It was a fatal mistake, for seven weeks later, in the middle of another of his rants, he’d shoved her to the floor, kicked her viciously in the stomach, and several agonizing hours later she’d lost their baby.
After that there was no more doubt. She knew that she had to escape.
A few days later, still battered and bruised, she’d attempted to flee in the middle of the night while he was sleeping, taking only one small bag, her passport and the money she’d saved teaching kids to surf.
Unfortunately Gregg awoke and went berserk with fury when he’d realized she was trying to leave. With a massive show of brute strength he’d knocked her down and pinned her to the floor screaming expletives in her face, blaming her for the loss of their baby, and everything else he considered wrong in his life. Then he’d beaten her so badly that both her eyes were blackened, her arm broken, and blood flowed from a deep cut on her forehead. It was almost as if he was trying to kill her.
Somehow or other she’d managed to grab a table lamp and smash it over his head knocking him unconscious. Then she’d fled from the house and never looked back.
At the airport she’d booked herself on the first plane to San Francisco, where her backpacking friend Katie was now living with Jinx, a struggling rock musician. Once she arrived in San Francisco, Katie and Jinx had taken her in, made sure she got medical attention and generally looked after her.
She’d stayed with them for several weeks while recovering from her ordeal, but as soon as the cast came off her arm, she’d decided to take the train to L.A. where she was determined to make a better life for herself and forget about the past.
It was possible. Anything was possible. Although she realized that one of these days she had to do something about Gregg, there was no way she could stay married to him. And yet she wasn’t ready to return to Hawaii and divorce him, not until she was established and felt confident that she could face him and tell him exactly what a piece of cowardly shit he was.
Mr Lord didn’t like it when he felt he wasn’t receiving her full attention. “What’re you thinking about?” he demanded, sweating his way through a series of arm reps.
“Nothing that would interest you,” she answered, keeping it vague.
“Ah, but everything about you interests me,” Mr Lord said with a toothy leer. “Your magnificent tits, your hot little ass, your—”
“Let’s not get carried away,” she said, interrupting him before he could say any more. “Quite frankly, I’m not in the mood to listen to your chauvinistic crap today, so can it.”
“Me? A chauvinist?” Mr Lord objected, adjusting his padded crotch. “I love women. I honor them. I love their wet—”
Once more Cameron tuned him out. He talked a good game, but deep down she was sure he was just another dirty old man who couldn’t get it up. And how sad was that?
Chapter Two
“I’m bored,” Mandy Richards announced, sitting cross-legged on the oversized couch in her enormous living room overlooking a shimmering blue swimming pool. “Nothing’s exciting anymore. I’m totally bored.”
Ryan Richards regarded his thirty-two-year-old Hollywood Princess wife with her compact body and glossy auburn hair pulled back into a girlish ponytail. Sometimes she managed to sound like a whiney teenager. Today was one of those days and he wasn’t in the mood to indulge one of her childish fits.
She was obviously expecting him to say something. He didn’t. He kept his silence, it was safer that way.
“I said I’m bored,” Mandy repeated, twisting several expensive diamond tennis bracelets on her delicate wrist while throwing him an accusing look. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“Well,” he said at last. “If you’re so bored, why don’t you do something about it?”
His reply did not please her. “You’re my husband,” she said, throwing him a baleful stare. “Why don’t you do something about it?”
Ryan was not slow. Once again Mandy was on the warpath looking for a fight, and once again he was target number one. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. “Sorry,” he said, edging toward a fast exit. “I got a shitload of stuff to take care of today.”
Actually he didn’t have a shitload of anything, but getting out of the house seemed like a wise idea.
“What stuff?” Mandy demanded, her back stiffening. “It’s Saturday, aren’t we supposed to be spending the day together?”
“No,” Ryan said, a tad abruptly. “I thought I mentioned that I’m having brunch with that Argentinian director I’ve been waiting to meet–he’s flown in specially to see me. Then later I promised my sis I’d drop by to see the kids.”
“Which sis is that?” Mandy sneered as if “sis” was a dirty word she could barely get out. “The one with the jailbird husband?”
“Don’t go there, Mandy,” he warned, temper rising. Christ! It drove him nuts when she went after his family, and she knew it. “Marty got arrested for a DUI–it could’ve happened to anyone.”
“His third DUI,” Mandy said pointedly. “Even Daddy couldn’t help with that one.”
Yeah. Daddy. Mandy’s father. Hamilton J. Heckerling. Movie Mogul Supreme. Überproducer. Starmaker. Egocentric pain in the ass. Not a conversation took place without her bringing Hamilton up one way or the other.
“Where is Big Daddy?” he asked, not really caring, but determined to steer the conversation away from his sister, Evie, whom he loved dearly, and whom Mandy couldn’t stand. He knew she was jealous because he and Evie were so close.
“Hamilton is in New York,” Mandy said, uncrossing her yoga-pant-clad legs. “I suspect he has a new girlfriend.”
“Another one?”
“He’s divorced,” Mandy said, immediately jumping to her father’s defense. “He can have as many girlfriends as he wants.”
