Lovers & Players

  ‘We finished, Jett, you and I. Finished. Sopra. Arrivederci.’

  Yeah, they were the words he wanted to hear, but he was the one supposed to be saying them, not Gianna.

  ‘I gotta explain what happened,’ he said, lighting up a much-needed cigarette.

  ‘No, Jett,’ Gianna said, folding an expensive embroidered skirt and placing it in one of her suitcases. ‘You made me look stupida in front of Sofia. Gianna no like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, inhaling deeply.

  ‘Too late, babee,’ she said, tossing back her long auburn hair. ‘Incredibile!’

  ‘I was with Max,’ he lied.

  ‘No,’ she said, eyes flashing dangerously. ‘I call Max, you no there. You possibly with some girl, and that’s non importa. But to–how you say?–stand me up. Oh no, no, no! You cannot do that to Gianna.’

  ‘So you’re leaving?’

  ‘Sì,’ she said abruptly, slamming shut the last of her suitcases.

  He didn’t know what to say. Gianna was leaving, and that was exactly what he wanted. So why did he feel at a loss, empty, as if she was abandoning him?

  Could it be because the only home he had was hers? The only place he’d been really settled and happy was Milan? The only career he had going was in Italy?

  Right now he was living in Sam’s apartment, he had no steady job, and Amy was shying away from making a commitment.

  Apparently he didn’t have much of anything. And Gianna was leaving. The beautiful, capricious, fun-loving, incredibly sexy Gianna.

  What would he do without her? How would he survive?

  Don’t panic, he thought. I’ll be fine. I’ll get hooked up with an agent in New York, rent an apartment, and eventually I’ll be with Amy.

  The downstairs buzzer rang.

  ‘My car,’ Gianna said, still icing him out. ‘Kindly tell driver to come up for my luggage.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he asked, shocked that she was walking out on him.

  ‘Sì, Jett,’ she answered, not even looking at him. ‘Gianna is leaving. And Gianna will not be coming back.’

  Chris had almost made it to the airport when he got the call on his cell. Red Diamond on the phone. His caring, loving father.

  ‘Where are you?’ Red demanded, as if they were in constant contact and he was entitled to know.

  ‘I’m on my way back to L.A.,’ Chris answered, surprised that his father had found him, although Red Diamond had always possessed a nose for tracking his prey.

  ‘You flew to New York to meet with me,’ Red pointed out, sounding calm for such a crotchety old bastard. ‘Now you’re leaving without doing so. Is that smart?’

  ‘I’m leaving because I have a business to take care of,’ Chris said. ‘And our meeting never worked out, did it?’

  ‘You ran out on me.’

  ‘I left you to be with Max. I’m sure you heard that his ex-wife was murdered in her apartment, or did you miss that piece of news?’

  ‘We have to reschedule,’ Red said, ignoring the reference to Mariska’s demise.

  ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back in New York,’ Chris said. ‘So you can forget it.’

  ‘Doesn’t suit me,’ Red replied. ‘Tomorrow. Ten a.m. My house.’

  ‘Didn’t I just tell you that I’m on my way to L.A.?’ Chris said, exasperated. ‘I’m five minutes away from the airport. There’s a plane waiting for me.’

  ‘Too bad,’ Red said abruptly.

  ‘Too bad what?’ Chris said, getting hooked in.

  ‘Too bad you can’t be there to listen to what I have to tell the three of you.’

  ‘What do you have to tell us, Dad, that we don’t already know?’ Chris said, getting ready to spill some of the venom he’d been holding in for so many years. ‘You want to tell us how useless we are? What a bunch of fuck-ups we turned out to be? How you always knew we’d never amount to anything? Is that what your meeting is all about?’

  ‘If you’re any kind of a businessman you’ll be there,’ Red said. ‘Especially if you’re interested in hearing the true story behind your mother’s unfortunate death.’

