Lethal Seduction (2 page)

So much for good taste.

•

Victor was crouched on the floor in his spacious office, playing with his precious model train set, which wound its way across the room and back again. Victor was a big, cuddly man in his late forties with a mop of frizzy brown hair that appeared to stand on end, matching eyebrows, several chins and puppy-dog eyes.

“Maddy!” he exclaimed in a loud, booming voice. “I wasn't expecting to see you today. Come in.”

“Hi, Victor,” she said, carefully stepping over a chugging red engine. “Working hard as usual, I see.”

“Of course,” he said with a hearty chuckle. “Keeps the old heart pumping. Besides, Evelyn won't let me do this at home.”

“I wonder why,” Madison murmured, thinking of his pristine skinny-as-a-stick wife with her permanently uptight expression and designer wardrobe.

“Wouldn't do to mess up her living room,” Victor responded, hauling himself up.

Madison perched on the edge of his desk. “I need a favor,” she announced, picking up a heavy glass paperweight and examining it.

“Good,” Victor boomed, sitting down in his leather chair. “There's nothing I like better than people owing me favors.”

“I'm not
people,”
Madison pointed out, irritated that he should regard her as such. “And it's not exactly a favor, more a request for information.”

“What kind of information?” Victor asked suspiciously.

“Nothing earth-shattering,” she said, putting the paperweight down. “I simply require the name of the best private investigator in New York.”

Victor tapped his index finger on the desk. “And what makes you think I'd have that?”

“Because you know everything. And besides,” she added quickly, “didn't you use someone to follow your first wife before you divorced her?”

His bushy eyebrows shot up. “Who told you that?”

“Office folklore.”

“I hate gossip,” he snapped.

“You thrive on it,” she responded.

“Why do you need this?”

“For a friend.”

“What friend?”

“None of your business.”

“Bitch!”

“Slave driver!”

They exchanged smiles.

Madison was extremely fond of Victor, even though he sometimes drove her crazy with his loud voice and often overbearing attitude. And Victor adored Madison, whom he considered his own personal discovery.

Placing the train remote on his desk, Victor buzzed Lynda, his personal assistant who had worked for him for twelve years and, with her lank brown hair and lackluster smile, closely resembled a cross-eyed basset hound.

Lynda materialized immediately, unrequited love oozing from her every pore. “Yes, Mr. S?” she asked anxiously.

“It's confidential,” Victor boomed.

Lynda threw Madison a dirty look as if to say, “Then what's
she
doing here?”

“Get me the name and number of the uh . . . person who trailed Rebecca,” Victor said. “Do it now.”

Lynda snapped to attention. “Yes, Mr. S.”

And she was gone.

“So . . .” Victor said, turning to Madison. “You don't care to tell me what this is about?”

“Hey,” she answered, purposely keeping it vague. “It's not about
me,
that should be enough.”

“Well, it isn't,” he grumbled.

“Don't sweat it, Victor,” she said casually. “You wouldn't be interested anyway.”

“You need a man,” Victor said, his favorite comment whenever she pissed him off. “How long is it since David walked?”

“Stay out of my private life,” she warned.

“You're twenty-nine and you
have
no private life,” he reminded her.

God! How she hated it when Victor tried to get into her business. “Fuck you!” she said vehemently.

“Any time you're ready.”

She burst out laughing. There was no way she could stay mad at Victor; after all, he meant well, even though he was forever trying to fix her up with any single man that came his way. He didn't care how old they were or what they looked like, as long as they had a reasonable bank account and a working cock he was determined she should give them a try.

She'd given up accepting invitations to dinner at his home. The last one she'd attended she'd found herself seated between an extremely ancient astronaut and a twenty-one-year-old computer nerd. Both interesting men—but dating material?—no way.

I don't mind being alone,
she told herself.

Yes, you do,
an annoying little voice that lived in the back of her head replied.

NO! I don't!

