Now it was four years later, and Cherie lay in a nursing home—a virtual vegetable—while Kristin was one of the most successful call girls in town. She’d had no choice; somebody had to pay the hospital bills, and that somebody certainly wasn’t Howie Powers—who’d instantly vanished out of their lives.
“Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?”
Kristin glanced up. A man had settled on the stool next to her, in spite of the fact that there were many empty places. He was handsome in a rumpled way—not at all Beverly Hills or Bel Air. He had on a white T-shirt, brown leather flying jacket, khaki pants and well-worn sneakers.
“Not at all,” she replied carefully, wondering if he’d ever been a customer. Highly unlikely; he didn’t look like a man who had to pay for it.
“I’m not coming out with a line,” he said in a deep husky voice. “But can I ask you a big favor?”
No favors, honey. Cash up front. I have bills to pay.
“What?” she said shortly.
“This’ll sound like a line,” he said, grinning. “Only believe me—it’s not. You see, I gotta go to my father’s wedding, and I haven’t worn a tie in years, not to mention the fact that when it comes to clothes I have no taste. So . . .” He thrust two ties in front of her. “Whaddya think?”
“What do I think?” she said slowly.
“Yes. I need an opinion other than my own. And you look like a woman with an eye for the best.”
“Why don’t you ask a salesperson?” she suggested.
“ ’Cause they don’t have your class and style,” he said, his grin widening. “You will make me into the son my dad always wanted.”
It was so long since she’d experienced a genuine pickup that she couldn’t help smiling. “You’re not from L.A., are you?” she said.
“Nope,” he replied. “Arizona. Drove here yesterday. The wedding’s on Sunday. What’s your pick?” She stared at the two ties, both boringly conservative. “Come with me,” she said, standing up. “I’m sure we can do better.” And with that she led him toward the tie department.
An hour later, with a purple Armani tie in his shopping bag, they were still talking. She’d found out his name was Jake and he was a professional photographer—much to his banker father’s disgust. He was thirty, unmarried and had moved to L.A. to pursue a new job with a magazine.
“The money’s great,” he said. “And it’ll be a challenge photographing real humans instead of animals and landscapes.”
“Real humans? Here?” Kristin drawled, sipping her third martini. “You do know you’re in L.A.”
“Don’t sound so jaded,” he said, “it doesn’t go with your looks.”
What the hell are you doing? she asked herself crossly. Sitting here flirting with a total stranger. And actually liking it.
“I have to go,” she said abruptly, standing up.
“Why?” he asked, standing too. “Is there a husband I should know about?”
No, honey. There’s a career you wouldn’t want to know about. I’m for sale. Lock, stock and fine ass.
“A . . . fiancé,” she lied, pushing the door firmly shut. “And he’s very jealous.”
“Don’t blame him,” Jake said, giving her a long lingering look.
She felt a jolt of unexpected excitement and wondered what it would be like to sleep with a man who wasn’t a paying client.
Don’t even think about it. You’re a whore—making money. And that’s all you’re interested in.
“Uh . . . good luck with the wedding,” she said.
“It’s his fourth,” Jake said. “He’s sixty-two. The bride’s twenty.”
“I’m sure your tie’ll look great.”
“Why wouldn’t it? You chose it.”
They exchanged another long look, before she forced herself to move off toward the escalator.
Just as she was stepping on, he came after her. “I’m staying at the Sunset Marquis,” he said. “I wish you’d call me. I’d really love to take your picture sometime.”
She nodded. No chance of that.
“Goodbye, Jake,” she said.
It wouldn’t do to be late for Mister X.
chapter 8
MADISON WAS ON THE PHONE. “So?” she said, holding the receiver away from her ear because her editor, Victor, always spoke in an overly loud, booming voice, one capable of shattering eardrums. “When am I getting my interview with Freddie Leon?”
“You just arrived, didn’t you?”
“Stepped off the plane an hour ago.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Victor said loudly. “Can’t you settle down for a couple of days and relax like everyone else?”
