Lovers and Liars (27 page)

M
ary felt sexy.

She felt exquisite.

Sated.

Revenge.

She sat propped up in Abe’s huge bed, not bothering to pull the covers over her bare breasts, one calf and foot also exposed. She heard him in the bathroom. God, who would have thought? It was the first time she had come with a man—and what a man. He’d made love to her for hours last night; so it was true—old guys could really hold it. And this morning … She smiled.

“I’m running late,” Abe said, coming out of the bathroom in his trousers, buttoning his shirt. “Because of you, doll.” He grinned.

She smiled back.

“You can stay as long as you like,” he said, reaching for cuff links. “Damn, I wish I didn’t have to go back to New York tonight. Wish I could bring you.”

“When will you be back?” Mary asked innocently.

“Want more, huh?” He was obviously pleased, and he came close to fondle her breasts. He rolled a hard nipple with his fingers, watching her face.

The stabbing of desire was incredible.

“I want to see you the next time I’m in town. Give me your phone number.”

Mary was quick to comply. She wanted to see him again—God, she did.

“You’ve got the best knockers I’ve ever seen,” he said, reluctantly pulling away.

“Abe, wait.”

He shrugged into his jacket.

“What about Belinda?”

“Leave her to me,” he said, flashing a white smile. He winked and left.

Revenge.

Sex.

Abe Glassman.

God, she felt good.

46

Y
esterday all he could thing about was Belinda.

Today all he could think about was Mary.

Where the hell had she been last night?

He was going to kill her.

He had called Beth at two in the morning. Beth had no idea where she was and was instantly frightened, thinking Mary had been in an accident. Vince had pumped the information out of her. Mary had gone into L.A. yesterday to see Abe Glassman. Vince was horrified at the thought. She was mad, totally mad! Just what in hell did she think she was doing?

Beth said Mary was going to get Abe to break them up.

Vince was furious. No one would keep him away from the woman he loved, not even Abe Glassman. After all, what could he do?

And he was really going to kill Mary.

Unlike Beth, he was almost positive Mary hadn’t been in an accident. She had probably closed down a bar somewhere and passed out. But if she had passed out after fooling around with some guy, he was going to kill her.

Red-hot jealousy.

He didn’t analyze it—it was too potent. Too overwhelming.

Today he had actually hit his thumb with a hammer. That would be funny if the circumstances were different. He had rushed home—as fast as five-mile-an-hour traffic would allow. And she wasn’t there.

He paced. He cursed. He put his fist through the wall. That hurt, but he didn’t care.

And then he had heard her Beetle.

He met her at the door. “Where the fuck have you been?”

She was carrying groceries—
groceries
—and she smiled. “Shopping. I’m starved.”

He grabbed the bag out of her arms and threw it on the couch. “Where were you last night, Mary?” It was a roar.

“None of your fucking business, Vince,” she said sweetly.

He clenched his fists so he wouldn’t hit her, although he felt he was truly provoked and the right was his. She gathered up the groceries, carried them into the kitchen.

“I want to know where you were last night,” Vince demanded, following her.

She turned to him. “Why do you care—lover boy? You have Miss Rich-Ass.”

“You’re my wife,” he said, and it made perfect sense to him.

“And you’re my husband,” she said, tossing her mane of brown hair.

He grabbed her and she winced. “Did you sleep with somebody last night? Did you?” He was seeing red. He had never been this angry, not ever, but he had never had a wife before who might have cheated on him—openly.

“No,” she said quickly. “I love you, Vince, and I’m going to be here for you when that bitch dumps you. You’ll see.”

There was something in her eyes and
a
glow on her face that made him unsure whether to believe her. His hands went from her shoulders to her face, cupping it hard. He kissed her. Hard, hurtfully, angrily. One arm went around her waist, like a clamp; his other hand found her breasts, grabbing crudely. She kissed him back.

He pushed her onto the floor of the kitchen, yanking at the snap of her jeans. Her face was white with … surprise? … fear? He didn’t care. She was his, and he half knew she was lying—she had fucked around. But he was throbbing and hard and ready to assert his power over her. He pulled her jeans off, kneeing her legs apart.

“Vince!” she cried.

He grabbed her buttocks and thrust in hard.

It was animal rutting, and he came very quickly.

Afterward Mary got up and calmly began to make dinner.

47

T
he shower was hot, too hot, a welcome relief for her tired body.

