Lethal Seduction

  Madison glanced at her watch, it was almost midnight. “It’ll have to be tomorrow,” she said. “I just got back from a funeral and I’m out of it.”

  “A funeral,” Kimm said slowly. “Whose?”

  “The woman who wasn’t my mother.”

  “Stella died?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “The police said it was a home invasion. She and her boyfriend were shot.”

  “Execution style?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Was it execution style?” Kimm repeated.

  “I don’t know the details,” Madison replied. “I only know they were both shot.”

  “How early can you see me tomorrow?” Kimm asked, urgency in her tone.

  “Do you have news for me?”

  “Yes, I do. And it’s information you should hear at once.” A beat. “I found out about Gloria.”

  “What?” she said, her heart jumping. “What did you find out?”

  “Can’t tell you over the phone. I have to see you in person.”

  “Come for breakfast.”

  “I’ll be there,” Kimm said. “And Madison—prepare yourself. You’re not going to like what you hear.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  DEXTER WAS CONSUMED WITH GUILT, so much so that he could barely look at Rosarita. He was sitting at the table, pushing his fork around his plate without actually eating anything.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Rosarita finally said, irritated by his lackluster attitude.

  “Yes, dear,” Martha chimed in. “You’re awfully quiet tonight. Birdie got your tongue?”

  “I uh . . . heard something today,” he said, reluctant to share the news, but unable to keep it to himself any longer.

  “What was that, son?” asked Matt, chewing on a piece of steak.

  “There’s this rumor going around that they may be canceling my show,” Dexter said glumly.

  “Oh, my God!” Martha exclaimed in horror, her hand rushing to her mouth. “They can’t do that.”

  “They can do whatever they want,” Dexter said, wishing his mother was right for once.

  “Who told you?” Rosarita said, not revealing that she’d been hearing the same rumor for the last couple of months.

  “Silver Anderson.”

  “Now there’s a fine woman,” Matt interjected, becoming quite starry eyed. “Hasn’t aged a bit.”

  “Of course she has,” snapped Martha, uncharacteristically bitchy. “It’s simply that your eyes have faded. You need glasses to see anything.”

  Good for you, Rosarita thought. You actually have a bit of spunk after all.

  “What will you do if the show’s canceled?” Matt asked, ignoring his wife’s outburst.

  “There’re other opportunities,” Dexter said, moodily shoving his plate away. “I have an agent. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Don’t you think he should’ve talked to you first?” Rosarita said. “If there’s this rumor, why didn’t he tell you?”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t,” Dexter admitted. “It’s not as if I’m unimportant at the agency. I have a lot of fans, you know. I receive hundreds of letters a week.”

  “I’d love to read them, dear,” Martha said. “What kind of things do people write?”

  “They tell him all their sex fantasies,” Rosarita teased, a wicked glint in her eyes.

  Dexter silenced her with a frown, then quickly looked away. Sex was a powerful weapon that women used, and Silver Anderson had used it on him. He couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d done to him. God! He was a married man, and marriage was sacred. With all her faults, Rosarita would never dream of screwing around on him, and yet he’d allowed himself to be used by Silver, had done nothing to stop her. It was humiliating and demeaning.

  Not that he’d touched her, but the fact that she’d had his manhood in her mouth was enough to infuse him with overwhelming guilt. And he’d thought she was such a fine lady. That was a joke.

  What would Rosarita say if she ever found out?

  It didn’t bear thinking about.

  “When can we see Chas again?” Martha asked. “I miss his smiling face.”

  I bet you do, Rosarita thought. I bet you’d like to get him in the sack. Only you’re a little too old for him, dear. And your boobs droop.

  “We should plan a farewell dinner,” she said, thinking she couldn’t wait until they got the hell out of Dodge. “After all,” she added, smiling sweetly at Martha. “You’ll be leaving soon.”

  Martha nodded her head sadly. “I shall miss all the excitement,” she said. “We’re enjoying ourselves so much.”

