Lethal Seduction

  “Lower your voice,” her father growled, his heavy-lidded eyes filled with disapproval at his daughter’s petulant outburst. “Ya want the whole fuckin’ neighborhood t’hear?”

  “Who cares?” Rosarita yelled. “You own the fucking neighborhood!”

  “Nice language,” sniffed Chas Vincent, a large bear of a man with ruddy cheeks and a rough-edged voice. “Is that what I sent ya t’college t’learn?”

  “Fuck college! Fuck the neighborhood! I want Dex fucking Falcon dead!”

  “A little louder,” Chas growled, sweat beading his forehead. “The maid next door didn’t hear ya.”

  Rosarita stamped her foot on the thick pile rug. What was wrong with her stupid father? Why wasn’t he getting it?

  At five feet four, Rosarita was bordering on anorexic, helped along by bulimic tendencies. She was twenty-six, with red hair worn in a shoulder-length bob, a thin, pointy face, overfull lips (thanks to her busy plastic surgeon, who’d also helped out with a new nose and cheekbone and chin implants—not to mention the best boobs in Manhattan) and plenty of attitude. Especially when it came to her husband of eighteen months, struggling actor and sometime model Dexter Falcon. She’d married him because he was unbelievably handsome, had an enormous underwear billboard hovering above Times Square and was absolutely crazy about her.

  She’d thought he was destined to be a movie star. But no, the only acting job Dexter Falcon had managed to land was on an about-to-be-canceled daytime soap that paid shit and nobody watched. Damn him!

  Now Rosarita wanted out because she’d met someone else, someone of substance with an attitude to match her own and an even bigger dick than Dexter’s—who was no slouch in the size department. Someone she planned to go places with.

  But how could she go anywhere with a loser husband trailing along behind her?

  When she’d brought up the subject of divorce, Dexter had freaked. “Over my dead body,” he’d said.

  Well . . . if that’s the way he wanted it . . .

  “I thought you was so in love,” Chas said, swigging from a large glass of scotch. “I gave ya the big fuckin’ weddin’ with all the trimmin’s—exactly like ya wanted. I bought you a fuckin’ house an’ a fuckin’ Nazi car. I thought you was all set.”

  “Sorry, I’m not,” Rosarita said, gritting her teeth. “Dex is a deadbeat actor with no prospects, and I want you to get rid of him for me.”

  “Just like that,” Chas said, wondering how he’d managed to get himself such a difficult daughter. Her year-younger sister, Venice, was a sweetheart with two kids and a down-to-earth husband who sold insurance for a living. Why couldn’t Rosarita be more like her? “I warned ya about marryin’ a fuckin’ actor,” he said dourly. “They got bird crap for brains, not ta mention fagola tendencies.”

  “He’s not gay,” Rosarita sniffed, insulted that Chas would think that any man who was with her might be gay. “Merely dumb.”

  “I told ya,” Chas grumbled. “Only you wouldn’t listen.” He put on an exaggerated voice. “Miss I-gotta-have-everythin’-the-moment-I-want-it.”

  “Daddy!” Rosarita wailed, changing tactics because she knew how to play him like a violin. “Please help your little girl. I need you.”

  Chas could barely resist Rosarita when she was sweet—during those rare times she reminded him of her dear departed mother who’d died giving birth to Venice, leaving him alone with a newborn baby and an infant to raise. In his opinion he’d done a good job—with the help of an army of girlfriends—none of whom had lasted more than a few months. Chas Vincent was not a one-woman man. He liked big tits and a closed mouth. Two or three months into the game and they got on his nerves with their whiny demands and money-spending ways.

  Maybe Rosarita took after him when it came to living with someone. He couldn’t blame her. Dexter Falcon was a white-bread putz with only a pretty face to get him through life. He had no balls, Chas could’ve told his daughter that the first time he met the dumb shit. Rosarita should’ve fucked him out of her system. But no, she’d had to marry the asshole.

