Lethal Seduction (24 page)

“No, Rosarita,” he said patiently.
“You
picked the restaurant.”

“Well,” she said truculently, refusing to let him off the hook,
“you
took me there.”

“I'm sorry you're not feeling good,” he said. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“Some juice,” she said, pulling the sheet to her chin.

“That's not good for your stomach. Too much acid.”

“Then don't ask me if I want anything,” she said peevishly.

“I'll have Conchita make you a cup of herbal tea and some toast,” he said, wishing she could be a little nicer toward him, right now he needed love and support, not constant bitching.

“Sounds
very
appetizing,” she sneered, stepping out of bed, grabbing her silk robe and marching into the bathroom before him.

The reason she was in such a bad mood was because it had started to occur to her that Joel was never going to accept her calls again. He was being utterly unfair, although she knew why he was doing it. Joel was obviously furious that she was still married and hadn't dumped Dex. Joel had had enough. And
rightly so. If the situation were reversed, she would feel exactly the same way.

One thing she knew for sure, she was
not
letting Joel Blaine slip away—he was far too important a catch.

She, Rosarita Vincent Falcon, was going to be the first Mrs. Joel Blaine—even if it killed her.

“I
DON
'
T GET IT
,” Victor boomed, his deep voice louder than ever. “It's not like you to drop out of sight. And now you've done it twice.”

“I've had personal problems,” Madison explained, hoping that he'd let it go at that, sure that he wouldn't, because Victor was one of those people who had to know everything.

“Something to do with the detective you wanted to hire?” he asked.

“No, Victor,” she said brusquely. “Nothing to do with that.”

“Then what?”

“Hey, listen,” she said, her voice rising. “Aren't my personal problems mine? Isn't that the way things are supposed to work?”

“Is it David?” Victor asked, determined to find out.

“No, it's not David,” she said, hanging on to her patience by a thread. “When will you get it into your head that David is my past.”

“No need to get snippy.”

“Anyway,” she sighed. “Thought I'd check in, because I know you get panicked when you don't hear from me. I've been
researching the boxer—he'll be an interesting interview. And I haven't talked to Jake Sica, but I will.”

“No need,” Victor said. “He already called me.”

“He
called
you?”
she said, thinking,
Oh that's great, isn't it? I sleep with the guy and it's Victor he calls. What the hell is the matter with him? Are all men totally into themselves?

“He phoned from Paris to find out if the magazine wanted to use him again,” Victor said. “I told him we both thought it was a good idea for him to cover the Vegas fight with you.”

“You did, huh?” she said evenly.

“That's what you wanted, isn't it?”

“It's what I wanted a week ago. I'm not so sure now.”

“Why?” Victor said, prying as usual. “Haven't you heard from him?”

“Of course I've heard from him,” she lied, although the truth was that when she'd played back her sixteen messages, there wasn't one from Jake. And that was something else to add to her pile of woes. “Am I supposed to see him in Vegas, or is he coming through New York?” she asked, all business.

“Said he'll let me know. Or you. Whichever one of us gets lucky. And from what I can tell”—a crafty chuckle—
“you've
already gotten lucky.”

“Drop it, Victor,” she said coldly. “As I've told you before, I really do not appreciate you messing in my private affairs.”

“You're very testy, Madison.”

“And
you're
very nosy.”

“I sent Evelyn flowers from you. Orchids, in case you're interested. She was delighted, wants to set up a new date.”

“Oh, for crissakes, I'm not in the mood for dates.”

“Evelyn insists.”

“Tell Evelyn to shove it up her ass.”

“Madison!”

“Sorry, Victor,” she said with a sigh, putting down the phone.

At least she'd taken care of business. She couldn't let her career go south while she worried about everything else.

She'd taken a trip to the photo shop around the corner and
had the newspaper photo of her mother blown up and laminated. Now it stood on her dresser; this picture of a beautiful woman with soulful eyes and clouds of black, curly hair. This beautiful woman who was her mother.

We have the same hair,
she thought.
The same cheekbones, the same eyes. We look exactly alike, except Beth is prettier than me.

There were messages from Michael on the machine, and from David, who was obviously intent on calling her until she gave in and met with him—something she had no intention of doing. There were other business calls. And several entreaties from Jamie to please phone back immediately because she and Peter were worried about her.

She hadn't planned on returning any other calls, only Victor's, but Jamie was important to her, and it wasn't fair to shut her out completely, so she picked up the phone. “Before you say anything,” she said quickly, as soon as Jamie answered, “I'm sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“I understand you feel like shit,” Jamie said, a tad uptight. “But couldn't you at least let your friends know you're still alive?”

“Jamie, please understand. There's so much going on, more than I can tell you over the phone. It's really bad.”

“What?” Jamie said, sounding alarmed. “Are you sick?”

“No, it's . . . more things about my past.”

“Bad things?”

“Remember the detective who was supposed to work for you? I had her kind of check out some stuff for me, and what she's come up with is . . . Oh God, it's impossible to talk about now.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Nothing, except be there when I need you.”

“I'm always here, so is Peter, but please—don't shut us out. It makes me nervous.”

“I promise.”

“And the next time you ignore your phone for days on end, I'm coming by and breaking down the door. Is that understood?”

“Absolutely.”

“As a matter of fact,” Jamie said. “I called your doorman, the one with the crush on you. He informed me you had flu and didn't want to see anybody. I told him to go to the deli and buy you chicken soup. Did he?”

“Yes,” Madison said, laughing softly. “And he wouldn't let me pay for it.”

“Good,” Jamie said.

“Not good. It puts me in his debt, and I hate that.”

“It's only chicken soup, Maddy.”

