Lovers and Liars (7 page)

“Six months ago, Abe. What the hell is this about?”

“Shit,” Abe said. “It’s none of your fucking business. Let’s just say Ford is on my shit list and has been for fifteen years. I can’t believe that little prick signed with North-Star.”

How come I didn’t know about this, he wondered. It was incredible, unbelievable. Abe didn’t watch TV, except for an occasional
60 Minutes
or
Nightline
, or go to the movies. Nor did he shop in supermarkets or K marts where the popular rags abounded. He read only
Time
and
The Economist
and
The Wall Street Journal
He doubted that a
TV Guide
had ever been in his home. He didn’t even know if Nancy read that trash. If he had been a TV watcher or had had to do his own shopping, he would have known that that little, no-good, low-life Ford had actually become a big TV star. Unfuckingbelievable.

And now he was about to become big-time with this North-Star contract.

No fucking way.

“Abe, let me get this straight. You don’t want Ford doing
Outrage
or you don’t want North-Star producing
Outrage
or you don’t want Ford with North-Star?”

“All of the above.”

“It’s too late, Abe.”

“What’re the terms of Ford’s contract?”

“Shit, I don’t know, but I can find out.”

“Find out. Fax me a copy of his contract immediately.”

There was a moment of silence. “Jesus, what are you trying to do, ruin the guy?”

Abe laughed. “Very good, Ted. Just get me copies of both contracts, for the product and Ford. And keep this under your hat.”

“Jesus, Abe, it’s too bad you got something against Ford. He’s really hot right now. He’s in North-Star’s best interests.”

“You owe me,” Abe said bluntly. “Just do it. And Ted, he
was
hot.
Was
.”

8

“S
o you’re the reporter from
US.”

“And you’re Jackson Ford,” she said, smiling, holding out her hand.

Jack took it, delighted and surprised all at once. Linda Myer was a lithe brunette with blue, blue eyes behind square tortoise-shell glasses, an undeniably attractive woman, somewhere in her thirties. “Jack. Welcome.” He gestured her past him.

“All the comforts of home,” Linda said, glancing around his oversized dressing room.

“Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?”

“I thought you didn’t drink,” she said quickly. It was a big deal. Jackson Ford was a self-confessed alcoholic and drug addict who’d gone clean seven years ago.

“I don’t. But it doesn’t bother me if someone in my company does.” His green eyes were friendly and admiring. She wore a simple black knit dress, sleeveless, and it clung to
her slender frame provocatively. He liked his women thin. And tall. Like Linda.

“White wine would be fine.”

Jack handed her a glass and led her into a mock living area. He sat next to her on a plush suede couch. “I never expected a reporter like you,” he said flirtatiously. “I wouldn’t have felt so bad about canceling my date.”

Linda knew he was a charmer; that was his reputation. But she felt thrilled anyway. She was much too old for him—according to his standards. His women were all eighteen, or thereabouts. Still, she could feel his interest in her, and it excited her. She wondered if he was as good in bed as he looked. “Do you mind if we jump right in?” she said, then blushed. But he couldn’t possibly know what she’d been thinking.

“Not at all.” Jack grinned. He did.

Fumbling and still blushing, Linda switched on a small recorder. “Jack,” she said, firming her voice, “I know you’ve been through your life story a million times, but—”

“Two million,” he corrected, smiling, his teeth very white against his bronzed skin.

“Okay. I stand corrected. Two million. But I’d love it in your own words.”

“Okay. Where shall we start?” He noted that she sat with her legs crossed. They were long and graceful.

Why was he always horny?

“From the beginning,” she said. “You were born in Kansas City.”

“That’s right. Thirty-seven years ago.”

“And your father—”

“My father was an auto mechanic and a drunk who left us when I was six. My mom was thrilled. She was a waitress. We lived in the worst side of town. A real
slum
. I played hooky and stole things and she worked. And never came home. Or came home with men. Lots of men. Men who left money on her bedside table. It was always, Not now, Jack. Can’t you see I’ve got company? Go to bed, Jack. Jack, go outside and play. Jack! I said go outside and play!”

“Tough life,” Linda murmured sympathetically. “Your mother left you too.”

“Yep. Just upped and disappeared when I was eleven.” No-good cunt whore. He would never, ever forget that day. Even now, just thinking about it made his guts cramp painfully. Coming home to an empty house. Immediately he had known. Hadn’t he known all along that one day she would leave him, too, the way his father had? Stunned—both believing it and desperately trying not to believe it, to will the clock backwards—he had stumbled into the kitchen and found half a pint of whiskey that he had finished before passing out. He had never cried. Not over her. And he never would.

