“How long have you been married?”
“Exactly six months, two weeks, three days and, if I had a watch, I’d probably say thirty-three seconds.” She laughed, slightly embarrassed. “I don’t sound too much in love, do I?”
“What does Bobby do?”
“He’s like a major danger adventure guy. Rides motorcycles and cars, stuff like that. Jumps over, like, forty-two buses. All the things someone called Evel Knievel did years and years ago, in my grandma’s day.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve read about him. Bobby Skorch. The man who takes his life in his hands every day.”
“That’s my Bobby,” Salli said proudly. “Are you married?”
Madison shook her head. “Too scary for me,” she said, thinking briefly of David, who’d never asked. For two years they’d been inseparable; now they were total strangers.
“I was married before Bobby,” Salli announced. “To a psycho freakazoid asshole actor.”
Madison laughed. “Tell me how you really feel.”
Salli frowned again, thinking about her ex. “He sued me for alimony. Can you believe it? He still thinks that one day I’ll take him back. Moron city!”
“How long were you married to him?”
“Long enough for the bastard to break my arm a couple of times. Not to mention black eyes and bruises and all of that.”
“Sounds like a charmer.”
“He thought he was.”
Salli didn’t speak again until the plane landed. Then she opened her eyes and unbuckled her seat belt. “That was a cinch!” she exclaimed. “Want a job as my flying coach?”
Madison smiled. “Think I’ll pass,” she said, standing up and stretching.
“If you don’t have anybody meeting you, we can give you a ride in our limo,” Salli offered. “Bobby’s into the extra extra stretch with the Jacuzzi in the back. It’s sooo Hollywood, but since we’re both from little towns, we get off on it!”
“That’s okay,” Madison said, still smiling. “My friend’s picking me up.”
“You’ve got to come visit me,” Salli said, scribbling her number on a menu and handing it over. “You’re sooo cool—and great-looking too, in a kind of like normal way.”
Madison laughed. “Thanks, I think!”
“I mean it,” Salli said enthusiastically. “Our house in the Palisades is amazing.”
“I’m sure.”
“Oh, God!” Salli groaned, with an exaggerated shudder. “Here comes the letch.”
And Bo Deacon was upon them, all washed and brushed—and drenched in a heavy cologne. He attempted to take Salli’s arm, but she was too quick for him, niftily backing into a burly businessman who couldn’t be more delighted that he actually got to touch the delectable Salli T. Turner.
An airline rep pushed past, eager to reach his two stars. Madison heard Bo say to Salli in a nasty whisper, “What’s the matter, bitch? Trying to forget the people who got you where you are today?”
Madison shook her head and exited the plane, walking briskly through the airport to the luggage carousel.
“Girlfriend!” Natalie yelled, appearing out of nowhere. “You’re here!”
Madison was delighted to see her. “Finally,” she said with a big grin. “It was a long flight.”
They exchanged warm hugs.
“The traffic was a monster,” Natalie said. “I only just made it.”
“You saved me a limo ride.”
“How’s that?”
Madison indicated Salli T. Turner and Bobby Skorch locked in a steamy embrace by the exit. “I could’ve hitched a ride with them.”
“No way,” Natalie said disbelievingly. “The delectable Salli T. Queen of the wet dream brigade.”
“I certainly could’ve. Salli’s my new best friend.”
Natalie laughed. “Does that mean you’ve traded my fine black ass for a bountiful blonde?”
“Yeah, right,” Madison said dryly. “Can’t you imagine me and Salli T. palling out? We’ve got so much in common.”
“Hmm . . .” Natalie said, staring over. “The husband’s pretty damn cute.”
Madison glanced at Salli and Bobby, who were still making out, in spite of—or maybe because of—several hovering paparazzi. “All I can see is black leather, long hair, and tattoos.”
Natalie gave a dirty laugh. “Sometimes I like ’em rough and colorful.”
Oh, God, Madison thought. Shades of college. We’ve only been together two minutes and we’re already discussing men.
