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Prologue
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Los Angeles
1997
IT WAS NEAR MIDNIGHT WHEN the gleaming blue Mercedes limousine pulled up outside the closed bookstore in Farmers’ Market, on Fairfax. A uniformed chauffeur—dressed all in black, including leather gloves and impenetrable sunglasses—stepped out of the car and glanced around.
Nearby, a pretty girl sitting in her parked Camaro hurriedly said goodbye to her girlfriend, with whom she had been chatting on her cell phone, and left her car, locking it behind her.
“Hi,” she said, approaching the weird-looking chauffeur. “I’m Kimberly. Are you here for Mister X?”
He nodded and opened the rear door for her. She climbed in. He closed the door and got in the front seat.
“Mister X requires you to put on a blindfold,” he said without turning around. “You will find it on the seat beside you.”
Okay, Kimberly thought. A kinky one. But that’s nothing new. Kimberly (real name Mary Ann Jones, formerly of Detroit) had been a Hollywood call girl for eighteen months, and during that time she’d seen plenty. Wearing a blindfold in the back of a limousine was nothing compared to some of the things she’d been asked to do.
She put on the soft velvet blindfold and settled back, almost falling asleep as the limo sped to its destination.
Twenty minutes later the car slowed, and she heard the clanking sound of heavy gates opening.
“Can I take the blindfold off now?” she asked, leaning forward.
“Kindly wait,” the chauffeur replied.
A few moments later the limo pulled to a stop. Kimberly adjusted her dress, a skimpy designer number she’d picked up at Barney’s warehouse sale. Then she fluffed out her hair, blond and curly.
The chauffeur opened the door. “Get out,” he commanded.
She removed the blindfold without asking, and followed him to the entrance of a large mansion. He opened the door with a key and ushered her inside the dark entry hall.
“Wow!” Kimberly said, squinting at an enormous chandelier hanging above them. “Wouldn’t want to be under that in an earthquake!”
“Here’s your fee,” the chauffeur said, handing her an envelope bulging with cash.
She took the envelope and stuffed it in her brown leather shoulder bag—a Coach original she’d purchased in Century City that same day. “Where’s Mister X?” she asked. “In the bedroom?”
“No,” the chauffeur replied. “Outside.”
“Whatever,” she said, thrusting out her size-36 C-cup breasts—purchased shortly after she’d first come to Hollywood, on the heels of winning a beauty contest back home.
“Whatever,” the chauffeur mimicked, taking her arm and leading her through an ornate living room to French doors that took them out to a black-bottomed swimming pool.
The man had a firm grip on her arm—too firm for her liking. And how dare he mimic her, she thought. Where the hell was Mister X? She was ready to get this over and done with so she could get home to her live-in boyfriend—a sometime male-model-slash-porn-star with muscles of steel.
“Mister X would like to know if you can swim,” the chauffeur said, stopping beside the pool.
“Nope,” she replied, wondering why he didn’t put on some lights—the place was downright gloomy. “Although I’m thinking of taking lessons.”
“You’d better start now,” the chauffeur said. And before she was aware of what was happening he had shoved her violently into the deep end of the pool.
She sank to the bottom, rising to the surface seconds later spluttering and choking, her arms flailing wildly in the air. “Help!” she screamed, gasping for air. “I told you—I . . . can’t . . . swim.”
The chauffeur stood by the edge of the pool, his member out, right hand working hard.
“Help me!” Kimberly yelled, struggling desperately before vanishing under the water for the second time.
The man continued to go about his business, climaxing over the girl’s head as she surfaced again.
“You’re crazy!” she screamed, before going down for the third time.
And after that, everything went black.
One Year Later
chapter 1
MADISON CASTELLI DID NOT PARTICULARLY enjoy covering Hollywood stories. Lifestyles of the rich and decadent was not her thing—which is exactly why her editor, Victor Simons, had insisted she was the right person for the assignment. “You’re not into all that Hollywood bullshit,” he’d said. “You don’t want anything from the so-called power elite, which makes you the perfect journalist to get me the real inside story on Mr. Super-Power, Freddie Leon. Besides, you’re beautiful, so he’ll pay attention.”
Ha! Madison thought ruefully as she boarded an American Airlines flight to L.A. I’m so beautiful that three months ago, David, my live-in love of two years, went out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back.
What he did do was leave her a cowardly note all about how he couldn’t deal with commitment and would never be able to make her happy. Five weeks later she’d found out he’d married his childhood sweetheart—a vapid blonde with huge boobs and a serious overbite.
So much for avoiding commitment.
Madison was twenty-nine years old and extremely attractive, although she played her good looks down by wearing functional clothes and barely any makeup. But try as she might, nothing could disguise her almond-shaped eyes, sharply defined cheekbones, seductive lips, smooth olive skin, and black unruly hair she usually wore pulled back in a severe ponytail. Not to mention her lithe, five-foot-eight-inch body, with full breasts, narrow waist and long dancer’s legs.
Madison did not consider herself beautiful. Her idea of good looks was her mother, Stella—a statuesque blonde whose dreamy eyes and quivering lips reminded most people of Marilyn Monroe.