“I’m not in a relaxing frame of mind, Victor. I’m here to work.”
“All work and no play . . .”
“Don’t give me that cliché bullshit,” she said crisply. “Besides, you should be thrilled I’m a total workaholic.” A short pause to let him think about that for a moment. “Now,” she continued crisply. “When do I get to meet him?”
Victor sighed. “You’re an impossible woman.”
“Never said I wasn’t.”
“My contact’s out of town until tomorrow.”
“Wonderful timing.”
“Nobody’s perfect. Only you.”
“Glad you realize it.”
“Okay, okay, tomorrow I’ll get it set. That’s a promise.”
“Good.” She hesitated a moment before continuing. “Uh . . . by the way, Victor, this is a kind of off-the-wall suggestion . . .”
“Let me hear it.”
“Well, on the plane I was sitting next to Salli T. Turner.”
“Lucky you!” Victor boomed.
“I wasn’t sure you’d know who I was talking about.”
“My eleven-year-old son and I watch Teach! every Tuesday night. Kind of a male-bonding thing.”
“How sweet.”
“There’s nothing sweet about Salli T. Turner,” Victor chuckled, sounding uncharacteristically lecherous. “As my son would say—‘she’s the shit!’ ”
“Victor!”
“Sorry,” he boomed. “Did I just get carried away?”
“You certainly did,” Madison said, laughing. “Totally unlike you.”
“What is it you wanted to tell me about her?”
“Actually, I was thinking she might make a good interview.”
“You’d be prepared to interview Salli T. Turner?” Victor asked, barely able to conceal his surprise.
“Why not? She’s refreshingly honest, and I’m sure she’d be prepared to reveal plenty about what goes on in Hollywood if you’re a young, gorgeous babe with . . . uh . . . quite remarkable assets. It would definitely be a feminist piece with a twist. What do you think?”
“I think if you like the idea, we should give it a shot.”
“Good. I can fit it in while I’m sitting around waiting for Mr. Leon.”
“For chrissakes, Madison, stop complaining. I’ll get back to you A.S.A.P.”
“Do that,” she said, replacing the receiver with a grin.
“What’s up?” Natalie asked, handing her a glass of cold apple juice.
“Victor’s got a yen for Salli T. Can you imagine? Victor never looks at any woman other than Evelyn.”
“And Evelyn is . . . ?”
“His wife, of course. Rules him with an iron fist and a handy riding crop.”
Natalie giggled. “You mean he likes to get his powerful little butt whacked?”
“Not so little,” Madison answered, smiling back. “Victor’s like a big cuddly bear. Definitely not an L.A. bod.”
Natalie glanced at her watch. “Damn!” she said, grabbing her jacket. “I gotta get to the studio. Anything you need?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Madison said calmly. “I’m the perfect houseguest. Put me next to a phone and I’m content.”
“Cole’ll be home soon.”
“I haven’t seen him in years.”
“T
hen you’re in for a shock,” Natalie said crisply. “You probably remember him as a skinny, strung-out hyper teen monster. Right?”
“Right,” Madison agreed, remembering how Natalie always used to despair because her younger brother was heavily into rap, gangs and getting high.
“Now he’s Mr. Focused. In fact, he’s one of the most in-demand fitness trainers in L.A. Oh yeah,” Natalie added, as she reached the door. “And he came out of the closet. See you later.”
Cole was in the closet? Funky little Cole with his punk attitude and macho swagger. Madison shook her head . . . who would’ve guessed? Certainly not she.
Reaching for the phone, she tried the number Salli had given her. No reply, so with nothing else to do, she went in the tiny guest room and unpacked her one suitcase. She could have stayed at a hotel—Victor was quite generous with expenses—but Natalie would have been disappointed. Besides, she wanted to stay with her best friend, it was probably the only time they’d get to spend together all year. And they certainly had plenty to catch up on. Madison couldn’t wait to get down with some good old girl talk.