“He sure can,” Ryan answered–adding a dry–“How many times has he been married?”
“You know how many times,” Mandy sniffed.
“I’m no expert.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
“What?”
“Perhaps that’s where I should be,” she said, hurriedly changing the subject because she did not appreciate discussing her father’s love life–especially with Ryan.
“Where?” he asked, purposely needling her.
“In New York with him,” she snapped.
“Well, if you—”
“No!” Mandy said, throwing her husband a sharp look. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d enjoy having me out the way so you could hook up with some little tootsie whore and play around.”
Jesus Christ! Why did she say such things? Why did she go out of her way to piss him off?
Seven years they’d been married. Seven long years, and not once had he cheated on her, although the opportunities that came his way were abundant. He was thirty-nine and not bad-looking, above average in fact. He was over six feet tall, quite fit–thanks to daily jogging. He had longish sandy-brown hair, extremely intense blue eyes–his best feature–and a slightly crooked nose busted in a football game when he was twelve. The vibe he had going for him was a kind of younger Kevin Costner thing–it was a vibe women found most attractive. He got hit on all the time by actresses, models, young executives, other men’s wives, but he always turned them down. Ryan Richards was one of that rare breed–a man who believed in the institution of marriage. He’d married Mandy for better or worse–and just because it had turned out to be a nightmare did not mean that he should cut and run–although sometimes he yearned to. Neither did it mean that he should cheat the way most of his married friends did. He had principles, and staying faithful was one of them.
It had all started out so well. Mandy–pretty and sweet and caring–she’d presented herself as perfect wife material.
He’d met her at the première of the second movie he’d produced. A gritty drama about a woman on Death Row. And even though he was in his early thirties at the time, he was more than ready to hook up with the right girl. He’
d had it up to here with the wanna-be model/actress types. He found them to be vacuous, boring, ambitious and too pretty for their own good. Mandy appeared to be the right girl at the right time. She made interesting and insightful comments about his movie, and not in a fan-like way. Her words were smart and to the point, and he was delighted to discover that she could actually hold an intelligent conversation about film-making. Another major plus was that even though she was very pretty in a petite way, she had no desire to be an actress. “One of these days I plan on raising a family and being there for my children,” she’d informed him. Ryan was immediately impressed.
At the time he had not realized that Mandy was Hamilton J. Heckerling’s daughter. Of course she knew exactly what to say to up-and-coming producers; she’d been raised by one of the biggest showmen of all time–Hamilton Hamilton J. Heckerling–a legend in his own lifetime–a throwback to the moguls of yesteryear.
By the time Ryan discovered who her famous father was, they’d been on three under-the-radar dates, and had extremely satisfying sex several times. Young Mandy was certainly no slouch in the bed department; she’d given him a series of blow-jobs the like of which he’d never experienced before, and he’d been around–nobody could say that he hadn’t enjoyed his single days.
After he found out who her father was, he’d decided that it didn’t matter–in fact, it was kind of a kick. And even though all his friends warned him about marrying into the Heckerling family–he’d done it anyway.
Foolish.
Stupid.
Dumb.
But he was in love at the time, or at least he’d thought he was.
Several of his friends got together and insisted on throwing him a bachelor party. They’d told him they were taking him to Vegas. Instead they’d commandeered a private plane and flown him off to Amsterdam for a long weekend of lust, adventure and debauchery. His final fling.
It had turned out to be one long memorable weekend, four days he would never forget.
When Mandy learned that he’d flown to Europe without her, she’d been furious. If she’d found out what had really gone on during the trip, she would’ve been more than furious. But she’d married him anyway. Mandy was a girl who always got what she wanted, and the man she wanted was Ryan.
Their marriage had taken place on a private beach adjacent to Mandy’s father’s twenty-five-million-dollar estate in Puerto Vallarta. Ryan had opted for a close family affair, but Mandy had begged him to acquiesce to her wishes. “Daddy doesn’t ask for much,” she’d said, all sweetness and light. “I’m his only daughter and you can’t blame him for wanting my wedding to be a memorable event. It’s the least we can do for him.”
So he’d given in.
Their wedding was attended by six hundred guests–eighty were his friends and family–the rest of the people he didn’t know, although Mandy assured him they were all important players in the film industry.
So be it, he’d thought. We only have to do this once.
Except it turned out to be once a week, for Hamilton hosted weekly soirées at his magnificent hill-top home in Bel Air, and he expected them to attend every time.
“This is bullshit,” Ryan had complained after the fourth weekend in a row.
“No, it’s not,” Mandy objected.
“I can’t take all this socializing,” he’d said. “It’s not my scene.”
“Daddy calls it networking,” she’d answered. “You should thank him. You’re meeting all the most important people in town.”
“Why would I want to do that?” he’d demanded.
“For your career,” she’d countered. “You never know when you’ll need a favor.”
“My career is progressing very nicely,” he’d said irritably. “In case you’ve forgotten, I have two movies in development, and one about ready to shoot.”
“Daddy thinks you should make bigger movies,” Mandy had informed him. “He thinks you should come work for him.”
