Lethal Seduction (25 page)

“No,” Madison said. “He may be my father, but he's a liar, and I need to find out the real truth, not a bunch of bullshit. I'm flying to Miami. She
has
to see me.”

“You're sure you want to take a chance that she will?”

“Positive.”

“Then I guess I'm coming with you.”

“You don't have to.”

“Sure I do,” Kimm said. “Knowing you, you'll arrive at the airport and get lost.”

“I'm
very
together,” Madison said. “You told me that yourself.”

“You
were
together. This whole thing has affected you. God sent me to look after you.”

“Oh, please,” Madison groaned.

“Don't worry,” Kimm said with a rare smile. “I'm not about to hit on you. I keep my lesbian tendencies to myself unless I'm sure they'll be reciprocated.”

“That's a relief,” Madison said dryly.

The two women exchanged smiles of friendship. They had discovered something that bound them together, and it made for a closeness that was new to both of them.

“We'll fly there tomorrow,” Madison decided, the very thought making her stronger. “I'll organize everything.”

“Y
OU'RE PREGNANT
.”

“I'm
what?”
Rosarita shrieked.

“Pregnant, Mrs. Falcon,” Dr. Shipp, her gynecologist, replied, his phone manner quite congenial.

“Are you
sure?”

“I wouldn't be telling you if I wasn't,” Dr. Shipp said, clearing his throat. “I'd like you to make an appointment for next week, we'll discuss everything then.”

Rosarita was in shock.
Pregnant!
This was impossible. She always wore her diaphragm—never had sex without it.

“You must have made a mistake,” she said into the phone.

“No mistake,” the doctor said cheerfully. “I'll see you next week, Mrs. Falcon. Congratulations.”

She hung up, still in a state of shock.

This was impossible news. She hated babies, scrawny little things with scrunched-up faces who screamed all night. Plus if she was pregnant, she would
definitely
lose her figure. And the pain of childbirth—she'd heard about the horror of it from some of her friends.

No! No! No!
This wasn't happening to her.

Abortion.
The word slid into her mind immediately. A quick, convenient abortion.

Then she remembered: the first time she'd gotten together with Joel in his car she had not been wearing her diaphragm. Which could only mean one thing—this baby was Joel's, because she'd never had sex with Dex
without
using her diaphragm.

I'm pregnant with Joel Blaine's child,
she thought.
Leon Blaine's grandchild. Leon Blaine, the billionaire.

Oh . . . my . . . God!

This solved some of her problems. Although it didn't get rid of Dex, and he was the biggest problem of all.

Right now he was out meeting with his agent and would not be back for a while.

Rosarita took to her bed to think things through. Being pregnant with Joel's child changed everything. It gave her enormous power. In fact, it was a stroke of genius, because it meant that her position was secure for life.

That old cliché was true . . . Sometimes God works in mysterious ways.

She buzzed Conchita and requested orange juice, freshly brewed coffee and eggs over easy. Then she clicked on the TV to watch the women on
The View
—a daily habit. Star Jones always amused her with her raunchy take on everything. So did the others, especially Barbara Walters when she was in one of her feisty moods.

Today Rosarita found herself unable to concentrate. Today she felt like a million dollars—no—a
billion
dollars. She was destined to be one of the richest women in the world. She was having a baby. And not just any baby—Joel Blaine's baby.

It made her feel safe and secure. Now there was no hurry to cement the deal with Joel, because once she told him he was destined to be a father, he would be one very happy man indeed. Not only would it validate his manhood, it would also prove how much she cared for him.

All she had to do was get rid of Dex. Then everything would be perfect.

•

Dexter's agent, a fast-speaking man with a severe Marine crew cut and a brown Brooks Brothers suit, informed Dexter he was leaving the agency. “Got a gig out on the Coast,” he explained. “Goin' into indie prod—had enough of this agenting shit.”

“ ‘Indie prod'?” Dexter questioned, still something of a virgin when it came to showbiz terminology.