  “We certainly are,” Matt joined in, chewing on another piece of steak. “Although I’m not happy with tonight’s news.” He gave Dexter a penetrating look. “What will you do next, son?”

  “I told you,” Dexter said, thinking that as much as he loved his parents, this crisis was nobody’s business except his own. “My agent will have some ideas.”

  “You should get into proper movies, dear,” Martha trilled, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “You could be another Harrison Ford. They need a younger Harrison Ford.”

  “I’m sure my agent will know what to do,” Dexter assured them, wishing they’d all shut up. It was bad enough he was about to be out of a job, he didn’t need his family butting in.

  After dinner, Matt and Martha settled in the living room to watch Chicago Hope on the big-screen TV.

  “It’s my favorite program,” Martha admitted, box of chocolates by her side. “Such a guilty pleasure. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “I told Mom I’d buy her a VCR for Christmas,” Dexter remarked to no one in particular.

  “That’s all very well and good,” Martha said, downing two chocolates at once. “The trouble is I’ll never learn how to use it.”

  “Dad’ll get it going for you.”

  “She knows I’m good with my hands,” Matt interjected with a lewd wink.

  Dexter wished his father would stop with the sexual innuendos; it was unsettling to say the least.

  More important—he didn’t know how he was going to face Silver the next day. The show had not been officially canceled yet, which meant that they’d probably be working together for weeks to come. How was he going to see her every single day? How was he going to live with the fact that he’d been unfaithful to Rosarita? Well . . . kind of. After all, President Clinton had publicly declared that a blow job was not actually sex, so maybe things weren’t as bad as he thought.

  Perhaps he should tell Rosarita . . . confess . . .

  No. That would be the worst thing he could do. She’d hold it against him, and then she’d definitely insist on going ahead with a divorce.

  Every night he prayed to God that he’d knocked her up. If only things could stay the way they were until she discovered she was pregnant, he’d be safe.

  As for Silver, he would just have to do his best to avoid her. He had no alternative.

  •

  Varoomba turned up at the Boom Boom Club to collect her things. Chas had told her in no uncertain terms that he did not want her working there anymore. And since he was prepared to set her up in an apartment and pay all her bills, he didn’t want her working period.

  Varoomba was delighted that she’d finally found a man who was ready to look after her. Sometimes Chas could be a little crass, but the thing she liked about him was that he was older, therefore he wasn’t pawing her day and night like some of the younger guys she’d been with. One glimpse of her giant tits and it was usually nonstop action. Chas’ action didn’t last quite so long, which was a good thing, because Varoomba had experienced enough action to last several lifetimes.

  She wasn’t unhappy about leaving the club. There were too many freaks who came to watch her dance. Sometimes it was positively creepy the way they sat there like zombies, dull, mesmerized eyes popping out of their socke
ts as she undulated in front of them. It was okay when it was some poor schmuck who was quietly admiring her body—and bachelor parties were okay too—but all too often there were sick perverts with strange and scary agendas.

  Her boss, Mr. Patent-Leather Hair, as the girls had christened him, was not happy she was quitting. “Ya get a better offer?” he growled. “If it’s at another club, I’ll top whatever they’re givin’ you.”

  “No,” she said, busily packing up her makeup, wigs and various outfits. “I’ve been seeing a gentleman friend who wants to have me all to himself.”

  “That’ll last five minutes,” Mr. Patent-Leather Hair sneered.

  “No it won’t,” she said defensively. “This man is very enamored.”

  “Enamored!” Mr. Patent-Leather Hair bellowed. “Enamor me, honey.” He coughed loudly, then said, “I’ll give ya an extra hundred to go out there and dance tonight, ’cause one of your fans has been comin’ in all week, an’ this dude’s desperate t’see you shake it.”

  “Who might that be?” she asked, curious to find out.

  “That Joel guy.”

  “Oh, him,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “There’s something freaky about him.”

  “What’s your beef?” Mr. Patent-Leather Hair demanded. “He’s got plenty a bucks to stick down your little titties.”