Ten minutes later, armed with the name K. Florian and a phone number, she left the office, cutting down Sixty-seventh Street toward her apartment on Lexington. Now that she had the number she decided she'd better check with Jamie before
using it. That evening they were both attending a dinner party at Anton Couch's penthouse apartment, so she'd be able to find out
exactly
what Jamie wanted her to do.

Yes, and she'd also be able to check out Peter, see what he was up to.

Her people skills were excellent. If Peter
was
screwing around on Jamie, Madison'd know it. No doubt of
that.

“I
WANT HIM DEAD
!” Rosarita Vincent Falcon screeched, red in the face. “Dead! Dead! Dead!”

“Lower your voice,” her father growled, his heavy-lidded eyes filled with disapproval at his daughter's petulant outburst. “Ya want the whole fuckin' neighborhood t'hear?”

“Who cares?” Rosarita yelled. “You
own
the fucking neighborhood!”

“Nice language,” sniffed Chas Vincent, a large bear of a man with ruddy cheeks and a rough-edged voice. “Is that what I sent ya t'college t'learn?”

“Fuck college! Fuck the neighborhood! I want Dex fucking Falcon
dead!”

“A little louder,” Chas growled, sweat beading his forehead. “The maid next door didn't hear ya.”

Rosarita stamped her foot on the thick pile rug. What was
wrong
with her stupid father?
Why
wasn't he getting it?

At five feet four, Rosarita was bordering on anorexic, helped along by bulimic tendencies. She was twenty-six, with red hair worn in a shoulder-length bob, a thin, pointy face, overfull lips (thanks to her busy plastic surgeon, who'd also helped out with a new nose and cheekbone and chin implants—not to
mention the best boobs in Manhattan) and plenty of attitude. Especially when it came to her husband of eighteen months, struggling actor and sometime model Dexter Falcon. She'd married him because he was unbelievably handsome, had an enormous underwear billboard hovering above Times Square and was absolutely crazy about her.

She'd thought he was destined to be a movie star. But no, the only acting job Dexter Falcon had managed to land was on an about-to-be-canceled daytime soap that paid shit and nobody watched. Damn him!

Now Rosarita wanted out because she'd met someone else, someone of substance with an attitude to match her own and an even bigger dick than Dexter's—who was no slouch in the size department. Someone she planned to go places with.

But how could she go anywhere with a loser husband trailing along behind her?

When she'd brought up the subject of divorce, Dexter had freaked. “Over my dead body,” he'd said.

Well . . . if that's the way he wanted it . . .

“I thought you was so in love,” Chas said, swigging from a large glass of scotch. “I gave ya the big fuckin' weddin' with all the trimmin's—exactly like ya wanted. I bought you a fuckin' house an' a fuckin' Nazi car. I thought you was all set.”

“Sorry, I'm not,” Rosarita said, gritting her teeth. “Dex is a deadbeat actor with no prospects, and I want you to get rid of him for me.”

“Just like that,” Chas said, wondering how he'd managed to get himself such a difficult daughter. Her year-younger sister, Venice, was a sweetheart with two kids and a down-to-earth husband who sold insurance for a living. Why couldn't Rosarita be more like her? “I warned ya about marryin' a fuckin' actor,” he said dourly. “They got bird crap for brains, not ta mention fagola tendencies.”

“He's not
gay,”
Rosarita sniffed, insulted that Chas would think that any man who was with her might be gay. “Merely
dumb.”

“I told ya,” Chas grumbled. “Only
you
wouldn't listen.”
He put on an exaggerated voice. “Miss I-gotta-have-everythin'-the-moment-I-want-it.”

“Daddy!” Rosarita wailed, changing tactics because she knew how to play him like a violin. “Please help your little girl. I
need
you.”

Chas could barely resist Rosarita when she was sweet—during those rare times she reminded him of her dear departed mother who'd died giving birth to Venice, leaving him alone with a newborn baby and an infant to raise. In his opinion he'd done a good job—with the help of an army of girlfriends—none of whom had lasted more than a few months. Chas Vincent was not a one-woman man. He liked big tits and a closed mouth. Two or three months into the game and they got on his nerves with their whiny demands and money-spending ways.

