Because I’m entitled to have some fun sometime, aren’t I? I’m entitled to behave like a real human being.
No, you’re not. You chose to be a whore. Stick to what you know.
She turned up at his hotel on time—punctuality was a prerequisite of the perfect call girl. He was waiting in the lobby, still looking somewhat rumpled in his brown leather jacket and longish hair. She’d changed outfits ten times, finally settling on a simple black dress and a couple of pieces of good jewelry—given to her by an Arab arms dealer. As soon as she saw him she realized she was too dressed up.
“Hey,” he said, walking toward her. “This is a really nice surprise.”
“It is?” she answered.
“You bet,” he said, smiling. She smiled back. “Where do you want to go?” he asked.
“Uh . . . wherever you want to go.”
“I’m the new boy in town.”
She considered the possibilities. Clients took her to all the expensive clubs and restaurants. A few of the maître d’s knew her and what she did. “How about . . . Hamburger Hamlet?” she said, thinking fast.
“You look too pretty to hang out at a hamburger joint.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I love hamburgers.”
“If that’s what you’d like.”
I like you, a little voice screamed in her head. I like you because you’re normal, because you’re not going to pay me. Because you don’t know what I do, or anything about me. I like you because you like me just for who I am.
“My car or yours?” he said, walking her outside the hotel. “Yours is probably better because all I’ve got is a beat-up old truck, which, I can assure you, has definitely seen better days.”
“Let’s take yours,” she said, thinking that tonight she wanted to feel like an ordinary girl out on an ordinary date. Nothing wrong with that.
“So,” he said, as they got into his truck. “What made you change your mind?”
“About what?”
“About going out with me?”
“You never asked.”
“ ’Cause when you got on that escalator today, you had no intention of ever seeing me again.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I can read people.”
“See how wrong you were.”
“I’m glad.”
They went to the Hamburger Hamlet on Doheny and sat in a cozy booth, side by side. Kristin ordered a double cheeseburger and an extra thick chocolate milkshake. She felt like she was back in high school and out on a date.
Jake had plenty to say. He talked about photography and the people he’d met and worked with. He told her about the six months he’d lived in New York and how he’d hated it. She learned that although he was an award-winning photographer with several prestigious exhibitions behind him, he did not take himself too seriously. He made her laugh about his aging father and his father’s future bride. She loved listening to him. He was interesting, funny, self-deprecating and undeniably attractive.
“I haven’t done this in years,” she said, enjoying every decadent minute as she sipped the thick chocolate shake through a straw.
“Done what?”
“Pigged out.”
“How come?”
She hesitated for a moment. “My, uh, husband doesn’t frequent places like this.”
“Let me take a guess,” Jake said, peering at her intently. “Your husband is very rich and much older than you—correct?”
She nodded. Yes, Jake. They’re all older than me, and they’re all rich and lecherous and disgustingly kinky. “That’s right,” she murmured.
“You’re too beautiful to stay in an unhappy marriage,” he said, his brown eyes genuinely concerned. “You’re in a trap, you should get out while you can.”
“I know,” she said, thinking that marriage was a metaphor for the life she really led.
“Do you have a good lawyer?”
“The best,” she answered, summoning up a mental picture of suave Binden Masters, the man who represented all of Darlene’s girls.
“Then you should tell him you want out.”
“I . . . I plan to,” she said, studying his lips, wondering what it would be like to kiss him—a real kiss, not a paid-for performance.
He caught her looking and began asking more questions. She immediately became evasive, not wishing to tell him anything. After a while he realized he was being stonewalled and backed off, calling for the check.
“Come on,” he said, getting up. “I’d better take you back to your car. It’s been a tough day, and it’s rapidly catching up with me.”
A tough day? Choosing ties? What was his problem?
“Fine,” she murmured, pretending to be totally unconcerned. “I’m tired, too.”
This was unbelievable. He was in line to get something for free that she usually charged exorbitantly for, and he was tired! Or maybe he was meeting Bunny—whoever she might be.
Whatever. She didn’t care.
Next time she’d think twice before trying to experience life like a normal person.
chapter 12
THE RUNNING TRACK AT UCLA was not crowded. Madison was surprised; she’d expected it to be packed. But then, of course, it was quite early. She’d gotten there just before seven and began jogging in place because it was chilly. She looked around to see if she could spot Cole and his client. No sight of them yet.
Cole had suggested that she wear something hot, but she was not into luring Max with her supposed sex appeal—she was sure he had all the actresses and models he could handle. So she’d put on a warm tracksuit, stuffing her long black hair under a red baseball cap.
She was busy doing leg stretches when Cole and Max finally came into view. Cole was certainly an impressive-looking hunk of male flesh. Max Steele paled in comparison, although he was still attractive in a flashy, up-front Hollywood mogul way.
“Hey, Madison—” Cole said, waving at her. “What’re you doin’ here?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” she replied, trying not to shiver. “Jogging of course. You think us New Yorkers never get out on the track?”
“Didn’t realize you were into it,” Cole said, playing his part well.
