Lethal Seduction (22 page)

“Fuck you!” she yelled in frustration, because he simply didn't get it. “You're no help. You're forcing me to deal with this myself. And I will. That's a goddamn promise!”

And before he could come up with a suitable answer, she slammed her way out of his house.

•

Joel waited for Varoomba to call him and keep their appointment. She didn't, which pissed him off because he'd had it all planned. He was going to have her dance for him on his desk—giving them a show across the street the likes of which they'd never seen. He was bored with Rosarita; he needed a new distraction, and Varoomba was it.

After a few days he contacted the manager at the Boom Boom Club, who informed him he had no idea where Varoomba had gone.

Jewel buzzed him at his desk. “That woman's been on the phone again, the one with the Mexican name,” she said. “What'll I tell her?”

“That I'm out,” he said shortly.
“Permanently
out to her.”

“Sure,” Jewel said, used to the way he treated women. They came. They went. They lasted a few weeks, then it was bye-bye and on to the next.

She was well aware of what went on in his office, but it didn't bother her, as long as
he
didn't bother her. And he never did, because as far as she could tell, Joel Blaine sat in his office all day jerking off, which suited her fine. No E-mails, no faxes, no filing. Joel didn't know what work was. Besides, everyone knew
that his daddy was the man with the power—Leon Blaine controlled everything. Poor old Joel was lucky if he got him on the phone once a week.

•

Meanwhile, Dexter was doing his best to avoid all contact with Silver Anderson. This was not easy since they were working side by side and sometimes had scenes to perform together.

The day after their show was officially canceled, Silver had finally cornered him. “You've been staying out of my way, you bad boy,” she'd scolded, wagging a beringed finger at him.

“N . . . not true,” he'd stammered.

“Yes, you have,” she'd admonished. “And I know why. It's because you are uneasy about putting me in a compromising position.” A pause. A smile. “Actually, I think that's very gentlemanly.”

He wasn't sure what she meant, but went along with it anyway. “You're right, Silver,” he'd said. “I'd never want to see you hurt. And as you know, I
am
a married man.”

“I understand, darling, and it makes no difference to me, because I have absolutely
no
desire to steal you away from your wife.” A naughty giggle. “All I did was suck your cock. No need for a meltdown.”

Dexter was shocked. How could a woman of her age and dignity talk in such a base fashion? If it meant he never had to see her again, then he was relieved the show was canceled.

He'd called his agent two days previously. The man had failed to get back to him, which was not a good sign. But Dexter had confidence; he
knew
that something else would come along. He was quite sure he was destined to be far more than one of the leads of a canceled soap.

Yes, there were big things waiting for him, and when they came, he'd be ready to seize the opportunities.

Dexter Falcon was prepared for bigger and better.

M
ADISON HAD LIVED
with the news for a week, one long, nightmare week. She'd holed up in her apartment, not speaking to anyone, becoming a recluse, even turning the sound down on her answering machine so she wouldn't have to listen to anyone's pleas to return their calls.

Kimm's information had shaken her to the very core. If she'd thought she was upset before, it was nothing to how she felt now.

Kimm had left behind a briefcase of documentation—old newspaper clippings, magazine articles, some videotape of the trial. For several days Madison had refused to go near it, but finally she'd given in and opened it, devouring everything it contained.

She'd soon found out that Kimm was not lying. Michael
had
been arrested, tried and acquitted for her mother's murder. The facts were there in black and white, copies of numerous newspaper clippings full of allegations about Michael's past and the people he was rumored to be involved with, including his lawyer, reportedly one of the best, hired for him by the man he allegedly worked for—the infamous Don Carlo Giovanni of the notorious Giovanni family.

She read the reports of the trial carefully. Michael and Beth had lived together in a house in Queens. While Michael was out one night, someone had broken in, shot Beth in the back of her head and fled. Madison—nine months old at the time—was asleep in her crib.

The day of Michael's acquittal, the newspapers were once more filled with the news and his photograph, standing on the courtroom steps, making a victory sign with his right hand.

She studied the photos for a long time. Her daddy. Michael. He was so young, and he looked so different with his long, slicked-back hair, seventies-style suit and dark shades. He was still unbelievably handsome.

The first time she saw her mother's face was in a photograph in the
New York Post.
Beth's innocent beauty took her breath away.

Later that night she'd stared at her own reflection in the mirror and realized she was a combination of both her parents—it was uncanny. She was truly their child.

Kimm had asked her what Michael's profession was, and she'd told her investments. Sure. That was vague enough. And she'd never questioned what he did. How naïve she was to have always believed him.

Kimm was right: how come she'd always found out, with relative ease, everything she needed to know about her interview subjects, yet it had never occurred to her to even question the apparent facts of her own family? But then, why would she?

She was hurt, angry and confused.

Was it possible that she could ever face Michael now that she knew the truth?

Did she care?

No. He was lying scum, and she hated him.

And yet . . . he was still her father.

As far back as she could remember, Michael had always told her that neither he nor Stella had any immediate family. According to him, his parents had perished in a fire when he was a teenager, and he'd been raised by different sets of foster parents,
some of whom had abused him. Stella's story was that she'd run away from home when she was sixteen and had not contacted her family since that time.

So Madison had grown up accepting the fact that she had no grandparents, no cousins, no relatives at all. Just Michael and Stella. Her loving parents. Or so she'd thought. What a sham!

She'd been raised in a New York apartment, with either a maid or a nanny for company. At a very young age she'd been sent away to boarding school, while vacations were usually spent at summer camp. But there were times she
was
home, and she remembered those times well. Sometimes Michael would go on business trips that lasted anywhere from a few days to a week. That's when Stella would lock herself in her bedroom and play classical music, telling Madison that she wasn't allowed to disturb her.