Maybe Rosarita took after him when it came to living with someone. He couldn't blame her. Dexter Falcon was a white-bread putz with only a pretty face to get him through life. He had no balls, Chas could've told his daughter
that
the first time he met the dumb shit. Rosarita should've
fucked
him out of her system. But no, she'd had to
marry
the asshole.

Her wedding had cost a fuckin' fortune. Rosarita demanded—and got—only the best. Now Chas had a powerful urge to say, “I told you so.” But his strong-willed kid didn't take kindly to criticism, so he choked back the words and patted Rosarita on her bony shoulder as she tried to perch on his knee, tears streaming down her cheeks.

They were actually tears of frustration and anger because she was having to fight to get her own way, but Chas didn't know that. “What shall we do, Daddy?” she sniffled. “I'm . . . so . . . miserable. Dex is so
mean
to me.”

“Get a divorce,” Chas suggested, sure that if Dexter was mean to her, he had good reason.

“Don't you understand—he won't give me one,” she moaned. “And that means I'll have to wait and go through lawyers and depositions and all that horrible, degrading stuff. He's threatening to go after half of everything I own. I don't
want
to wait, Daddy. It's not fair.” A pause for a few deep sobs.
“Besides, I've met someone else, and I can't have Dex getting in my way and ruining everything.”

“Not another dumb actor, I hope,” Chas said, taking a second hearty swig of scotch.

“No, Daddy. This one's got money. He's a
someone,
not a nobody like Dex.” She narrowed her eyes. “I
hate
Dex.”

“I'm gettin' the picture,” Chas said, scratching his chin.

Rosarita wriggled off his knee, which was good, because he wasn't as young as he used to be, and last night he'd gone three rounds with a pneumatic blonde whose knockers alone must've weighed five pounds apiece.

“Lemme speak t'him,” Chas said. “He'll listen t'me.”

“Talking won't do any good,” Rosarita wailed.
“Killing
him
will.”

“Enough of that crap,” Chas snapped, suddenly angry. “I ain't in the killin' business. I'm in construction, an' don't you forget it.”

“Ha!” Rosarita said.

“Ha, what?” Chas responded.

Rosarita stared at her father, a malevolent expression on her sharp-pointed face. “Whatever happened to that foreman you didn't like?” she said, knowingly. “You remember, the one who stole from you. And then there was Adam Rubicon—your ex-partner who mysteriously disappeared. And—”

“Shut your fuckin' mouth,” Chas yelled, jumping up, red in the face. “I
never
wanna hear ya talk like that again. Ya hear me?”

“Then do it,” Rosarita said, all cool and collected and sure of herself. “And do it soon.”

•

Unaware of the ominous conversation taking place at his father-in-law's house, Dexter Falcon left the midtown TV studio where they shot the daily soap
Dark Days,
a smile on his handsome face. His name wasn't really Dexter Falcon, it was actually Dick Cockranger, a name too ridiculous to even contemplate
keeping, unless he planned on being a porno star, and when he'd first come to New York from a small town in the Midwest four years previously, that was
not
his plan at all. Oh no, Dexter Falcon had far grander aspirations.

The name change was first on his agenda—Dexter, in honor of a good-looking character on his mother's all-time favorite nighttime soap. And Falcon—because it was powerful and strong and sounded very masculine.

And so Dexter Falcon was born. Again. It was a memorable day. He was twenty and ready for anything, and a few weeks after arriving in the big city he found “anything” in the person of Mortimer Marcel, a French-born designer whom he bumped into while jogging in Central Park.

“You a model?” Mortimer had asked.

“Actor,” Dexter replied. He'd never acted, never even thought of it. But acting sounded like a far more exciting profession than washing dishes in a deli on Lexington—which is what he was currently doing.

“You could be right for my new underwear line,” Mortimer said brusquely. “I'll audition you tonight. My house. Seven o'clock.” And he'd fished in the pocket of his fashionable running shorts and handed Dexter an engraved card.