Hollywood Wives--The New Generation

  “And,” Nicci added, glad that Lissa was taking it so calmly, “he’ll probably be with his new wife.”

  “What new wife?”

  “Antonio’s getting married again.”

  “When?”

  “He’s doing it this week.”

  Lissa couldn’t help feeling a tiny frisson of jealousy. Antonio was about to get married, and she was about to get divorced. Again. What a failure she was at marriage, she simply couldn’t get it right. “Who’s he marrying?” she asked.

  “Dunno,” Nicci said casually. “Some older rich woman. Adela will like totally freak!”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “ ’Cause I called and invited him to my wedding.”

  “You did?”

  “Hey—somebody has to walk me down the aisle, and it sure as hell wasn’t gonna be Gregg. And in view of the circumstances, I’m sooo glad I called Antonio.”

  “He can’t stay here,” Lissa said hurriedly.

  “She’s rich, Mom, they’ll probably take a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

  “Good,” Lissa said, wondering what it would be like to see Antonio again—another cheating son of a bitch.

  “Hey, Mom—you okay?”

  “Well . . . this is kind of upsetting,” Lissa admitted. “I suspected Gregg was seeing someone for months. Hiring a private investigator was merely confirmation.”

  “A P.I.!” Nicci exclaimed, wrinkling her nose. “Gross!”

  “Anyway,” Lissa said sadly. “The P.I. found out everything.”

  “Like what?” Nicci demanded, dying to hear the whole sordid story.

  “For God’s sake,” Lissa snapped. “Don’t expect me to go into details. It’s bad enough that this will eventually become tabloid fodder.”

  “Great,” Nicci groaned. “Once again I get to read ail about my mom in the supermarket.”

  “Maybe not,” Lissa said, wishing that her daughter would show a little more sympathy.

  “You know they’re gonna nail you.”

  “Perhaps,” Lissa said vaguely, her mind on other things. “Anyway, it’s good to see you, Nicci. Is everything on track for the wedding?”

  “Zoomin’ along.”

  “I wish I could help more.”

  “No you don’t,” Nicci said matter-of-factly. “You’re hopeless with arrangements.”

  “I’m glad you understand. You know I’ll pay for everything. Have all the bills sent to my business manager.”

  “Thanks.” Nicci hesitated a moment before continuing. “Uh . . . I know you think I don’t appreciate all the stuff you’ve done for me, but uh . . . I do.” A beat. “And I’m sorry about Gregg. So . . . if you need anything, call me.”

  At last some compassion. “Thanks, sweetheart,” Lissa said. “I appreciate that.”

  “I’ll get out of your way now,” Nicci said. Stopping at the door she added an impulsive, “We’re having a dinner party tonight. You’re welcome to come.”

  “You’re throwing a dinner party?” Lissa said, surprised. “You’re not actually cooking?”

  “Who, me?” Nicci said, grinning. “Like no way. I’ve hired a chef.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “It’s only like, y’know, a few people. Saffy’s showing up with her new boyfriend.”

  “Saffron has a new boyfriend? Has Kyndra met him?”

  “Kyndra’s exactly like you, Mom,” Nicci said patiently. “She doesn’t give a rat’s ass.”

  “That’s not a very nice thing to say,” Lissa said, frowning. “Of course I care. “I’m just not your average mother.”

  Hmm, Nicci thought. That’s the understatement of the year. “Yeah, yeah,” she said. “I’m sure you care in your own way, but let’s not get into it now.”

  “Get into what?” Lissa said tightly.

  “Nothing,” Nicci said quickly. “So . . .” she added. “Maybe I’ll see you later?”

  Lissa nodded. The prospect of being alone tonight was not an appealing one, perhaps she would go to Nicci’s dinner party. It might make a welcome change. Anything to block out the nightmare of the last few days.

