His entire family would have been horrified that these inspirational songs and catchphrases and prayers were what he used as a calming bath for his brain, a steadying force, but did it matter? Sometimes he even invoked prayers in Latin, a dead language he’d been forced to learn at the insistence of his ultrareligious grandmother, who had been raised Roman Catholic before she found her born-again faith. Despite her conversion to a strict evangelical sect, she retained some of the trappings of her Catholic roots, her affinity for Latin being one of them. Granny. May she rest in peace. “Requiescat in pace,” he said aloud, softly, not for the dead person here, in the desert, but for that pale-lipped, curly-haired woman with skin the color and texture of beef jerky, who had alternately wagged her finger at him and laughed uproariously, from her gut, mouth opened wide, gold caps glinting in the firelight. A miserable, God-fearing, and hilarious old bitch. “Requiescat in pace,” he repeated, then spat into the dirt, sending a camel spider scurrying to hide under a nearby rock.
It shouldn’t be long now.
He closed his eyes for a second.
Listened hard.
It sounded like a car’s engine was getting closer. Yes, there it was . . . and another? From the opposite direction? Oh, yes . . .
He couldn’t help but smile as he opened his eyes, searching the desert floor for the pinpoints of headlights and the telltale plumes of dust.
There it was. The distinctive rumble of a big car’s engine. He slipped his finger onto the trigger.
And then he saw them, the tiny glare of twin headlamps, coming in from the east.
And fast.
Right on time.
CHAPTER 3
“Gotcha.” Brett trained his eyes on the headlights blazing, twin beacons glowing like gold eyes in the desert, moving steadily in his direction.
As if the driver of the approaching car heard him, the vehicle slowed, wheels sliding through a clump of cacti, a pastel fender glinting in the last streaks of sunset. Didi for sure, and in that big monster of a car, the white Cadillac convertible she used in her shows.
Of course.
She had to make a flashy entrance.
Always. No matter how serious the situation. But then again, maybe she didn’t realize just how serious this was. Again, he glanced to the passenger seat. Could he do it? He wondered. It would be easy enough to threaten her, but to really pull the trigger?
He remembered, just ten damned months ago, first meeting her after one of her shows. It had all started with him sending a message to her dressing room. He’d gone to see her perform at the suggestion of a friend. Though the casino had been older, a seedy throwback to the fifties that was rumored to have been sold and slated for demolition, there had been a bit of nostalgic charm to the place. He’d ordered a double martini, then turned his disinterested gaze to the stage when the drink had arrived.
The curtain had gone up, and to his surprise he’d been instantly captivated. From the moment he’d first spied her “appearing” magically from the inside of what had seemed to be an empty, if gleaming, pearlescent white Cadillac, its finish so glossy as to look wet, he’d been gobsmacked. Didi, in a sequined gown, fluffy blond wig, and bubblegum-pink lips had resembled Marilyn Monroe so closely, he’d had to look twice. And hard. Man, she’d been a knockout.
Seated in the front row, at a table nearly abutting the stage, he could have sworn she’d singled him out, that the glances she’d sent his way had definitely been hot. He’d interpreted them as come-hither invitations that had caused all sorts of erotic images to spring to mind. He’d downed three or four martinis during her set, his gaze drawn to the sexy performer who changed costumes during the act, becoming different celebrities while singing and actually performing a little magic as well.
Brett had been mesmerized. Stupidly, he realized now. He’d sent the message to her dressing room via a waiter and then had ended up buying her more than a few drinks when she’d appeared without all the stage makeup, looking younger, more innocent, and even more beautiful in tights and a shimmery, belted tunic. She’d been blessed with a fresh face and was quick with a soft, sexy laugh. Her large eyes glimmered, or had it been the booze? Who knew? The upshot was that one thing had led to another, and they’d spent more than a week together, primarily in his hotel room with a glorious penthouse view high above the city. He’d lost his sanity for what had, in reality, been only a few nights, but it had been long enough to reel him in forever.
