“I thought you had a late call,” he said, putting down the newspaper.
“I want to get to the studio early to go over my lines.”
“Are we in agreement on your project?” he asked. “Can I confirm the meeting and go forward?”
She bent down and kissed him on the cheek, it wasn’t smart to be too independent. “Okay, go ahead. I do appreciate your help. It’s just that I was shocked you chose someone so inexperienced.”
“Trust me, Taylor,” Larry said in his most annoying I’m-always-right voice. “When it comes to talent, I know what I’m doing.”
“I understand, darling. I’ll see you later.”
“Another late night?”
“No, it’s a short day, I’ll be home before seven.”
“Good.” He hesitated a moment. “Maybe we can spend some private time together for a change.”
She knew what he meant by that. They hadn’t had sex in a while, and he was getting anxious. “Of course, sweetie,” she said, lightly kissing him on the forehead. “And while you’re at work today, think about what I said.”
“And that is?”
“The role in your movie. I’d be perfect.”
•
LYNDA RICHTER FLEW into town like a hot-air balloon—big, blustery, and full of energy.
Letting herself in with a key, she marched into the bedroom and stood over the bed where Nicci was still sleeping.
“Surprise! Surprise!” she said in a loud voice. “And I’ve caught the bride-to-be sleeping. Wakey, wakey, dear, you must have tons of things to organize.”
Bleary eyed, Nicci looked up at her. “Mrs. Richter,” she mumbled. “I wasn’t expecting you until Friday.”
“Decided to come early,” Lynda said briskly. “Didn’t Evan mention it?”
“He must’ve forgotten.”
“Bad boy. He’ll be home on Sunday, so I thought I’d make everything cozy and comfy for him by the time he gets here. I’m sure you’ve got too much on your mind to think about poor little Evan at a time like this.”
“He’s not poor little Evan,” Nicci said irritably, wishing that she was up and dressed so that she could properly confront this intrusive woman. “He’s working hard on his movie, and he’s a big boy now. I can look after him.”
“I’m sure you can, dear, although I’m certain you’ll need help with the wedding,” Lynda said, pausing to swoop up a couple of dirty Kleenexes and a half-empty mug of cold coffee from the bedside table. “This place is a mess. What time does the maid get here?”
“Soon,” Nicci said.
“I can see I’d better have a word with her,” Lynda said, running her finger along a shelf and inspecting the dust. “Dear me. Maids never do a damn thing unless you’re on their tail day and night. Of course, Evan’s a man, so they never listen to him, but shouldn’t you have talked to her by this time?”
“About what?” Nicci said defiantly.
“About cleaning the house so that it’s spotless,” Lynda said. “That’s what we pay them for, dear.”
“Excuse me,” Nicci said, jumping out of bed. “I’m taking a shower and getting dressed.”
“Late night?” Lynda said, raising an eyebrow.
“A party with a friend,” Nicci replied.
“A party?” Lynda said disapprovingly. “Surely you shouldn’t be running around to parties when you’re about to get married?”
“It was my best friend’s parents’ anniversary,” Nicci said, wondering why she was bothering to explain to this bossy, overbearing woman. “My mother was there.”
“Oh, your mother,” Lynda said. “I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
“It’ll have to be next week,” Nicci said. “She’s off to Vegas for her show.”
“What show is that, dear?”
“She’s opening the Desert Millennium Princess hotel with a one-night show.”
“Are we going?” Lynda asked.
“I’m not,” Nicci said.
“Well, I’d like to,” Lynda said. “Can it be arranged?”
“Evan never told me you wanted to go.”
“I didn’t know such a show was taking place,” Lynda said. “The three of us should go to offer respect to your mother.”
“My mother doesn’t like me to see her perform publicly,” Nicci said. “It makes her uncomfortable, and she protects me from the media.”
“I’ve never heard such nonsense,” Lynda said vigorously. “Before you, dear, I used to accompany Evan to all of his premieres. The cameras loved me. I was on E.T., Access Hollywood, and—”
“What about Brian?” Nicci interrupted. “Did you accompany him too?”
“Brian can look after himself,” Lynda said dismissively. “He always has.”
“Well,” Nicci said. “I’m sure you know where the guest room is.”
“Of course I do, dear, I decorated it,” Lynda said. “In fact, I decorated this entire house. Now where’s that damn maid of yours? I’d better make sure she’s thoroughly cleaned my room before I unpack. And then I want to go see your dress and hear all about the wedding arrangements.”
Nicci hurried into the bathroom and shut the door. This was going to be a nightmare.
•
“YOU LITTLE SHIT!” Taylor said, sweeping into Oliver’s seedy apartment.
“What now?” he said, reminding himself to lock his door in future.
“How dare you!” she said, steaming.
He was sitting at his computer, bare chested, wearing cutoff jeans and a Lakers baseball cap. She was dressed for work in sweats and sunglasses—the transformation would take place when she reached the studio. On the way, she’d stopped by Oliver’s to tell him exactly what she thought of him.
“What kind of balls do you have accepting an assignment to work on my script from my husband?” she demanded.
“Brass ones,” he said with a ribald snigger.
