Lethal Seduction

  “You’re a bitch, you know that.”

  “Yes,” she said spitefully. “I know that.”

  “You’re certainly not the girl I married.”

  “Hey, when I married you, I thought you were on your way to being a movie star for crissakes, not a TV hack.”

  “I suppose that’s why you married me, huh?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact that’s exactly why I married you. I expected we’d move into a big Beverly Hills mansion and mix with all the other movie stars.” She threw him a stony glare. “You haven’t lived up to your side of the bargain, Dex.”

  “I didn’t know we had a bargain,” he countered. “However, we are married, Rosarita, and I refuse to give you a divorce.”

  “You do, huh?” she said, her tone getting shriller by the minute. “Well, let me tell you this—if you don’t agree to a divorce, you’ll be very sorry indeed.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Sounds suspiciously like one, doesn’t it?”

  He stared at the woman he’d given his name to. How could she be so cold? Surely this wasn’t the same sweet girl he’d walked down the aisle with? Where had that darling girl gone?

  “I thought we were planning a family,” he ventured sadly.

  “For the number of times you get it up a week, we’re lucky to have a fucking cat!” she responded.

  “My call is 5:00 a.m. every day,” he said evenly. “I need my sleep.”

  “Weekends too?” she sneered.

  “Are you saying we don’t make love enough?”

  “I’m saying we never do it, and when we do, it’s always in the missionary position.” She placed her hands on her hips, glaring at him accusingly. “Do I look like a fucking missionary to you?” He shook his head. “I thought you were such a swinger,” she continued, her voice one long, monotonous whine. “Didn’t you fuck your way through a bunch of horny models before we were married?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t use language like that,” he objected.

  “When did you turn so holier than thou?” she said tartly. “I married this hunk with his dick on show all over Times Square, now look at you.”

  “It wasn’t on show,” he objected. “I was wearing underwear.”

  “Give me a fucking break,” she jeered. “Everyone saw your package. And I must say it looked pretty damn good up on that billboard. It got me, didn’t it?”

  “I’ve never done nudity.”

  “No?” she snapped back. “How about privately for dear old Mortimer?”

  “Absolutely not,” Dexter said, his face reddening.

  “He’s gay, isn’t he?” she taunted. “He discovered you, didn’t he? So don’t tell me you didn’t have to suck his dick to get where you are today. Not that it’s very far, but I suppose you were a successful model. You should’ve stayed one.”

  “It was you who wanted me to start acting.”

  “It was me, was it? C’mon. You were forever watching those movies with Kevin Costner and Harrison Ford. You always wanted to be exactly like them. So tell me, Dex, why aren’t you?”

  “I will be, one of these days,” he said, truly believing.

  “In a pig’s ear,” she snorted derisively.

  “Look,” he sighed. “All I’m asking is for you to be nice to my parents while they’re here. If you can do that, then, when they leave—if it’s what you still want—we’ll talk about divorce.”

  She didn’t believe him, but what else could she do?

  “Okay,” she said. “Deal. But it’s not a twenty-four-hour thing, I’ve got to get out and breathe.”

  “Be nice to them,” he repeated. “Especially my mother. She thinks the world of you.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said. “I’ll take Martha to Saks and let her loose with my credit card—is that nice enough?”

  He didn’t believe her, but what else could he do?

  CHAPTER

  7

  “HELLO?” Madison said, reaching for the phone. Slammer immediately began licking her bare arm with his floppy, wet tongue. “Hello,” she repeated, attempting to push the overly affectionate dog away.

  “Hi, sweetheart—it’s Michael.”

  How come he never said Dad? It was weird, but ever since she could remember she’d called her parents by their first names. Stella and Michael. Sometimes she kind of wished for the Dad thing.

  “I’m asleep,” she mumbled.

  “Now you know what it’s like,” he said good-naturedly. “Call me back when you wake up.”

  “No, no, don’t go away,” she said quickly. “What time is it?”

