Lethal Seduction

  “I always try to mix it up,” Anton said modestly.

  “And you always succeed,” Madison said. “I wish you’d let me write about you.”

  “No personal publicity—that’s why all my ladies trust me. You’d be amazed what they tell me when I’m suggesting a new fabric for their dining room walls.”

  “Knowing you, I wouldn’t be surprised if you stashed a little microphone in the wall,” Madison said, grinning. “You love hearing all the gossip.”

  “I certainly do, my dear,” Anton replied. “However, my strength is that I don’t repeat it—not even to you.”

  They both laughed.

  “If I were looking for Jamie, where would I find her?” Madison asked.

  “In the guest bathroom,” Anton replied. Lowering his voice he added, “I think Kris Phoenix propositioned her, she’s run off to recover.”

  “And what was Peter doing while all this was going on?”

  “Getting drunk,” Anton said. “Haven’t you noticed?”

  “I’ll try to keep an eye on him for you.”

  “Do,” Anton replied. “If there’s one thing I crave, it’s peace and harmony.”

  “Sure,” Madison said disbelievingly. “If you liked peace and harmony, you wouldn’t throw such incredible dinner parties every month.”

  “One’s got to have a social life,” Anton said with a sly smile. “By the way, your mother called me.”

  “My mother?” she said, surprised.

  “You do have a mother, don’t you?” Anton said crisply. “You didn’t just spring from the streets of New York with a pen in your hand.”

  “Of course I have a mother, but why would she call you?”

  “Stella, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, the beautiful Stella.”

  “If she’s anything like you, she must certainly be very beautiful.”

  “Oh, c’mon,” Madison said, embarrassed by his compliment. “My mother is a real beauty. Marilyn Monroe in her heyday.”

  “How exciting,” Anton said. “I would’ve loved a mother that resembled the divine Marilyn.”

  “What did Stella want?”

  “To inquire about a design concept for their new apartment.”

  “What new apartment?” Madison said, puzzled. “My parents live in Connecticut. They haven’t lived in New York for ten years.”

  “Apparently they’re moving back.”

  “I don’t get it,” she said, completely bewildered. “First of all, why would Stella call you and not Jamie? And secondly, how come I don’t know about this so-called apartment?”

  “Maybe they’re planning to surprise you.”

  “Yeah, sure—that’ll be the day. The only surprise my mother ever gave me was when she once complimented a piece I wrote on Eddie Murphy.”

  “Eddie Murphy?”

  “Yeah. Can you believe it? I write about politicians and all these other fascinating people, and the only one she has anything to say about is Eddie Murphy.”

  “Maybe she likes them black and bold,” Anton said with a knowing chuckle.

  “Have you seen my father? He’s the best-looking man walking.”

  “Really?” Anton said, perking up. “How old is he?”

  “Fifty-eight. Too old for you. Rumor is you don’t like ’em over twenty-five.”

  “Oh, dear,” Anton said, feigning dismay. “My reputation’s out.”

  Madison laughed. “I’m finding Jamie. I need to talk to someone sane.”

  Jamie wasn’t in the guest powder room.

  “Miss Jamie is in Mr. Anton’s bedroom,” Anton’s Filipino housekeeper informed her.

  “Thanks,” she said, still wondering about Stella calling Anton. What was that all about? Her parents loved Connecticut, why would they consider moving back to New York? Especially without telling her.

  Oh well . . . she’d find out tomorrow.

  Jamie was sitting in front of Anton’s art deco mirrored vanity, applying lipstick with a trembling hand and a long thin brush.

  “What’s up with you?” Madison asked, perching on the edge of the tub.

  “Kris Phoenix wants me to meet him at his hotel,” Jamie said, her voice husky.

  “What?”

  “You heard. He asked me to meet him.”

  “When?”

  “Later.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No.”

  “What about Peter?”

  “What about him?” Jamie answered defiantly.

  “He thinks you’re going off him.”

  “Ha!”