  Her wedding had cost a fuckin’ fortune. Rosarita demanded—and got—only the best. Now Chas had a powerful urge to say, “I told you so.” But his strong-willed kid didn’t take kindly to criticism, so he choked back the words and patted Rosarita on her bony shoulder as she tried to perch on his knee, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  They were actually tears of frustration and anger because she was having to fight to get her own way, but Chas didn’t know that. “What shall we do, Daddy?” she sniffled. “I’m . . . so . . . miserable. Dex is so mean to me.”

  “Get a divorce,” Chas suggested, sure that if Dexter was mean to her, he had good reason.

  “Don’t you understand—he won’t give me one,” she moaned. “And that means I’ll have to wait and go through lawyers and depositions and all that horrible, degrading stuff. He’s threatening to go after half of everything I own. I don’t want to wait, Daddy. It’s not fair.” A pause for a few deep sobs. “Besides, I’ve met someone else, and I can’t have Dex getting in my way and ruining everything.”

  “Not another dumb actor, I hope,” Chas said, taking a second hearty swig of scotch.

  “No, Daddy. This one’s got money. He’s a someone, not a nobody like Dex.” She narrowed her eyes. “I hate Dex.”

  “I’m gettin’ the picture,” Chas said, scratching his chin.

  Rosarita wriggled off his knee, which was good, because he wasn’t as young as he used to be, and last night he’d gone three rounds with a pneumatic blonde whose knockers alone must’ve weighed five pounds apiece.

  “Lemme speak t’him,” Chas said. “He’ll listen t’me.”

  “Talking won’t do any good,” Rosarita wailed. “Killing him will.”

  “Enough of that crap,” Chas snapped, suddenly angry. “I ain’t in the killin’ business. I’m in construction, an’ don’t you forget it.”

  “Ha!” Rosarita said.

  “Ha, what?” Chas responded.

  Rosarita stared at her father, a malevolent expression on her sharp-pointed face. “Whatever happened to that foreman you didn’t like?” she said, knowingly. “You remember, the one who stole from you. And then there was Adam Rubicon—your ex-partner who mysteriously disappeared. And—”

  “Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Chas yelled, jumping up, red in the face. “I never wanna hear ya talk like that again. Ya hear me?”

  “Then do it,” Rosarita said, all cool and collected and sure of herself. “And do it soon.”

  •

  Unaware of the ominous conversation taking place at his father-in-law’s house, Dexter Falcon left the midtown TV studio where they shot the daily soap Dark Days, a smile on his handsome face. His name wasn’t really Dexter Falcon, it was actually Dick Cockranger, a name too ridiculous to even contemplate keeping, unless he planned on being a porno star, and when he’d first come to New York from a small town in the Midwest four years previously, that was not his plan at all. Oh no, Dexter Falcon had far grander aspirations.

  The name change was first on his agenda—Dexter, in honor of a good-looking character on his mother’s all-time favorite nighttime soap. And Falcon—because it was powerful and strong and sounded very masculine.

  And so Dexter Falcon was born. Again. It was a memorable day. He was twenty and ready for anything, and a few weeks after arriving in the big city he found “anything” in the person of Mortimer Marcel, a French-born designer whom he bumped into while jogging in Central Park.

  “You a model?” Mortimer had asked.

  “Actor,” Dexter replied. He’d never acted, never even thought of it. But acting sounded like a far more exciting profession than washing dishes in a deli on Lexington—which is what he was currently doing.

  “You could be right for my new underwear line,” Mortimer said brusquely. “I’ll audition you tonight. My house. Seven o’clock.” And he’d fished in the pocket of his fashionable running shorts and handed Dexter
an engraved card.

  Dexter had stood considering the possibilities while watching Mortimer jog out of sight. He was not naïve. He knew what went on—especially in a big city like New York. Mortimer Marcel was obviously gay. And Dexter was not.

  Mortimer Marcel was also obviously successful. And Dexter was not.

  Was there a choice about what he should do?

  Yes. He should not pursue it. But he’d been handed an opportunity, and it was his destiny to follow it through.

  Within six months he was the Mortimer Marcel boy on television, the Internet, in print ads—Marcel even took him to Paris and had him strut the runway wearing the latest line of Mortimer Marcel men’s leisure wear.

  And he didn’t have to do anything sexual. Mortimer had a live-in lover—Jefferson, a handsome black ex-model—who was as jealous as a wildcat guarding its young, so Mortimer never laid a hand on Dexter, leaving him free to sleep with whoever he liked. And he did. Every night was supermodel night—each girl more gorgeous than the next.

