Married Lovers

“That’s all right,” Mandy said, all magnanimous and forgiving. “You were upset. You thought I’d left your family out. You should know that I would never do that.”

  Damn! He felt like the world’s biggest shit. He’d had all these negative thoughts about her–including asking for a divorce–and now this.

  “What time will you be home?” she asked.

  “Later,” he said.

  “Not too much later,” she said. “You’ll want to shower and get ready, they’ll be here at seven.”

  He wished she would turn into her usual nagging self, but it was not to be.

  She left him with a trapped feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Trapped in a marriage with a woman he did not love, and there seemed to be nothing he could do about it.

  Driving home from Venice Beach, Lucy felt quite invigorated. Telling Marlon–yes, that was the kid’s name–apparently his mom had been a big Marlon Brando fan–about her story idea was so exciting, because he got it, he actually got it, and not only that, he immediately began coming up with his own ideas to add to the story, and they were fresh and edgy. There was a lot to be said about dealing with someone so young. Marlon wasn’t jaded, he had an enthusiastic attitude she admired.

  It occurred to her that if he wrote a hot script she wouldn’t need Phil or Ryan, she’d have her agent shop it with her name attached to star, and they’d go for the best deal.

  Although she had to admit that she liked the idea of working with Ryan, he was sensitive when it came to his actresses, and she needed–in fact craved–Ryan’s particular brand of sensitivity.

  Hmm…she thought. How about if Phil agrees to be script consultant as a gesture of good will toward me?

  Reaching for her cell, she called her cheating husband.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, sounding put out that she wasn’t at home tending to his every need.

  It was too soon to tell him what she was up to. “Shopping,” she answered vaguely.

  “Shopping? Again? Don’t you have everything you need?”

  “Not quite,” she answered. “Oh, by the way, Mandy and Ryan invited us to come by their house for dinner tonight, a small group. Okay with you?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  I want my career back.

  “Good. Have your assistant call Mandy and accept.”

  “Are you on your way home?”

  Are you still fucking anything that moves?

  “I’ll be there soon.”

  “You ruined my day,” Don said, waving everyone out of his office as he spoke to Cameron on the phone.

  “Why’s that?” she asked.

  “Last night at Ryan’s party I was kind of under the impression we had a connection,” he said, drumming his fingers on his desk. “Then come this morning an’ you bale on me. That’s not nice.”

  “Sorry,” she murmured. It seemed as if she was having to apologize to everyone today.

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it,” he replied, mock-stern. “What was so important that you couldn’t make it?”

  Revealing that she’d skipped out on him so that she could have breakfast with Ryan was not an option. She knew he liked her, but only because he wasn’t getting anywhere with her. She also knew that he and Ryan were close. But what could she do? It wasn’t her fault she was so attracted to Ryan. Controlling her feelings was not always possible.

  “Something personal came up,” she said carefully. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “Anything I can do to help out?”

  “No, Don, nothing. But thanks for asking.”

  “You’re sure?” he said, wishing she’d let him in just a little bit. She was so fucking elusive and it bugged him.

  “Positive,” she said firmly.

  “Maybe I can buy you dinner,” he suggested, feeling like the school nerd asking the prom queen for a date.

  “I can buy my own dinner,” she said, knowing that she probably sounded like a bitch, but she couldn’t help it; her mind was firmly on Ryan.

  “What’s up with you?” he burst out. “You’re so fucking independent.”

  “Something wrong with being independent?” she said, distracted as the phone guy attempted to get her attention.

  “No, but—”

  “I have to go,” she said abruptly.

  “If that’s the way you want it, sweetheart,” he said, experiencing a sudden flash of anger that she found it so damn easy to blow him off. Maybe Jill was right, maybe she was gay. “Gotta go too,” he said quickly, before he made even more of a fool of himself.

  “I’ll be there tomorrow,” she said, cool as can be. “Bright and early.”