  “This is crazy,” Madison said, shaking her head.

  “Why?” Jamie said stubbornly. “I know he’s screwing around on me.”

  “You don’t know, you merely suspect. You can’t go running off in the middle of the night to meet with some aging rock star.”

  “I can if I want to.”

  “Did you and Peter have a fight?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you acting like this?”

  “To see if he cares.”

  “Of course he cares,” Madison said, quite exasperated. “He wouldn’t be with you if he didn’t.”

  “People stay together for many different reasons,” Jamie said mysteriously, applying a touch of blush to her already glowing complexion.

  “Anyway,” Madison said, “I have the number of a private investigator, and I think you should meet with him.”

  “Me? What about you?” Jamie wailed.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it you with the might-be-straying husband?”

  “Yes, but you’re going to help me, aren’t you?” Jamie said pleadingly.

  Madison sighed. “If you insist,” she said. Jamie always had been the champion at getting her own way.

  “I can’t do it alone, Maddy. Will you make the appointment and come with me?”

  “Okay, okay,” Madison said impatiently, wishing she could learn to say no. “But only if you stop all this Kris Phoenix crap. He’s a horny old rock star for crissakes. Definitely not for you.”

  “I promise,” Jamie said, an angelic expression on her lovely face. “However, I swear to you, if I find out that Peter is screwing around, I’ll track Kris Phoenix down and fuck him in the middle of Times Square!”

  CHAPTER

  4

  IN BED WITH JOEL BLAINE, Rosarita realized he was every-thing Dex was not. Joel was a down-and-dirty lover, servicing her in ways she had only ever dreamt about. He pushed her around, making her do things Dex wouldn’t dare try. When he was inside her, he wanted her all the way—forcing her legs around the back of his neck, popping amyl nitrate vials under her nose whether she liked it or not—biting her nipples until she screamed with a mixture of pain and pleasure. He was all man. Eight and a half solid inches that he made her deep throat until she gagged.

  When she finally came—spread-eagled on top of him—she let out a scream so loud and out of control that he clamped his big hairy hand over her mouth and told her to shut the fuck up.

  She liked a man who was in charge.

  Personality-wise he reminded her of her father. In the looks department, he was no Dex. He was not very tall, dark and stocky, with plenty of thick body hair, brooding close-set eyes and fleshy lips. The combination made him attractive in a sexy, flashy way.

  This was their second assignation—their first one in a bed. The time before, right after they’d met at the opening of an art gallery show, he’d parked in a dark SoHo side street, shared a vial of coke with her and made rough love to her in the back of his gleaming gray Bentley while a couple of transients looked on through the open window. It was one big turn-on.

  Tonight was even better. More coke. More sex. Her two favorite things.

  “Jesus!” she exclaimed, reaching for a cigarette and lighting up. “That was sensational!”

  Joel was already on his way into the bathroom. She took another drag on her cigarette and peeked at her watch. It was past six, time
for her to go home and spend another boring evening with Dex. Was it any wonder that she wanted him dead?

  If Dex was out of her life, she would be free to pursue a proper relationship with Joel. Right now he was playing it poker faced because he knew she was unavailable.

  She’d give anything to spend the night with him. Dinner at a nice restaurant. Drinks at a happening club. Then back to his place for more of the same.

  Idly she wondered what it would be like to be married to a man like Joel. He was a goer, a doer. At thirty-two—according to what he’d told her—he practically ran his father’s enormous real estate business. What a match they would make. They both had powerful, rich fathers—men from whom they’d learned plenty. Together they could rule New York.

  Only Dex stood in her way.

  Damn him! He was a dumb nobody. Why had she married him?

  Oh yeah, yeah, she’d thought he was destined to be a movie star . . .

  End of that story.