“What’s wrong with you?” she said coldly. “If Larry ever found out about us, the consequences would be disastrous for both of us. Don’t you understand that?”
“Cool it, Tay,” he said casually. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Pleased? Why would I be pleased?”
“ ’Cause it means we can see each other again,” he said, standing up, all skinny, rippling young muscles. “Gotta say I’ve missed you.”
This caught her completely off guard. As far as she was concerned her affair with Oliver Rock was over. Except . . . he did look exceptionally appealing today. He wasn’t stoned . . . and . . . he’d missed her.
She glanced down. He had a hard-on, and it was fast coming toward her.
“Didja miss me?” he asked, putting his arms around her waist and pulling her close.
This was the moment she was supposed to say, “No. I didn’t. And get your juvenile hands off me.”
However, it was too late for that, because his juvenile hands were all over her, and it was as if he’d pressed a trigger, because once she felt his touch she was powerless to push him away.
“Oliver,” she managed. “We shouldn’t—”
His lips shut her up as they descended on hers, biting and sucking, while his fingers sneaked under her sweatshirt, lightly stroking her nipples, causing her to gasp with excitement.
He took her hand and placed it on his impressive erection. She unzipped his pants, releasing him.
“Eat it,” he commanded.
“I don’t have much time . . .”
“Eat it,” he repeated.
There was something about Oliver Rock. The arrogance of youth. The confidence that she would do exactly as he asked.
She got on her knees and opened her mouth to oblige him.
He put his hands on top of her head and pushed down. She took as much as she could, deep-throating him with a great deal of expertise.
He groaned and came fast. She swallowed.
Taylor knew how to please a man.
He was ready to go again immediatel
y—one thing about Oliver, he was not selfish. He pulled down her tracksuit pants, tore off her outrageously expensive black lace thong, and bent her back across the table next to his computer.
She shuddered with excitement as he thrust himself inside her. Knew she should tell him to wear a condom.
Too late. She was past the moment of no return.
Her climax was so powerful that she screamed out his name. Then, while she was still coming, he withdrew, quickly buried his face between her legs, and began sucking and licking, prolonging her orgasm until she cried out for him to stop.
“Oh, God,” she moaned, feeling quite weak. “That was amazing.”
“S’nice t’be back in business together,” he said with a cocky grin. “I think it’s all gonna work out pretty good, don’t you?”
Chapter Twenty-nine
* * *
THE STREETS on the drive downtown were congested with traffic. Eric found himself quite bad tempered by the time he reached his destination. It was only after he received the goods he’d ordered that his mood turned pleasant.
After the balance of the money he owed changed hands, he found himself in possession of a passport, driver’s license, and Social Security card. All the documents were impeccable. Nobody could possibly tell they were fakes.
He studied them for a minute as he sat in his car. Norman Browning. By next week he would be Norman Browning, and Eric Vernon would have ceased to exist. He liked his new name, it had a certain quality, almost a literary air.
He put the documents in his jacket pocket. First-class work. It had cost him, but it was worth every cent.
Next he stopped by another connection and picked up a gun. Not that he was planning on using it, but it would certainly keep Arliss and friends in line if need be.
Eric felt confident about the kidnapping. Grab Nicci, demand money, pick up the ransom, get on the next plane to the Bahamas, and good-bye Eric Vernon.
He drove back to his apartment in the valley feeling very satisfied.
When he opened his front door he was surprised to see an envelope slipped underneath. Eric didn’t get mail, nobody knew his address, he had no friends, so who would write him?
He picked up the pink envelope with his name scrawled across the front. Eric Vernnon. The “Vernnon” was misspelled, with two n’s. It alarmed him. Who was sending him mail? Was it that moron Arliss? Had he gone out of his way to find out where Eric lived?
He tore open the envelope. Inside was a piece of pink notepaper, decorated with flowers and stinking of some vile perfume. Scrawly handwriting covered the page.
Dear Eric:
I know you must think I’m forward. Sorry. I’ve been watching you, and I like you, and I think you like me. I am writing this note cause I know we’re both shy. So, please can we go for a nice dinner one night?
Your friend, Pattie (the bar)
P.S. My night off is Monday.
Eric stared at the piece of paper in horror. Pattie, the barmaid. How the hell had she found out where he lived? Nobody knew. Nobody was supposed to know.
He simmered with fury, then grabbing his jacket, he set out for the bar to find out.
•
SAM’S PLACE was more or less empty. The regulars didn’t congregate until five or six, and there was no Pattie either. Sam, the owner of the place, sat on a high stool behind the scuffed bar, studying the sports page of the paper. Down the other end of the bar was a hunched-over drunk.
“Early for you, isn’t it?” Sam said, glancing up from his newspaper.
“What time does Pattie get here?” Eric asked.
“Five,” Sam replied.
“Where does she live?”
“Can’t give out that information,” Sam said.
“I’m sure you can,” Eric said, slipping him a ten.
Sam glanced at the ten, shoved it in his pocket and said, “Around the corner to the left. The brown building—you can’t miss it.”
“If you see her,” Eric said. “Don’t tell her I was looking. I want to surprise her.”
“She’s a slag, you know,” Sam remarked.