  For two years Dexter fulfilled every sexual fantasy he’d ever had, but deep in his heart he wanted more than transient sex. He desperately craved a real relationship with a woman who cared about him. His main desire was to get married, have babies and be forever happy like his parents, who were still together after forty-five blissful years.

  One night he met Rosarita at a party. She wasn’t supermodel pretty, but she was attractive and seemed to be caring and sweet, and best of all—she hung onto his every word. Since he never had much to say, this was extremely flattering. He liked it. He liked her. They started to date.

  Over several dinners she talked about family values and how she loathed the whole New York social scene. He couldn’t agree more.

  She chatted about her sister’s children, and how one day she hoped to have children of her own. Several. She was full of all the old-fashioned virtues he’d been searching for. What a girl!

  A month later he asked her to marry him, and she said yes. Six weeks later they did the deed. And on their wedding night they had sex for the first time and it was quite something. Dexter was sure that marrying Rosarita was the best thing he’d ever done.

  After they’d been married a few weeks, Rosarita informed him he was far too smart to continue being a model, and she arranged for him to go see an agent at William Morris. He did so, and the agent assured him they could make him a star and immediately began sending him out on auditions.

  Dexter was elated. So was Rosarita.

  Over the next two months he almost landed a Clint Eastwood movie. Very nearly got cast in a Martin Scorsese masterpiece. Just missed being Gwyneth Paltrow’s lover in a Miramax film. And then, on his agent’s advice, after several months of no auditions at all, he signed for a one-year stint on Dark Days.

  “Do it,” his agent insisted. “Once you get the experience behind you, they’ll all be chasing after you.”

  From the moment he signed on for the soap, Rosarita’s attitude changed. From sweet she turned to sour, complaining about everything, including the fact that they were unable to go out most nights because he had a 5:00 a.m. call every day. She nagged him continually. Nothing he ever did was good enough. Until finally, six weeks ago, she’d started muttering about divorce.

  Dexter could not believe it. Divorce! They’d only been married eighteen months. Divorce was unthinkable. Not in his family. For a start, it would kill his parents. Besides, he was quite happy with the way things were.

  So after much thought he’d devised a plan to calm her down. When they were first going out he’d taken her home to meet his mom and dad—Martha and Matt. She’d loved them, and they her. The only other time she’d seen them since was at their wedding—which had turned out to be an enormous affair. Fortunately, Rosarita’s father had paid for the lavish event, and bought them a large apartment in Manhattan, plus a sleek Mercedes as a wedding present—which they hardly ever got to drive because it was too difficult finding a parking spot in the city.

  Martha and Matt Cockranger were Dexter’s secret weapon. He was flying them in to New York for a surprise visit. He’d already instructed the maid to prepare the guest bedroom, and he’d booked a limo to meet them at the airport. They were arriving tonight, hence the smile on his face.

  If Martha and Matt Cockranger couldn’t talk some sense into Rosarita, nobody could.

  CHAPTER

  3

  ANTON COUCH GAVE GREAT PARTY. A stickler for detail, he hosted dinners that were always the best. Two tables of twelve—twenty-four people who were either glamorous, talented, witty or extraordinarily rich. A New York mix with flavor.

  As Madison entered Anton’s fire-red living room she immediately checked out the group. Once she’d seen John Gotti there—before his incarceration. And there were often movie stars, politicians and rock stars in attendance.

  Tonight she spotted the legendary Kris Phoenix—rock icon supreme, with his trademark spiked hair and intense blue eyes. Although almost fifty, he still had a magnetic quality. Like Mick Jagger, Rod Stewart and Eric Clapton, he never seemed to change. Kris was deep in conversation with music mogul Clive Davis. Since she knew Clive, she began heading in their direction, only to be stopped by Jamie’s husband, Peter, who stepped in front of her, martini glass in one hand and a silly grin on his somewhat bland face. Peter had that “just came back from a weekend in the Hamptons” look. Like his wife, he was tall, with a light year-round tan, aquamarine eyes and tousled blond hair. He and Jamie made a spectacular couple.