  “Eight.”

  “On Saturday?” she said, struggling to sit up.

  “I was thinking that if you were available I’d drive into the city and we’d go for brunch.”

  “That’d be great,” she said, stifling a yawn. “You and Stella?”

  “No,” he said shortly. “Stella can’t make it.”

  “Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Where would you like to go?”

  “How about the Plaza?” she suggested. “It’s all kind of like, you know, grown up.”

  He laughed softly. “My intelligent big girl is such a kid sometimes.”

  She smiled. Why not? He was her father, and it was fun to feel like a kid again. “Will you pick me up at my apartment?” she said, stifling another yawn.

  “I’ll do that.”

  She put the phone down and hauled herself out of bed. Slammer followed, panting and watching her with his big, brown, soulful eyes as she headed for the bathroom.

  “I suppose you want to go out,” she said. He barked once. Sometimes she could swear he understood every word. “Okay, okay, let me clean my teeth and put some clothes on, then you and I will hit the streets.”

  She wriggled into a pair of faded jeans and a sweatshirt, tied her hair back and left the apartment, an eager Slammer trotting obediently beside her.

  In the elevator she realized she’d left the pooper-scooper behind and had to go back to get it. It was humiliating, walking the streets and picking up dog crap. Who ever came up with that rule?

  Outside, the crisp morning air woke her up. She began thinking about her conversation with her father. If Michael was coming into town without Stella on a weekend, it definitely meant he had something to tell her. It must be about why they’d decided to move to Manhattan, why they’d called her best friend’s partner to tell him and not bothered mentioning it to her. It was all too bizarre. What could his excuse possibly be?

  As she walked briskly along the street she wondered how Peter and Jamie had managed the previous night. Had they gotten into a mammoth fight? Or maybe they’d indulged in one of the long lovemaking sessions that Jamie said Peter desired every day.

  Hmm . . . David had been like that. She remembered the time they’d gone to the theater to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. After that she’d nicknamed him—David and the Amazing Insatiable Cock.

  Now the insatiable cock was performing elsewhere. Too bad.

  A familiar face jogged by. A tall, rugged soap actor whom she spotted every weekend. They exchanged nods of recognition. Around the corner she bumped into BoBo, the area’s famous Scottish dog walker. Short and squat, with a mop of carrot-colored hair and numerous freckles, he was quite a character. Somehow or other he managed six dogs while wearing a kilt and carrying a Saks shopping bag in which to deposit his charges’ offerings. Slammer was in love with one of Bobo’s charges, Candy, a sexy miniature poodle who refused to have anything to do with him.

  “Morning, miss,” BoBo said, cheerful as ever.

  “Morning, BoBo. How’s it going?”

  “It’s a wee touch chilly up the Khyber Pass,” he said, with a saucy wink. “But I’ll live.”

  “Glad to hear it,” she said, idly wondering if he wore anything under his kilt.

  “If you ever need me t’look after Slammer, just say the word,” BoBo offered, fishing in his pocket for a dog
treat that he proceeded to tempt Slammer with.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Madison said, thinking how much she was looking forward to getting together with her father. The last time she’d seen him was a few months ago when she’d spent a weekend in Connecticut at their house. She’d rented a car and driven there on Friday night, returning to the city twenty-four hours later. Sometimes the anticipation of spending time with her parents was better than the actual event. When she had Michael to herself she was much happier than when hanging out with both of them. Stella was hardly the warm and loving motherly type.

  Stella had languished in the garden, lying on a chaise lounge under a striped umbrella, sipping ice tea, while Madison was there, and Michael had walked her around the grounds, showing off his roses.

  “Isn’t it awfully quiet here after New York?” she’d asked, surprised that he was so settled.

  “I like it here,” he’d said. “No pressure.”

  “No action either,” she’d replied. “When I was a kid, you and Stella loved getting all dressed up and hitting the restaurants and clubs. Action was your middle name.”