  And, without further ado, Red Diamond hung up.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Sonja did not leave Alex’s garish red apartment until noon on Wednesday. The night before he’d asked her to stay over, so she’d done so, interested in listening to his diatribe about Mariska Diamond née Paulina Kochinova. According to Alex, he’d met Paulina at a club when she’d first arrived in New York. He’d fallen in lust–followed by love. Paulina/Mariska had claimed she felt the same about him, but he was soon to learn that a Russian Mob guy was not good enough for Mariska. No. She wanted more, and before long she had her hooks into Maxwell Diamond, a real-estate tycoon with excellent social standing. While dating Max, she’d managed to string Alex along–seeing both men, sleeping with both men. Then one day, to Alex’s fury, marrying Max. After that, she would only meet with him sporadically, until the divorce, and then she’d come back into Alex’s life, claiming she’d always loved him and they belonged together. But only if they kept their affair a secret until she received the full pay-out on her divorce settlement. They started seeing each other again on a semi-regular basis, but not in public, unless it was at one of the Russian clubs Alex frequented. Then Mariska would arrive wearing a black wig and revert to her real name–Paulina.

  The sex between them was frantic–hot and dirty and frantic, the way they both liked it. After a while Mariska suggested she might be able to help him business-wise. She knew he dealt in stolen gemstones, and who better to broker them for him than a woman high up on the social scale?

  So they went into business together, and for a while it worked perfectly, until Mariska decided to screw him out of several important and valuable stones and a shitload of cash.

  ‘She found another rich man to take care of her. She didn’t need me anymore,’ Alex told Sonja, his mouth set in a grim line. ‘She told me she loved me, promised we would be together. Then she stole from me, the bitch stole from me, Alex Pinchinoff. She deserved to die.’

  Lying next to him in bed, Sonja had shivered, and wondered if it was Alex who’d murdered Mariska.

  She’d then decided it couldn’t be him, because Alex wouldn’t have stabbed her, he’d have suffocated her with his giant cock.

  After taking in his story, Sonja had sensed there was money to be made–major money. Mariska Diamond had been murdered, big society woman with many important connections–not the least being that she’d once been married to real-estate tycoon, Maxwell Diamond, whose father happened to be Red Diamond, the old billionaire whom she and Famka had spent the previous weekend fucking.

  And yet, according to Igor, Vladimir, and Alex Pinchinoff, Mariska Diamond had originally been Paulina Kuchinova–a one-time Moscow prostitute who’d been married to Vladimir–and they’d never been divorced! Now there was Alex’s story to add to the mix, although Sonja realized it would be fatal to name Alex.

  Sonja was smart enough to realize that the money-making possibilities were endless. Mariska Diamond’s murder was already headline news: what if people found out the real truth?

  The story was explosive, and she, little Sonja Sivarious, was sitting on it. But not for long: if she didn’t act fast, Vladimir, Igor or Alex might blow it.

  Once she got home, she considered her alternatives. Sell the story to a tabloid newspaper. Or…see if Max Diamond was prepared to pay even more to keep the scandal from rocking his uptight world. She remembered Max from his bachelor party, he was no pushover like his brother, Chris, or the insatiable, Viagra-popping, foul-mouthed Red.

  How much would Max Diamond be prepared to pay to keep the story out of the press? Enough for her to retire? Take the money and move somewhere far away–where the others, Vladimir, Igor and Alex, couldn’t find her? Because eventually they’d catch on that there was money to be made. And by that time it would be too late, she would’ve already scored.


  Hmm…It was all about timing and speed. She had to move quickly before it was too late. Before Vladimir sprang forward as Mariska’s legal husband so that he could claim her estate. Before Alex realized he was sitting on a hot story about his illicit love affair with the big society woman. Before Igor screwed everything up–as usual.

  By Wednesday afternoon she’d made her decision. She would go to Red Diamond before anyone else. She’d tell him what she knew and the price for her silence. Red would definitely want to protect his family’s name and his little granddaughter, whom she’d seen pictured all over the newspapers. The advantage was that she knew how to contact Red directly–she’d jotted down his cell number when she and Famka had spent the weekend in his apartment.

  And if he didn’t want to pay, too bad–she’d go straight to one of the tabloid newspapers.