  Bright and early my ass, he thought bitterly as he clicked off his phone. Enough of this chasing after her. It was ridiculous. He could have any woman he wanted, and the woman he wanted was probably gay, so fuck it, no more driving himself crazy.

  He buzzed his assistant. “Get me Mary Ellen Evans,” he snapped.

  One thing was for sure. Tonight he was getting laid.

  ANYA

  For or several blissful days Anya discovered the joys of being in a real city where there were places to walk and things to see. It was summertime, and Amsterdam was quite beautiful with its twisting canals, fascinating old buildings and many museums. Anya felt that she had entered another world–a world where people strode along the sidewalks, rode bicycles, strolled in the parks, and were not obsessed with sex. A world where for the first time since the loss of her parents, she felt like a human being and not a mere object.

  It was such a relief to be free, if only temporarily.

  Velma had informed her that she was busy securing their future. “We will make plenty of money in this city,” she’d told Anya. “It is important I set us up right.”

  Every morning for three days Velma left the small hotel they were staying in, and didn’t return until late at night.

  Anya wasn’t lonely, she was ecstatic–exploring the city by herself was exciting. Velma–who was in charge of their hard-earned money–gave her a small amount of cash each day to buy lunch, and told her to enjoy herself. “Soon you’ll be working so hard there’ll be no time to see anything.”

  Anya didn’t think to ask Velma exactly what she was doing all day, she trusted her completely.

  On their third night in Amsterdam Velma brought a man back with her to their small hotel room. He was Turkish, tall and thin with long greasy hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, a scraggly beard, pock-marked skin and shifty eyes. “This is Joe,” Velma announced. “He’ll be our protector.”

  “Protector?” Anya stammered. “I don’t understand.”

  But soon she did. Velma had decided they needed someone smart who knew the city and was familiar with the notorious red-light district, to launch them on what she was sure would be a lucrative career. Joe was that someone.

  In her travels Velma had asked around and Joe’s name kept on coming up. She’d finally tracked him down and informed him he was in for a treat. Joe had looked Velma over and nodded his approval. “I can handle you,” he’d said. “I get you room, protection, everything you need. In exchange you hand over sixty per cent of everything you earn.”

  “I don’t intend to be some hooker sitting in a window,” Velma had informed him. “I’m after more than that.”

  “Then what?” he’d asked.

  “Me and another girl,” she’d said. “A very young beautiful girl. We put on live sex show. Then after show, the highest bidder gets to fuck her. You interested in promoting us? Fifty per cent partners?”

  Joe was interested. But first he had to see this girl that Velma had promised was so young and beautiful.

  That day Anya had walked all over the city. She’d visited the Van Gogh museum–staring in wonderment at the paintings; she’d fed the pigeons in Dam Square; marveled at the Royal Palace building; watched the Magere Bridge open and close several times; and finally she’d ended up in a coffee shop where all kinds of legal mariju
ana was on the menu.

  When she’d returned to their hotel she was full of dreams of what her future with Velma might hold. Velma had talked about girl-on-girl shows being their future, but now she wasn’t so sure; there were many other things they could do.

  “Take off your clothes,” Velma ordered. “We show Joe some of our special sex tricks.”

  “No,” Joe interrupted, licking his thin lips. “You take off her clothes, make sure you do it slowly.”

  Anya tried to hide the tears that filled her eyes. She’d been so hopeful that her days as a sexual object were over. Now this evil-looking man was staring at her with his narrow bloodshot eyes expecting her to do things she dreaded. She should have known that getting out of the sex trade was impossible. How foolish of her to have imagined otherwise.

  “Come, little bird,” Velma coaxed, pawing at her clothes. “Pretend it’s you and me alone together doing the things you love so much. Let us show the man how we make sex.”

  Anya nodded blankly, her eyes overflowing with helpless tears. Sex with Velma was something special for them alone. Sharing it would spoil everything.

  With a heavy heart she realized there was no escape. There never was.