“What?” Eric said.
“She’s a slag.”
“What’s a slag?”
“English for hooker. Get it?”
“I’m not trying to sleep with her,” Eric said, offended. “I owe her money.”
“You’re a strange one,” Sam said, squinting his small, piggy eyes. “You’ve never said two words to me before today.”
“Didn’t know you were looking for conversation,” Eric said.
“You hang out with the guys enough. Anythin’ goin’ on I should know about?”
“Nothing,” Eric said. “Why?”
“I got a feeling somethin’s goin’ down. An’ if it is, I wouldn’t mind bein’ included.”
“Keep your feelings to yourself,” Eric wanted to say. But he stayed silent, loathing the fat man.
This was a joke, some skank got hold of his address and now everyone was into his business.
He left the bar muttering under his breath, thinking about his options. He could wait and see Pattie when she came in to work that night. Or he could pay her a visit now and find out exactly how she’d discovered his address.
Damn her! He’d suspected she liked him, but it had never occurred to him that she’d try to find him.
Since he didn’t want everybody in the bar knowing his business, he finally decided to go to her apartment.
He drove around the corner, looking for the apartment building. It was a four-story structure, seedy and run-down. He parked on the street, got out of his truck, and pressed the buzzer.
“Yes?” a woman’s voice said.
“Pattie?”
“Wrong apartment,” the woman said.
He tried the second bell. No answer.
The third. A barking dog and nothing else.
Then the fourth. “Is Pattie there?”
“Who wants her?”
“Eric.”
“Eric? Is that really you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding flustered. “What’re you doing here?”
“Can I come up?”
“I’ll buzz you in.”
She pressed the buzzer, and the downstairs door swung open.
Eric entered the building. He didn’t know what he was going to do. He only knew that he had to find out why she’d been tracking him.
And when he did . . .
Chapter Thirty
* * *
ABBEY CHRISTIAN was young, gorgeous, famous, and a pain in the ass. She gave new meaning to the word “vacuous.”
Brian Richter had thought when they’d hired her to star in Space Blonde that he’d definitely fuck her. Not that he found her so irresistible; it was simply that she was there—on location—and so was he, and Brian could usually score with any woman he chose.
However, Abbey was not responding in the usual way to his considerable charm, so he’d come to the conclusion that someone else on the shoot was nailing her.
He considered the various contenders and narrowed them down to Harry Bello, her much older costar, Chris Fortune, their boy-wonder director, or Andy Moon, their Rod Stewart look-alike camera operator.
He watched Abbey and Harry’s interaction on the set. It was painfully obvious they loathed each other. He observed her behavior with Chris Fortune. She treated him like dog shit—one of the reasons the poor guy was close to a nervous breakdown. And Andy, well Andy was busy banging the script girl.
Which left . . . who?
Brian went to the source of all gossip, Billie, their Bronx-born hairdresser on the shoot. He sat in her chair while she trimmed his hair, staring at an assortment of Polaroids of various stars taped to her mirror and asked the question. “Who’s slipping it to our leading lady?”
Billie gave him a skeptical look. “You mean you don’t know?”
“I just got back from L.A.,” he said. “I’m not up on what’s goi
n’ on.”
“You’re always up on everything,” Billie said, waving her scissors. “And since you’re not slipping it to her, guess who is? It should be easy enough for you to figure out.”
“Who?” he said.
She leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Evan.”
“What?” He began to laugh. “You gotta be kidding?”
“Everyone knows. Andy caught him creeping out of her room at 6:00 A.M. the other morning. He didn’t see Andy, thinks it’s a deep, dark secret.”
“Evan is screwing Abbey? My brother, Evan?”
“Do we have another Evan on this movie?” Billie said, snipping away with her scissors.
“Jesus Christ! He’s engaged.”
“Like that ever made any difference. Must run in the family, right, Brian?”
He shook his head. He was in shock. Evan never fooled around with the hired help. No wonder his brother had warned him to stay away from Abbey.
And what about Nicci? There she was in L.A., preparing to marry the guy. And she was a nice kid, really nice.
“It’s a hoot, doncha think?” Billie said.
“No, it’s sad,” Brian replied. “Listen, honey, I screw around, but not if I’m in a committed relationship.”
“You wouldn’t know what commitment meant if it bit you on the ass,” Billie said scornfully. “You’re a hound dog, man.”
“Yeah, well, if I was committed, I wouldn’t fuck around. And Evan’s getting married to someone special.” Now that he’d said it aloud, he realized that Nicci was special.
“When’s this supposed to be happening?” Billie asked.
“In two weeks.”
“Ooh, now that’s naughty.”
“Yeah, it is,” Brian agreed.
As soon as Billie finished trimming his hair, he headed straight to the set, not quite sure what he would do.
Evan wasn’t around. Abbey was sitting in her director’s chair, sucking on a lollipop. She wore short shorts and a tiny tank, every curve on view—not to mention extremely erect nipples. She loved turning the crew on, it gave her a big kick.
“Hey, Abbey,” he said, wandering over to her.
“Brian—when did you get back?”
“Yesterday. I was on the set, didn’t you see me?”