When Michael came home, he'd always bring her presents—stuffed teddy bears or dolls. As she grew older, the presents were books, jewelry, gold pens—anything she wanted. She looked forward to him leaving, because every time he came back it was like Christmas.

It was a lonely childhood, but since she didn't know any other kind, she'd assumed it was normal. Growing up that way, she'd learned to be satisfied with her own company. An avid reader, she'd always done well in composition at school and genuinely enjoyed the learning process. It wasn't until she'd gone away to college that she'd finally made friends. There she'd met Jamie and Natalie, and they'd become like the sisters she'd never had.

“I'm sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,” Kimm had said before she'd left. “Think about everything. I know you'll have more questions, so I'll come back when you're ready.”

She'd thought about it all right. She'd done nothing
but
think about it.

Your father was a hit man for the mob.

Your father was accused of murdering your mother.

Your mother's name wasn't Gloria, it was Beth.

Kimm's words kept coming back to haunt her; she couldn't shake them.

She knew why Michael had said her mother's name was Gloria—he didn't want her digging, trying to learn more. Of course, he'd never expected she would, but he'd done it just in case. Michael was a man who covered his tracks.

She needed to talk to Kimm again, meet with her to discuss everything, because Kimm was the only person who could possibly understand. They both had unspoken questions. Who was responsible for Stella's death? Was it Michael? Had he gone to Stella's apartment and shot her and her lover?

It was too horrifying to consider.

Another thought—should they inform the detectives investigating the double homicide who Michael really was? Or would they figure it out for themselves.

Probably not. Why would they? He had invented a new identity for himself. His trial was almost thirty years behind him.

Sensing her distress, Slammer stayed nearby, sleeping on her bed, gazing up at her with sympathetic eyes, only slouching from the apartment when Calvin came to fetch him.

“I've got flu,” she explained to the concerned doorman. “You'll have to walk Slammer for me until I feel better.”

“Sure, Miss Castelli,” Calvin said, only too happy to oblige.

The first thing she did when she started to emerge from the fog was call Kimm. “I have to know more,” she said.

“I understand,” Kimm answered quietly.

“Can you come over?”

“I'll be there in an hour.”

Kimm, as usual, arrived on time. Striding into the apartment, she took in Madison's appearance, which was disheveled, and immediately asked, “Have you been eating? You're about ten pounds thinner than the last time I saw you.”

“Would
you
be eating if you were me?” Madison said listlessly. “For God's sake—everything I ever knew about my parents was a lie. I'm totally alone in the world, and that's the way it's been for the last week.”

“You're not alone,” Kimm said calmly.

“Maybe I'm having a nervous breakdown,” Madison said, pushing a hand through her uncombed hair.

“You need help,” Kimm said briskly. “Not to mention a shower.”

“What kind of help?”

“Do you see a shrink?”

“Don't believe in them.”

“I'm with you on that, but you
should
talk to someone.”

“I'm talking to you, aren't I?” she said testily. “At least
you
understand what I'm going through. I can't explain it to anyone else. And I don't intend to.”

Kimm nodded. “Where's my water?” she asked. “Room temperature, remember?”

“You're awfully bossy,” Madison said, managing a wan smile.

“I know,” Kimm said, glancing around the apartment, zeroing in on the answering machine. “Are you aware you have sixteen messages waiting to be heard?”

“Would you be one of them?”

“No,” Kimm said, shaking her head. “I expected you to phone me when you were ready.”

“Then don't worry about it,” Madison said, not interested in knowing who'd called her. “I'm not in the mood to speak to anyone.” She stared at Kimm defiantly. “That's my prerogative—right?”

“Hey,” Kimm said, holding out her hand to ward off bad vibes. “Do not take your nasty mood out on me. I'm merely here to try and help.”

“How
can
you help?” Madison demanded. “How can you change what's happened to me?”

“Let's analyze the situation,” Kimm said, forever calm. “What
has
happened to you? You were unaware of what your father did for a living, your mother wasn't your mother; your real mom was murdered, and your father was accused of the crime.”

“Great!” Madison interjected. “I belong on
Jerry Springer.”

“You're an adult,” Kimm continued. “You can handle it. I always say that we can handle anything God hands us.”

“Here you go with your philosophy again,” Madison sighed. “Where do you get these sayings?”

“You don't like my philosophy?” Kimm said. “Maybe you'd prefer to hear about
my
background?”

“Why?” Madison challenged. “Is it worse than mine?”

“It's pretty out there,” Kimm said. “You're a beautiful, successful woman with a great job, good health, everything going for you. I'm a six-foot-tall American Indian lesbian female who could lose a pound or two. I was raped by my uncle when I was seven, knocked down by a car when I was ten and told I would never walk again. And when I was twelve I was raped by my brother, who then freaked out and murdered my entire family. He's now in a mental institution.” She paused before continuing. “But I think you'll agree that I've done pretty well for myself. I have a successful business of my own—I don't have to answer to a soul. And although I'm not in a relationship at the moment, I've had some pretty good ones in my time. So here I am—a living, walking testament that you cannot spend every moment worrying about what's happened in your past, you have to get on with the future.”

“Jesus!” Madison said. “Talk about a depressing story.”

“And I survived,” Kimm said.

“You certainly did.”

“Moving on,” Kimm said matter-of-factly. “It's the only way.” She took a long swig of Evian from the bottle. “Have you talked to your dad?”

“No. And I don't intend to.”

“Okay,” Kimm said carefully. “If that's the way you want it.”