  No problem. They would be happy to pay for a story as juicy as this.

  ‘Hi,’ Chris said, into his cell. ‘Sorry, Birdy, I can’t make it, you’d better take off without me.’ He’d already instructed his driver to turn the car round and head back to the city.

  ‘Bummer!’ Birdy squealed. ‘I get off bein’ with you, Chris. You’re like my totally fave older man.’

  Older man? He was thirty-two, for Crissakes. Since when was thirty-two considered ‘older’?

  ‘It’s business, Birdy,’ he explained. ‘I’ll see you in Vegas. Oh, yes, and there’ll be papers coming over to you for Rocky to sign. Make sure he does, or there’ll be no wedding.’

  ‘You’re missing out, Chris,’ Birdy cooed. ‘I’ve got two hotties on the plane with me, and one of them totally gets off on—’

  ‘What?’ he interrupted. ‘Old farts?’

  ‘No, silly.’ She giggled. ‘Lawyers.’

  Yeah, that was all he needed to do, hook up with one of Birdy’s manic teenage sex-crazed girlfriends.

  ‘Guess she’ll have to wait until Vegas,’ he said, thinking about his manipulative father and what he’d like to do to him.

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ Birdy promised. ‘But she’s gonna be veree disappointed.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll live.’

  Much as he’d felt the urge to get back to L.A., there was another, stronger urge pulling him towards Manhattan and a father he couldn’t stand. A father who’d said, Especially if you’re interested in hearing the true story behind your mother’s unfortunate death.

  Yes. He was desperate to hear the true story. There’d always been a lack of information about his mother’s plane crash, just as there was a lack of information about the demise of Max’s mother from a so-called heart-attack in her twenties.

  Could it be that Red had somehow orchestrated the two women’s deaths?

  No. Not even Red Diamond would be capable of such evil.

  Or would he?

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ Diahann said, standing uncomfortably in the doorway of Lady Jane Bentley’s room.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Lady Bentley said, waving an arm imperiously in the air. ‘Come in. Close the door behind you.’

  Diahann did as the woman requested. She had heard the arguments between Lady Bentley and Red Diamond. She had witnessed him screaming venom at the woman, telling her to get out. Everyone on the staff had hoped that this was it, the end of Lady Bentley and her unreasonable demands.

  But no, days later she was still in residence, firmly ensconced in her tastefully decorated bedroom. She had not even begun to pack.

  ‘How can I help you, Lady Bentley?’ Diahann asked, determined to remain calm in the face of anything this bigoted, loathsome woman had to say.

  Lady Bentley gave her a long, appraising look. ‘How old are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘How old are you?’ Lady Bentley repeated. ‘It’s not such a difficult question, is it?’

  Diahann thought about telling the woman it was none of her damn business and fleeing the room. After all, what could Lady Bentley do to her? She certainly couldn’t fire her: Diahann was under Red Diamond’s employ, and he would never let her go.

  But something made her stay and answer the question, she wasn’t sure why.

  ‘Thirty-eight,’ she said at last, dying to add, ‘Younger than you,’ but she controlled the impulse.

  ‘Thirty-eight,’ Lady Bentley repeated. ‘And how long have you worked here?’

  ‘Almost ten years.’

  ‘So you were quite a young woman when you decided to give up your singing career–such as it was–and come to work for Mr Diamond or Red, as I’m sure you called him in the early days when you were sleeping with him.’

  Diahann felt a moment of sheer panic. No one knew about her dealings with Red Diamond, dealings that had started long before she became his housekeeper. It was a private matter between them, and they both had their reasons to make sure it stayed that way.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Diahann said, keeping her voice neutral.

  ‘I bet you do–beg my pardon,’ Lady Bentley sneered, a vindictive gleam in her eyes. ‘All these years I imagined Red was out whoring around, but now I discover he had his own black whore, right here, stashed downstairs for his convenience whenever he wished to avail himself of her services.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Diahann said, knowing she had to get out of this woman’s room as fast as possible.

