Lethal Seduction (12 page)

“Asleep,” she said coldly, turning her back on him. “You don't mind if I sleep, do you?”

“What?” he said, unused to her sarcasm.

“I see you three times a year, and this time you take me out to brunch and inform me that my mother isn't my mother. That someone called Gloria
is.
Well, excuse me,
Dad,
but I'm confused and upset, so I took a sleeping pill and zoned out. Do you mind?”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sick about this. I never thought it would happen.”

“What were you hoping, Michael?” she said coldly. “That I
wouldn't
find out? That one day you and Stella would drop dead, and I'd say, ‘Isn't it sad, my parents have died,' and I'd
never
know the truth. Was that your plan?” She stared at him, full of hurt and frustration. “I'm going to be thirty in a few weeks. I mean, I don't get it.
When
were you going to tell me? When I hit forty? Fifty?”

He shook his head. “I didn't think it was necessary for you to know,” he muttered.

“You should have told me when I was like seven or eight,”
she said accusingly. “I could have accepted it then and gotten on with my life.”

He nodded. “You're right.”

“Do you have any idea how cold Stella has always been to me?” she said, her anger bubbling to the surface. “She never cuddled me; we never did the things girls were supposed to do with their mothers. Why do you think I couldn't have cared less when you didn't want me to live at home after college? I was
happy
to have my own apartment. Thrilled to get out.”

“You never told me.”

“What was I going to say? I can't stand my own mother. She's a cold bitch. She might be beautiful and everybody loves her, but I . . . don't . . . like . . . her.”

“How many times do you expect me to say I'm sorry?”

“Hey, listen—
I'm
sorry for
you,”
she said, her voice rising. “It blew up in your face, didn't it?”

In some sick way it was quite satisfying to watch him squirm, Michael, who was always in control. Michael, the perfect father, or so she'd thought.

“I'm making coffee,” she said abruptly. “You want a cup?”

He nodded.

She marched into the kitchen and put on the coffee. Then she grabbed Slammer's leash and headed for the door. “I'll be back,” she said shortly. “While I'm out I'd appreciate you taking a look at the pad on the table. You'll find a list of questions. I expect an answer to all of them. And don't bullshit me, Michael, because it's about time I knew everything.”

D
EXTER WAS ALREADY OUT JOGGING
when Rosarita awoke. She lay in bed stretching, a half smile on her face. Way to go, Dex! He'd pumped her so hard last night that for at least fifteen minutes, she'd forgotten all about Joel. She hadn't known Dex to be like this since their honeymoon in the Bahamas—which Chas had paid for. Maybe having his parents in close proximity made him horny.

The trouble with Dex was that he didn't have any moves. He knew how to pump it, and that was about all. He had no clue how to kiss, never gave head, didn't seem to enjoy it when
she
obliged
him,
and his imagination never ventured beyond “you lie there and I'll give it to you good.”

But still . . . sometimes a fuck was a fuck was a fuck. And she had to admit that he was quite a hunk of a man with his handsome face, broad shoulders and powerful physique.

She wondered if Matt and Martha had heard them going at it last night, she'd been screaming pretty loud. Her cries of delight had probably given Matt a thrill. Martha no doubt slept with earplugs firmly stuffed in her suburban pink ears.

Oh, well, time to get up. Since Conchita didn't come in on Sundays, she hoped that Dex or his mom had put on the coffee.
And maybe, if she smiled sweetly, Martha would fix her a plate of bacon and eggs.

Martha was in the living room, leafing through a copy of
Cosmopolitan.
“Have a nice sleep, did you, dear?” she asked, putting the magazine down.

“Mmm . . .” Rosarita said, stretching. “Where's Matt?”

“The boys have gone out jogging together,” Martha said. “It's so nice to see Dick . . . I mean Dex,” she said, quickly correcting herself, “with his daddy. When Dex was a little boy, Matt used to take him everywhere.”

“Really?” Rosarita said, bored already. “Did anybody put on the coffee?”

