Lovers and Liars (44 page)

He really did owe her an apology.

“Fuck,” he said again.

“Well, I’m still game,” Nora said, placing her hand on his limp member.

   Abe opened the door, smiling. Yes, he had been surprised when the doorman had announced Jack. But he had recovered quickly; he was in control.

And he loved it.

Jack didn’t smile back. He stared, willing his face to show no expression but not succeeding in hiding anger—deep, gut-wrenching hatred. “
Berenger
was good,” Jack said vehemently.

Abe grinned. “I think it was shit.”

“And that means it is shit, correct?”

“You’re bright—boy.”

Jack tensed. He wanted to punch this arrogant, powerful lunatic, but he didn’t dare. “Level with me.”

“Gladly.”

“This is because of me. It has nothing to do with the product.”

Abe laughed. “Very good. Top of the class.”

“What do you want from me?” Jack said.

“To see you in the gutter, where you belong.”

Jack stared. Abe was no longer smiling. His face was a mask of burning hatred, and it was frightening. He took a step back. One word loomed in his mind.
Psychotic
.

“By the time I get through with you, boy, you’re gonna wish you’d never been born.”

“And
Outrage
? It really is cancelled, isn’t it?”

Abe smiled. “Just try and break your contract, boy. I’m waiting.”

It was all out in the open now.
Berenger
would never be released.
Outrage
was finished. And he was still locked into an exclusive contract with North-Star, until he completed a third film for them. Jack didn’t have to ask to know that there wasn’t going to be another film. He was going to spend the rest of his life waiting for one that would never come through. This was it. He was out to pasture. He could not go up against Glassman. Not on his turf.

Not legally.

“Explain one thing,” Jack said tersely. “Why? Why, after all these years?”

Abe bared his teeth in a mirthless smile. “You killed my son.”

Jack blinked.

“Nancy was almost four months pregnant. She was leaving me and running to you. She miscarried my son—my heir.”

As he absorbed what had happened, Jack opened his mouth to protest. In the same instant he realized that nothing he would say could change what Abe believed—what he had believed for seventeen long years. His jaw worked and he turned and walked away, his heart pumping furiously. Behind him, he heard Abe’s laughter—loud, heartfelt, raucous. He rang for the elevator.

Glassman was not just vindictive.

He was obsessed.

Jack was down low and about to be ruined. Abe held all the cards—no one’s career could survive Glassman’s vengeance. He knew it without a doubt.

It was over.

His career was over.

But his life wasn’t. He was a fighter. And this was war. And it had just begun—because now he had nothing to lose.

So he could fight dirty.

The idea formed out of nowhere.

Revenge.

Belinda Glassman.

PART FOUR
LOVERS
January—
February
1988
 

83

T
he phone rang insistently.

Belinda was at her word processor, and she ignored it. The new scene was hot, an action sequence, and she couldn’t stop. Besides, it was probably Vince, figuring that she had changed her mind since last night about seeing him. Her mother, who had arrived yesterday to take care of her, poked her head into her study. “Dear?”

“Mom, take a message,” Belinda said irritably. “I have an answering machine, you should—oh, hell.” She stood.

“It’s a man, and he won’t leave his name. He says it’s urgent,” Nancy said, frowning. “He sounds familiar.”

Belinda picked up the phone. She knew it was Vince. “Vince, listen,” she snapped. “I meant what I said last night. Every word.”

There was a pause. “Who’s Vince?”

Belinda knew that voice. She flushed. “Jack.”

“Poor Vince,” Jack said, a smile in his tone. “Is my timing off?”

Her heart was pounding erratically, and it annoyed her. What could he possibly want? “Yes.”

“If I were a lesser man, or maybe a better one, I’d tell you I’ll call back later. But I won’t. How are you?” His tone became intense.

“Fine.”

“I’ve been thinking about you.”

She didn’t respond.

“A lot. That’s not a line. I want to see you—soon.”

Belinda didn’t hesitate. “You still come on like a Mack truck.”

He chuckled. “Two of a kind. Maybe it’s you. Maybe you bring that out in me. Well? What are you doing tonight?”

His tone was so damn seductive. It was stirring up urgent memories. His breath, hot, on her ear; his hands, hotter, sliding over her breasts. “I don’t think so. I’m busy.”

“Well, at least I know Vince is out of the running,” he joked.

Another silence fell. She imagined his cupping her bare buttocks and pulling her up hard against his massive prick, rubbing against her. Slick, slicker …

“How about tomorrow night? Some place quiet and intimate, so we can get reacquainted.”

“I already have plans for tomorrow night,” she lied. Her tone had gotten husky. “After all, it’s Saturday.”

“Sunday.”

“I don’t think so.”

Now he was silent, assessing, she guessed. “I get the feeling you’re ticked at me. Why?”

“I’m not ticked at you,” she said stiffly. Life would be so much easier if she were angry. “Look, Jack, Aspen was fun. Like I said. But this is real life. And I have no desire to get involved with a Hollywood star.”

“And you think I lack tact,” Jack said.

“Sorry,” Belinda said lightly. At that moment her mind decided to play havoc, and she recalled vividly how he had pulled her into his arms after they had made love—and how they had fallen asleep in each other’s embrace.

“Come on, sweetheart, break down. Besides, Aspen was more than just fun, and you know it.”

“Jack, I’m working. I’m in the middle of a big scene. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for this. Good-bye.” She hung up.

“Who was that, dear?” Nancy asked as she strode back to her study.

Belinda stared at her mother, wondering what Nancy
would do if she knew it had been Jack on the phone. “Just some arrogant jerk, Mom. Nobody important.”

She had lost the drive, the creative momentum. She wrote another page, then deleted the whole thing.

His damn face kept superimposing itself on the screen.

Her traitorous inner self said, I wish I had said yes.

84

O
ne thing that Peter Lansing prided himself on was the fact that he was a gentleman.

He could not, in good conscience, forget the sound of Melody’s fragile, vulnerable voice on his answering machine. So abject, so apologetic.

Had he been too rough on her?

He returned her call.

About five hours later he was sitting in her living room, watching her carry in a tray of hors d’oeuvres. He noticed she had most definitely gone out of her way to dress for him, in a purple silk dress that was perfect with her hair and her curves, and it was low-cut too. She was wearing contacts and makeup, and the effect was dynamite. She placed the tray next to their drinks and smiled tentatively. He smiled back. She was nervous and shy; he was horny as hell. It made him feel like a heel.

“Peter, I want to set the record straight,” Melody said, twisting her hands nervously.

He watched her steadily. She had beautiful eyes. He wanted to hear what she was going to say.

“You’re wrong about Jack and me. We’re not lovers, and we have never been lovers.”

Lansing stared.

“But you were right in a way—I was in love with Jack
for years. But he never knew it. I made a play for him recently and he turned me down, which is why I was acting so strange.” She looked at her hands. “I was hurt, and I wasn’t ready for another man, Peter. But now I realize it was all just fantasies on my part.”

Lansing, with the unerring instinct of an investigator, knew she was telling the truth. For the most part. A sense deep inside told him she was hiding something—something that made him uneasy, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. He was too busy thinking—she and Jack weren’t lovers. It felt damn good.