  She could hear the sound of the shower coming from the bathroom. Surreptitiously she slid open Joel’s bedside drawer and checked out the contents. A gun. Excellent, it showed he had balls. Six boxes of peppermint Tic Tacs. A porno video entitled Hot Spurts. An unopened package of extra-large condoms. And a pale-blue envelope with Sweetie written across the front. Quick as a flash she extracted the note inside.

  Babykins. I love you. Always will. See you next week. Keep my place warm. It was signed—Honeystuff.

  Honeystuff! Who in hell was Honeystuff?

  Rosarita was outraged. Did Joel have a girlfriend he hadn’t told her about?

  She was about to rummage further when she heard the shower stop. Quickly she slid the note back into the envelope and closed the drawer.

  Joel strode back into the room, a towel knotted loosely around his waist. He still had a hard-on—the jut of his cock beneath the thick towel was unmistakable.

  It was about time she put her mark on him—something Rosarita knew how to do better than anyone.

  “Come over here, hot stuff,” she crooned, beckoning him to the bed. “I’ve got something for you.”

  Joel didn’t need asking twice.

  •

  Dexter paced around the living room, glancing at his watch every five minutes. Where was Rosarita? He had hoped she’d be home before his parents arrived, making it the perfect surprise. But at six-thirty she was still not there.

  Reluctantly he picked up the phone and called his father-in-law, breaking out in a sweat as he did so. Chas Vincent scared the heck out of him—he looked like a refugee from The Sopranos, and acted like one too.

  Early on in their relationship, Rosarita had proudly informed him that Chas was king of construction in New Jersey. He didn’t know or care what Chas was king of, he simply preferred to keep as much distance as possible between them.

  “Hi, Chas,” he said, making sure his voice sounded strong. “Is Rosarita there?”

  “Why’d she be here?” Chas growled suspiciously. “She left two hours ago.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  Probably to buy a gun and blow you away, Chas thought. “Naw,” he said. “Most likely she’s hittin’ the stores. You know women—spend till their titties drop.”

  Dexter faked a laugh. Even though he’d been involved in the world of modeling, he still couldn’t stand vulgarity.

  “Call me if she’s not home by midnight,” Chas said jovially. “I’ll send out the cops.”

  A concerned father. How nice.

  Dexter roamed around the apartment, stopping at the guest room to make sure it was all ready for his parents’ imminent arrival. He’d personally gone to the flower shop and chosen twelve perfect red roses—his mother’s favorites. Conchita, the maid, had placed them in an exquisite amber vase on the dresser next to the television. He’d also bought roses for Rosarita, white ones, which he planned to present to her later when they were alone.

  Tonight was going to be special. He was absolutely sure of it.

  •

  “Shit!” Rosarita screeched, snagging her expensive tights as she entered a cab outside Joel’s building.

  “Where to, lady?” asked the cabbie, not even bothering to turn around.

  “There’s a sharp edge on the bottom of your door,” she complained. “You’d better do something about it.”

  “Where to?” he repeated, cracking his knuckles.

  She leaned forward to get a look at his ID. Moussaf Kiridarian. Another foreigner not worth arguing with. Chas said they should all be lined up and shot. Sometimes he could be a bit of an extremist. After all, if that ever happened who would be around to drive the cabs and trains? Get rid of the garbage? Run all the electronics and camera shops?

  “Sixty-first and Park,” she said brusquely. “And make it fast. I’m in a hurry.”

  The cab set off with a jerk, almost throwing her off the seat. She muttered an insult under her breath and groped in her purse for a cigarette. She was about to light up when Moussaf caught her eye in the rearview mirror and announced sternly, “No smoking. See sign.”

  “Shit,” she muttered, putting the cigarette away. What kind of stupid rule was that? And how come a lowly cabdriver was allowed to tell her what to do?

  If she was very nice to Chas, maybe he’d spring for her own car and driver, especially if she suggested it as a Christmas or birthday present. He was rich enough to afford it, and there was no reason for her to ride around town in a filthy cab with some crazy foreigner who wouldn’t allow her to smoke. Of course, Chas would ask why she didn’t drive the Mercedes he’d bought her. But who could park in Manhattan? It was a fucking nightmare.