“Independent production,” the man replied, giving Dexter a
“what are you—a moron?”
look.

“What about
me?”
Dexter said, a frown creasing his leading-man forehead.

“I've taken care of you, dude,” his agent said. “Put you together with a gal you're gonna love. Annie Cattatori. She's a doll.”

“I don't need a doll,” Dexter said, asserting himself. “What I
need
is a good agent.”

“Did I say she wasn't good? Annie's the best. Follow me. I'll take you to her office an' introduce you.”

Dexter was disappointed. Not only was he out of a job, now he had to start with a new agent. It wasn't the way things should be going.

Annie Cattatori, an extremely fat woman in her late thirties, was ensconced behind her desk. Her baby-doll prettiness was lost in a sea of double chins and chubby cheeks, but she had a winning smile and big, pale-blue eyes. Around her neck hung a long gold chain with a pair of rhinestone-studded glasses attached.

“Meet Dexter Falcon,” his almost ex-agent said. “I'm sure you've seen him on
Dark Days.”

“Seen him? I jerk off over him,” Annie joked, standing up from behind her desk, revealing even more of her huge bulk. “Come over here, soap boy, an' gimme a hug. We're gonna be close friends.”

The last thing Dexter needed was a close friend. What he needed was a hot agent, and somehow he didn't think Annie Cattatori was the one.

He hugged her anyway, because how could he not? She smelled of mothballs, lilac and garlic, and she hugged pretty damn hard, almost crushing his rib cage.

“Here's what we're gonna do,” she said, sitting back down behind her desk. “We gotta get t'know each other.”

“Okay, kiddos,” his former agent said, backing toward the door. “I'll leave you two together.”

Annie waited until the other agent had left the room, then she said,
“I'm
gonna make you a movie star, soap boy. How'd you like them
cojones?”

I've heard that before,
he wanted to say.
I heard it when I auditioned for Scorsese. I heard it when I almost landed a Clint Eastwood movie, and I heard it when I just missed being Gwyneth Paltrow's lover in a Miramax film.

“Wouldja
like
that?” Annie said, reaching for a cigarette from an open package on her desk.

“Who wouldn't?” Dexter said, sitting in a worn leather chair across from her, thinking that he did not appreciate being called soap boy and he'd better tell her up front.

“I can do it for you,” Annie promised, crinkling her blue eyes. “I'm good. I'm very, very good.”

“Who do you represent?” he asked, hoping that Ben Affleck or Matt Damon might be part of her client list.

“Plenty of talent,” she answered. “Don't expect a résumé,” she added, putting on her rhinestone-studded glasses and peering at him.
“You're
comin' to
me. You're
the only one that
matters
when you're in my office.”

“Excellent,” he said.

“I'm
working for
you
—remember that,” she continued. “So don't go givin' me any bull, soap boy, an' you and I will get along fine.” She lit up and drew deeply. “You married?”

“Yes,” he said, wondering what that had to do with anything.

“Don't advertise. Women prefer their leading men single.”

“They do?”

“Waddya think we're all sittin' in the movies for? We wanna
fuck
you, not picture you screwin' the little woman.” Another deep drag on her cigarette. “Any chance of dumping the old lady?”

“I'm
happily
married,” he said, realizing as he uttered the words that it wasn't strictly true.

“Okay, okay, only asking,” Annie said, blowing a stream of smoke across her desk into his face. “Tell me about your bad habits. You do drugs?”

“No.”

“Drink?”

“No.”

“Screw around?”

“No.”

She removed her glasses. “What are you—perfect or something?”

“My wife thinks so.”

“She must be one lucky gal.”

“I'm
lucky,” Dexter said, wishing it were true. He'd like nothing more than a happy marriage with a woman who genuinely loved him.

“That's
what I like t'hear,” Annie said. “In this business we can use all the luck we can get.”

“You're right,” he said quickly. “Luck and talent. I've got both.”