  Chapter Twenty

  Wherever Mary Ellen Evans went, paparazzi followed. She was their perfect victim. A famous TV star, currently single, recently and very publicly dumped by her movie-star husband who’d immediately hooked up with his gorgeous co-star. The press loved to portray Mary Ellen as the poor little victim. Her photo, walking on the beach looking forlorn, with just her small dog for company, sold hundreds and thousands of magazines.

  It pissed her off big time, which is why she’d so determinedly set her sights on Don Verona. He was one of the few Hollywood bachelors (he’d been married twice, but that didn’t count) who would raise her profile from pathetic loser in love to what a lucky girl!

  She needed him, and she saw no reason at all why she couldn’t have him. After all, she was eligible too, a total catch.

  When Don called her at the last minute for a date that same night she was inclined to say no. But then she thought–why not? Best to catch him while she could; he was elusive and slippery, she’d already figured that out.

  This would be their third date, which meant that sex was definitely on the agenda. And she was up for it, because once Don Verona got a taste of her action in bed–he would soon see she was not the perfect girl-next-door she portrayed on her TV sitcom. She had her moves and then some. Don would not be disappointed.

  As soon as he picked her up in yet another of his impressive collection of cars–this time a gleaming metallic blue Aston Martin, she was on full flirt alert.

  “We’re going to The Ivy,” he informed her.

  She couldn’t have been more delighted. The Ivy meant paparazzi frenzy. Hordes of photographers lurked across the street from the restaurant in SUVs with darkened windows waiting to pounce. Tonight they were in for a treat.

  Don had chosen The Ivy for just that reason. Much as he hated being stalked by the photogs, he wanted Cameron to see that she had competition and she’d better do something about him before it was too late. He realized he was being perverse. Knowing Cameron, she wouldn’t give a monkey’s if he was linked to Angelina Jolie and Megan Fox at the same time. Cameron walked her own path, and that’s what he liked about her. A beautiful independent woman who didn’t give a rat’s ass about fame and glory. He hadn’t felt this way about a woman since high school, when he’d developed a real thing for his Latin teacher–a woman fifteen years his senior who’d taught him a lot more than Latin. Mrs Ramirez. Hmm…hot spicy memories.

  Sometimes he wondered if she watched him on TV and remembered the boy she’d educated in more ways than one.

  He kind of hoped she did.

  Mandy was playing gracious daughter-in-law to the hilt. And when Mandy wanted to, she could be more adept at role-playing than any actress.

  Ryan watched with astonishment. From the moment he’d gotten home she’d been in sweet Mandy overdrive, and he couldn’t figure it out.

  Had one of her girlfriends spotted him having breakfast with Cameron? Was that what all this was about? Or was his dear wife heading for a nervous breakdown? What the hell, it was scary stuff. Especially watching her charm the shit out of his family–particularly his mom–whom she’d never had a good word to say about.

  Noreen Richards took it in her stride. She’d tried to be friends with Mandy over the years, but it had never happened. Now Mandy was acting as if they were the closest of confidantes. Ryan was shocked enough about that, but when Evie walked in with Marty he was totally taken aback. Evie had covered her black eye with cleverly applied makeup, but he knew it was there, and he had to control a strong urge to beat the crap out of his dumb-ass brother-in-law who immediately started in on the Grey Goose vodka.

  Everyone came armed with presents, which on a normal occasion might’ve been nice. But this was not a normal occasion. This was Mandy entertaining, assisted by three attentive waiters, a barman and a chef.

  Ryan was embarrassed; this was no way to entertain his family. They preferred home cooking and casual, not all this fancy crap which Mandy knew he hated. Formality was not his thing, it never had been.

  He thought about Cameron for a moment. Formality would not be her thing either, somehow he was sure of it.

  Evie was huddled on the couch with their two older sisters, Una and Inga. He went over and managed to extract her. “What happened?” he demanded.