Looks-wise, Madison took after her father, Michael, the best-looking fifty-eight-year-old in Connecticut. She’d also inherited his steely determination and undeniable charm—two admirable qualities that had not hindered her rise to success as a well-respected writer of revealing profiles of the rich, notorious and powerful.
Madison loved what she did—going for the right angle, discovering the hidden secrets of people in the public eye. Politicians and super-rich business tycoons were her favorite interviews. Movie stars, sports personalities and Hollywood moguls were low on her list. She didn’t regard herself as a killer, although she did write with searing honesty, sometimes upsetting the people she wrote about, who were usually sheltered in an all-enveloping cocoon of protective P.R.
Too bad if they didn’t like it; she was merely telling the truth.
Settling into her first-class window seat, she glanced around the cabin, spotting Bo Deacon, a well-known TV host with an equally well-known drug habit. Bo did not look well; puffy-faced and slack-jawed, he still managed to come to life when the cameras rolled on his popular late-night talk show.
Madison hoped that the seat next to her would remain vacant, but it was not to be. At the last moment a breathy, busty blonde in a micro black leather dress was escorted aboard by two starstruck airline reps who practically carried her to her seat. Madison recognized the girl as Salli T. Turner, the current darling of the tabloids. Salli was the star of Teach!, a half-hour weekly TV sitcom in which she p
layed a comely swimming teacher who visited a different glamorous mansion every week, causing havoc and saving lives—all the while dressed in a minuscule one-piece black rubber swimsuit, which only served to enhance her pneumatic breasts, twenty-inch waist and endless legs.
“Wow!” Salli exclaimed, collapsing into her seat and fluffing out her mane of blond curls. “Just made it!”
“Are you okay, Miss Turner?” asked anxious airline rep number one.
“What can I get you?” asked overeager airline rep number two.
Both men were bug-eyed, staring down her ample cleavage as if they’d never seen anything like it before. And they probably haven’t, Madison thought.
“Everything’s hunky-dory, guys,” Salli said, favoring them with a toothy grin. “My husband’s meeting me in L.A. If I’d missed the flight he would’ve been blue-assed pissed!”
“I can believe that,” said airline rep number one, eyes still bugging.
“Me, too!” agreed the other man.
Madison buried her head in Newsweek—the last thing she needed was a conversation with this airhead. She vaguely heard the flight attendant asking the men to leave so they could prepare for takeoff; then, shortly after, the big plane began taxiing down the runway.
Without warning, Salli suddenly clutched Madison’s arm, causing her to almost drop her magazine.
“I hate flying,” Salli squeaked, big blue eyes blinking rapidly. “I mean, it’s not exactly flying I hate, more like crashing.”
Carefully Madison prised the girl’s fingers off her arm. “Close your eyes, take a deep breath and slowly count to a hundred,” she advised. “I’ll let you know when we’re airborne.”
“Gee, thanks,” Salli said gratefully. “Didn’t think of doing that.”
Madison frowned. Clearly this was going to be a long flight. Why couldn’t she be stuck next to someone more interesting?
She folded her magazine and gazed out of the window as the plane took off. Unlike Salli, she loved flying. The sudden rush of speed, that exhilarating feeling of excitement when the wheels left the ground, the initial ascent—it always gave her a thrill, however many times she’d done it.
Salli sat silently beside her, eyes squeezed tightly shut, pouty lips slowly mouthing numbers.
By the time she opened her eyes they were in the air. “Radical shit!” Salli exclaimed, turning to Madison. “You’re amazing!”
“Nothing to it,” Madison murmured.
“No, really,” Salli insisted. “Your advice actually worked!”
“I’m glad,” Madison said, wishing Miss Rubber Suit (she’d seen the show once—it was titillating trash) would keep her eyes closed for the entire trip.
Rescue arrived in the form of Bo Deacon, who came ambling over holding a glass of Scotch. “Salli, my darling!” he exclaimed. “You look absolutely edible.”
“Oh, hi Bo,” Salli said guilelessly. “Are you on this plane?”
Smart question, Madison thought wryly. It’s so nice to be traveling with intellectuals.
“Yeah, honey, I’m sitting over there,” he said, gesturing across the aisle. “Got some old bag next to me. Whyn’t we try getting her to trade places?”
Salli fluttered her long fake eyelashes. “How are your ratings going?” she asked, as if that would be the deciding factor on whether she changed seats or not.
“Hardly as hot as yours, babe,” he leered. “Whyn’t I go back and ask the old bag to move?”
“I’m kinda comfortable where I am,” Salli said.
“Don’t be silly,” Bo said. “We should sit together, that way we can talk about your next appearance on my show. Last time you were on we got better ratings than Howard.”
Salli giggled, pleased with the compliment. “I did Howard’s E! cable show in New York,” she said, small pink tongue licking her jammy lips. “He’s sooo rude, but cute with it.”
“You’re the first broad I’ve heard call Howard Stern cute,” Bo said, shaking his head.
“Well, he is,” Salli said. “He’s kind of big and gangly, and he’s always talking about his little dick. My guess is he’s really got a whopper!”
