Lovers and Liars (37 page)

“Fuck off,” she murmured and felt pleased with her boldness.

“Damn it, Mel, what the fuck is the story on
Outrage?
” He came to the door. “What is this ‘extended hiatus’ crap?”

At least he looked like he was getting as little sleep as she was, Melody thought sourly. How could he? Didn’t he know
she
loved him? Wanted him? Why had he picked up that damn playgirl at the Kellers’ when he could have had her—someone who cared? She hated him.

She loved him.

“Ted is returning my call as soon as he can,” Melody said calmly.

“That’s what his stupid-ass secretary has been saying for two fucking weeks,” Jack raved. “Jesus, Mel, it’s already the sixteenth! Go down there in person and find out what’s going on!”

“We already know what’s going on,” Melody said coolly.

“It’s like they don’t even know who I am,” Jack grated. “It’s like I’m not signed to one of the biggest contracts in North-Star’s history. It’s like I’m some fucking untried kid—it’s like the way it used to be!”

“There’s always new policy when management changes,” Melody said very unhelpfully.

“New policy? This is a fucking personal war! First the takeover, then
Berenger’s
cancellation—and now this! And I’m tied into this exclusive fucking contract! I could kill Sanderson! And I can’t get a flicking secretary to even talk to me!
What the fuck is going on?”

“North-Star has been taken over.
Berenger
isn’t being released. The production of
Outrage
has been postponed,” Melody recited, watching his face darken again. “And didn’t Sanderson tell you to cool your jets? You got paid, Jack.”

“What are you, enjoying this?” He gave her an angry look and disappeared back into his office, slamming the door behind him. Melody hoped he was angry with her too.

Once he had been sensitive. No. Once she had
thought
he was sensitive. Now she realized he was no different from any other good-looking actor—selfish, egotistical, and imperious. He hadn’t been sensitive enough to know when she loved him, and he wasn’t sensitive enough now to know how angry she was.

Angry and hurt.

That weekend in Aspen she hadn’t even had this sanctuary of anger. There’d been just a terrible hurt. She had cried herself to sleep each night, soundlessly, because she knew the walls were very thin. Sometimes, sitting on the lift with Jack, with the pain ballooning in her heart, she had thought she would break into tears right then and there in front of him. She had managed not to. But more than once she had been skiing blinded, tears blurring her vision, steaming up her goggles.

She reached for the phone. Ted Majoriis was still in a meeting. Melody flipped through her Rolodex. “Nickie Felton, please.”

He was in a meeting, but she knew he would return her call.

Nickie, the assistant producer of
Berenger
; had had the hots for her. And he always knew the inside story. Melody didn’t know why she was going after this. She didn’t know if it was because of her job or because of something else, something deeper, darker.

“Hiya, sweetheart,” Lansing said, startling her. “So how about tonight?”

67

H
e sat staring into space.

Staring into space, out the window at the lawn and beyond that to the road—or at the bent head of the teacher, who was oblivious to everything except the book he was immersed in.

This is just great, Rick thought.

He hated study hall. Hated it.

Just great.

A boy who looked twelve was doodling all over his desk. A few of the kids were actually studying. Another guy, a redhead, seemed to be tapping his toe to a silent rhythm. Two girls were talking in sign language, right at his side. When the teacher, Mr. Howard, looked up, the room was hushed. When he looked down, the doodling and toe-tapping and sign language continued. Rick saw that the redhead had discreetly managed to stuff a Walkman headphone into his ear. Now that was unfair!

One of the girls slipped him a note: “Are you really Jackson Ford’s brother?” Rick was disgusted, but anything was better than boredom. All these girls were the same.
They couldn’t care less about him. All they cared about was his damn star brother.

He got another note: “Are you seeing Lydia Carrera?”

Now where had that come from? Sure, he’d talked to her a couple of times, but that was it. He wasn’t
seeing
her.

He scribbled on the scrap of paper: “No.” He slipped it back. The girls giggled. Mr. Howard looked up. Sharply.

“What is going on?” His eyes searched everyone. And settled on the redhead, who hadn’t managed to get the earphone out of his ear. “Brian Leahy! Take that off immediately, and bring me that radio.”

Brian complied with obvious distress.

Ten o’clock. Rick knew he was going to die of sheer boredom. Another minute passed by, second ticking after second after second. Suddenly a movement caught his eye, and he jerked around to look out the window.

Lydia was hanging upside down from a tree, like a merry, delighted ape. Rick smothered laughter. She was making faces. He had to smile. Her shirt was hanging toward her chest, revealing an expanse of flat, brownish belly. He wondered hopefully if her boobs might fall out. Then she made another face, and he laughed out loud. He clamped down quickly, the moment he realized what he’d done.

“Rick Ford! What is so funny?”

“Nothing,” Rick said, not daring to steal another glance out the window and still trying not to laugh. He stared at the science teacher in front of him. But a few instants later he had to look out the window. She was gone.

68

A
dam was no fool.

He stepped into his apartment, closing the door behind him, thinking. He had seen Belinda leave the Kellers’ party with Ford. She had told him she had a headache and insisted he didn’t have to accompany her. What did she take him for, a fucking fool? She’d used the exact same lines at the Majoriises almost six months ago. Twice now, she’d dumped him for that two-bit actor.

He had been livid then, not jealous, just livid—because Ford was getting in his way.

And because that little cunt had chosen Ford over him.

Chosen some two-bit stud actor over him.

That was when he had first come to hate Belinda Glassman.

He hated her now.

He had invested almost half a year of his life chasing her, courting her, wooing her—playing the perfect gentleman. And she had dumped him for that nothing actor. It was beyond belief. Even now, just thinking about it, he was having fantasies of grabbing her and raping her, teaching her a lesson, pounding into her mercilessly.

Of course, he wouldn’t do it.

He was a man of reason, and reason ruled. He had no intention of losing this battle—and all the spoils of war. Belinda Glassman was not going to escape him.

All he had to do was think of Glassman Enterprises, and the billions of dollars it represented, to know conclusively that she was not going to escape him. He couldn’t let her.

“You’re home.”

Adam looked up and smiled.

Cerisse smiled back, leaning against the doorway to the hall. She was black, beautiful, tall. She wore a nippleless bra and crotchless panties. Adam’s prick rose immediately to attention. He walked toward her, staring at hard, large, brown nipples.

“I have a surprise for you,” she murmured, dodging his hands as he reached for her breasts.

He followed her into the bedroom, throwing his sweater on a chair. He stopped. Stared.

The woman in his bed was as short and slim as Cerisse was tall and voluptuous. She was Asian. Naked except for black stockings. Her nipples, small and pointed, were rouged the color of red wine. Her pubes were shaven, her legs spread—like the whore she was. Cerisse chuckled.

“Go down on her,” Adam said, “while I get undressed.”

69

M
ary knew she was on the edge of a terrible breakdown, maybe insanity. The phone rang, but she ignored it. She was surrounded by today’s newspapers. They’d been opened, read, and tossed aside. Nothing. She couldn’t find a thing.

Oh, God!

If Belinda Glassman had died, she knew without a doubt that the police would come knocking on her door. She expected them at any moment—as she had for the past eighteen hours, ever since the gun had gone off yesterday evening. She thought she heard a car in the drive. She jumped, ran to the window, peered through the curtains. No one. Now she was hearing things.