  “How’s my wife’s best friend?” he asked, favoring her with a lascivious leer.

  “Fine, thank you,” she said, thinking, Uh-oh, one more martini and he’s over the edge.

  “I hear you and my gorgeous wife had lunch today,” he remarked.

  “We certainly did.”

  “Talk about me, did you?” he asked, flirting.

  “We always talk about you,” she answered lightly. “Surely you know you’re the most interesting subject in our universe?”

  “Wish I was,” he said ruefully, sipping his martini. “Truth is, I think my wife’s going off me.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t know . . . I sort of sense it.”

  Madison shrugged. “What can I say?”

  “Nothing. If she does go off me and throws me out, I’ll simply have to come live with you.”

  “That’ll be fun,” Madison said dryly. “You can sleep with the dog.”

  “You know I’ve always had my eye on you,” he said, edging closer.

  Oh, God—she hated it when Peter drank. He invariably came out with the same tired old lines, and nobody ever complained to Jamie because they all knew he didn’t mean it.

  “How’s the stock market?” she asked, hurriedly changing the subject.

  “You wanna talk stocks with me?” he said, licking his lips. “You want me to investigate your portfolio?”

  “Excuse me, Peter,” she said, backing away. “I must find Anton.”

  “Y’know, Maddy, I don’t get it,” he said, coming after her. “What’s a beautiful woman like you doing all by herself?”

  “My choice, Peter,” she said coolly.

  “David was a fool.”

  “We simply had different agendas.”

  “Yeah,” he laughed scornfully. “Have you seen David’s agenda? Big tits and no brains.”

  “When did you see her?” Madison asked, frowning, unaware that Peter and her ex-boyfriend were still in touch.

  “We had dinner one night when Jamie was out of town. He’d been calling, bugging me to get together with him and his new bride.”

  “Bugging you?” Madison said, remembering David’s less-than-flattering opinion of Peter. He’d once invested in the market with him and lost a bundle. This did not sit well with David, who expected to win at everything he did.

  “I said yes. Had nothing else to do.”

  “What was she like?” Madison couldn’t help asking, furi
ous with herself for doing so.

  “Bimbo with big tits, you know the type.”

  “No, actually I don’t,” she said coldly.

  “He was crazy to give you up,” Peter said, getting close enough so she could smell his boozy breath.

  “Where’s Jamie?” she asked abruptly, once more backing away.

  “Met Kris Phoenix and had a total meltdown. What is it with you women and these rock stars?”

  “We grew up watching him, Peter. In college he was our idol, the best of the older rock stars.”

  “Really? First sexual stirrings and all that?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  “As a matter of fact, I would.”

  “Well, you’re not going to.”

  “Hmm . . .” he said, rocking on his heels. “Since you lunched with my wife today, isn’t it only fair that you lunch with me tomorrow?” Another deeply horny look. “I could examine your portfolio in detail.”

  She knew he wasn’t serious, it was only the booze talking—or was it, in view of Jamie’s suspicions? “How about not ordering another martini tonight, Peter,” she said gently. “You know Jamie hates it when you drink.”

  “How about . . . minding your own business.”

  She looked around for someone she knew. This conversation was going nowhere, and it was time to escape. “I really do have to go find Anton,” she said. “See you later.”

  “I hope we’re sitting together,” he called after her.

  Yeah. Right. She was just about to make sure that they weren’t.

  Anton was pleased to see her. He was a diminutive man with inquisitive eyes, a spontaneous smile and expansive gestures—he had a warmth about him that was most appealing. Somehow he and Jamie had turned out to be a great business mix, much in demand to decorate the homes of the rich and frivolous—homes that eventually appeared between the covers of Architectural Digest and In Style. Anton usually came up with an innovative concept for their clients, and Jamie followed through. Since putting them in business together, Jamie’s father had more than recouped his original investment.

  “Amazing turnout, as usual,” Madison said, surveying the room and spotting the powerful agent Mort Janklow talking to publishers Sonny Mehta and Michael Korda in one corner, while across the room Betsy Bloomingdale, visiting from California, dominated the conversation with a group of New York wives—including a striking Georgette Mosbacher.