Lovers and Liars (2 page)

L
ies
.

All lies.

The pain was still so raw. How many days had it been? Two, three, four? A week? God, she didn’t even know, She was drifting in a cloud of hurt, drifting, like the snowflakes outside …

It was hard to focus on anything other than the betrayal. How had it happened? She, who had never needed anyone, not even her parents—not that they had been there for her—and certainly not a man. She, who had had more men in her life than she could count, who had played the singles game more callously than the worst playboy, had not just taken the plunge. It had been a freefall without the chute opening.

God.

Jack Ford.

Hollywood’s Golden Boy. Sex symbol nonpareil. Hot. As in hot property. One of the hottest in town. And notorious. Oh, so notorious …

The truth agonized.

He had used her to avenge himself on her father.

Dear God. If only she would wake up and find that all this was just a horrible dream.

A knock sounded. She started. The dogs barked. She thought she must be imagining things—no one knew where
she was, where she had escaped to, where she was hiding, in this cabin at Lake Tahoe. But there it was again.

She got up, shoving aside strands of blond hair, squaring her broad shoulders, and opened the door. Outside, the wind howled, pine trees swayed, and the snow began falling more heavily.

“Belinda Ford?”

She was the daughter of Abe Glassman, whose multi-billion-dollar conglomerate spanned two continents, one of the most powerful men in America—and she recognized the press ID before she could make out the cardholder’s face, shadowed by the hood of his parka. Oh, no, she thought. Oh, no, not now.

And the name he had used in addressing her.
Ford
. It was still unfamiliar. She wanted to deny it. She couldn’t. “Yes?”

“I’m with the
National Enquirer
. Can I come in? It’s freezing out.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Belinda said, starting to shut the door.

But he jammed his Gerry-clad shoulder into it. “When did you and Jack Ford get married, and why keep it secret?” he asked quickly. “And is the rumor true? There’s already trouble between the two of you—you’re estranged? Have you left him?”

“No damn comment,” Belinda said, coldly furious.

“You must have a comment to make on the article in the
Star
. Or is that why you left him? It must be a helluva shock to think you’ve married a movie star, only to find out he’s a porn star too.”

Belinda was stunned. What was he talking about? Jack—porn? She recovered. “Please leave before I have to call the police.”

“You didn’t know!” He was triumphant. “Then there had to be another reason you left Ford just days after the wedding. He’s infamous for his women. Is that it? Another woman? Or
did
you know—
was
it because of the porn? And what about all this publicity—your husband’s about to take a fall? His career is on the line, maybe finished—”

“Get out!” she shouted. “Just get out!”

“Ford was seen last night with Donna Mills. Do you have something to say about that?”

She succeeded in finally pushing him out the door and slamming it shut in his face. She was breathless. It couldn’t be true, could it? Jack and porn? And Donna Mills? God, he couldn’t possibly be in her bed, could he? Were there already others? And why—why did it have to hurt so much, and why did she have to even care?

So many lies.

Every second of every moment—another lie.

She inhaled deeply. And faced the biggest questions of all.

What was between her father, Abe Glassman, and her husband, Jack Ford?

And why had Jack used her as the instrument of his revenge?

PART ONE
Strangers
July 1987
 

1

H
eads turned.

Today she didn’t just look like a star, she felt like one. She was on top of the world—the world was at her feet. “Adam!”

She made a stunning figure. She was not as tall as one thought, five feet six or so, taller now in high-heeled pumps, clad in a pencil-thin black skirt that showed off strong, muscular legs. Her shoulders were broad under an even broader neon-orange jacket, as straight as the skirt, and her golden hair fell in glorious, disheveled waves to her shoulders. Her face was model-perfect, with high cheekbones, straight nose, full, sensual lips, and a strong jaw.

Adam Gordon rose as she made her way among the tables of the Bistro Garden. “Belinda, you’re dazzling today.”

She grinned, allowing him to seat her, once again impressed by his old-world charm. She had forgotten it still existed. “Adam, we are celebrating. I want the best champagne in the house. My treat,” she added quickly. Normally she would never be so extravagant in a town where extravagance was the norm, for she could not afford it. But today she was three hundred and fifty thousand dollars richer—
three hundred and fifty thousand dollars!