  ‘Please, spare me the innocent act,’ Lady Bentley said. ‘I know everything. Everything.’ A long, silent beat. ‘Do you understand me?’

  ‘I understand that we shouldn’t be having this conversation,’ Diahann muttered. ‘Mr Diamond wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t he?’ Lady Bentley said bitterly. ‘Too damn bad.’

  Diahann turned to leave the room.

  ‘I know your secret,’ Lady Bentley taunted. ‘I know your dirty little secret. So, if you’re wise, I suggest you encourage Red to give me everything my lawyer has requested, and maybe–just maybe–your secret will stay safe with me.’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Huh?’ Jett mumbled, cradling the phone. He was sitting in Sam’s apartment trying to come to grips with the fact that Gianna had walked out on him. This was a first, and even though it saved him the trouble, he was not sure he liked it.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he managed.

  ‘Chris. Who did you think it was?’

  ‘Uh

  ‘What’s up with you? Have you been drinking?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘You sound fucked up.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Then where have you been?’ Chris repeated. ‘I’ve left messages. Don’t you return calls?’

  ‘My phone’s on vibrate.’

  ‘Great. Well, check your messages. There’s probably one from Red.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘’Cause he’s summoning us to another meeting. Wants us all there at ten tomorrow, his house.’

  ‘Are we going?’

  ‘You bet your ass we’re going. I just blew out a flight back to L.A. so I can be there.’

  ‘What makes you think he will?’ Jett asked. ‘He’s freakin’ king of the jack-offs. You saw him the other day walking in with those two hookers.’

  ‘He’ll be there,’ Chris said. ‘He’s got something on his mind that he needs us to hear.’

  ‘Who gives a shit?’ Jett muttered.

  ‘Have you called Max?’

  ‘Max,’ Jett said blankly. ‘Why would I call him?’

  ‘Jesus!’ Chris exclaimed, suddenly realizing what was going on. ‘You’re seeing Amy, aren’t you?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘’Cause you’re the jack-off,’ Chris said furiously. ‘How can you do this to Max? Especially now.’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ Jett mumbled.

  ‘Fuck you, Jett. Grow up. She’s taken, so stay away.’

  ‘What if I can’t?’

  ‘Force yourself, little bro’, force yourself.’

  ‘I’m
trying.’

  ‘No. You’re not.’

  ‘You don’t—’

  ‘I’m on my way back to town,’ Chris interrupted. ‘Dinner tonight. My hotel at seven.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can make it.’

  ‘Be there,’ Chris said. ‘We’ll get into it then.’

  Unnerved by her meeting with Lady Bentley, Diahann hurried downstairs to her apartment and tried calling Liberty in L.A. There was no answer from her daughter’s hotel room.

  This was all no unsettling and unexpected. Nobody knew about her connection to Red Diamond. Nobody. And certainly not Liberty.

  How had Lady Bentley found out? And what proof did she have–if any?

  Lady Bentley was claiming she knew things that nobody except she and Red were privy to.

  This wasn’t possible.

  And yet…

  Money persuaded Irena to talk. One thing old Red Diamond had taught his eldest son was the power of money. Max had always used that lesson to great advantage.

  Trying not to stare at the flashing diamond ring on the old woman’s pinky, he began his line of questioning–quietly at first.

  ‘Was Mariska your daughter?’

  Irena vigorously shook her head.

  ‘It’s okay if she was, Irena,’ he said, standing in the middle of the room, because sitting didn’t seem to be an option, considering there was only the unmade bed and a rickety old chair. ‘Nobody will do anything to you.’

  ‘I must not talk,’ Irena stated, mantra-style.

  ‘Talk about what?’ he pressed.

  ‘Paulina say talking not good,’ Irena muttered. ‘Police. Immigration. She tell me stay quiet.’

  ‘Paulina is dead.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Irena wailed, her face crumpling, words tumbling from her mouth. ‘My baby is dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Max said.

  ‘America,’ Irena mumbled, as if that explained everything.

  ‘America?’

  ‘In Russia this not happen.’

  Apparently she’d never read a Russian newspaper where reports of violent crimes were rampant.