“Oh, yes,” she lied. Truth was she wasn’t into physical activities at all, and had to force herself to go to the gym twice a week.
Max was busy checking her out. “Hello,” he said, extending his hand. “Max Steele.”
“You’re Max Steele?” Madison said, feigning surprise. “This is such a coincidence.”
“How’s that?”
“Max Steele of the International Artists Agency?”
“Unless there’s another Max Steele lurking around that I don’t know about.”
“I’m Madison Castelli. I write for Manhattan Style. I’m in L.A. to do a piece on your agency.” “Then how come I don’t know about you?” Max said, still checking her out and liking what he saw.
“Because I’m supposed to be meeting with Freddie Leon tomorrow. I was told that he was the man to talk to.”
“Oh, you were told that, were you?” Max said, obviously irritated. “Were you also told that Freddie and I happen to be partners?”
“I understand Freddie Leon runs the agency, but of course I’ve heard of you.”
“That’s nice,” Max said sarcastically. “Truth is you’ll be hearing a lot more about me.”
“I will?”
“Bet your pretty ass.” She frowned. He didn’t appear to notice. “Want to jog with us?” he asked.
“I’d love to.” Second lie of the day.
They started out slowly, Cole moving to the front while Madison stayed behind next to Max. “How did you get started in the agency business?” she asked.
He began to talk, telling her all about the mail room at William Morris, and how he and Freddie had made a daring escape and started I.A.A. together.
Within minutes she was out of breath. “You know what?” she gasped. “I h
aven’t done this in a while. Can we go somewhere for breakfast when you’re through?”
“I haven’t even seen your credentials,” Max said, squinting at her. “Maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you.”
“My credentials?” she said, pretending to be offended. “I write the Profile on Power piece every month. Call my editor if you want. Victor Simons. I’m sure he’ll be happy to fill you in.”
“I don’t have to,” Max said. “On account of the fact I’ve decided to trust you. But I would like to see some pieces you’ve written.”
“I’ll have New York E-mail you my interviews with Magic Johnson, John Kennedy, Jr., Henry Kissinger. Oh yes, and there’s an interesting piece I did with Castro when I visited Cuba.”
“Okay, okay, I’m impressed,” Max said, laughing. “You’re too attractive to be that serious.”
“And you’re too smart to come out with tired old lines.”
“Did you ever consider a modeling career?”
“Did you?”
He laughed again and turned to Cole. “How do you know this lady?”
“She went to college with my sister.”
“What do you say,” Madison interrupted. “Can we meet for breakfast when you’re through jogging?”
Max nodded, sliding a small cell phone from his jogging pants pocket. “Anna,” he said into the phone. “Cancel my nine-o’clock breakfast, and book me a table for two at the Peninsula.”
Madison grinned. “I guess that’s a yes.”
* * *
Breakfast with Max went well. He regaled her with stories of all the people he’d discovered whom he claimed he’d then made into enormous stars. Madison listened intently. It was difficult eliciting information about Freddie Leon because all Max really wanted to do was talk about himself and his achievements. She did manage to get some choice quotes; Max was hardly modest.
She knew she was not being up front with him regarding the interview, but she sensed that if he knew the piece was about Freddie Leon, he’d clam up. It was quite clear that Max’s only interest was himself.
On their way out he offered to supply her with photographs and also suggested that later in the week she should come up to his office and they’d continue their conversation.
“There’s something else,” he said, as they stood outside the hotel waiting for valet parking to bring their cars.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he said. “It’s strictly confidential, and completely off the record.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“In the next few weeks I’ll be making an announcement that’ll blow everyone away.”
“How interesting. If I promise not to write it until you give me a green light, can you tell me what it is?”
Max shuffled his feet—quite large in fashionable silver and gray Nikes—then he looked around as though someone might be listening over his shoulder. “I . . . I can’t say anything right now.”
“Well . . . you know where to reach me. And yes—I’d love to come by your office sometime.”
“When are you seeing Freddie?”
“It’s being set up right now.”
“You want me to put in a word for you?”
“That would be nice.”
“Only remember—you need a star for this piece, and baby, you’re lookin’ at him.”
“Right,” she murmured, not appreciating the “baby” one little bit.
“Good.” And he got into his shiny red Maserati and drove off.
chapter 13
“DUNNO WHAT YOU DID, BUT I gotta say it—you’re the freakin’ best!”
“Thanks, Sam,” Freddie replied, cursing his luck for running into the small-time personal manager in the parking area of his building. The very sight of the short, bearded man aggravated him. “Who are you here to see?”
“You, of course,” replied Sam, tugging on his graying beard as he followed Freddie to his private elevator.
“I wasn’t aware that we had an appointment,” Freddie said, knowing full well they didn’t.
“We don’t,” Sam said. “Took a chance you’d be free for a minute or two.”
“I have a very busy morning, Sam,” Freddie said, stepping into his elevator. “You’d best make an appointment with my assistant.”