  For a moment her thoughts drifted to Joel. What a guy! He’d been really pissed, though, when she’d sunk her teeth into his neck so deep that any little cupcake trying to put her claim on him would notice immediately that he’d been playing elsewhere. He’d jumped back a foot. “What the fuck have you done to me?” he’d yelled, rubbing his neck.

  “Sorry,” she’d murmured innocently. “You shouldn’t be such a turn-on. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Fuck!” he’d complained. “This is gonna swell up.”

  “I know something else that’s gonna swell up,” she’d giggled, reaching for his ever-ready dick. It was solid and thick, just the way she liked them.

  Now, sitting in the cab, she wondered what little Honeystuff would have to say when she got a load of her boyfriend’s neck. Well . . . ex-boyfriend, because Rosarita had big plans for Joel.

  He wasn’t going to be easy, she could already tell that. He was stubborn, didn’t care to be pushed. And like most men, he was probably shit-scared of commitment.

  However, Rosarita was confident enough to think that she was quite capable of changing all that.

  “When can we get together again?” she’d asked, before leaving his apartment.

  “You’re married, aren’t you?” he’d said gruffly.

  “Since when did that make a difference?”

  Joel had laughed—more a throaty growl. “I get off on an office matinee occasionally,” he’d said. “Y’know, close the door, raise the shades. There’s plenty of tall buildings around—you never know who’s watching. You into that?”

  “When?” she’d asked eagerly.

  “Call me in a coupla days. We’ll make a plan.”

  She knew that she couldn’t ask him to call her. It wouldn’t do for Dex to pick up any message Joel might leave. “You do know I’m planning a divorce,” she’d said.

  “You told that pretty-boy husband of yours?”

  “Not yet, but I will. My father’s getting involved.”

  “How come?”

  “ ’Cause he’ll make damn sure Dex doesn’t give me any trouble.”

  Joel had looked at her admiringly. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

  “Never said I wasn’t,” she’d answered with a knowing smirk. Then she’d given him a long French kiss he wouldn’t forget
in a hurry, and left his apartment.

  Now she was groaning inside because she had to go home and face that big ox of a husband. And she knew exactly what he’d say. “Guess what happened on the set today?”

  Who gave a flying fuck what happened on the set today? She certainly didn’t.

  Dex simply didn’t get it. She wanted a divorce, and tonight she would hammer the point home. Because, if he didn’t get it soon, he would be one dead pretty boy—with or without her father’s cooperation.

  CHAPTER

  5

  “I GOTTA TELL YOU . . .”

  “Yes?” Madison said, completely uninterested in what the man sitting next to her had to say.

  “You have the sexiest lips.”

  “Really?” she responded, hardly taking a beat. “How interesting. I was about to say the same thing to you.”

  Her dinner companion looked at her, perplexed. “That’s what I like about you, always got a smart answer.”

  That’s what I don’t like about you, she wanted to say, but she didn’t. It wasn’t worth the trouble.

  She was seated to the left of Joel Blaine, playboy son of real estate billionaire Leon Blaine. Leon was an interesting man. Joel was not. Joel was the typical rich man’s son who thought the world should kiss his ass because of his father. What a crock that was. As far as Madison was concerned Joel Blaine was a bad joke. The last of the useless playboys.

  “What’s the matter?” Joel said, wondering how he could get her to put out. “Can’t take a compliment?”

  “What happened to your neck?” she asked, pointedly staring at a red and swollen hickey. “Girlfriend get a little too . . . frisky?”

  Joel glowered. That bitch Rosarita. Two rounds with her and he felt like Mike Tyson. Why couldn’t a woman like Madison go for him? Smart, stylish and beautiful, she was the kind of woman he should be with. Not some coked-out married whore like Rosarita Falcon. Although he had to admit that Rosarita was something in bed, horny as a wildcat, with claws to prove it.