Lethal Seduction (41 page)

“Hi, Jack,” she said, climbing into the back of the limo.

Jack! Was she fucking kidding? Jack! Jesus H. Christ, the stuck-up bitch couldn't even remember his fucking
name.
What kind of shit action was
this?

“Joel,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Whatever,” she said, exploring the stash of liquor in the side compartment. “No champagne?” she complained, a small frown creasing her smooth forehead.

“It's nine in the morning,” he said.

“So?” she said.

“You want champagne?”

“Cristal.”

Joel tapped on the tinted-glass partition separating them from the driver and told the man to stop at the next liquor store. If the spoiled bitch wanted Cristal, that's what she'd get.

•

“Baby!” Natalie's wide grin lit up the outside patio of Spago in Caesar's Palace.

Madison gave her a big hug. Natalie squealed with delight. She was a vivacious five-foot-two-inch black woman with glowing skin and wide brown eyes. “Man, you look
great!”
she exclaimed, stepping back.

“So do you,” Madison said.

“Yeah, well, I wasn't expecting
you
to look so good,” Natalie said. “From what I hear, things are pretty down.”

“That's true,” Madison said, shrugging. “But you know me—always the survivor.”

“Come on,” Natalie said, grabbing her by the arm. “I got us a table inside.”

“I'd sooner sit outside and watch the passing crowd. Vegas is a circus. I love the action.”

“Oh, good. Does that mean we can hit the blackjack tables later?” Natalie said, approaching the maître d' and organizing a table for two on the patio.

“I'll watch,” Madison said. “Given the way my luck's been running . . .” she trailed off as they were seated.

Natalie clicked her fingers for a waiter.

“Drinks, ladies?” the waiter asked. He was a would-be actor with tousled, mud-brown hair and a boyish grin.

“Perrier,” Madison said.

“Same,” Natalie said, smiling up at him. “And bring us a couple of your delicious pizzas.”

“You got it.”

“Hmm . . . not bad,” Natalie said, watching him as he retreated. “Nice ass.”

“Do you ever think about anything other than sex?”

Natalie smiled mischievously.
“Is
there anything else?”

“Cute.”

“So, how was Antonio ‘The Panther'—or whatever his name is?”

“Major sexist asshole.”

“Figures. While
you
were with him,
I
was interviewing the champ. Although I gotta say—your one's more of a babe.”

“He's not
my
one,” Madison objected. “And he's not a babe, he's a dummy. You should
hear
the crap that spews out of his mouth. I mean, where do guys learn such bad behavior?”

“Hey—he must be all of twenty,” Natalie said. “At that age guys think with their dicks, an' since this one makes a living with his fists, what did you expect, girl—Einstein?”

“Right,” Madison agreed, with a dry laugh. “I keep forgetting how young he is. Young and full of himself. He's convinced he'll win.”

“Whatever gets him through the day.”

The waiter returned with their drinks, and Natalie bestowed another big smile on him.

“Flirt!” Madison admonished, after he left.

“Can't help it,” Natalie giggled. “It comes naturally.”

“Tell me about the champ,” Madison said, picking up her Perrier and sipping it.

“Busy black boy doing his Muhammad Ali shtick,” Natalie said, waving at an acquaintance.

“Did he come on to you?”

“No!”
Natalie exclaimed. “He's a Muslim with a knockout babe of a wife who sits silently in the background, completely calm, watching everything. Man, that woman's got dagger eyes. He wouldn't
dare
look at another female; she'd have his balls for breakfast, sprinkled with sugar.”

“So eloquent,” Madison said, laughing.

“I try.”

“And how
is
the complicated and always interesting love life of Miz Natalie De Barge? You still seeing the football player?”

Natalie grinned. “Big Luther? Sure, when he's around.” A succinct pause. “He comes, he goes—if you get my subtle drift.”

“Your
not
-so-subtle drift.”