At six she clicked on the TV to catch Natalie’s entertainment spot on the news. The male news anchor was impossibly handsome, with a dazzling smile. His co-anchor was a young blond Joan Lunden clone. The weatherman was Hispanic. And then on came Natalie with her show-business news, sparkling with her own particular brand of personality and charm.
“I hate doing all that gossip crap,” Natalie had confided in the car on the way in from the airport. “But at least it gets my face on TV and it’s good experience.”
Just as Natalie was finishing her spot, Cole walked in. Or at least Madison assumed it was Cole, although this tall, muscled Denzel Washington look-alike in workout shorts and a Lakers tank bore no resemblance to the lanky teen rebel she’d last seen when she and Natalie graduated college seven years ago.
“Cole?” she questioned.
“Madison?” he answered.
And they grinned at each other, exchanging “You look greats!” and “It’s been so long!”
What a waste, Madison thought, checking him out. Why were all the truly gorgeous ones gay?
“Got everything you need?” Cole asked, swigging from a plastic bottle of Evian.
“I told your sister—give me a phone and I’m happy.”
“You here on business?”
“I write for Manhattan Style. Profiles on Power.”
“Who’re you nailing?”
“Freddie Leon, the agent.”
“Cool guy.”
“You know him?”
“Gave the dude a private session once when his regular guy was sick. Man, he was into it big time.”
“A jock, huh?”
“Competitive, that’s the vibe I got.” Another swig of Evian. “Y’know, I train his partner, Max Steele.”
“You do!” Madison exclaimed, sensing a major break. “Cole! I think I love you!”
“Huh?”
“Max Steele’s number one on the list of people I need to talk to. When can you set it up?”
“Hey,” Cole said, laughing. “Hold on—I said I train him, I do not arrange his schedule.”
“All I need is a fast half hour,” Madison said, eyes gleaming.
“Max is a busy dude, always runnin’ somewhere.”
“Of course, I could set it up through the magazine,” Madison mused. “But if you arrange it for me, it’ll be so much quicker.”
“We run the UCLA track every morning at seven A.M. Whyn’t you jog on by an’ I’ll intro you.”
“That’s a great idea! I’ll be there.”
“Yeah . . . an’ wear somethin’ hot, he’s into the femmes.”
Now it was Madison’s turn to laugh. “I want to talk to him, not fuck him!”
Cole grinned. “Hey—you never know . . . he’s a real player.”
Madison mock frowned. “Behave yourself. I knew you when you were nothing more than a horny delinquent!”
Cole’s grin widened. “Yeah, well, nothing much has changed. ’Cept now I’m horny in the opposite direction.”
“So Natalie told me.”
He grabbed an apple from the counter. “She kinda gets a buzz from it—y’know, her brother, the fruit. When the two of us go out we take bets on which guys are straight an’ which ones dance with Dorothy. I fake her out every time, ’cause my instincts rule!”
After Cole went off to shower, Madison tried Salli again. This time Salli answered her phone, all breathy-voiced. “Hi,” she said. “This is Salli T.”
“Remember me?” Madison said. “Your flying coach.”
“ ’Course I do,” Salli said, sounding pleased. “Wow! You’re actually calling me. Didn’t think you would.”
“I spoke to my editor. He loves the idea of an interview.”
“That was quick.”
“Very. Can I come by sometime after twelve tomorrow?”
“Well . . .” Salli said hesitantly. “I really should tell my publicist. He’ll be mad at me if I arrange something on my own.”
“Publicists have a habit of screwing everything up,” Madison said crisply, trying to discourage her because dealing with publicists was a total pain in the ass. “Do it if you want, but I should warn you, by the time he gets into it, I’ll probably be long gone.”
“You’re right,” Salli agreed. “And I do want to be in Manhattan Style. It will be like a kind of new image thing for me, right?”
“We’ll have fun,” Madison promised.
“Okay,” Salli said, like a little kid planning something naughty. “I’ll give you my address and you can come to lunch tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it.”
