Lethal Seduction (3 page)

Dexter had stood considering the possibilities while watching Mortimer jog out of sight. He was not naïve. He knew what went on—especially in a big city like New York. Mortimer Marcel was obviously gay. And Dexter was not.

Mortimer Marcel was also obviously successful. And Dexter was not.

Was there a choice about what he should do?

Yes. He should
not
pursue it. But he'd been handed an opportunity, and it was his destiny to follow it through.

Within six months he was the Mortimer Marcel boy on television, the Internet, in print ads—Marcel even took him to Paris and had him strut the runway wearing the latest line of Mortimer Marcel men's leisure wear.

And he didn't have to do anything sexual. Mortimer had a live-in lover—Jefferson, a handsome black ex-model—who was
as jealous as a wildcat guarding its young, so Mortimer never laid a hand on Dexter, leaving him free to sleep with whoever he liked. And he did. Every night was supermodel night—each girl more gorgeous than the next.

For two years Dexter fulfilled every sexual fantasy he'd ever had, but deep in his heart he wanted more than transient sex. He desperately craved a real relationship with a woman who cared about him. His main desire was to get married, have babies and be forever happy like his parents, who were still together after forty-five blissful years.

One night he met Rosarita at a party. She wasn't supermodel pretty, but she was attractive and seemed to be caring and sweet, and best of all—she hung onto his every word. Since he never had much to say, this was extremely flattering. He liked it. He liked her. They started to date.

Over several dinners she talked about family values and how she loathed the whole New York social scene. He couldn't agree more.

She chatted about her sister's children, and how one day she hoped to have children of her own. Several. She was full of all the old-fashioned virtues he'd been searching for. What a girl!

A month later he asked her to marry him, and she said yes. Six weeks later they did the deed. And on their wedding night they had sex for the first time and it was quite something. Dexter was sure that marrying Rosarita was the best thing he'd ever done.

After they'd been married a few weeks, Rosarita informed him he was far too smart to continue being a model, and she arranged for him to go see an agent at William Morris. He did so, and the agent assured him they could make him a star and immediately began sending him out on auditions.

Dexter was elated. So was Rosarita.

Over the next two months he almost landed a Clint Eastwood movie. Very nearly got cast in a Martin Scorsese masterpiece. Just missed being Gwyneth Paltrow's lover in a Miramax film. And then, on his agent's advice, after several months of no auditions at all, he signed for a one-year stint on
Dark Days.

“Do it,” his agent insisted. “Once you get the experience behind you, they'll all be chasing after you.”

From the moment he signed on for the soap, Rosarita's attitude changed. From sweet she turned to sour, complaining about everything, including the fact that they were unable to go out most nights because he had a 5:00 a.m. call every day. She nagged him continually. Nothing he ever did was good enough. Until finally, six weeks ago, she'd started muttering about divorce.

Dexter could not believe it. Divorce! They'd only been married eighteen months. Divorce was unthinkable. Not in
his
family. For a start, it would kill his parents. Besides, he was quite happy with the way things were.

So after much thought he'd devised a plan to calm her down. When they were first going out he'd taken her home to meet his mom and dad—Martha and Matt. She'd loved them, and they her. The only other time she'd seen them since was at their wedding—which had turned out to be an enormous affair. Fortunately, Rosarita's father had paid for the lavish event,
and
bought them a large apartment in Manhattan, plus a sleek Mercedes as a wedding present—which they hardly ever got to drive because it was too difficult finding a parking spot in the city.

Martha and Matt Cockranger were Dexter's secret weapon. He was flying them in to New York for a surprise visit. He'd already instructed the maid to prepare the guest bedroom, and he'd booked a limo to meet them at the airport. They were arriving tonight, hence the smile on his face.

If Martha and Matt Cockranger couldn't talk some sense into Rosarita,
nobody
could.

A
NTON
C
OUCH GAVE GREAT PARTY
. A stickler for detail, he hosted dinners that were always the best. Two tables of twelve—twenty-four people who were either glamorous, talented, witty or extraordinarily rich. A New York mix with flavor.

As Madison entered Anton's fire-red living room she immediately checked out the group. Once she'd seen John Gotti there—before his incarceration. And there were often movie stars, politicians and rock stars in attendance.

Tonight she spotted the legendary Kris Phoenix—rock icon supreme, with his trademark spiked hair and intense blue eyes. Although almost fifty, he still had a magnetic quality. Like Mick Jagger, Rod Stewart and Eric Clapton, he never seemed to change. Kris was deep in conversation with music mogul Clive Davis. Since she knew Clive, she began heading in their direction, only to be stopped by Jamie's husband, Peter, who stepped in front of her, martini glass in one hand and a silly grin on his somewhat bland face. Peter had that “just came back from a weekend in the Hamptons” look. Like his wife, he was tall, with a light year-round tan, aquamarine eyes and tousled blond hair. He and Jamie made a spectacular couple.

“How's my wife's best friend?” he asked, favoring her with a lascivious leer.

“Fine, thank you,” she said, thinking,
Uh-oh, one more martini and he's over the edge.

“I hear you and my gorgeous wife had lunch today,” he remarked.

“We certainly did.”

“Talk about me, did you?” he asked, flirting.

“We
always
talk about you,” she answered lightly. “Surely you know you're the most interesting subject in our universe?”

“Wish I was,” he said ruefully, sipping his martini. “Truth is, I think my wife's going off me.”

“Why would you say that?”

“I don't know . . . I sort of sense it.”

Madison shrugged. “What can I say?”

“Nothing. If she
does
go off me and throws me out, I'll simply have to come live with you.”

“That'll be fun,” Madison said dryly. “You can sleep with the dog.”

“You
know
I've always had my eye on you,” he said, edging closer.

