Lethal Seduction (6 page)

“Shit!” The word slid out of her mouth before she could stop it. What in hell are
they
doing here? followed. But she was able to refrain from actually saying it aloud.

“Hello, dear,” said Martha, a plump, faded blonde in a lime-green polyester pantsuit, with jangly rhinestone earrings and white plastic open-toed sandals. “How lovely to see you.”

Rosarita was still in shock as Matt stepped forward, giving her an all-encompassing hug. Dex's dad was a florid-faced man in his mid-fifties, with close-cropped gray hair and faded blue eyes. Once handsome like his son, he had been beaten into submission by the passing years. Plus he had a huge, protruding gut—solid as a football.

“How's our Dick's—” he began.

“Dexter,” Dexter interrupted, frowning at his father.

“How's our
Dexter's
little girl?” Matt corrected himself quickly, wary of his famous son's wrath.

For once in her life, Rosarita was speechless. This was a nightmare. What had she done to deserve a visit from the Cockrangers?

“Mom, Dad, I didn't tell Rosarita you were coming,” Dexter said, beaming. “She's kind of overcome. You know how much she loves you.”

Oh, yes, Dex, pour it on.
How could he do this to her? How
could
he?

“They're staying with us, honey,” he continued. “I had Conchita fix up the guest room.”

“You did?” she croaked, wishing nothing more than an immediate shower and a long night of uninterrupted sleep.

“Isn't it a neat surprise?” Dexter said, squeezing her arm. “I knew you'd be pleased.”

“I'm . . . I'm . . . shocked,” she stammered. Then turning to his big, blustery dad, she added, “How'd you get away from your job, Matt?”

“Took a three-week leave of absence,” Matt replied proudly. “Everyone at work watches our boy on
Dark Days.
Makes me something of a celebrity back home.”

Three weeks! This was getting worse every minute. Goddamnit! She asked for a divorce and the motherfucker flew in his parents! Unreal!

“We wanted to be sure to spend plenty of time with you,” Martha said. “Remember when you came to see us before you were married? The family is
still
talking about your visit.”

“Yes,” Matt agreed, rubbing his hands together. “And
I'm
looking forward to getting together with that dad of yours. He promised to show us the town.”

Oh, that was rich. How about a tour of all the strip clubs and a few drop-ins at mob-connected restaurants? Matt and Martha would fit right in.

“I wish I'd known you were coming,” Rosarita said, struggling for something to say. “I would've planned dinner.”

“That's all right,” Dexter said—Mister-
I've-got-it-all-under-control.
“I made a reservation at ‘21.' ”

Valiantly she tried to keep her scowl down to a minimum. “You did?”

“Eight o'clock.”

“Eight o'clock,” she repeated.

“So let's all get cleaned up and meet in the living room at seven-thirty,” Dexter said.

“Should I wear a tie?” Matt worried.

“Can I wear a pantsuit?” Martha asked anxiously.

Rosarita couldn't stand it. Her life was turning to shit right before her very eyes.

•

Somehow Rosarita got through dinner, seething all the while. They were not given a good table at the restaurant, and she could understand why. Matt and Martha Cockranger had suburbia written all over them, and apparently the name Dexter Falcon meant nothing.

She didn't mind that they were shown to a lousy table, because the truth was she didn't wish to be seen with them. Christ! Going out with Chas to one of his gangster hangouts would be better than this. In fact,
anything
would be an improvement.

So far she had not gotten Dex alone. When she did, she planned on giving him an earful. How dare he invite his parents to stay without consulting her? Especially when he
knew
she'd been talking divorce. The way he acted it was as if they were the happiest couple in the world. Was he
losing
it?

She spent the better part of the dinner worrying that Joel might come in and spot her, although everyone else appeared to be having a wonderful time. Martha downed two vodka martinis in a row and promptly got tipsy. Matt ordered several beers and kept jumping up to visit the men's room, while Dex had a big stupid grin on his big handsome face all night. Boy, was he living in dreamland.