“Are you kidding me?” he’d said, outraged. “I certainly wouldn’t want to work for your father. I make small independent movies, that’s my style.”
“Sometimes style is not enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that if you did work for Daddy, you could do anything you wanted.”
“I was under the impression I was doing quite well on my own,” he’d said dryly.
“It’s just a thought,” Mandy had said, deftly reaching for his fly, because she knew exactly when to stop pushing and concentrate on other things. After all, they were newly married, so it might take some time to turn Ryan around.
But Ryan was no pushover. He might have married a famous man’s daughter, but when it came to the movie business he walked his own path–he needed neither help, advice nor interference from Hamilton J. Heckerling.
A year into their marriage Mandy reluctantly admitted defeat when it came to Ryan’s career. He was indeed his own man, and she could do nothing to change that. At least she’d persuaded him to accept her father’s wedding gift–a house in the flats of Beverly Hills with six bedrooms, lush gardens, a pool and a tennis court.
At first he’d objected. “It’s way too big,” he’d said.
“Not when we have children,” she’d replied, cannily playing the family card. “Besides, Daddy will be heartbroken if we turn him down.”
After arguing about it for a couple of weeks he’d finally given in, and they’d moved into the house on Foothill. He’d had to admit that the idea of a large family appealed to him. He’d been raised with three sisters and loving parents, so family was extremely important, he couldn’t wait to start one of his own.
Unfortunately it was not to be. Over the course of their seven-year marriage, Mandy had become pregnant three times. She’d lost the first two babies to miscarriages, and their third baby was stillborn.
It was heart-breaking for both of them. It was also the main reason he stayed, for how could he desert her after all she’d been through? It wouldn’t be right, and throughout his life Ryan had always tried to do the right thing.
“Okay, Mandy,” Ryan said impatiently. “I have to get going.”
“If you must,” she said in an uptight voice. “What time will you be home?”
He hated being questioned, but Mandy could never resist going there.
“Around five,” he answered vaguely.
“Don’t forget we’re having dinner with Phil and Lucy at the beach,” she reminded him. “Geoffrey’s. It’s our check. We should leave before six. One never knows what the traffic will be like on P.C.H. and you know how I hate being late.”
Funny, coming from a woman who always kept him waiting.
“Got it,” he said, finally making it to the door.
Geoffrey’s restaurant with Phil and Lucy Standard wasn’t such a bad thing. Phil was a close friend, and Lucy could be entertaining when she wasn’t zoned out on her favorite Vicodin/Xanax combination.
Yes, an evening with the Standards sure beat out an evening at home with Mandy.
Chapter Three
Six clients later, Cameron finished her day at Bounce, although she was by no means done; she still had several house calls to make, which would take her way past eight p.m. When she was finally through, she’d collect her two dogs from Mr Wasabi, her friendly Asian neighbor, fix herself something to eat, and fall into bed ready for tomorrow’s early start.
She knew she was a workaholic, but nobody was about to do it for her–and she was determined to put away enough money to enable her to open her own studio soon.
Fortunately she was well on her way to achieving her goal, proof that all her hard work was worth it.
“Where you off to now?” Lynda inquired as she made her way past the front desk.
“Charlene Lewis,” she replied, pausing for a moment. “Isn’t she your unfavorite Hollywood Wife?”
“Oh, her,” Lynda said, tapping her overly long manicured nails on the counter-top. “That woman is a
true puta. A typical double-trophy wife with an alcoholic old dude husband.”
“You think?” Cameron said, tongue-in-cheek.
“Oh, c’mon,” Lynda insisted. “Everyone knows she’s waiting for him to drop so she can inherit his millions an’ start bumpin’ an’ grindin’ with cabana boys.”
Cameron raised an amused eyebrow. “Cabana boys?”
“You get what I mean,” Lynda said with a dirty giggle.
“Do you hate all my clients?”
“Only the bad-ass ones,” Lynda retorted. “You got a few hot actors I wouldn’t say no to hopping in the shower with. An’ I looove Joanna P.–she knows how to have fun.”
“How bad can my bad-ass clients be when I get them to pay double my usual rate?” Cameron said. “They’re helping us, you know.”
“No,” Lynda argued. “You’re helping them get their saggy asses into shape.”
“Whatever.”
“You work too hard,” Lynda said, wrinkling her pert nose. “Thing is, sister–you got no personal life, an’ that ain’t healthy.”
“I have a perfectly fine personal life, thank you,” Cameron replied tartly.
“Y’know,” Lynda began with a sly smirk, “Carlos has a friend—”
“No!”
“What?” Lynda said innocently. “I can’t even remember the last time you went on a date.”
“I do, and it was a total disaster,” Cameron said, recalling a short, hairy agent with a handle-bar moustache, who’d kept on insisting he could get her into movies–a place she had no desire to go. She shuddered at the memory.
“All work an’ no sex—” Lynda sing-songed.
“Makes me stronger,” Cameron said, cutting Lynda off.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re Superpussy!” Lynda teased.
Dorian appeared in the doorway flexing his considerable muscles. “You called?” he said archly.