  Michael had nodded thoughtfully. “Sometimes Stella misses the action. Although most of the time she’s perfectly happy, like me.”

  Sometimes Madison couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever screwed around on the beautiful Stella.

  No. Her father wasn’t that kind of guy. Michael had integrity.

  Madison often wished that she could find a guy with integrity. It was more important than a great butt any day.

  Back at her apartment, she took a shower and tried to decide what to wear, finally settling on tight black pants, boots and a man’s white shirt knotted at the waist. For a change she wore her hair down, then added tinted shades. David had always liked her in tinted shades. “Makes you look like a movie star,” he used to joke. Ha! Only David would call her a movie star. She added a couple of crosses, strung around her neck on black leather thongs, and some Indian silver-hoop earrings. Then, with nothing else to do while she waited for Michael, she picked up the phone and called the private detective Victor had recommended.

  A woman answered the phone, terse and unfriendly. “Yeah?”

  “Oh, um . . . hi. I’m looking for K. Florian.”

  “You want to set up an appointment?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you make it at four o’clock today?”

  “The weekend isn’t good. How about Monday or Tuesday?”

  “Monday, ten o’clock.”

  “Where?”

  “You want to come here? Or shall I come to you?”

  “Are you K. Florian?”

  An aggressive– “What’s the matter? You shocked I’m a woman?”

  “No,” Madison said quickly. “I guess I was expecting a man, but a woman’s fine with me.”

  “I’ll come to you, then. What’s the address?”

  “Uh . . . you do realize that this is confidential. Y’see, it’s not me hiring you, it’s my friend. So uh . . . I’ll make sure she’s here at ten on Monday.”

  “What’s this about? A cheating husband?”

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s always the same story.” A beat. “Listen, if he’s cheating, I can get the goods within twenty-four hours.”

  “Sounds very efficient. I’ll give you my address.”

  She did so, then decided she’d better contact Jamie to let her know.

  Peter answered the phone. “Bad news!” he groaned. “Me have major hangover.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “You’re not? Why? Were you drinking with me last night? What did I do?”

  “No, I wasn’t your drinking partner, but for a moment you were knocking it back pretty good in front of me.”

  “Did I say something I shouldn’t’ve?”

  “You were fine, Peter—really.”

  “Remind me never to drink again.”

  “I always remind you of that.”

  “Even my eyelashes hurt!”

  “Is your wife around?”

  “Jamie!” he yelled. “It’s Maddy.”

  “Coming,” Jamie called out in the background.

  “What are you up to today?” he asked. “Anything exciting?”

  “Meeting Michael for brunch. And you two are . . .?”

  “Shopping,” he groaned. “My punishment for being bad.”

  “Maybe I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

  “You’ll find us at Barney’s, followed by Bergdorf’s and Saks. Doesn’t that sound like a fun afternoon for a reformed drunk?”

  Jamie picked up the extension. “Hi!” she said happily. “How are you today?”

  “Great,” Madison said. “And you?”

  “Last night was something, wasn’t it?” Jamie giggled.

  “I had a lousy time. Can you imagine getting stuck next to Joel Blaine? I mean, really!”

  “Don’t be so down on him,” Jamie said. “Joel’s not so bad. In fact, I find him sort of attractive in an odd kind of earthy way.”

  “What?” Peter said, still listening in on the other phone. “The guy’s a moron. His dad’s the one with the smarts.”

  “You only say that because Leon’s a multibillionaire,” Jamie said. “You and money, Petey—you revel in it.”

  “So do you, sweet thing, so do you.”

  “Put down the extension, Peter. I’d prefer to speak to Madison without you joining in.”

  “Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m taking a cold shower and swallowing a bottle of aspirin. I’m still trying to understand why you didn’t give them to me last night, you could’ve saved me a monster hangover.”

  “What am I—your nurse?” Jamie said crisply.