On their way out, a female customer stopped Dex and asked him for his autograph. It made Matt and Martha's night. It put Rosarita in an even worse mood than before. Didn't the idiot fan standing there with a pen and a dopey look on her moon face realize that he was nothing but a stupid nobody well on his way to nowhere?

Rosarita squelched a strong desire to scream. Why did she have to stand for this crap? Why couldn't her father cooperate and arrange to have Dex whacked, thereby putting an end to this charade?

“It was
such
a lovely evening, dear,” Martha enthused when they got back to the apartment. “You make my little boy so happy. It truly warms my heart.”

Oh, God, was she going to have to face Martha at the funeral? Would she be forced to play the bereaved widow and pretend to be desolate?

The moment she and Dex were alone she started a litany of complaints. “What
do
you think you're
doing?!”
she shrieked. “Inviting your goddamn parents without checking with me first. This is unfuckingacceptable.”

“Why are you so upset?” Dexter asked blankly. “You've always told me you love my parents.”

“When did I ever say
that?”

“When we first visited them. Remember? Before we were married.”

“Ha! Before we were married I said a lot of things I wouldn't say now.”

“You did?”

Was he obtuse, or what? God had given him exceptional looks, but he sure as shit hadn't given him any brains.

“Listen to me,” she said, spitting her words out very slowly, making sure he heard every single one. “You don't seem to get it. I . . . want . . . a . . . divorce. That means I do
not
intend to sit around playing nice with your parents.”

“You're a bitch, you know that.”

“Yes,” she said spitefully. “I know that.”

“You're certainly not the girl I married.”

“Hey, when I married
you,
I thought you were on your way to being a movie star for crissakes, not a TV hack.”

“I suppose that's
why
you married me, huh?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact that's
exactly
why I married you. I expected we'd move into a big Beverly Hills mansion and mix with all the other movie stars.” She threw him a stony glare. “You haven't lived up to your side of the bargain, Dex.”

“I didn't know we
had
a bargain,” he countered. “However, we
are
married, Rosarita, and I
refuse
to give you a divorce.”

“You do, huh?” she said, her tone getting shriller by the minute. “Well, let me tell you this—if you
don't
agree to a divorce, you'll be very sorry indeed.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Sounds suspiciously like one, doesn't it?”

He stared at the woman he'd given his name to. How could she be so cold? Surely this wasn't the same sweet girl he'd walked down the aisle with? Where had that darling girl gone?

“I thought we were planning a family,” he ventured sadly.

“For the number of times
you
get it up a week, we're lucky to have a fucking
cat!”
she responded.

“My call is 5:00 a.m. every day,” he said evenly. “I need my sleep.”

“Weekends too?” she sneered.

“Are you saying we don't make love enough?”

“I'm saying we
never
do it, and when we do, it's always in
the missionary position.” She placed her hands on her hips, glaring at him accusingly. “Do I
look
like a fucking missionary to you?” He shook his head. “I thought you were such a swinger,” she continued, her voice one long, monotonous whine. “Didn't you fuck your way through a bunch of horny models before we were married?”

“I wish you wouldn't use language like that,” he objected.

“When did
you
turn so holier than thou?” she said tartly. “I married this hunk with his
dick
on show all over Times Square,
now
look at you.”

“It wasn't on show,” he objected. “I was wearing underwear.”

“Give me a fucking break,” she jeered.
“Everyone
saw your package. And I must say it looked pretty damn good up on that billboard. It got
me,
didn't it?”

“I've never done nudity.”

“No?” she snapped back. “How about privately for dear old Mortimer?”

“Absolutely not,” Dexter said, his face reddening.

“He's gay, isn't he?” she taunted. “He discovered you, didn't he? So don't tell
me
you didn't have to suck his dick to get where you are today. Not that it's very far, but I suppose you
were
a successful model. You should've stayed one.”

“It was
you
who wanted me to start acting.”