In hindsight, the seduction appeared to have been part of a greater plan that had blossomed into her extortion plot. She’d probably set her sights on him from the onset, and he’d been stupid enough to think he’d fooled her with his alias and back story about his identity. All along, it now seemed, she’d known he wasn’t who he’d claimed to be, that even the ID he’d carried and left “carelessly” in his wallet had been a lie.
One night that week, in the early morning hours, he’d felt her stir and slide out of the covers to tiptoe to the bureau where he’d tossed his bifold. As he’d watched through slitted eyes, she’d opened the wallet and studied its contents. The room had been dark, for the most part, the only illumination from small digital numbers on the television and digital clock, as well as the ambient glow from outside the window, seeping past the open blinds, the neon lights of Las Vegas giving the room an otherworldly half-light. He’d expected her to take some of the cash or slip one of his credit cards into her purse. He’d been mistaken. She’d just looked at each thin card with its magnetic strip and unknown available balance, not bothering to photograph any of them or pocket a single one. As quietly as a mouse, she’d replaced his belongings exactly as she’d found them, going so far as to pat his wallet, as if for good luck or as a sign of affection before returning to the bed.
He knew better now, but in those wee hours when she’d spooned her supple body up against his, her smooth rump cuddled into his crotch, he’d trusted her, and his erection had stiffened against her skin. She’d snuggled closer, moving against his cock, making soft mewling noises as he’d reached around to cup one of her incredible breasts. Her nipple had tightened, and he’d groaned, then pushed her onto the bed and thrust deep into her silky, moist heat. Their coupling had been fierce and raw, and even now, as he drove, knowing full well the depths of her deception, loathing himself, he felt a twinge in his crotch.
After that night, when she’d left his wallet on the bureau, their affair had blazed white hot for four or five more nights, before he’d left the city, promising to call and never bothering. She was, he’d decided, a fling. Nothing more. Part of a wild, erotic week of his life that he would remember from time to time, and he would smile, wondering what had happened to her. He might even search her out, via the Internet or some other means, perhaps try to reconnect, but he hadn’t believed it, because deep down, he’d suspected she was trouble, the kind of trouble he wanted no part of.
For the better part of a year, he hadn’t heard from her.
Until that fateful call telling him he was a daddy. And, oh, by the way, she knew his true identity and that his family was loaded.
So she’d never bought his story that he was single, a salesman for a high-tech firm who visited this part of Nevada as part of his territory. He’d made it clear that he’d been looking for fun and that was all, and she’d acted as if she’d understood—no strings attached.
And then, after hearing nothing for three quarters of a year, she’d dropped the bomb that he was a father to a newborn son, and she had the DNA test to prove it.
Maybe.
The whole thing smelled of a con job.
He felt to the marrow of his bones that he’d been set up. From the very get-go.
She’d played him, played him good.
But no more.
Tonight was the end of it.
* * *
It’s now or never.
Didi spied the approaching car, and her throat turned as dry as the dust spraying up from the Caddy’s tires. The babies. Her
babies. Was she making a huge mistake?
“You can do this,” she said, determined. Yes, this was the biggest con of her life, and yes, she was nervous, but it was close to going down. Heart thudding, she told herself she should feel some sense of exhilaration rather than angst, but one of her little ones started to cry, and she had to shut out the sound for fear that her damned milk would let down and gushers of milk would stain her dress despite undergarments that had been guaranteed not to let that happen. Geez, how had her life turned to such a mess, all deception and lies? She’d once been a Missouri farm girl, filled with promise and enthusiasm, but that girl, Edwina Maria Hutchinson, had died a quick death the minute she’d turned eighteen, took the bus out of the small town she’d called home, and, two days later, landed on sweet California soil. At that moment, Edie, as she’d been known in the Midwest—she had even gladly embroidered it onto her tight cheerleading sweater—had died a quick death, and Didi Storm had been born.