  “Oh, I forgot,” Peter said. “You were too busy flirting with Kris Phoenix.”

  “Hey, listen, guys . . .” Madison interrupted. “Much as I love listening to you two bicker, can you please do it on your own time?”

  “Sure,” Peter said. “See ya,” and he clicked off.

  “Has he gone?” Madison asked.

  “Yes,” Jamie said. “I can always tell if he’s still listening in.”

  “You were having fun last night.”

  “As a matter of fact I was,” Jamie said, giggling softly. “Kris Phoenix was saying some very flattering things.”

  “No big one, Jamie, you’ve been hearing very flattering things since you were ten. Guys have always been on your case.”

  “But Maddy, this was Kris Phoenix! We used to buy his records, follow his romances in the magazines. It’s a huge kick being hit on by a guy like that. It’d be like Mick Jagger coming on to me.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged any time you want,” Madison said dryly. “Apparently Mick Jagger comes on to anything that breathes!”

  Jamie laughed.

  “Anyway,” Madison continued. “Enough about your love life. Remember that thing we discussed?”

  “What thing?” Jamie said vaguely.

  “You know what I’m talking about. It’s set for Monday, ten o’clock, my apartment.”

  “Oh . . . you mean the detective thing.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Well . . .” Jamie said, hesitating for a moment. “Do you honestly think I should go through with it?”

  “If you’re suspicious, yes.”

  “I’m not so sure anymore. We had such a fantastic time last night when we got home. I know Peter was drunk and everything, and I was kind of like . . . well, I guess I was on a high. Getting hit on by a rock star certainly revs the old adrenaline!”

  “Are you saying you want me to call it off?”

  “No . . . I guess I should do it. No harm done, right? Only I’m not that suspicious anymore.”

  “Then don’t do it,” Madison said, exasperated. “Nobody’s forcing you. I’ll call back and cancel.”

  “What would you do?”

  “It’s not my situation,” Madison said.
“I know how you hate making decisions, but this one is all yours.”

  “Okay, okay,” Jamie said. “I’ll do it. Just so I can say to myself, ‘Silly suspicious me.’ ”

  “That’s a fair decision.”

  “Nothing lost, right?”

  “Right. Peter tells me you’re going shopping at Barney’s.”

  “Yes, my darling husband has promised to buy me whatever I want.” A soft chuckle. “And after last night—believe me—I deserve it.”

  •

  Madison was right, Michael Castelli was the best-looking fifty-eight-year-old in Connecticut. Six feet tall, he was slim and well built, with black curly hair, smooth olive skin and the same sharply defined cheekbones and seductive lips as his daughter. They looked alike. This pleased Madison.

  Maybe she was prejudiced, but it seemed to her that age suited him—Michael got better-looking each year. He wasn’t handsome in the traditional way, not like that soap actor she saw jogging every weekend. No, he had an Al Pacino/Robert De Niro edge—a look of danger—which apparently turned women on, because for as long as she could remember women had always had eyes for her father.

  “Hi, Michael,” she said.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, hugging her. “It’s good to see ya.”

  “You too,” she responded.

  “Still living by yourself?” he inquired, strolling into her apartment.

  “Why? Would you sooner I had a resident man?” she teased, wishing she’d had more of a chance to tidy up.

  “I’d sooner you were married to a guy.”

  “As opposed to married to a girl?”

  “Cut the comedy. I’m not joking.”

  “I’m only twenty-nine,” she protested. “Why this sudden desire to see me married off?”

  “ ’Cause we live in a tough world, sweetheart,” he said. “And I’d prefer to see you protected.”

  She found herself giggling. “Protected? You sound like a scene out of The Godfather.”

  He threw her a look.

  “I’m making another joke,” she said.

  Slammer padded over and drooled on his black Armani pants. Michael didn’t appreciate the dog’s attention. He took a quick step back. “Keep that animal away from me,” he said, brushing off his pants. “I hate dogs.”