  “Little?” Varoomba shrieked, quite insulted. “That’s the first time I’ve heard ’em called little!”

  “I see you’re gettin’ a mouth now you’re leavin’.”

  Cramming a long black fall into her wig box, she thought about scoring some quick cash. “How much did you say you’d pay if I dance for freako tonight?” she asked.

  “An extra hundred.”

  “Not enough,” she said, thinking that the more she managed to stash away, the better. “I gotta get outta here.”

  “Okay—two hundred. That’s as high as I’ll go, an’ you’ll score a hefty tip from the schmuck.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “Yeah. Bin askin’ for you all week.”

  Two hundred cash. When her boobs dropped, she’d better be prepared. “Make it two fifty an’ we got a deal,” she said.

  “Jesus!” Mr. Patent-Leather Hair muttered in disgust. “You hold yourself in high freakin’ esteem for a stripper.”

  “I certainly do,” she said, throwing him a haughty glare.

  Mr. Patent-Leather Hair took off, while Varoomba tried to decide what outfit to dazzle them with for her farewell performance. How about her schoolgirl uniform? It was a popular favorite with all the guys. They got off on the crisp white shirt, red tie, blue pleated miniskirt, proper cotton panties, white ankle socks and saddle shoes.

  She put on the outfit and braided her hair in two cute pigtails. It was a look she should probably do for Chas one night—he’d be in heaven.

  Well, there’d be lots of opportunities to show him plenty since she’d be taking all her costumes with her.

  Mr. Patent-Leather Hair informed her that Joel was delighted to hear she was there and had requested a private lap dance. She’d worked privately for him before. Last time, he’d grabbed her tits, squeezing them so hard her nipples had been bruised for a week. That had cost him an extra hundred.

  As soon as she entered the private cubicle she wagged a warning finger at him. “No touching tonight,” she admonished. “House policy.”

  “Show me those big titties and shut the fuck up,” Joel replied, leaning back in his chair, ready for a hot and lusty show.

  “No bad language either,” Varoomba said, tugging on one of her pigtails. “I’m a good girl. In fact, I’m a good little Catholic schoolgirl.”

  And then she started to dance.

  She had it down, moving to the music like the seasoned veteran she was, big tits swaying to the beat of Mariah Carey’s “Butterfly.”

  Joel felt cheated because no one was watching except him. Varoomba should be on public display for all to see. How could he get off without an audience?

  He wondered how much it would cost to persuade her to come to his office at lunchtime.

  Who cared about money, the question was—would she do it?

  Yeah, she was a hooker. What other kind of girl got into the stripping business?

  When she was down to her bra and panties, he asked her.

  She swayed closer, shaking her boobs in his face. “Sorry,” she said, allowing a large, dark nipple to graze his nose. “I’m leavin’ the business.”

  “You don’t wanna do that,” he said. “You gotta get into private work, do special performances on your own time. Make some big bucks.” He sat up very straight. “I’ll pay you five hundred cash to come to my office tomorrow, lunchtime.”

  “Hmm . . .” she said, tempted by such a generous offer. “Maybe I could do it later in the week. I’ll let you know.”

  “No sweat,” he said, grabbing her right boob. “You gimme a call. An’ babe, you will not regret it.”

  CHAPTER

  21

  AS TIRED AS SHE WAS, Madison couldn’t sleep. Kimm’s call had disturbed her. What was she going to hear that she wouldn’t like? What could it possibly be?

  She lay in bed, tossing and turning, until eventually she switched on the light and made a halfhearted attempt to read.

  Impossible. Her concentration level was at zero. She clicked on the TV in the hope that it would work as a sleeping pill. No luck there. Damn! She refused to resort to David’s bottle of Halcion, still sitting in her medicine cabinet. Drugs didn’t do it for her.

  Her mind was everywhere. It had been such a mixed up few weeks, and she found herself unable to calm down. David reappearing had not helped matters. What did he think? That she was going to rush back into his arms sighing, “All is forgiven.”