“And you?” Natalie inquired. “Anything new and exciting in the love stakes?”

“Remember I told you Jake Sica called me.”

“And?”

“He was in New York recently, and we . . . had a little interlude. Actually, it was more like a weeklong interlude.”

“Girl!” Natalie yelled. “Don't tell me you finally did it?”

“Shout a little louder,” Madison said, frowning. “I think there's a couple in the corner who didn't quite hear.”

“Thank God!” Natalie exclaimed. “I thought we'd
never
get you laid again!”

“You're so crude.”

“Never said I wasn't.”

“Jesus!”

“Of course,” Natalie mused, waving at another acquaintance. “You two
always
had chemistry.”

“Oh, yeah, there was chemistry all right,” Madison said wryly. “After seven great, inseparable days and nights,
he
took off for Paris, and that's the last I heard from him until I ran into him on the street. Unfortunately, I'd already suggested him for this job, so he's here in Vegas, and he wants to have dinner with me tonight. Naturally, I told him no.”

The waiter returned with two pizzas. “May I say that I love your show,” he said to Natalie, a lock of tousled hair falling appealingly on his forehead.

She grinned, pleased. “You may.”

“Are you here for the fight?”

“Isn't everyone?”

“Bruce Willis was in last night,” he confided. “So was Leonardo.”

“Cool.”

“Will you be interviewing either of them?”

“Maybe.”

“I'll be watching.”

“I think he likes you,” Madison said as the waiter departed.

“Cute guy with taste,” Natalie said, grinning again. “Now back to you—here's the thing . . .”

“What?”

“When it comes to men, you're too particular.”

“And what exactly does
that
mean?”

“It means you gotta loosen up, girl; the poor guy is probably scared shitless of you. A week in your company is enough to scare anybody.”

“Ah—compliments,” Madison said dryly. “Exactly what I'm craving.”

“I'm sorry to say this, Maddy, 'cause you know how much I love you, but your extreme smarts intimidate people—
especially
guys who can't live up to you.”

“Hmm . . .” Madison drawled sarcastically. “Maybe I should try to appear dumber.”

“Jake probably figured he couldn't compete. So he took off rather than try.”

“Christ, Natalie! Am I
that
bad?”

“Like David,” Natalie said, on an unstoppable roll. “You see, basically David
knew
he wasn't as smart as you, so he ran into the arms of the first dumb blonde he could find.”

“She was his childhood sweetheart,” Madison pointed out.

“Doesn't make her any smarter.”

Madison sighed; she'd had enough of Natalie's dime-store philosophy. “And I suppose
that's
why he's begging to come back?” she said.

“David?” Natalie questioned, eyebrows shooting up.

“Yes,
David.
Believe me, I haven't even begun to tell you all the stuff that's been going on.”

“Well, girl,” Natalie said, leaning back in her chair. “Enough of this Perrier crap. I think it's time I ordered myself a long, cool martini. Then I'm chillin' out and listening to
everything
you have to say.”

•

Carrie managed to irritate Joel all the way to the private airstrip where Leon's G-4 waited, sitting on the tarmac like a huge, gleaming predatory bird.

He'd had the driver stop the limo and purchase a bottle of Cristal. Then he'd opened it, inadvertently spilling it all over his Armani sports jacket. After that little mishap, he'd filled a glass for her, and the bitch had barely taken a sip. Instead she'd gazed out of the window as if bored, ignoring his valiant attempts at conversation. The truth was, in the limo—with only the two of them as witnesses—that was okay. But how about on the plane, when he had to impress his goddamn father? Not to mention the Asian prison guard?

Carrie Hanlon had to shape up and put on some kind of show, or he was royally fucked.

He considered the situation. She had her own money, plenty of adulation, a hot career. What could he possibly offer her that she didn't already possess?

Of course, there was always Eduardo. But he was a done deal. Paid for and waiting in a luxurious suite at the hotel.