“Here comes my suitcase,” she said, lugging it off the moving carousel. “Let’s go.”
“Before you succumb to the limo ride?” Natalie teased.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Madison replied, laughing.
Within minutes they were in Natalie’s car, heading for the Hollywood Hills, where Natalie shared a small house with her brother, Cole, a personal trainer.
Madison gazed out the window. Sunshine, palm trees, fast food restaurants and gas stations. Ah, L.A., what a place!
In spite of her misgivings about Hollywood and its inhabitants, she was excited about her assignment. Freddie Leon was a high-profile power broker who’d managed to keep an exceptionally low profile in his private life. One wife. Two children. No scandal. And yet here was a man who controlled the most important talent in Hollywood. A man who had everyone’s attention.
She was determined to find out everything—unearth the real man beneath the impenetrable image.
It was a challenge.
Madison always had relished a challenge.
chapter 6
“I’M LEAVING NOW,” FREDDIE LEON informed his executive assistant, Ria Santiago.
Ria glanced up from her desk as Freddie passed by. She was an attractive Hispanic woman in her mid-forties who’d worked for Freddie for just over ten years. She knew him as well as anyone—which didn’t mean a lot, because Freddie was an intensely private person who was all business.
“Shall I phone Mrs. Leon and tell her you’re on your way?” Ria inquired, tapping a sharp pencil on her desktop.
“No,” Freddie said. “I have to make a stop. I’ll call her myself from the car.”
“Very well,” Ria replied, knowing better than to ask where he was going.
Freddie stepped into the private elevator he shared with his partner in I.A.A., Max Steele, and pressed the button for underground parking. When he stepped off the elevator, his maroon Rolls was waiting, waxed and gleaming, which pleased him because he was very particular about his cars—the slightest scrape or blemish drove him insane.
Willie, the parking valet, jumped to attention. “Weatherman says it might rain, Mr. Leon,” Willie said cheerfully, careful to breathe in the other direction lest the Scotch he’d just swigged from the bottle hit Freddie in the face.
“The weatherman is wrong, Willie. I can smell rain when it’s on the way.”
“Yessir, Mr. Leon,” Willie said respectfully, backing away even further. He knew how to kiss ass better than anyone; it got him a five-hundred-buck cash tip every Christmas.
Freddie got in his car and drove carefully from the I.A.A. building—an architectural delight—his mind running over the events of the day, making sure he remembered every detail. The less committed to paper the better—that was Freddie’s philosophy. It had worked well for him over the years.
He hoped Lucinda Bennett was not about to cause trouble. He’d negotiated a major contract for her—more money than she’d ever received before—and with Kevin Page as her costar, their movie together was bound to be a hit. Now Lucinda was attempting to give him a hard time, which wouldn’t work—his little remark about the negatives in his safe had definitely given her something to think about.
What kind of Hollywood was it today when he had to talk an actress, whose career would be over in less than five years, into accepting twelve million dollars?
Talent. They were a breed unto themselves. Egotistical, ungrateful and predictable. Which is why Freddie was
able to convince them he was always right. Deep down they were children who needed tough love and guidance. Freddie gave them exactly what they wanted. Max was his complete opposite. Max was Mr. Smoothie. Divorced and always on the lookout for fresh new talent, Max cultivated the playboy image—a racy Porsche, a wardrobe of Brioni suits, a penthouse apartment on Wilshire, and countless beautiful women. The difference between them worked. Freddie handled the major superstars, Max looked after the slightly lower-level luminaries.
Freddie smiled to himself, a smile that did not reach his lips. Max thought he was the smartest guy in town; in truth he was a joke—Freddie’s own private source of amusement—for nobody fooled Freddie Leon. And Freddie knew for a fact that for the last three months Max had been involved in secret negotiations to land a high-powered studio job. And if he snagged it he’d leave I.A.A. and Freddie without a backward glance, selling his interest in I.A.A. to the highest bidder.
Freddie had his own future to watch out for. Max Steele was a traitor. And Freddie knew how to deal with traitors better than anyone.