Even at eighteen, she’d known she’d been blessed with the face of an angel and the body of a she-devil, and she’d been certain she would take the entertainment industry by her new surname, which was one of the reasons she’d chosen it. Didi Storm. It just had such a great ring to it, y’know? However, like so many others who had believed they were the next big thing, she’d been sadly mistaken and horridly disappointed. No, she’d not become a household name like Meg Ryan or Demi Moore or Jennifer Aniston or Julia Roberts or whomever. There were dozens of women who had, and Didi had been determined to become one of them. She’d start out at the bottom, take bit parts in soap operas or do commercials, anything just to get a toehold on stardom. But it hadn’t panned out, not at all, she thought bitterly as her Cadillac hurtled through the desert. Because stupidly . . . stupidly, she’d let herself get pregnant, and all of her dreams had gone up in dust—or, more accurately, in piles of dirty diapers, sinks full of baby bottles, and long, sleepless nights with a baby girl.
If she hadn’t been so foolish as to become a teenage mother, she was still certain, she would have made the big time. Instead, she’d spent hours as a waitress in a seedy bar or going to auditions or rocking her colicky infant while staring at the television in the studio apartment she’d rented in Sherman Oaks. The tips had been okay, and at least she hadn’t had to stoop to turning tricks or fall into the trap of becoming some kind of porn star with more than one X in her name. No, she’d scraped by, and deep into the nights, though exhausted, she’d watched dozens of old movies and learned to mimic the stars of the silver screen. Marilyn Monroe, with her combination of innocence, sexy charm, and breathy voice, quickly became her favorite, and she’d practiced every nuance of the blond bombshell’s on-screen personas. But Didi hadn’t stopped with Marilyn, not when she had been able to watch hours of MTV with its endless music videos. She taped her favorites, then replayed them over and over, studying the dance moves and singing styles of the female artists she adored. Cher was the best, but Whitney Houston, Madonna, and Joan Jett all were close seconds. Didi loved the most flamboyant and independent, the pop stars and rockers who dressed to suit themselves, their costumes brilliant and outlandish, their attitudes sassy and outspoken—women she’d emulated while trapped with a sickly infant.
Yeah, pick your poison, boys, she’d thought, Didi does it all. And had for years. All because she’d drunk too much rotgut tequila one night and thrown caution to the wind. She’d ended up with a mother of a hangover that hadn’t really ever gone away, considering she’d conceived Remmi that night.
The daughter who had stopped her from getting to the big time.
The pregnancy that had started her downfall.
If she hadn’t been knocked up with Remmi, who knew how bright her own star would have shined. As it was, she’d made a name for herself of sorts by bathing in, and reflecting, the luminescence of much bigger celebrities.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath but told herself she’d learned her lesson. Now, she knew how to use a baby to get what she wanted. She just had to hold onto her nerve a little while longer.
She’d started her impersonation act as a way to put food on the table and pay the rent while still dreaming of making it big and hoping her talent would be discovered. It was a stopgap until she was discovered and soared to the heights of celebrity, but now, nearly fifteen years later, with gray hairs beginning to sprout, her boobs starting to sag, her skin not nearly as tight as it had once been, she was still doing her routine at a dive off the Strip in Sin City.
But not for long.
Nuh-uh.
Tonight was the big score.
Her eyes narrowed on the approaching car—a Mustang, from the looks of it—speeding over the dry terrain. Getting closer by the second. Near enough to spy the driver, a dark silhouette of a man who was about to be taken down a peg or two.
“Here we go.”
She slowed to a stop only twenty feet from the Mustang, whose headlights appeared to glow an evil yellow as the dust settled between the two idling cars.
“God,” she whispered, then turned in her seat and said to the two infants who were beginning to whimper, “It’s showtime.” Then as the babies started to wail, she got out of the car and opened a back door. “Shh, shh, shh, little one,” she whispered as she unbuckled one of the car seats. “Hush now. It’s time to meet your daddy.”
* * *
What?
Your daddy? Is that what Didi had said?
And what did she mean by “showtime”?