“It was me, was it? C'
mon.
You were forever watching those movies with Kevin Costner and Harrison Ford. You
always
wanted to be exactly like them. So tell me, Dex, why aren't you?”

“I will be, one of these days,” he said, truly believing.

“In a pig's ear,” she snorted derisively.

“Look,” he sighed. “All I'm asking is for you to be nice to my parents while they're here. If you can do that, then, when they leave—if it's what you still want—we'll talk about divorce.”

She didn't believe him, but what else could she do?

“Okay,” she said. “Deal. But it's not a twenty-four-hour thing, I've got to get out and breathe.”

“Be nice to them,” he repeated. “Especially my mother. She thinks the world of you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “I'll take Martha to Saks and let her loose with my credit card—is that nice enough?”

He didn't believe her, but what else could he do?

“H
ELLO
?” Madison said, reaching for the phone. Slammer immediately began licking her bare arm with his floppy, wet tongue. “Hello,” she repeated, attempting to push the overly affectionate dog away.

“Hi, sweetheart—it's Michael.”

How come he never said Dad? It was weird, but ever since she could remember she'd called her parents by their first names. Stella and Michael. Sometimes she kind of wished for the Dad thing.

“I'm asleep,” she mumbled.

“Now you know what it's like,” he said good-naturedly. “Call me back when you wake up.”

“No, no, don't go away,” she said quickly. “What time is it?”

“Eight.”

“On Saturday?” she said, struggling to sit up.

“I was thinking that if you were available I'd drive into the city and we'd go for brunch.”

“That'd be great,” she said, stifling a yawn. “You
and
Stella?”

“No,” he said shortly. “Stella can't make it.”

“Why?”

“It doesn't matter. Where would you like to go?”

“How about the Plaza?” she suggested. “It's all kind of like, you know, grown up.”

He laughed softly. “My intelligent big girl is such a kid sometimes.”

She smiled. Why not? He was her father, and it was fun to feel like a kid again. “Will you pick me up at my apartment?” she said, stifling another yawn.

“I'll do that.”

She put the phone down and hauled herself out of bed. Slammer followed, panting and watching her with his big, brown, soulful eyes as she headed for the bathroom.

“I suppose you want to go out,” she said. He barked once. Sometimes she could swear he understood every word. “Okay, okay, let me clean my teeth and put some clothes on, then you and I will hit the streets.”

She wriggled into a pair of faded jeans and a sweatshirt, tied her hair back and left the apartment, an eager Slammer trotting obediently beside her.

In the elevator she realized she'd left the pooper-scooper behind and had to go back to get it. It was humiliating, walking the streets and picking up dog crap. Who ever came up with
that
rule?

Outside, the crisp morning air woke her up. She began thinking about her conversation with her father. If Michael was coming into town without Stella on a weekend, it definitely meant he had something to tell her. It must be about why they'd decided to move to Manhattan, why they'd called her best friend's partner to tell
him
and not bothered mentioning it to her. It was all too bizarre. What could his excuse possibly be?

As she walked briskly along the street she wondered how Peter and Jamie had managed the previous night. Had they gotten into a mammoth fight? Or maybe they'd indulged in one of the long lovemaking sessions that Jamie said Peter desired every day.

Hmm . . . David had been like that. She remembered the time they'd gone to the theater to see
Joseph and the Amazing
Technicolor Dreamcoat.
After that she'd nicknamed him—
David and the Amazing Insatiable Cock.

Now the insatiable cock was performing elsewhere. Too bad.

A familiar face jogged by. A tall, rugged soap actor whom she spotted every weekend. They exchanged nods of recognition. Around the corner she bumped into BoBo, the area's famous Scottish dog walker. Short and squat, with a mop of carrot-colored hair and numerous freckles, he was quite a character. Somehow or other he managed six dogs while wearing a kilt and carrying a Saks shopping bag in which to deposit his charges' offerings. Slammer was in love with one of Bobo's charges, Candy, a sexy miniature poodle who refused to have anything to do with him.