultimate turn-on.

She got off the plane, helped down the steps by Leon. Joel and Marika trailed behind.

Two limos waited on the tarmac.

“Carrie, you'll come with me,” Leon commanded, contented as only an old billionaire can be when in the company of a young, luscious supermodel. “Marika, you and Joel ride together.”

Fuck,
Joel thought.
My old man is falling in lust!
There had to be some way of using this to his advantage.

Marika was not a happy prison guard as she climbed into the second limo and positioned herself stiffly next to Joel. “Your father,” she snapped. “Always swayed by a pretty face. Perhaps he's under the impression you'll marry this one. Are you planning to, Joel?”

“Hey,” Joel answered as casually as he could. “You and Dad never married, and as far as I'm concerned, you've got the right idea. So why would
I
do it?”

Marika glared at him even harder. Marriage to Leon Blaine was her ultimate goal. Being Leon's mistress did not carry quite the same cachet as being his wife.

The two limos separated on their drive into town, and by the time Joel and Marika reached the hotel, Leon and Carrie were nowhere to be seen.

Joel checked in at the reservations desk. “We're with the Blaine party,” he said.

“Ah yes, sir,” the reservation clerk said, practically bowing. “Mr. Blaine has already arrived. I'll have somebody show you to your accommodations.”

If he'd thought Marika was livid before, now she really showed her true wrath. “This is rude,” she hissed, her mouth a tight, scarlet line of disapproval. “Leon should have waited.”

“It's just Leon being himself,” Joel said, shrugging. “He's always been a selfish son of a bitch. Mom used to complain about him all the time.”

“I'm not your mother,” Marika said coldly.

“Not even my stepmom,” Joel agreed.

She threw another glare in his direction, and as he turned around to conceal a self-satisfied smirk, he spotted Madison Castelli walking toward him.

“Well, well,” he exclaimed, delighted to see her. “What are
you
doing here?”

It took her a second before she realized who it was. “Oh, hi,” she said, thinking,
Just my luck to run into this moron.
“I'm uh, here on business.”

“What kind of business goes on in Vegas?” he asked, turning on what he considered his irresistible charm.

“I'm writing a piece for
Manhattan Style,”
she answered vaguely.

“Interviewing someone?”

“Antonio Lopez.”

“I'm betting on the other guy, but nothing like talking to the loser.”

“He won't be a loser, Joel,” she said. “Spend a few hours with him and you'll understand.”

“You think he's gonna win?”

“He
does. I don't know much about boxing, but Antonio is extremely confident.”

Joel moved in a little closer. “You look
hot.”

Her eyes darted around the crowded lobby, searching for a way to escape.

“What's your plan tonight?” Joel inquired.