Deadly Embrace (27 page)

"No, it's not my birthday. You'll see," he said, filling her
glass. "You can have champagne once in a while, can't you?"

"I suppose so."

He sat down opposite her and clinked glasses. 'You know, Dani, for
someone so beautiful and, I thought, sophisticated, you're really
just a homebody at heart, aren't you?"

"What made you think
I
was sophisticated?"

"You're one of the leads in a top Vegas show. Onstage you come
across as so statuesque and glamorous." He looked at her quizzically.
"That's not you at all, is it?"

"No, Dean, it's not," she said, dazzling him with her smile.
"Gemini's the sophisticated one. I'm just a mommy."

"Which makes you a very lucky woman indeed."

"Why?"

"To have given birth to a child at such a young age.... I've never
found a woman I want to be with." He gave her a meaningful look.
"Until now."

She knew what was coming, hence the romantic setting. And much as
she liked him, she dreaded allowing him to get any closer.

"I've ordered all your favorite foods," he said. "Caviar to start,
lobster, and then a chocolate souffle—the chefs specialty."

"Those are not my favorite foods," she said, toying with her
glass.

"They will be after tonight."

"I've never tasted caviar."

"Then this will be a first, won't it?"

Over dinner she brought up the subject of hiring a lawyer.

Dean listened to her carefully. "Are you divorced yet?" he
asked.

"No."

He leaned forward, watching her carefully. "Do you want to
be?"

"Yes."

"Unfortunately, your ex will have some visitation rights."

"He will?"

"Of course. He's Vincent's father."

She hesitated for a moment. "What if he isn't?" she ventured.

"Excuse me?" Dean said, looking puzzled.

Should she tell him her whole sorry story?

Why not? She had nothing to lose.

"Dean," she began. "I've only ever told one other person this, and
that was Gemini."

"What is it?" he asked, anxious to hear what she had to say.

"Here goes," she said, taking a long, deep breath. "Sam is
not
Vincent's father."

"He's not?"

"No." And then she proceeded to tell him everything.

"So," he said when she'd finished, "
I
could be the father
figure Vincent never had."

"He
already
thinks you're the best."

"Yes?"

"That's because you spoil him."

"I know. He loves it, and so do I. He's a great little kid."

"All those toys," she scolded. "What were you—a deprived
child?"

"Not at all. I simply enjoy giving."

"That's nice."

"Now," he said slowly, "rather than waiting for the souffle, I
have something to ask you."

"You do?"

"Dani," he said, fumbling in his pocket and producing a Carrier
ring box, "will you do me the honor of marrying me?"

He popped the box open, and she found herself gazing at a
magnificent emerald-cut diamond solitaire ring.

She'd suspected it was coming, and yet it was still a surprise.
After all, she'd done no more than kiss this man good night, and now
he was asking her to marry him.

"I can give you the life you've always dreamed of," he continued,
taking the ring out of its box and offering it to her. "And not only
you—Vincent too. He'll attend the best schools, the finest
college. He can do whatever he wants. He can become a lawyer, a
scientist, a football star, whatever.

"I... I'll have to think about it," she murmured, holding the
ring.

Yes, I'll have to think about it, because my sex drive is in
neutral—and I'm not sure I ever want to be with another
man
.

"What is there to think about?" he said, looking perplexed. "Put
the ring on, see if it fits. Let's get engaged at least."

"You have to give me time, Dean," she said, handing him back the
ring. "I'm not even divorced yet."

"I'll get you the best divorce lawyer in town."

She lowered her eyes. "Please know that I'm very flattered you've
asked me."

"Is that a no?"

"It's a maybe."

He smiled. "I can live with that."

"I hope so," she said softly; "because that's the way it has to
be."

"For now?" he said, taking her hand in his.

"Yes, Dean, for now."

"Get the damn van
here
!" Madison yelled into the phone.
"Stop screwing around. We're in a life-and-death situation. Two
people are dead. Can you understand that? They've
killed
two
people. Get it here
now
! Or believe me, you'll be damn sorry.
I'm a journalist, and I can promise you that I'll make sure your
screwups will appear on the front page of every newspaper in America.
Now do it!"