  “Please do not let Marty know I told you,” she begged, her eyes filled with alarm. “He’s so so sorry. Couldn’t be more so. Now everything’s fine, I promise. He’s sworn he’ll never behave like that again.”

  “Jesus Christ, Evie,” Ryan said, frowning. “This is bullshit.”

  “No, no, it’s not,” Evie assured him, fluttering her hands. “It was all a horrible misunderstanding.”

  “A fucking misunderstanding?” Ryan said, his frown deepening.

  “Don’t swear. If Mom hears you she’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

  “Very funny,” Ryan said grimly. “Why don’t you get off the subject and pretend nothing happened? Isn’t that the mature way of dealing with it?”

  “How was your…work-out?” Evie said pointedly. “Does Mandy know you…work out?”

  He couldn’t believe Evie was throwing–Leave it alone or I’ll tell Mandy about Cameron–at him. He knew she was probably aware he had feelings for Cameron; as the two youngest in the family they’d always shared a close bond.

  “You’re crazy,” he said, shaking his head. “Taking Marty back and forgiving him is a big mistake.”

  “No,” Evie said stubbornly. “Calling you was my big mistake.”

  At that moment Lucy and Phil arrived.

  Another surprise, since Mandy had failed to tell him she’d invited them.

  He threw his wife a look. Mandy smiled sweetly.

  This was going to be one long night.

  “Enough about me,” Mary Ellen said, leaning across the table in the dimly lit Ivy, giving Don a long lingering look. “Tell me more about you.”

  Don shrugged. “What’s to tell?”

  “All your hidden secrets,” she said coyly.

  “Ain’t got none,” he quipped, wondering why he’d decided to put himself through this excruciating evening. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Mary Ellen, it was just that making conversation with someone he had no interest in was totally boring.

  “Everyone has secrets,” Mary Ellen said mysteriously.

  He made a quick switch. “In that case, tell me yours.”

  “Are you really interested?” she asked, tilting her head coquettishly on one side.

  “Go ahead,” he said, encouraging her.

  And so she did, enabling him to sit back and allow his mind to wander while she droned on about her cheating ex-husband, her lonely childhood, how the press wrote such nonsense about her and that her true ambition was to b
e accepted as a talented actress, not merely a TV star.

  Nobody’s satisfied with what they have, he thought, even me.

  By this time their waiter was hovering beside their table trying to tempt them with dessert. The young waiter was obviously an out-of-work actor, and he was intent on charming Mary Ellen. “The key-lime pie is outstanding,” he said, giving her an–I think I’d be a great addition to your TV show–look.

  “No, thank you,” she said politely.

  “How about the Tarte Tatin?” he pressed.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Slight desperation was setting in. “Tea? Coffee?”

  Mary Ellen shook her head.

  “Just the check,” Don said.

  Defeated, the waiter went off to get the check.

  “We’ll have coffee at my place,” Don said.

  Mary Ellen nodded, trying not to look too excited.

  After Don paid the check–leaving a hefty tip for the out-of-work actor for whom he had empathy–they left.

  And so the paparazzi pounced. A pack of them, pushing and shoving for the best shot; tripping over each other; calling out, “Don! Don! Over here! Mary Ellen! Smile! Give us that lovely smile!”

  They made it into the car.

  “Whew!” Mary Ellen sighed as Don rapidly drove off. “That was an ordeal.”

  “But you’re used to it,” he remarked. “It’s part of the package, right?”

  “For you too.”

  “Not so much.”

  “Surely you’re not blaming me for all the attention?” she asked coyly.

  “You do get a lot of it.”

  “Yes,” she said, her tone sharpening. “For all the wrong reasons.”

  He took one hand off the steering wheel and patted her knee. She responded by moving closer.

  He drove fast all the way home, Mary Ellen anticipating the sexual encounter to come, and Don wondering why he’d invited her.

  Too bad she wasn’t Cameron. Too damn bad.