Adam, tall, dark, and slim—and not her type—took her hand. She was still surprised that she had agreed to go out with him and told herself it was
not
because he and her
father seemed to dislike each other so intensely. “Share the news,” he said. His look was warm.

“My screenplay has sold! God! Finally! North-Star bought it. In fact, they’re picking it up as a vehicle for Jackson Ford. Do you know who Ford is?”

This was Hollywood. And Adam was a lawyer in one of the largest firms in L.A. Among the firm’s numerous clients, both corporate and otherwise, were the likes of Charlton Heston and Joan Collins. It was his business to know everything about the entertainment business. “Of course. He’s on that television detective series—or
was
. The show’s been canceled and North-Star grabbed him. He’s a very hot property right now, maybe the hottest. Congratulations, Belinda,” Adam said, smiling, but he was wondering if this was going to interfere with his plans.

“Oh, Adam, I’ve waited so long for this—so damn long!” She thought about the one screenplay she had sold two years ago, the one that had never even made it into production. But this time was different. This time North-Star was the producer, not some small independent; this time it was a vehicle for a super-hot property; this time it was going all the way. “I think I’ve finally made it, Adam. All those years of listening to ‘Why don’t you go and get a real job?’ ”

Adam smiled. “You have made it.”

“There’s more. They’re interested in another product of mine, so I’m crossing my fingers. We may be making another sale soon.”

“Then this is definitely cause for celebration.”

Belinda started to bite a long red nail, then promptly stopped. “I think Ford is hot,” she said tensely. “But can he
act
…”

It was a rhetorical question, so Adam ordered a bottle of Cristal champagne.

“I mean,” she mused, “he has been nominated for Best Actor in a Dramatic Series every year since he got the show, but so what, right? Has he won?” she demanded. “I mean, granted, he has the greatest ass and an even better smile, but …” She sighed. “I’m so nervous, Adam. I want everything
to be perfect. I can’t help it—this is my ticket to success. If the box office is good for this, God, imagine if it was one of those weekend multi-million-dollar grossers! Damn! I wish Mel Gibson was doing the role. Everyone knows he can act.”

“Ford will sell tickets,” Adam assured her. “He is very hot right now.” Belinda gave him a grateful smile, but her mind was light-years ahead.

Production was scheduled to start in December. Thinking about it made her stomach twist into knots. This was her first sale (the other not counting), and
Outrage
was her baby. She was determined to ride this ticket all the way down the pike. She wanted to be in on all the rewrites. If she managed to stay in—and she’d been in this town long enough to know how rare that was, for writers were changed as easily as a pair of pants and discarded with less thought than pantyhose—there would be a lot of ass-kissing and compromising. She wanted desperately to stay in. She wanted this film,
Outrage
, to be better than good, to be fantastic.

She could not concentrate on Adam or lunch. She wanted to be back at home, at her IBM PC, polishing up the climax of her third screenplay—just in case.

Home was a weathered gray beach house in Laguna Beach, a good hour’s drive south of L.A. and Hollywood. The house literally hung over the beach, on stilts. It was small and traditional on the outside, eclectic on the inside, with breathtaking views of Catalina and the surf. The floors were faded pine, the ceilings high and beamed, with an enormous skylight over the living room. There was barely any furniture, just the basics—a couch, a few chairs, a pine chest serving as a cocktail table. An oversized painting that was a birthday present from her grandparents dominated the room, taking up all of one wall. Done almost in a Fauvist style, with vivid colors and contrasts, it was a scene of a yacht and a navy destroyer in the New York harbor during the bicentennial celebration. Belinda had fallen in love with the painting in a San Francisco gallery. She had never dreamed she would own it. Next to her IBM PC, it was her most cherished possession.

A big black Lab greeted her at the door as she walked in, and she bent to scratch his head, then began to shed her shoes and hose in the middle of the living room. She thought about her parents. Shouldn’t she call them?

Her father didn’t give a damn.

Not that she cared. Maybe once, a long time ago, but not anymore.

Still … The biggest moment of her life, and she really had to face it, she had no one to share it with except some casual date. That or Vince.

If she looked too hard at that fact, she’d have to face some inescapable conclusions, so Belinda quickly paced to the huge glass doors that slid open onto a deck, bare except for plants and a waist-level glass windscreen. She stared out at the calm blue water, the surfers, and the boats with their white-and-blue sails flapping in the breeze.