Oh, God—she hated it when Peter drank. He invariably came out with the same tired old lines, and nobody ever complained to Jamie because they all knew he didn't mean it.

“How's the stock market?” she asked, hurriedly changing the subject.

“You wanna talk stocks with me?” he said, licking his lips. “You want me to
investigate
your portfolio?”

“Excuse me, Peter,” she said, backing away. “I must find Anton.”

“Y'know, Maddy, I don't get it,” he said, coming after her. “What's a beautiful woman like you doing all by herself?”

“My choice, Peter,” she said coolly.

“David was a fool.”

“We simply had different agendas.”

“Yeah,” he laughed scornfully. “Have you
seen
David's agenda? Big tits and no brains.”

“When did
you
see her?” Madison asked, frowning, unaware that Peter and her ex-boyfriend were still in touch.

“We had dinner one night when Jamie was out of town.
He'd been calling, bugging me to get together with him and his new bride.”

“Bugging
you?” Madison said, remembering David's less-than-flattering opinion of Peter. He'd once invested in the market with him and lost a bundle. This did not sit well with David, who expected to win at everything he did.

“I said yes. Had nothing else to do.”

“What was she like?” Madison couldn't help asking, furious with herself for doing so.

“Bimbo with big tits, you know the type.”

“No, actually I don't,” she said coldly.

“He was crazy to give you up,” Peter said, getting close enough so she could smell his boozy breath.

“Where's Jamie?” she asked abruptly, once more backing away.

“Met Kris Phoenix and had a total meltdown. What
is
it with you women and these rock stars?”

“We grew up watching him, Peter. In college he was our idol, the best of the older rock stars.”

“Really? First sexual stirrings and all that?”

“Wouldn't
you
like to know.”

“As a matter of fact, I would.”

“Well, you're not going to.”

“Hmm . . .” he said, rocking on his heels. “Since you lunched with my wife today, isn't it only fair that you lunch with me tomorrow?” Another deeply horny look. “I could examine your portfolio in detail.”

She knew he wasn't serious, it was only the booze talking—or was it, in view of Jamie's suspicions? “How about
not
ordering another martini tonight, Peter,” she said gently. “You know Jamie hates it when you drink.”

“How about . . . minding your own business.”

She looked around for someone she knew. This conversation was going nowhere, and it was time to escape. “I really do have to go find Anton,” she said. “See you later.”

“I hope we're sitting together,” he called after her.

Yeah. Right.
She was just about to make sure that they weren't.

Anton was pleased to see her. He was a diminutive man with inquisitive eyes, a spontaneous smile and expansive gestures—he had a warmth about him that was most appealing. Somehow he and Jamie had turned out to be a great business mix, much in demand to decorate the homes of the rich and frivolous—homes that eventually appeared between the covers of
Architectural Digest
and
In Style.
Anton usually came up with an innovative concept for their clients, and Jamie followed through. Since putting them in business together, Jamie's father had more than recouped his original investment.

“Amazing turnout, as usual,” Madison said, surveying the room and spotting the powerful agent Mort Janklow talking to publishers Sonny Mehta and Michael Korda in one corner, while across the room Betsy Bloomingdale, visiting from California, dominated the conversation with a group of New York wives—including a striking Georgette Mosbacher.

“I always try to mix it up,” Anton said modestly.

“And you
always
succeed,” Madison said. “I wish you'd let me write about
you.”

“No personal publicity—that's why all my ladies trust me. You'd be amazed what they tell me when I'm suggesting a new fabric for their dining room walls.”

“Knowing you, I wouldn't be surprised if you stashed a little microphone in the wall,” Madison said, grinning. “You
love
hearing all the gossip.”

“I certainly do, my dear,” Anton replied. “However, my strength is that I don't repeat it—not even to you.”

They both laughed.

“If I were looking for Jamie, where would I find her?” Madison asked.

“In the guest bathroom,” Anton replied. Lowering his voice he added, “I think Kris Phoenix propositioned her, she's run off to recover.”

“And what was Peter doing while all this was going on?”

“Getting drunk,” Anton said. “Haven't you noticed?”

“I'll try to keep an eye on him for you.”

“Do,” Anton replied. “If there's one thing I crave, it's peace and harmony.”

“Sure,” Madison said disbelievingly. “If you liked peace and harmony, you wouldn't throw such incredible dinner parties every month.”

“One's got to have a social life,” Anton said with a sly smile. “By the way, your mother called me.”

“My
mother?” she said, surprised.

“You do have a mother, don't you?” Anton said crisply. “You didn't just spring from the streets of New York with a pen in your hand.”

“Of course I have a mother, but why would she call
you?”

“Stella, isn't it?”

“Yes, the beautiful Stella.”

“If she's anything like you, she must certainly be
very
beautiful.”

“Oh, c'mon,” Madison said, embarrassed by his compliment. “My mother is a
real
beauty. Marilyn Monroe in her heyday.”

“How exciting,” Anton said. “I would've
loved
a mother that resembled the divine Marilyn.”

“What did Stella want?”

“To inquire about a design concept for their new apartment.”

“What
new apartment?” Madison said, puzzled. “My parents live in Connecticut. They haven't lived in New York for ten years.”

“Apparently they're moving back.”

“I don't get it,” she said, completely bewildered. “First of all, why would Stella call you and not Jamie? And secondly, how come I don't know about this so-called apartment?”

“Maybe they're planning to surprise you.”

“Yeah, sure—that'll be the day. The only surprise my mother ever gave me was when she once complimented a piece I wrote on Eddie Murphy.”

“Eddie Murphy?”

“Yeah. Can you believe it? I write about politicians and all these other fascinating people, and the
only
one she has anything to say about is Eddie Murphy.”

“Maybe she likes them black and bold,” Anton said with a knowing chuckle.