Whoever had called him today was not his mother. His mother was dead.

“Go on,” Linda said gently.

Jack smiled. He was an actor, after all. “I took off. Hitched my way to St. Louis. Lived off the streets. About a year later I was picked up for hot-wiring an automobile. This big-ass cherry-red Thunderbird.” He grinned. “Cops found out I had no family. Shoved me into detention. Best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Detention?”

“No. The foster home I got placed in afterward. A real kind old couple whose kids were grown and married and living in New York. They gave me love, or tried to. I was pretty tough, pretty incorrigible, but after that damn detention center, well, I was no fool. I knew I was a lot better off with them. I kept my antics down to running with a gang and getting drunk, getting laid.”

“And then you discovered acting.”

“Yeah.” Jack smiled, running his fingers through his thick hair. “Rather, I discovered the high-school drama teacher. God, she was beautiful!” Tall, beautiful Delia Corice.

“And?”

“I fell madly in love with her. I took all her classes. I wanted her to notice me, so I tried damn hard to be good. First time in my life I ever had any ambition to succeed.”

“Go on.”

“I was a natural. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was damn awful. But I had natural talent, and Miss Corice took me under her wing, really worked with me. I guess I was a pretty fast study.” His lightning grin appeared.

A very fast study.

He would never forget the first time she had made love to him. He had shown up on her doorstep to be “tutored.” Well, he had been tutored, all right. It wasn’t the first time for him—he had lost his virginity at twelve—but it was the first time he had ever eaten pussy. He loved it. So had she.

“And after high school?” Linda said, interrupting his thoughts. She frowned, looking at her own notes. “According to my research, you spent six years in New York doing repertory theater, then came to L.A. in seventy-seven.”

Jack smiled easily, but his stomach tensed at the false bio he had constructed years before. “Right.” He confirmed the lie. “I did rep in New York, and when I came out here I did commercials for a couple of years. Then, presto. They cast me in the role of a hard-nosed detective in my own series, and I believe you know the rest of the story.” He smiled. What the hell. No one wanted to hear the truth. He didn’t want to hear it.

“There’s such a big gap in your life from the time you went to New York to when you got the part of the series detective,” Linda insisted. “What really happened?”

Jack never stopped smiling as he leaned back casually on the sofa. What really happened? Unconsciously, his fingers went to the slight bump on his nose, the only external scar he carried. He rubbed it. He would never forget the pain of those brass knuckles.

And he would never forget that day. A sunny, cloudless day that had hit 102 degrees in midtown, a real scorcher. Thursday. July 31, 1971. Jack would carry the memory of that day and a chilling hatred in his heart for Abe Glassman until the day he died.

The reporter for
US
was looking at him curiously. He never had given a satisfactory answer to her question. “I
struggled,” he said lightly. “Just like a thousand other actors and actresses.” He shrugged. “It’s a boring story.”

“I doubt anything about you is boring,” Linda said, pushing her glasses back on her nose. “How does it feel to be considered one of the sexiest men in the industry?”

Jack’s grin widened. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“Do you think you’re sexy?”

“Do you?” he shot back, still smiling.

“How come you’re always smiling?” Linda asked, smiling herself.

“Life’s funny.” He started to chuckle. “Listen, sweetheart, if you’d been where I’ve been, you’d be grinning too.”

“I guess so. How does it feel to be doing a movie? Inside gossip says North-Star’s already lined up another film for you.
Outrage
?”

“It feels good,” Jack said. “I admit it.”

“During those lean years did you think you’d ever get there? Here, I mean?”

“To tell you the truth, baby, I sometimes wondered.” More than wondered, he thought, grimacing unconsciously. He leaned closer, until his face was inches from hers. “Look, I’m bored with this interview.”

She blinked. “Uh—just a few more questions?”

“Later. Right now I’m more interested in you.”

“What do you want to know?” She flushed.

His voice lowered to a hoarse whisper. “I want to know how you look with those clothes off, how those beautiful long legs feel wrapped around me. I want to know how you taste.”

Linda’s mouth dropped open, and she stared.

Jack put his hand on her hair and pulled her close, removing her glasses. His lips came down on hers. “You are so hot,” he whispered, one hand roaming down her body, pausing over her small, jutting breasts. “Hot, sexy.”

As he kissed her his hand descended until it was between her legs. Ignoring her dress, he palmed her. She whimpered. With one hand he unzipped his pants and pulled
his swollen cock out, taking her hand and firmly implanting himself in her grip. “That’s it, baby, that’s it.”

“Oh my!” she gasped.

9