"Hey, baby," one of the gunmen said, loping over and staring at
her admiringly, "you got stones."

The ringleader shot him a warning look. But the gunman, who'd
followed his leader and also removed his ski mask, was not to be
stopped. "Smokin' body, too," he said, rubbing his crotch in a
suggestive manner. "This shit's makin' me horny."

"You're not here t' get laid," yelled the ringleader. "You're here
to get the fuckin' money. Now look in the sack, see what we
scored."

"We did good," said the third bandit, the one who'd been
collecting the loot in the black plastic garbage bag. "There's a
coupla Rolexes, eight cell phones, jewelry, an' plenty of—"

"We gotta get the fuck outta here before they hang our asses," the
ringleader interrupted.

"They don't hang people anymore," Madison said, brushing a stray
lock of hair out of her eyes. "They fry them in the electric chair,
and that's where you'll all end up if you shoot anyone else."

"You think I give a shit?" he said. "We could waste all you
mothafuckers now, an' it wouldn't make no difference t' me."

Madison realized they
didn't
care. This was just another
day on the job to them, and if people got killed—too bad.

"Is this some kind of gang initiation?" she asked, noting that
they were all young, white, and stoned. "Because if it is—you'd
be better off hitting a bank."

"You dumb rich people make me laugh," he sneered. "Why bust a bank
when you're all sittin' here with your rings an' your bracelets an'
all your fuckin' shit?"

"Have you done this before?" she asked, ignoring Cole, who was
over in the corner with the other hostages, silently signaling her to
shut up.

"It's so fuckin' easy," the ringleader boasted. "Walk in, zoom a
few bullets in the ceilin', everybody on the floor, grab whatever
they got—an' take off. If it wasn't for that mothafucker
cocksucker pullin' a gun, we'd be gone."

"Well, you're not," she pointed out.

"So who'm I gonna take out next?" he said, his stoned eyes boring
into hers. "
You
?"

She refused to allow him to intimidate her. "The van's on its
way," she said, keeping her voice strong and steady.

"You better be right."

"I am," she answered confidently.

"What shit you write anyway?" he said, leaning across the bar and
helping himself to a pack of Lucky Strikes.

"I write for a magazine," she said.

"What kinda crap magazine?" he asked suspiciously, rubbing his
ear, which she noticed had three studs in it.

Cancel out any kind of neo-Nazi group—these kids were
operating on their own time, which made this situation all the more
alarming.

"
Manhattan Style
," she said, looking him right in the eye.
"Can I get a cigarette?"

"You got big balls, lady," he said, but he handed her a cigarette
anyway.

She felt that was a step forward. "You should tell me your story,"
she said, appealing to his ego. "If I were to write about you, people
will be interested to hear why you do this."

"It's pretty simple," he said, tossing her a packet of book
matches. "I wanna get the shit I see on TV— the fuckin' car,
the Rolex, the house, an' the fuckin' vacation in Hawaii."

She studied his face—long, thin, and pale, with pointed
features. "Are you American?"

"What the fuck you askin'? 'Course I am."

"Where are your parents from?"

"You a shrink too, like I seen on
The Sopranos
?"

Hmm ... so he lived in a house or apartment that had cable.
Probably with his parents, who had no clue what he did when they
weren't watching.

"My guess is your parents are Russian or Polish," she said,
lighting her cigarette even though she'd given up smoking.

"Russian,
bitch
. That make you happy?"

"Why ya talkin' t' this ho?" the second gunman said, coming over
again. "This ho is tryin' t' suck you in so's you'll let 'em all
go."

"You think that's what she's doin'?"

"Yeah," said gunman number two. He had mean eyes, and the tattoo
of a black snake halfway up the side of his neck.

All the better to identify you
, Madison thought.
That's
if we ever escape from this nightmare
.

"Get over there with your old man," the ringleader growled,
snatching the cigarette from her hand. "How come you married a black
dude anyway?"