“I'm puttin' you together with an acting coach,” she said, regarding him shrewdly. “You're gonna be more than just another pretty face on a hot body. We got knee-deep pretty faces from New York to L.A. Everyone wants to be the next Brendan Fraser or Jude Law. But you,” she said, blowing an impressive smoke ring. “You got more than the average Joe. You got the looks, the body, the height, and let's see if we can give you the talent.”

He wasn't pleased that she appeared to be knocking his acting. Hadn't he just told her he
had
the talent? “The producers liked my work on
Dark Days,”
he said stiffly. “I never got any complaints.”

“Yeah, honey,” she sniffed. “They liked it so much they canceled you.” She reached for a Kleenex and blew her nose. “Listen to me. I'm puttin' you together with a real smart acting coach. You'll work your dick off, then we'll see. I'm not sending you out on anything until you've done some real studying. Understand?”

“But I need to work,” he protested.

“Who pays your rent?” she said. “You? Or were you smart enough to marry a rich broad?”

“My wife has some money,” he admitted, albeit reluctantly.

“Then
use
it, honey. Let
her
support you now, and when you make it, she can bleed you for every cent you've got.” Cackling uproariously at her own humor Annie added, “Don't forget you heard it here first.
I
am gonna make you a star, soap boy. If you trust little Orphan Annie, one day your balls will be enshrined in cement on Hollywood Boulevard.”

Who was he to argue with
that?

•

Finding out where Carrie Hanlon was shooting a cover for
Allure
magazine was no big deal for Joel. He knew most of the bookers, encouraging the friendships by regularly sending them chocolates and small gifts. That way, whenever a new girl came into town he was the first to know.

Fortunately for him, Carrie was shooting with a friend of his—Testio Ramata, a playboy in his own right. Testio was also an extraordinarily talented and much-in-demand photographer. All the girls loved working with Testio because he made them look sexy, fuckable and beyond gorgeous. He and Joel had paired up on many an occasion on double dates—usually somewhere exotic like Sardinia or Corsica, where Joel would join Testio on one of his assignments and they'd party all week long.

They hadn't gotten together in a while because their last meeting had not been exactly friendly, due to the fact that Joel had inadvertently stolen one of Testio's girlfriends, an angular Danish model Testio appeared to be getting serious about.

Months had passed. The Danish model was long gone, so Joel felt no compunction about dropping by Testio's studio uninvited.

He could tell his friend was hard at work because he could hear the sound of the Rolling Stones coming from the studio. Testio swore he got some of his best shots when Mick Jagger was
crooning “Satisfaction,” and Testio had the girl's clothes off and her eyes were fixed on his camera lens. Mick Jagger's throaty growl seemed to turn them on every time.

Joel strolled into the outer studio and up to the reception desk, where Testio's efficient assistant, Debbie, stopped him.

“Haven't seen you in a while, Joel,” Debbie said, removing her fashionable glasses.

“Been busy. You know how it is,” he answered, leaning on her desk. “Who's the master shooting today?”

“Carrie Hanlon. You'd better not go in unless I announce you. She's
very
temperamental.”

“I know Carrie,” Joel said. “She won't mind.”

“Sorry, Joel—you'll have to wait out here.”

“You're kidding me, right?”

“No, I'm not. Testio will kill me if you ruin the shoot.”

“Why would
I
ruin anything?”

“Carrie Hanlon is a bitch,” Debbie said, lowering her voice. “She's got an entourage in there like you wouldn't believe, and she refuses to have strangers watch her when she's shooting.”

“I told you,” Joel said airily. “I know her.”

“Yes,” Debbie argued briskly. “And
I
know my instructions.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, glancing at his watch, noting it was past three. “Have they broken for lunch yet?”

“Any minute now.”

“Good. Then I'll join my friends Testio and Carrie for a glass of wine—that way I won't be disturbing the shoot. Tell Testio I'll be back in ten minutes.”