* * *
Oblivious to Freddie Leon’s knowledge of his negotiations, Max Steele wound up a long lunch at the Grill. His luncheon companion was a breathtakingly beautiful Swedish model who bore more than a passing resemblance to a young Grace Kelly.
Inga Cruelle wanted to make the difficult transition from supermodel to movie star.
Max Steele wanted to get into her Victoria’s Secret lacy thong and fuck the life out of her.
They both had their agendas.
“So you see,” Inga said, as they lingered over decaf cappuccinos, her long delicate fingers toying with the rim of her coffee cup, “I do not wish to do what Cindy did. A starring role will be too difficult for my first attempt.”
The ego on these girls was astounding, Max thought. However beautiful she was, what made Inga Cruelle imagine she could cut it on the big screen when there were hundreds of actresses out there—girls who really knew their craft—who couldn’t even get in for an audition?
“Very wise,” he said. Max was not movie-star handsome, but at forty-two he had an abundance of boyish charm, a full head of curly brown hair, an inshape body and plenty of style. Plus his reputation as a cocksman was legendary.
“Elle seems to be doing it the right way,” Inga mused, her long tapered fingers now twirling her coffee spoon. “She was quite good in the Streisand movie.”
This was their second lunch together, and Max had played his role perfectly. They were the agent and the potential client. Nothing more. By this time Inga—who was used to reducing most men to slobbering idiots—must be wondering why he hadn’t made any kind of move.
“Elle’s a smart girl,” he said briskly. “She works hard.”
“I’ll work hard,” Inga said, her exquisite unmade-up face painfully earnest. “I’ll even take acting classes if you think it’s necessary.”
No, sweetheart. Why would you want to do that? You’re a successful model. Don’t put yourself out.
“Right,” he said. “Good idea.”
“You are so understanding, Max, so helpful,” Inga said, placing a delicate hand on his arm.
Good. She was making the first move.
“Listen,” he said as sincerely as he could manage. “I want to help you, Inga, so I’m sending you to see a director friend of mine. Maybe, if he likes you, I can persuade him to shoot a test.”
“A screen test?”
“Yeah, get a feeling of how you are in front of the camera.”
Inga laughed, as if it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “You’ve seen my photographs, Max,” she said immodestly. “You know the camera loves and adores me.”
“Still photographs are different. The movie camera has a mind of its own,” Max said, marveling at her conceit. “You brought up Cindy. Yeah, sure she’s a knockout, and she looked fantastic in her movie. But the big problem was her emotions simply didn’t translate. She came across as a blank canvas.”
“That is exactly why I do not wish to star in my first film,” Inga said, as if producers were lining up to hire her.
“I could also set something up on a social level,” Max said casually, baiting the trap. “Maybe a dinner at the Leons’.”
“Your partner?”
“Freddie’s dinners are legendary.”
“Very well,” Inga said. “Should I bring my fiancé?”
What was with this fiancé crap? It was the first he’d heard of it.
“I didn’t know you were engaged,” he said, slightly irritated.
“My fiancé lives in Sweden,” Inga said, her precise accent a definite detriment to a film career. “He is arriving tomorrow to spend two days with me at the Bel Air Hotel, then he will fly home.”
“Really?” Max said, even more irritated. “What does he do?”
“He’s a very successful businessman,” Inga replied. “We have known each other since school.”
Max was not interested in the details. “When are you returning to New York?” he asked, wondering if she gave great head.
“Perhaps next week,” Inga said. “My agency is impatient. However, I told them how important it is that I stay here until I have made a decision about my movie commitments.”
“Sounds good to me,” Max said, deciding that she probably didn’t. Beautiful girls were not as into it as their plainer sisters. “Only I should warn you,” he added, “no fiancés at business meetings. Leave him at the hotel.”
“This will not be a problem,” Inga said coolly.
Max snapped his fingers for the check, which the waiter immediately brought to the table.
So, she has a fiancé, he thought. Am I wasting my time or what?