And she was. There was something very appealing about Salli T. Turner. In spite of the obvious sex-bomb presentation—big boobs and clouds of bleached hair—she had a certain sweetness and vulnerability. A kind of early Marilyn Monroe quality.
Madison used her laptop to E-mail New York, requesting a clippings file on Salli. Then she checked out her copious notes on Freddie Leon, and finally relaxed, adding a slug of vodka to her boringly healthy apple juice as she kicked back in front of the TV and waited for Natalie to get home.
L.A. was turning out to be better than she’d thought.
chapter 9
ON IMPULSE FREDDIE LEON DECIDED to stop by Lucinda Bennett’s Bel Air mansion. He was tired of waiting for the signed contracts, tired of being prisoner to her capricious will. He didn’t usually make house calls, but since Lucinda was being so difficult, he felt a little hand-holding might be in order. Hold a child’s hand and you can lead them wherever you want—his father had told him that when he was thirteen, and he’d never forgotten. Yes, it was time to put an end to all this nonsense, as only he could.
Nellie, Lucinda’s faithful Bahamian housekeeper, answered the door. “Why, Mr. Leon, what you doin’ here?” Nellie asked, throwing up her massive arms as if to ward him off. “Madam—she no expectin’ you.”
“Correct, she’s not,” Freddie agreed, handing her the three dozen red roses he had prudently purchased at Flower Fashions on the way. “Put these in a vase, Nellie, and give them to her. Tell her I’ll be waiting in the living room.”
“She be in the middle of a foot massage,” Nellie confided.
“I’m sure you can disturb her,” Freddie replied, striding into the tastefully decorated living room, overlooking a cool blue infinity pool. Lucinda owned several houses; this one in Bel Air was his favorite. He stood by the window staring out, aware that he might have a long wait. Knowing Lucinda, she’d have to get herself together, check her makeup, hair, clothes. Lucinda was one of the old-fashioned breed of stars, unlike the young actresses today who slumped into his office looking like they’d just stepped out of somebody’s bed. Angela Musconni was the hottest young star around, and when Max Steele had encountered her leaving Freddie’s office last week, he’d grabbed his partner by the arm and whispered in his ear, “You gotta
be kidding? I wouldn’t fuck her with somebody else’s dick.” Trust Max to say exactly what everyone else was thinking. Angela looked like a heroin addict on the run, but she was an excellent actress.
After twenty-five minutes Lucinda made her entrance. She was a tall woman with dramatic features and smooth, pale red hair worn in a becoming bob. She was not traditionally beautiful, more striking with her aquiline nose and piercing eyes, but her talent was ferocious and her fans equally so. Lucinda had been a star for almost twenty years.
“And to what do I owe this honor?” Lucinda asked, sweeping into the room, resplendent in a pale beige cashmere pantsuit and extremely high heels.
“I’m playing errand boy today,” Freddie said, kissing her on both cheeks.
Her finely penciled eyebrows shot up. “Freddie Leon—errand boy? I can hardly believe it.”
“Believe it, sweetheart. I’m well aware of how insecure you get, so I’m here to personally pick up your signed contract.”
Lucinda’s finely rouged scarlet lips pursed dramatically. “Really?”
“Lucinda, dear, you should know better than anyone, there is no way I would push you into anything that wasn’t right for you.”
Lucinda collapsed into an overstuffed chair, kicking off her shoes like a petulant ten-year-old. “It’s not that I’m being difficult, Freddie,” she said. “It’s simply that I don’t want to look . . . foolish.”
“How could you possibly look foolish?” Freddie asked forcefully.
“Well, Dmitri said—”
“Who’s Dmitri?” he interrupted.
“Someone I’ve been seeing,” she said, becoming uncharacteristically coy.
Oh God, now he got it. She had a new man in her life, and like the legions before him, he was putting in his ten cents. “Have I met Dmitri?” he asked.
“No,” Lucinda replied, still verging on the coy side. “But you will.”
“I’m sure,” Freddie said. “Is he around today?”
“He’s out by the pool,” Lucinda said. “Let’s not disturb him, he might be sleeping.”