“Okay, okay, you're right.”

“Now,” Jamie said. “When can we get together?”

“In a few days.”

“Don't you think talking about things will help?”

Madison realized it probably would, only right now she wasn't in the mood. “Not yet, okay?” she said, hoping Jamie would understand.

Fortunately—good friend that she was—Jamie did. “Fine,” she said. “But don't forget, whenever you're ready, I'm here.”

•

As soon as she hung up, Jamie called Peter at his office. “I finally heard from Madison,” she announced.

“Thank God!” he responded. “Now you can stop worrying.”

“You
were worried too, you have to admit it.”

“Only until we talked to her doorman.”

“Don't you think it's strange that she didn't pick up her phone or call me? After all, she
is
my best friend.”

“I imagine the funeral took it out of her.”

“I'm sure it did.” A beat, then Jamie moved right on. “Anyway,” she said, bubbling with enthusiasm. “I've come up with a fantastic idea.”

“What now?” he said, always wary of his wife's fantastic ideas.

“Natalie will be in Vegas for the fight. And Madison's on assignment for her magazine, interviewing one of the boxers.”

“So?”

“So if I was there too,” she said quickly, “it would be like a real reunion. We'd all be together for Maddy's birthday, and we could throw her a surprise party on the night of the big fight. Doesn't that sound like a terrific idea?”

“Haven't you forgotten something?” Peter said.

“What?”

“Vegas is my most unfavorite place in the world, and much as I love you, my darling, I do
not
plan on spending one single minute there.”

“Oh, Peter—
please.
It would be such a great surprise for her.”

“No, honey,” he said, mind made up. “Anywhere else but Vegas. That place makes me nauseous, I can't do it.”

“Peter!”

“I
said
no. I do most things you want, but not this.”

Peter had a strong stubborn streak, so Jamie knew there was no point in pushing any further. “It was just an idea,” she said dejectedly. “I thought it would be fun to surprise Maddy, especially as she's so down. All of us being there would make her birthday special.”

“We'll send her flowers,” he said. “We'll buy her a present at Tiffany's—we'll even have a party for her when she gets back,
and
fly Natalie in. How's that?”

“I guess,” Jamie said, barely able to conceal her disappointment.
Hmm,
she thought,
what's so terrible about Vegas that he can't make an effort to spend a couple of days there?

Peter was a wonderful husband and lover, but sometimes he could be downright selfish, and this was obviously one of those times.

That night, when Peter arrived home, she tried persuading him again, soon realizing it was a no-go situation.

Later, when he wanted to make love, she informed him she had a headache and rolled across the bed, putting space between them. Then she picked up a copy of
In Style
and began to read.

“Okay,” Peter said, not sounding too upset. “Reject your husband.” And he clicked on the TV, immediately channel surfing to a ball game.

Ten minutes later he was asleep, the clicker clutched firmly in his hand.

Jamie put down her magazine and gently tried to extract his precious clicker. Since every man considers the clicker an extension of his penis, this was not an easy task. Even in his sleep, Peter held firm. “I'm watching,” he mumbled.

Ha!
she thought.
You won't go to Vegas to make your wife happy. You won't even let me watch what I want. Why can't you be generous and giving, like me?

She wasn't about to stay in bed staring at a stupid ball game, so she got up and went into the spacious walk-in closet they shared.

The first thing she noticed was Peter's wallet sitting on top of his dresser.

It occurred to her that she'd never done the detective's little test, it seemed so foolish. Why would Peter be carrying a condom when they never
used
condoms? The whole thing was ridiculous.

However . . . what did she have to lose?

Nothing to gain either, but still . . . it was too tempting to resist, so she reached for his wallet, an expensive black alligator number she'd bought him at Gucci two Christmases ago, and felt guilty because early on in their marriage they'd agreed never to invade each other's privacy.

Gingerly she opened the wallet. Credit cards. Money. A photo of the two of them on their honeymoon. And a condom.

A
condom!

She could hardly believe her eyes. A condom in his wallet, exactly as the detective had suspected there would be.

Oh my God!
she thought.
This is totally bad.

Her first instinct was to race into the bedroom, shake him awake and say, “What in God's name are you doing with a
condom
in your wallet?”

But she didn't. She stayed calm, remembering what Madison had said. She fetched a felt-tip pen from the study, went back into the dressing room and made a tiny mark on the corner of the package. Then she put it back exactly where she'd found it, leaving his wallet in the same place.

Seething with fury, she climbed back into bed, only to discover that Peter was snoring, a half smile on his face.

Damn him! What if Madison and the detective were right? What if when she looked again the condom was replaced with a fresh packet?

She'd kill him, that's what she'd do. She'd cut off his precious dick, slice it off just like Lorena Bobbitt. Only she wouldn't throw it out of a car window, she'd stuff it down the waste disposal where it belonged.

Revenge.
Hell had no fury like Jamie—the perfect, stylish blonde.

•

Madison and Kimm were eating lunch in a small Italian restaurant on Lexington. Over spaghetti bolognese and large mixed green salads, Kimm filled her in on Beth's sister, whom she'd managed to locate by phone. According to Kimm, the woman refused to have anything to do with Michael. She was especially concerned that he not find out where she was.

“I told her it was you who wanted to meet her, but she was adamant, wants to completely forget her past.”

“I'm her niece,” Madison said, frustrated. “How can she say she doesn't want to meet me?”

“That's how it is,” Kimm said, shrugging.

“She's the only clue to what really happened,” Madison said, frowning. “The only person other than Michael who can tell me anything about my mother.”

“Perhaps you should confront Michael,” Kimm suggested. “Tell
him
what you know. That way he'll be forced to open up.”