Madison realized she was actually sitting next to a real live cliché—the definitive Hollywood blonde. If she recounted this exchange to any of her New York friends, they wouldn’t believe her.
“You know what?” Madison said, leaning forward, speaking directly to Bo. “If it’ll help out, I can change places with you.”
Bo noticed her for the first time. “Hey, little lady, that’s very sweet of you,” he said, putting on his voice that said “I’m a big star, but I can actually be nice to real people.”
“Little lady?” Was he kidding?
“On one condition,” Salli interrupted.
“What’s that, honey?” Bo said.
“I’ve got to sit next to this woman when we land. She’s the greatest. She got me through takeoff. She’s like some kind of, you know, magical medicine man.”
Bo raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he said, taking another look at Madison. “You one of those broads with special powers, honey? Maybe you should come on my show.”
“Thanks for the offer, Mr. Deacon,” Madison answered coolly. “I have a hunch you should stick with Max the chimp.”
Bo winked. “So you watch the show, huh?”
When I can’t sleep, she wanted to say. When I’ve seen every old movie, and Letterman and Leno are in repeats, and I’m absolutely desperate. “Sometimes,” she said, with a pleasant smile, gathering her things, getting up and moving across the aisle to Bo’s vacant seat.
The woman he’d referred to as an old bag was an attractive businesswoman in her forties diligently working on her laptop.
“Hi,” Madison said. “I’m switching places with Mr. Deacon. Do you mind?”
The woman raised her eyes. “The pleasure is all mine,” she said. “I actually thought I’d have to talk to him.”
They both laughed.
Madison grinned. This was more her kind of traveling partner.
chapter 2
“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK,” Freddie Leon said, staring coldly at the short bearded man, who sat uncomfortably in a Biedermeier chair across the other side of Freddie’s enormous steel and glass desk.
“I’m telling you, Freddie,” the man said, somewhat agitated. “The bitch won’t do it.”
“Listen,” Freddie repeated. “If I say she’ll do it, it’ll happen.”
“Then you’d better speak to her.”
“I intend to.”
“And soon.”
“Don’t push it, Sam.”
Freddie’s demeanor was as cold as an Eskimo’s dick. He did not appreciate anyone advising him. He had not become the most powerful superagent in Hollywood by listening to other people, especially a man such as Sam Lowski, a half-assed personal manager whose only real claim to fame was his one big client, Lucinda Bennett—major diva, major pain in the ass, major talent.
Freddie Leon was a poker-faced man of forty-six. He had cordial features, ordinary brown hair, matching eyes and a quick, bland smile which rarely reached his eyes. Head and part owner of the powerful I.A.A.—International Artists Agents—he was nicknamed “the snake” because he could skillfully slither in and out of any deal. Nobody ever dared call him “the snake” to his face. His wife, Diana, had done so once. It was the only time he’d raised his hand to her.
Sam got up to leave. Freddie didn’t stop him—he had nothing else to say.
As soon as Sam was out the door, Freddie waited a beat and picked up the phone, speed-dialing Lucinda Bennett’s private number. Lucinda answered, sounding sleepy.
“How’s my favorite client?” Freddie asked, putting all the charm he could muster into his cold, flat voice.
“Asleep,” Lucinda replied grumpily.
“Alone?” Freddie questioned.
An arch laugh. “None of your business.”
Freddie cleared his throat. “What’s all this I hear
about you being a naughty girl?”
“Don’t talk down to me, dear,” Lucinda said, her voice languid. “I’m too old and too rich to take that kind of crapola.”
“I’m not talking down to you,” Freddie replied. “I’m merely reminding you that good behavior always wins in the end.”
“I guess Sam crawled in to see you,” Lucinda said, the lack of respect she felt for her personal manager coloring her tone.
“Exactly,” Freddie replied. “He tells me you’re planning on backing out of the Kevin Page movie.”
“He’s absolutely right.”
Freddie checked his irritation. Remaining cool was a requisite of his profession. “Why would you want to do a thing like that when the deal is already in place, and you’re getting twelve million dollars?” he asked.
“Because Kevin Page is too young for me,” Lucinda responded crisply. “I hardly want to look like an old hag on screen.”
“I told you three weeks ago, Lucinda, it’s in your contract—they’ll hire the cinematographer of your choice. You can look eighteen if you want to.”
“I’m almost forty, Freddie,” she snapped. “I have no desire to look eighteen.”
He knew for a fact she was at least forty-five. “Okay,” he said calmly. “Twenty-eight, thirty-eight—whatever age pleases you.”
“Don’t try to placate me. Kevin Page is your client. He’s made two hit movies, and now you think you can cement his career by teaming him with me.”
“Not true. This deal is about you. It’s essential that you keep reaching that younger audience. Demographics count.” He paused before continuing. “You’re an enormous star, Lucinda, there’s nobody bigger. But you’ve also got to realize that there’re plenty of young people who’ve never heard of you.”
“Screw you, Freddie,” she responded furiously. “I can do what I want.”
“No,” Freddie said, his voice hardening. “You can’t. You’ll do what I say.”