  Chapter Twelve

  * * *

  SEVERAL WEEKS PREVIOUSLY, Eric Vernon had quit his job so he could concentrate fully on the task at hand. Shortly after that, he’d driven to San Diego and held up a bank—enabling him to fully finance his project. The pickings were good, but not good enough. Eric was on track for the big score, and he knew that to achieve his objective, everything had to work perfectly. There could be no screwups. Kidnapping Nicci Stone was his one chance at the big time, and he’d kill anyone who blew it.

  Arliss was on board. Eric had picked him because of the huge deserted building he looked after. It was the perfect place to stash the girl until the ransom was paid. Eric had given him enough money to set up a soundproof and secure room. A room with no windows and no way out.

  When he’d told Arliss what the job was, the skinny man had blanched. “Kidnapping,” he’d whined. “That’s a federal offense.”

  “Not unless you transport the victim to a different state,” Eric had said, reassuring him. “We’ll hold the victim no more than twenty-four hours—less if the ransom’s paid fast enough. Before we make a move, every detail has to be in place.”

  “What kinda ransom you askin’?” Arliss had inquired, a greedy expression distorting his thin face.

  “That’s for me to know,” Eric had answered. “Your cut’ll be twenty-five grand. If we bring the other guys in, they’ll each get ten grand.”

  “Cash?”

  “Cash,” Eric agreed.

  “Do we get the money up front?” Arliss had wanted to know, licking his cracked lips in anticipation.

  “No. You’ll have to trust me.”

  “The others’ll never go for it.”

  Eric had given him a long, cold stare. “If they want in, that’s the way it has to be.”

  Eric continued to track Nicci on a daily basis, noting her every move. There was a place in the steep brush outside the back of her boyfriend’s house from which he could watch everything she did. With no shades on the large windows, he got an unobstructed view as he crouched in the bushes for hours on end. He even bought night-vision goggles to observe her more intimate moments, such as when she was taking a bath or preparing for bed.

  Nicci Stone was a sexy young piece, and sometimes Eric found her getting to him—even though he’d sworn off women.

  Damn her! Experiencing sexual feelings put him out of control, and above all else, Eric knew he had to stay in control. No weaknesses. Weaknesses led to mistakes. And Eric could not afford to make any mistakes.

  He kept in touch with Danny, leading him on with a story he’d concocted about a mystery boyfriend with whom he was involved. Danny was a sympathetic listener, especially when Eric was buying the drinks.

  Danny was also a talker, and Eric heard all about how Lissa was planning on dumping her current husband, preparing for her Vegas show, and attempting to get closer to her daughter. The more information he could gather, the better.

  The next step was recruiting Arliss’ three friends, which he did not consider a difficult task.

  Offer enough money, and people were inclined to say yes to anything.

  It was only human nature after all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  * * *

  LISSA WAS A WRECK as she watched Michael Scorsinni and Danny methodically packing up Gregg’s clothes and other personal possessions. In spite of the fact that her soon-to-be ex had turned out to be a cheating, violent son of a bitch, it all seemed so final. And when he was gone, once more she’d be alone. Although she’d already decided that being alone was certainly better than spending one more moment in Gregg’s company.

  She remembered their first meeting, at a friend’s house in Malibu. Gregg had seemed so easygoing, warm, and sexy. He hadn’t been in awe of her, like most men, and in spite of the ten-year age gap, they’d fallen int
o a fast and exciting relationship. She’d thought that this was it. True love at last. And yet, after a while, he’d turned out to be like all the rest. Worse than the rest, because he was also an abusive bully, and now she could add rapist to his list of credits.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Michael finally said, noticing how agitated she was getting. “I suggest you check into a hotel for the weekend, or go stay with a friend. By Monday, Gregg Lynch’ll be history, and you can safely come home.”

  “You don’t know Gregg; he won’t give up easily,” she said, thinking that when Gregg realized what she’d done, he’d go berserk.

  “Here’s another suggestion,” Michael said. “How about next week I move into your guest room, make sure he doesn’t give you any trouble?”