“Shall
I
do it, dear?” Martha suggested, eager to please.

“Would you?” Rosarita said, as if it had only just occurred to her. “I was hoping I'd have time for a shower.”

“Yes, certainly,” Martha said, obliging as ever.

“There's eggs and stuff in the fridge if you want to fix something for when the boys come back. I'm sure they'll be hungry.”

“What a good idea,” Martha said, beaming. “You don't mind if I use your kitchen?”

“Feel free. The orange-juice squeezer is on the side counter, and there's plenty of bread in the bin.”

“I'll get everything ready,” Martha said. “Then the four of us can sit down and have a nice breakfast together.”

“Sounds good to me,” Rosarita said, hurrying back into her bedroom and closing the door. On impulse she picked up the phone and dialed Joel's private number. His answering machine picked up. Damn! He was probably still asleep.

She wondered if Honeysnatch, or whatever his girlfriend's name was, had noticed the mark on his neck. She tried to picture the scene.

Joel, how did you get that?

Got no clue, babe.

Joel, have you been seeing somebody else?

No way, babe.

I don't believe you. I'm leaving.

Rosarita laughed to herself. Then she phoned Chas. “You awake, Daddy?” she asked sweetly.

“What is it now?” Chas said suspiciously.

“I want to thank you for dinner last night. It was so kind of you to have Dex and his parents over.”

“Don't mention it,” Chas said, wary of where she was going with this niceness shit that was so unlike her.

“Venice looked a little peaky.”

“Ya think?”

“Eddie doesn't look too good either. Of course,” she mused, “he was never the most attractive guy in the world.”

“Gotta feelin' they need a vacation,” Chas said, purposely annoying her. “Think I'll send 'em to Hawaii with the kids.”

“You mean you'll pay?” Rosarita said, quite put out.

“Why not? They're my grandkids, for crissakes.”

She quickly changed the subject in the hope that he'd forget about Hawaii. “Who was that woman with you last night?” she asked, her tone indicating her disapproval.

“None a ya business,” Chas growled.

“Daddy,” she said, reverting to the concerned-daughter-looking-out-for-her-father's-welfare role. “You shouldn't be with a woman who is so . . . you know, kind of cheap.”

“Whaddya mean, cheap?” he snapped. “The broad's expensive. I gotta buy her presents all the time.”

“Oh, Daddy, you're impossible.”

“An' you're not?”

“Ever since I was a little girl you've dated unsuitable women. Always the same type—big and brassy-looking. What do you
see
in them?”

“I ain't in the fuckin' mood for your crap this morning,” Chas said. “So quit with the criticism.”

“I'm merely calling to thank you for dinner.”

“Huh! I'll talk to you later,” he said, putting down the phone.

Rosarita was sure his bad humor was Venice's influence. Every time he saw that stupid sister of hers it put him in a miserable mood.

Rosarita had often tried to figure out what it was about Venice that irritated her so much. Was it that her sister had never had any plastic surgery and still looked good? Was it that Venice was a year younger than her and had managed to have two children already? Or was it that Eddie never looked at other women? His eyes hadn't even strayed toward that big-boobed freak last night, whereas she'd noticed Dex sneak a peek or two—not to mention Matt, sitting there with drool on his face. At least that proved Dex had red blood coursing through his veins, which is more than she could say for Eddie—who was definitely a pussy-whipped wimp.

“I hate 'em all,” she muttered.

Then just for fun she tried Joel's number one more time.

•

“Did you do the dirty deed, son?” Matt asked with a ribald wink, as they jogged side by side through Central Park.

“Dad!” Dexter said. “You shouldn't ask me things like that. It's too personal.”

“What's too personal? That you did it? Or that you
didn't
do it?”

“Rosarita is my
wife.”

“I know, son—I know. And I heard the screaming last night to prove it.”