What to offer the bitch—that was the question.

And then it came to him. A movie career. Yes! Every supermodel he'd ever known had lusted after a movie career. They all fancied themselves as the next Cameron Diaz.

“Carrie,” he said slowly, as the limo drew to a halt. “You ever met Marty Scorsese?”

“No,” she said, not really interested.

“The reason I ask,” he said, persevering, “is 'cause he'll be at the fight, an' he happens to be a very good friend of mine.”

She considered his words for a minute.

“A very,
very
good friend,” he added, in case she hadn't gotten it the first time.

“Hmm . . .” she said, licking her full lips with a surprisingly pointed pink tongue. “I've already done a movie.”

“A flop,” he said, remembering her debut in a tits-and-ass debacle, in which the producers had her running around in a barely there T-shirt, cavorting with a lackluster costar.

“It was an action/adventure film,” Carrie said, a touch huffy.

“No, darling,” Joel corrected, quite pleased with himself. “It was a genuine piece of crap.”

“That's
your
opinion,” she muttered.

“And every reviewer's in America,” he said, guessing accurately. “You see, Carrie, the way to make it in the movies is with an A-number-one director.”

“Like Scorsese,” she said, the thought of meeting the talented director finally sinking in.

“He did it for Sharon Stone.”

“She had to show her snatch.”

“Not for Scorsese. For him she got nominated for an Oscar.”

“Really?”

“Casino.”

“Oh.”

“Somethin', huh?”

“My agent says—”

“Forget about agents,” he interrupted. “They don't know shit. What
you
need is to meet one of these big-time directors on a
personal
level.”

“I can meet anyone I want,” she said defiantly.

“Sure you can,” he answered soothingly. “But you gotta realize—meeting them at the right time in the right place—it means a lot. And what with Marty being such a close friend of the family . . .” He trailed off, allowing her time to think about it—which she did.

“Introduce me,” she said.

“Be nice to me in front of my old man, and I will.”

And so they made a bargain. And Joel wondered how the hell he was going to pull
this
one off, on account of the fact that he didn't even
know
Martin Scorsese, let alone have any idea if the director was in Vegas.

He'd find a way. He always did.

•

“Did Jamie call you?” Madison asked, sampling a piece of irresistible apple pie sent to their table by the dessert chef.

“Was she supposed to?” Natalie said.

“I guess you'll hear,” Madison ventured. “Only I wanted it to come from her first.”

“Hear
what?”

“About her and Peter.”

“What about them?”

“Things are not good. She put a detective on him, and it's really bad.”

“Don't tell me,” Natalie groaned. “Not Jamie and Peter—my dream couple.”

“I'm sorry to say the dream couple are about to hit a brick wall.”

“Is he gettin' it on with someone else?”

“You could say that.”

“Somebody Jamie knows?”

“It's not for me to say.”

“Why not?” Natalie demanded, determined to know everything.

“Because I'd sooner she told you herself.”

“Why?”

“If you can make the time, it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to fly to New York. Right now she needs her friends around her.”

“When are
you
going back?”

Madison took a deep breath. The very
thought
of going back was a total turnoff. Go back to what? Michael and his lies? No. She could do without her father for a while. He was a man she didn't know anymore, and merely thinking about him gave her a creepy feeling.

“Uh . . . I was hoping to stop off in L.A. for a few weeks,” she said vaguely.

“I'd love
that,”
Natalie said excitedly. “So would Cole. Baby bro is crazy about you.”

“It's mutual.”

“Shame he's gay,” Natalie mused. “The two of you would've made a lovely couple.”

“You are about the most unrealistic person I know,” Madison said, shaking her head in wonderment.

Natalie giggled. “It's more fun that way.”

“I guess,” Madison said, thinking about the events of the last few months. “After everything
I've
been through, I could do with a little fantasy. Y'know, I was saying to Jamie the other day—I think I belong on the
Jerry Springer Show.”