  “You’d do that?” she asked, quite liking the thought of having Michael Scorsinni permanently on the premises. He made her feel secure and safe.

  “You’re paying me, Lissa, I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Really?” she said in a sexy voice, teasing him.

  “Within reason,” he countered.

  “Oh, nuts!” she joked, laughing. “And I thought I could have my way with you.”

  Michael didn’t smile, he was too angry. He had a strong urge to get hold of Gregg Lynch and beat the crap out of him. Men who hit women were the lowest, and although Lissa refused to reveal anything, the black eye she was featuring told its own story.

  “Did that sonofabitch hit you?” he’d demanded as soon as he’d walked in.

  “I ran into a door,” she’d replied, too embarrassed to tell the truth.

  He’d stifled a desire to reach out and hold her close. But of course he couldn’t do that—as he kept on reminding himself—this was business, personal feelings were not allowed.

  Why not? his inner voice demanded.

  Because she’s a client, and she’s also a movie star. And movie stars are different.

  By late afternoon, Danny had booked her into the Peninsula under an assumed name. A short drive later she was ensconced.

  “Maybe I’d better stay here for a while,” Danny said, quite concerned as he fussed around the suite, making sure there were flowers and wine and a large fruit basket.

  “That’s okay,” she said, dismissing him. “Have Michael call me later.”

  Reluctantly, Danny left.

  Filled with mixed feelings, Lissa wandered around the luxurious suite, pacing from the living room to the bedroom, feeling like a caged tiger.

  It was so strange being in a hotel in her own town. So strange and lonely.

  And yet she knew this was what she had to do, because after Gregg’s behavior last night there was no going back. Her husband had turned into a frightening stranger, she was lucky to have gotten away with only a black eye.

  •

  “DID YOU SEND those people a gift?” Larry inquired, standing over Taylor.

  She was sitting at her desk, trying to sort through the stack of invitations that arrived daily. She glanced up at her husband. Here was this man, this Oscar-winning genius, and all he cared about was whether she’d sent the fictitious neighbors something. Go figure.

  “Yes,” she said shortly. “I took care of it.”

  “It’s good karma to give back,” Larry remarked.

  He was home early because his best friend from college, Isaac, was celebrating his fiftieth birthday, and Isaac’s wife, Jenny, was throwing him a party. And even though Isaac, whom Taylor had only met on a few occasions, lived in the wilds of Calabasas, Larry had insisted they go.

  Taylor had tried to get out of it—in vain. “They don’t want to see me,” she’d said modestly. “It’s you everyone’s interested in.”

  “Taylor,” Larry had assured her, “I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without you. You are my reason for getting up every day. I love you so much. You do know that, don’t you?”

  Like she didn’t feel guilty enough. If Larry ever found out she was screwing around it would destroy him. Earlier today she’d driven over to Oliver’s, only to find no one home. She’d hung around for a while, hoping he’d put in an appearance, and when he didn’t appear, she’d driven home in a sulk.

  Since that time, she’d called him several times. Receiving no answer had put her in even more of a sulk.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?” Larry asked.

  “What is the dress code for Calabasas?” she drawled sarcastically.

  Larry didn’t appear to notice her sarcasm. “It says California casual on the invite, so wear that white outfit I like.”

  Sure, Taylor thought. There’s no way I’m wasting Valentino on a trip to the boondocks.

  Larry went upstairs. Taylor reached for the phone and tried Oliver one last time.

  If he didn’t pick up soon, she was asking for her money back.

  •

  THE CHEF NICCI HAD HIRED—sight unseen—arrived late. He was a gaunt, scruffy-looking man, with dyed black hair greased into submission, an off-white chef’s jacket, worn with stained white bell-bottoms, and orange hiking boots.

  At least he’s here, Nicci thought. Although he’s not exactly what I had in mind.

  She was upset because the flowers she’d ordered had not arrived, and, according to Evan, the wine she’d purchased at the market was cheap crap. If this is what entertaining was all about, she would not be doing it again anytime soon.