  Hell no. She would never forgive him.

  And then there was Jake. What was that all about? Why hadn’t he called? And even more important—why did she care? After all, it was supposed to be casual sex. No commitments. No promises.

  But care she did, she simply couldn’t help it.

  She continued to toss and turn until 5:00 a.m., when she refused to struggle anymore and finally got up, wondering if it was too early to call Kimm.

  Yes, of course it was, so she didn’t, although she was dying to. Instead she put on a thick sweater, jeans and boots, and took Slammer out for a marathon walk, stopping to buy bagels and cream cheese and two mugs of Starbucks coffee on her way home.

  Picking up The New York Times from outside her door, she took it into her apartment, flopped onto the couch and started reading.

  After a few minutes she realized there was no way the newspaper could hold her attention; instead she kept thinking about the funeral and Warner and the things she’d said. Warner had indicated that Stella was actually frightened of Michael, which seemed overly dramatic. It was understandable that Michael must’ve been pissed that Stella had run off with a guy half his age, but it was not in his makeup to frighten anyone, let alone threaten them.

  Kimm’s words kept running through her head too. Were they shot execution style?

  What the hell did Kimm mean by that?

  She got off the couch, toasted two bagels, liberally spread them with cream cheese and wolfed them both down. A great way to start the day. Very healthy. Thank God she never had to worry about her weight.

  There was no way she was in the mood to do any research on Antonio “The Panther” Lopez. Besides, she already knew plenty about him. How difficult was it to interview a boxer? He liked to fight, didn’t he? He got off on beating up other men. Big deal.

  If it wasn’t for the fact that she was anxious to get away, she would’ve told Victor to have another writer cover the assignment.

  Kimm arrived at eight-thirty. The tall, powerful, heavyset woman was wearing a navy-blue tracksuit and Nike running shoes, her broad face was devoid of makeup, as usual, and her dark hair was worn braided down her back.

  “I got you a Starbucks coffee,” M
adison said, ushering her in. “It’s better than the crap I make. We can heat it up in the microwave.”

  “Don’t drink coffee,” Kimm said, rubbing Slammer’s head. The dog seemed to have taken an instant liking to her. He started making happy sounds, and Madison wondered if he knew something she didn’t.

  “Really? I can’t live without it.”

  “Water in the morning, juice in the afternoon, herbal tea at night.”

  “Any alcohol in there somewhere?” Madison asked, half joking.

  A faint smile flitted across Kimm’s usually impassive face. “Alcohol slows me down,” she said. “So do tobacco and sugar. I’ve found that a healthy body creates a healthy mind.”

  “Wish I could be that disciplined,” Madison said ruefully. “It’s not easy.”

  “Nothing worth having is easy,” Kimm remarked.

  Ah, a philosopher as well as a private eye, Madison thought. She hadn’t made up her mind whether she liked Kimm or not; the woman did not exactly exude warmth.

  “Let me get you a bottle of Evian,” she offered, walking into the kitchen.

  “Room temperature will be fine,” Kimm called after her.

  Abandoning the fridge, Madison reached into a lower cabinet and pulled out a room-temperature bottle of Evian. “It’s been a while,” she said, coming back into the living room, handing it to Kimm. “I thought I’d hear from you sooner than this.”

  “Did your friend do the condom test?” Kimm asked, sitting down on the couch.

  “You know, so much has been going on that I haven’t asked.”

  “Ask,” Kimm said. “Make sure she does it.”

  “Why?” Madison said, smiling. “You need a new client?”

  Kimm half smiled back, she had very large white teeth—not a cap amongst them. “I never solicit new clients,” she said. “They come to me on recommendations. Isn’t that how you found me?”

  “Yes,” Madison said, wishing she felt more alert. She hated not being able to sleep, it fuddled her brain. “Now . . . uh . . . can we get down to business?” she said. “You kind of unnerved me on the phone last night. Why did you say I’m not going to like what I hear?”