Thank God, she thought, turning off the faucets. Thank God that redhead had interrupted them when she had.

Belinda began toweling herself vigorously. She now knew that the woman was Ford’s manager and personal assistant (did everyone in Hollywood have an assistant?). The fact that she wasn’t his girlfriend and latest lay pleased her. A lot. Although any idiot could see that Melody had very protective, possessive, and jealous instincts for her boss. Ford probably needed that kind of attention constantly, she decided.

His ego probably needed it.

“Just what do you know about my ego?” His words echoed.

Belinda smiled, slipping on silk Natori shorts and a matching tank, both black and trimmed with white lace. “I know your ego, buddy,” she told her reflection, visualizing Ford in her place. “And I know you.”

She had almost made a serious mistake. Serious, as in
fatal
Sleeping with Ford on the set, when he had the power to make or break her? What was she, crazy? Look at the power he’d already exercised over her—ordering her to his RV to “discuss some dialogue.” He’d ordered her over there so he could get into her pants—Belinda had no doubt about that.

Just as she had no doubt that if she wanted to stay on this shoot, she had better stay away from Ford.

As far away as possible.

No matter how magnetic the man was.

For you and a million other women, she said to herself, combing her wet hair.
Including
your mother.

Well, she only had thirteen days left to make it through, until they broke for the Christmas holidays, and when they reconvened, it would be without the star. Perversely she couldn’t imagine the set without him there, intense and silent, watching everything and everybody (except her), supremely autocratic. There were long stretches where he never said a word, and then suddenly,
wham!
The ax would fall. The lighting was wrong. The camera angles were wrong. The marks were wrong. So-and-so should move left, not right. When the King spoke, everyone shut up and listened. Then Mascione made the changes.

In all fairness, Belinda had to admit he’d played autocrat only twice today—and it did sound as if he knew what he was talking about. Still, it was obvious that everyone around here kissed his ass, including Mascione. Everyone except stupid her.

He hadn’t looked at her once since the interlude in his RV. Grudgingly Belinda had to admit it annoyed her, yet it impressed her as well. Her own ego wanted his attention, while her professional self had to admire his own professionalism.

There was a knock on her door, room service, of course. Perfect timing, because she was ravenous. Belinda slipped on a matching wrapper, barely belting it as she went to the door. She opened the door with a smile, then froze.

Jack Ford smiled back. “Expecting me?”

For an instant she didn’t move. His warm gaze slid over her languidly, confidently. Her toes curled into the rug. “I believe you have the wrong room,” she said tersely, then wanted to bite her tongue. This was one time in her life when she should not be a Mack truck!

“No,” he said just as tersely. “I have the right room.”

Her eyes widened as, with incredible presumption, he moved past her and into her bedroom. “Oh, I see—you want to discuss some dialogue.”

He flashed her a heart-stopping grin. “The dialogue can wait. Come here, Belinda.”

His silky tone was almost irresistible. “We have a six
A.M
. call tomorrow,” she said, breathless.

He was staring at her breasts. “You have a beautiful body, a really beautiful body.” His gaze lifted. “We have something to finish. Come here, Belinda.”

It would be so easy … Belinda shut the door, then leaned against the wall, arms at her sides, letting him admire her chest and her legs as the robe came unbelted. His eyes were hot, devouring her right down to her toes, searching, seeking, stroking … His gaze lingered on her crotch. When he looked her in the eye again, he was smiling with promise and anticipation and the certainty that she had capitulated.

“Why me?” Belinda asked. “Why not any one of a hundred broads on this shoot?”

His smile widened. “What a foolish question,” he murmured. “Why are you asking foolish questions, Belinda? You know I wanted you the instant I saw you. Just as I know you wanted me in that same instant—and that you want me now.”

“Desire has nothing to do with this,” Belinda said, giving up her provocative posture. “I don’t want to go to bed with you. Not now. Not here, not today.”

“What a liar you are.”

“Oh, I want you physically,” she said coolly. “But I have my career to think about, and I’m not about to jeopardize it by fucking the big star. A fuck is a fuck, and in the long run it can’t compare to what I want—success.”

He was standing very still. No longer smiling. “You think,” he said, slowly, “I’ll hurt you if we sleep together?”

She realized her mistake, that he was taking this as an insult. She blushed. “It’s happened in this business.”

“Then,” he grated, “you must realize the converse is true too. Right?”