  “You should’ve picked up the wine,” she informed Evan, who for the first time in their short relationship was starting to bug her. “Men are supposed to take care of things like that.”

  “Dinner parties are your job,” he answered between phone calls. “Besides, you’re the one who wanted to do this.”

  Earlier he’d told her that their director was having a nervous shit-fit, and he’d been on the phone most of the day trying to deal with it.

  “My job,” she retorted, outraged. “My fucking job! I don’t work for you, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Don’t start, Nicci,” he said, shooting her a filthy look.

  Christ! He sounded like her mother. Tight-lipped, she left the room before she told him to shove it up his ass with bells on.

  The chef was in the kitchen unpacking supermarket bags, a cigarette dangling loosely from the corner of his slack lips.

  “I thought we’d sit down to dinner around nine,” she said, trying to sound as if she’d done this before.

  “You got it, sweetbuns,” he answered with a jaunty wink.

  Sweetbuns! What was that all about? “You’re serving steak and salad, right?” she said, deciding it was best to ignore his overly familiar attitude.

  Another wink. “You’re gonna love my meat, sweetbuns,” he said, cigarette ash falling on the countertop.

  She hurriedly left the kitchen and retired to the privacy of their bedroom, where she lit up a joint, even though Evan—who didn’t do drugs of any kind—had asked her not to smoke in there.

  Too bad. She was giving this lousy dinner party to make him happy, and he had the temerity to criticize her!

  She stalked into her closet and picked out the one dress she owned. A short, backless, red Azzedine Alaïa. Very sexy. Especially when she added Jimmy Choo heels, making her six feet tall. Evan would not appreciate her towering over him, he claimed it made him feel inadequate.

  That was his problem. Tonight she was doing whatever she felt like.

  •

  AROUND SIX, Michael phoned the hotel, using Lissa’s alias to get through to her. “Everything’s in place,” he said. “His stuff’s outside, the locks are changed, I’ve sent your housekeeper to stay with relatives for the weekend, and your security guard knows Mr. Lynch no longer has access to the premises.”

  “Are you sure I can do this?” she asked nervously.

  “You checked with your lawyer, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know it’s okay.”

  “I suppose so,” she said listlessly.

 
“It’s your house, Lissa, not his,” Michael said, his voice low and reassuring.

  “I realize that.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “No problem,” she answered quickly.

  “So, what are you up to in your luxury suite?” he asked, attempting to lighten the situation.

  “Becoming a television junkie,” she said, switching channels as she spoke, keeping the volume on mute.

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “If you like TV.”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Hey—don’t go getting depressed on me,” he said cheerfully.

  “I’m not.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “And you’re okay being in a hotel by yourself?”

  “Of course I am,” she lied.

  “Then there’s nothing else I can do for you tonight?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’ll give you my cell phone number in case you need me.”

  “I won’t,” she sighed. “Give it to me anyway.”

  “You want me to drop by?” he asked, sensing she was depressed.

  “Not necessary,” she said, although his company would’ve been most welcome.

  “Just remember,” he said sternly. “Do not go home.”

  “I have no intention of doing so.”

  She put down the phone, then picked it up again and ordered dinner from room service, instructing the waiter to leave the trolley outside the door. She didn’t want anyone knowing she was there, especially not a room-service waiter who probably had a hot line to the Enquirer.

  When the food arrived, it did not tempt her. She hated being in this situation, and the prospect of sitting alone in a hotel room all night was a grim one, especially as she felt so vulnerable. She called James. His service informed her he was in New York for the weekend.

  Next she tried Kyndra, whose assistant told her that her boss was shut up in the recording studio and had left instructions not be disturbed unless there was a major earthquake.

  Nice, just when she needed them, her two best friends were unavailable.

  She considered phoning Stella or Taylor, then decided against it. Stella was too abrasive and would lecture her on her bad choice of men. And Taylor was so completely caught up in her movie project lately that she seemed to care about nothing else.