No, she also has that hungry look. The look all these girls have when they want to be movie stars.
“Time to get back to work,” he said, signing the check and standing up.
Inga slid out of the booth. She had on white slacks and a pale pink angora sweater, which gently covered the swell of her small, perfect breasts. He knew they were perfect and not silicone-enhanced, because he’d seen the nude spread she’d done for famed photographer Helmut Newton in Vogue. Eight pages of Inga. Black stockings, matching garter belt, stiletto heels, and a Great Dane sitting passively at her feet. Very classy. Very naked. Not at all crude.
Max decided the time had come to nail this delectable Swedish morsel. He wanted to go down on her—his specialty—in the worst way.
And soon.
Fiancé or no fiancé, he had no doubt she was a sure thing.
chapter 7
KRISTIN DID NOT POSSESS WHITE hose, which meant a trip to Neiman Marcus. Not such a hardship, as she enjoyed strolling around the luxurious store buying clothes she didn’t need and perusing the tempting makeup counters. Shopping was therapeutic—it took her mind off everything, suspending her in a land of soft, sensual lingerie, Judith Leiber purses and Manolo Blahnik shoes.
Recently they’d installed a huge curved martini bar in the men’s department. Kristin felt comfortable sitting at it, sipping a vodka martini, daydreaming that she was a perfect Hollywood wife with two darling little children and an important executive big-deal husband. A faithful big-deal husband—because all the ones she came across were lying whoremongers who cheated on their wives without giving their infidelities a second thought. And Kristin should know—she’d had most of them in the three years she’d been a call girl in Hollywood.
Kristin and her younger sister, Cherie, had arrived in L.A. four years ago, with aspirations to become movie stars. Kristin had been nineteen, Cherie eighteen, and like hundreds and thousands of teenage hopefuls before them, they’d saved their money, left the small town they’d lived in all their young lives, and made the trek west in a beat-up Volkswagen.
Cherie was the true beauty of the family—or so everyone always said. Kristin was merely the sister who paled in comparison. But the two of them were the closest of friends, and did everything toget
her.
As soon as they arrived in L.A. they rented a cheap apartment and both got jobs waitressing in a busy Italian restaurant on Melrose. Cherie lasted exactly one week before being discovered by one of the customers—Howie Powers—the bad-boy son of a rich business executive.
From the start Kristin knew that Howie was not good news. She found out he was heavily into drugs, booze and gambling. She also discovered he was into taking his father’s money and blowing it on fast cars and as many women as he could handle. That is, until he spotted Cherie, and fell in love.
Howie pursued Cherie relentlessly, taking her to the best restaurants and clubs, showering her with expensive presents, treating her like a queen. It wasn’t long before he persuaded her to give up her job and move in with him. Kristin warned her not to, but Cherie wouldn’t listen. “He wants to marry me,” she said, all starry-eyed and in love. “We’re doing it after I meet his parents.”
“And when will that be?” Kristin asked.
“Soon,” Cherie replied. “He’s taking me to Palm Springs to see them.”
Kristin didn’t believe it for a moment. Howie wasn’t the marrying kind. He’d string Cherie along with promises until he grew tired of her, and then he’d dump her. Kristin knew the type—she’d experienced the rich-boy syndrome in high school when she’d given up her virginity to the captain of the football team and he’d boasted to everyone about his conquest. When she’d complained, he’d refused to speak to her again. A sobering lesson about men.
Kristin saw Howie as the sleazy playboy he was—especially when one day he came on to her while Cherie was out shopping. She loathed him, but at the same time she was forced to put up with him because of her sister. Until the night she discovered that Howie had gotten Cherie hooked on cocaine. Then she went crazy, fighting with both of them. Cherie told her to back off and mind her own business. So she did.
And two weeks later she’d gotten a midnight call informing her that on their way to Palm Springs to meet his parents, Howie had fallen asleep at the wheel of his Porsche, crossed the dividing line of the highway and smashed head-on into another car. The driver of the other car was killed, Howie was only slightly injured, and Cherie was in a coma.