Dexter turned his head away, staring out across the trees. He loved his dad, but sometimes Matt was too intrusive with his constant questions. There were certain things in life that were private, and although he'd revealed that Rosarita didn't want to have children, and Matt had advised him to play the diaphragm trick on her, he certainly wasn't about to discuss whether they had had sex or not.

“When your mother was young—” Matt began.

Dexter held up his hand. “Don't want to hear it, Dad,” he interrupted.

“Why not?” Matt said, quite put out. “It's nothing dirty.”

“Some things should be private between you and Mom.”

“Why's that, son?”

“Because . . . they just
should,”
Dexter said, exasperated.

“Talking's good,” Matt said. “Getting everything out of your system.”

“For some people.”

“Did you punch holes in her diaphragm like I told you?”

“Dad!” Dexter said warningly. “Leave it alone.”

“I'd enjoy being a grandfather before I'm too old,” Matt grumbled.

“Tell Rosarita, not me.”

A pretty girl jogged by, her small breasts bouncing up and down in a tight tank top. Matt actually stopped jogging and turned his head to ogle her.

“Jesus!” Dexter said. “When do
your
hormones stop?”

“Viagra,” Matt boasted with a self-satisfied smirk. “Works like a dream. I take it every night. Only trouble is, your mother's not thrilled. She never really—”

“Please!” Dexter said. “Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it.”

“Nice rack on that one,” Matt said, still watching the girl as she ran out of sight.

Dexter reminded himself to bring earplugs the next time he went jogging with his dad.

•

Back at the house, Martha had put together a virtual feast. She'd fixed sausages, bacon, grilled tomatoes, scrambled eggs and a stack of French toast. The coffee bubbled in the pot, and a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice stood on the table.

“I can see that Rosarita hasn't been in the kitchen,” Dexter said, giving his mother a hug and a kiss.

“What a kitchen to cook in!” Martha exclaimed, her cheeks flushed.

“Where is Rosarita?” Dexter asked.

“Taking a shower.”

He entered the bedroom and found his wife relaxing on the
bed, wrapped in a silk Chinese robe and reading
Women's Wear Daily.
“Hi, honey,” she said, barely glancing up.

“I see you conned my mom into fixing everyone breakfast,” he said, stripping off his jogging clothes.

“She insisted,” Rosarita replied.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, standing before her, naked. “I'll take a fast shower and meet you in the kitchen.”

“How about I meet you in the shower instead?” she suggested, unable to resist his fine physique. Not to mention his perfect cock.

Why not?
he thought.
If I want to get her pregnant, I'd better be prepared to go at it as many times as it takes.

“Okay,” he said, surprising her. “But we'd better be quick—my mother has everything ready.”

“I'm sure Mommy will wait for her baby boy,” Rosarita teased, jumping off the bed. “And talking of baby boys . . .” Quick as a flash she cupped his balls in the palm of her hand.

“I'm all sweaty,” he said, backing off.

“Sometimes I like you sweaty,” she said, coming after him.

“I
don't,” he said, pushing her away.

She sighed. It was tough teaching him anything. And the truth was—why bother? He wouldn't be around that long.

“Let's shower,” she said. “I'll show you a trick with the shower head that'll blow your sweaty balls all the way to heaven and back!”

S
OMEHOW
M
ADISON GOT THROUGH
S
UNDAY
. After her long walk she returned to her apartment to find that Michael had not answered any of her written questions.

“I can't deal with this writing shit,” he said. “Ask me anything you want.”

So she did, and hated sitting next to him, listening to him trying to explain. He rambled on about how special Gloria was, how he'd definitely find pictures for her to see. But when it came to revealing details about why Gloria had been shot, he immediately began fudging. “It was a small gambling debt,” he said, stony faced. “That's all.”

“They killed my mother over a small gambling debt?” she said, staring at him in disbelief.

He nodded a yes and refused to look her in the eye.

“It must have been bigger than you thought,” she said, studying him carefully.

“Who remembers? It was a long time ago.”

“Jesus, Michael,” she said, her voice rising. “You're not giving me much information. Aren't I
entitled
to know?”