“Who needs appointments?” Sam said, trailing him into the elevator. “I can say what I have to on the way up.”
No escape, Freddie thought sourly. “What’s on your mind, Sam?”
“It’s like this,” Sam announced, quite full of himself. “I’m here t’ do you a favor, but if you don’t have time to hear what I havta say . . .”
Freddie swallowed his annoyance. “Go ahead,” he said shortly.
“I’m givin’ you the lowdown,” Sam said, speaking out of the side of his mouth like a character in a Damon Runyon movie. “Max Steele’s plannin’ on takin’ a powder an’ sellin’ his share of I.A.A. to the highest bidder. This I got from someone real close to the source.”
Freddie had learned in life to always listen, never volunteer information. So instead of saying, “I already know,” he was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Tell me what you have.”
“Well,” Sam said, puffed up with his own importance. “Your partner’s been havin’ closed-door meetings with Billy Cornelius regarding Orpheus Studios. An’ from what my very reliable source tells me, Billy’s plannin’ on bringin’ in your Maxie boy as head of production, with an eye to him taking over the whole shebang when Billy dumps Ariel Shore.”
“Interesting,” Freddie said, his poker face giving nothing away.
“Word on the street is that these negotiations are C.I.A. secret,” Sam said, digging at his teeth with a dirty fingernail. “So I gotta say to myself I’d better alert Freddie—just in case he don’t know.”
Freddie gave Sam a long, cold look. “Do you think anything happens in this town that I’m not aware of? Do you honestly think that?”
Sam backed down. “Just makin’ sure,” he said, fidgeting nervously, because being in Freddie Leon’s company was enough to give anyone a case of the hives.
“I appreciate the information,” Freddie said evenly.
“An’ I ’preciate you gettin’ that bitch to sign her contract,” Sam grumbled. “What a cooze!”
Freddie froze him with a look. “Don’t ever call Lucinda names,” he said, as the elevator stopped at his private floor. “She’s your client, and you should show her nothing but respect. She’s made you a lot of money over the years. You’d be wise to remember that.”
“I . . . I kiss her goddamn ass,” the little man blustered, turning red in the face.
Freddie gave him another long, cold look, strode past Ria’s desk, entered his private office and slammed the door. Sam Lowski was the dregs; if he hadn’t latched on to Lucinda early in her career, he’d be nowhere now. As it was, without her as a client, he was less than nothing, and Freddie abhorred having to deal with scum. But his information was right on the money—confirming what Freddie already knew.
Ariel Shore was the studio head at Orpheus, and a good friend of Freddie’s. He’d observed her swift rise to power and enjoyed her success, because she was a smart woman and knew how to play the game better than most men. Like him she was a killer in business with a charming manner and plenty of style.
Billy Cornelius was another matter. Billy, a tall, red-faced, seventy-two-year-old billionaire, didn’t just own Orpheus, he owned a whole slew of entertainment companies and business corporations. A media king—he was also a son of a bitch who’d stab you in the back soon as look at you.
Over the last year Max Steele had formed an alliance with Billy. An unlikely duo, but Freddie had never complained, because having Billy Cornelius on the side of I.A.A. was a definite plus.
Ria buzzed him. “Your wife’s on the line.”
He picked up the phone. “Yes,” he said into the receiver.
“I was wondering,
” Diana said tentatively. “Would you like me to fax you the seating plan for tonight?”
Damn! He’d forgotten. They were having another one of Diana’s boring little dinner parties. “Who’s coming?” he said shortly.
“The people you approved last week,” Diana answered, sounding uptight. “Remember? We went over the list together.”
“Fax me the list and seating. I’ll check it.”
“I could do a good job if you’d let me,” Diana ventured.
“No, Diana, leave it to me,” he replied.
“Fine.” And she put the phone down hard.
Freddie sat behind his desk quietly for a moment, wondering why he was always so mean to his wife. He knew he treated her in a cold, uncaring fashion, and yet he couldn’t help himself. It was as if he resented the fact they were married. Poor Diana. In public she was the perfect wife—never let him down, was always by his side, well dressed, cultured. At home she was available in the bedroom whenever he was in the mood—which wasn’t often, because he’d lost interest in sex with his wife. They’d been married for over ten years, and there was no more of that sexual passion he’d felt in the first throes of their relationship. Also, she was the mother of his children; therefore, he could no longer regard her as a sexual object. Besides, sex drained a man’s energy, and he needed every ounce of energy for his work. Thank God she had her charity functions and the children to keep her busy.
He considered the fact that news of Max Steele’s upcoming defection was out on the street. If Sam Lowski knew, everybody must. Freddie decided the time had come to do something about it. Yes, he would deal with Max as only he knew how.
Ria knocked and entered his office carrying two faxes from Diana, which she handed to him. The guest list and the seating placement. He studied the guest list first. Max Steele was on it; he was bringing Inga Cruelle. Vaguely, Freddie remembered Max telling him about the gorgeous supermodel. “Most fuckable piece of ass you’ve ever seen” had been Max’s description. “We gotta put her in something.”