"This is America," she said. "In America there's a freedom you
don't have in your mother country."

"Don't gimme that mother country
shit
," he said, getting
agitated. "I'm an American, came here when I was five."

"Which means you're Russian by birth."

"I'm no fuckin' Russian," he yelled, flushed with anger. "I got
nothin' to do with that Bolshe shit my mom carries on about. I'm an
American, and
this
, lady, is the American way. If you ain't
got it—take it. Fuckin' works for me."

Finally
she was getting through.

* * *

Jenna did not know which would be the most effective ploy to soften
Vincent up. Should she cry and sob? Beg forgiveness? Or should she be
cold and nasty?

Since he wasn't talking to her anyway, it didn't matter.

They stood side by side in the elevator, traveling up to their
penthouse apartment. They lived at the top of the hotel in an
apartment she hated. When she'd married Vincent she'd imagined they
would live in a magnificent house in a guarded and gated community
like Jolie and Nando. But no, they had to live at the top of the
hotel, where he could keep an eye on her at all times.

What had she done that was so terrible? She'd sat in a Jacuzzi
with a movie star. Other people would think that was a sensational
coup!

She wished she could've had her picture taken with Andy Dale. If
Vincent wasn't such a pain in the neck, she could have gotten out her
disposable camera and asked him to take a few shots.

She couldn't wait to call her girlfriends and tell them that she'd
spent half the night in a Jacuzzi with Andy Dale—star of all
their favorite movies. They would be sick with jealousy.

Damn Vincent. He'd spoiled it. He always spoiled everything.

They entered their apartment in silence.

"Vincent," she began, determined to have her say.

"I don't want to talk to you tonight," he said, dismissing her
coldly. "Go to bed. We'll speak tomorrow."

"You're not my daddy," she said heatedly. "Sometimes you talk to
me as if you are."

"Act like a child and get treated like one," he said. "How would
you
react if you found me in a Jacuzzi with Cameron Diaz or
Catherine Zeta-Jones?"

"You don't even know them," she said scornfully.

"I could arrange to meet them tomorrow.
Then
how would
you
feel?"

"You're just jealous," she said, pouting.

"It's not a question of my being jealous, Jenna. It's a question
of respect. This is
my
hotel, and when people see
my
wife acting the way you did tonight, it's not proper behavior."

"You're so old-fashioned," she said, continuing to pout "Anyone
else would be thrilled to have a movie star in their hotel. And I'm
sure they'd be even more thrilled if their wife entertained
them."

"And I suppose your idea of entertaining includes
screwing
the jerk?"

"Vincent! You are so crude! I was not screwing
anyone
."

"You were sitting in a Jacuzzi with your tits out. That's
not
crude?"

"I'd look pretty foolish sitting in a Jacuzzi with my clothes
on
, wouldn't I?" she retaliated. "And anyway, in the south of
France
everyone
goes topless. They're not ashamed of their
bodies."

"I hate to remind you, Jenna, but we are
not
in the south
of France."

"Well, when we were there on our honeymoon," she said sulkily,
"
all
the girls was topless. You didn't seem to have any
objections then."

This conversation was getting him nowhere. Right now he wanted her
out of his sight, he couldn't stand to look at her. He should've
listened to his mother and married a smart woman, not this dimwitted
bimbo.

"I told you," he said, "I do not wish to talk about it tonight. Go
to bed."

She flounced into the bedroom.

He walked over to the window and gazed out at the sea of lights.
Here he was, in a penthouse at the top of
his
hotel, and
instead of enjoying everything he'd achieved, he was seething with
anger.

It was Nando's fault. Nando encouraged movie people to hang out at
their hotel, claiming it was good for business. What Nando failed to
understand was that good business meant attracting big time gamblers,
high rollers who were prepared to lose a fortune. Movie stars were
nothing. You couldn't even give them markers without them
welshing.

He walked back into the living room, picked up the remote, and
clicked on the TV just in time for the news. Another car chase.
Another murder. Another holdup in California—thirty people
locked in a restaurant with armed gunmen in Beverly Hills.