Remmi couldn’t believe her ears. Had her mother really hauled her twins out here in the middle of the damned desert at twilight to meet their father? Even for over-the-top drama queen Didi Storm, this seemed far-fetched.
And who was this guy?
As the car door slammed shut, doors locking with a resounding click, Remmi wriggled to get a better view through the crack between the back seats, but she couldn’t see anything other than headlights burning through the dusty windshield.
Didi had never named the father of her twins, even though Remmi had asked her mother over and over again, just as she had about her own father, but until this moment, Didi’s lips had been sealed about the paternity of any of her children. “Some things are better left unsaid,” she’d asserted. She’d also been vague when Remmi had wanted to know if her father knew she existed. She’d never heard one whisper from him in her entire life and had assumed he didn’t know he had a daughter. Because of Didi, whose personal mantras about men included “Keep them guessing” and “The less they know, the more they’ll want to know. Everyone wants to sniff around a secret.” In Remmi’s opinion, Didi had that one down cold. Didi’s life was more of a secret diary, as opposed to an open book, and even that very private journal had had a few dark pages ripped from its binding. “A woman needs an aura of mystery to keep a man interested,” Didi had once advised her eldest daughter. “Otherwise he’ll go sniffin’ around any horny bitch who breezes by. Ya know what I mean?” This piece of advice was followed by a knowing wink. Didi had been in full regalia, her favorite glittery Cher outfit, all netting, sequins, deep plunges, and an oversized black wig. Seated at her makeup station in her “dressing room,” which had been little more than a large closet, Didi had met Remmi’s curious gaze in the mirror as she’d applied a shimmery coat of lip gloss. “You get me?”
“Sure.” Remmi had nodded appropriately, as any other response would have been met with anger.
“Remember that,” Didi said, standing and taking stock of her slim figure in the glass. She swatted a bit of lint from her shoulder, then, satisfied with her appearance, added, “Now, you wait here. I’ll be back after the first set and drive you home.” Then she was off, leaving Remmi alone in the small room to dabble with her mother’s precious makeup and to note that all of Didi’s theories about life, love, and especially men didn’t really mean much as they certainly hadn’t worked out for her, evidenced by the trail of burned-out romances that had flamed oh-so-hot for a while, then inevit
ably sputtered and died. Mostly because of Didi’s mercurial temper, but also because, in Remmi’s estimation, her mother always picked losers, never anyone solid. In every case, any man whom Didi had pronounced as being “the one” had ended up with the title of “sick, damned bastard” only a few months later. All wrong.
In a flash, she thought of Noah, and with a twist of her heart and more insight than she wanted, she wondered if her attraction to him was genetic, if she’d inherited her mother’s fascination and proclivity for men who were obviously all wrong for her.
Don’t even go there. She couldn’t think of Noah right now, or anything other than the drama unfolding in front of her. Through the slit, she saw her mother’s backside, swinging in the beams of the Caddy’s headlights. In heels, blond wig, and a tight dress, she sauntered as one of the baby carriers swung from one hand.
What the hell was Didi going to do?
In the sweltering secret compartment, Remmi was sweating, her heart racing a million beats a minute. Even the bit of air sifting in from the back seat, as Didi had left the car door open, didn’t cool her off or ease her anxiety. Biting her lip, Remmi wondered if she dared pop out from behind the false wall to get a better view of her mother and whatever she was doing, of the spot where the beams of the facing sets of headlights embraced. Or maybe she should even fling herself out of the Caddy and demand to know what her mother was doing with one of her siblings.
Whatever it was, it was wrong. Remmi felt it.
But if she exposed herself, Didi would be furious. Out of her mind with anger. And whatever she was plotting would be blown to smithereens. No, she had to remain hidden. It was the safest move. For her. And for her little brother and sister. Oh, Lord, she hoped so.
But as Didi walked farther into the distance, Remmi sent up a silent prayer that whatever her mother was doing, it wouldn’t be the disaster that seemed so imminent.
Hide it under a bushel?
No!
I’m gonna let it shine.