Lethal Seduction (31 page)

Joel got off on every show-off moment. This was his time in the sun. He was indulging in an activity his father could
never
top.

Joel Blaine—exhibitionist.

Joel Blaine—number one.

Yeah. He liked this action a lot.

Occasionally he glanced at the digital clock beside the bed. Had to keep an eye on the time; it wouldn't do to keep Madam Sylvia waiting.

“I've missed you, Joel,” Rosarita managed to gasp as he thrust in and out of her. “Have you missed me?”

“Sure have, baby,”
he lied, sweat beading his upper lip as he exerted himself.

“Then how come you changed your phone number without telling me?”

What was it with women? Why did they have to fuck and talk at the same time? Couldn't they shut up for once?

“Whyn't you quit with the small talk, honey, an' concentrate,” he muttered, changing positions. “Here's what I'd like you t'do.”

“Yes, Joel?” she said obediently.

“Get down on all fours,” he said, “we're gonna do it doggie style.”

Okay with her. He was Joel Blaine, Leon Blaine's son. He was also the father of her unborn child, so she was prepared to cooperate all the way. Besides, doggie style was a turn-on.

She tried to imagine his face when she gifted him with the good news about their baby, but first she had to get rid of Dex, then, after a few weeks of mourning, she'd tell him.

He grunted.

She came.

Getting together again was better than a day at the spa.

By the time she left the hotel, she felt like she'd experienced a vigorous workout, which in fact she had. She reminded herself to ask Dr. Shipp if too much sex was bad for the baby. Perhaps she shouldn't be
quite
so adventurous.

The hotel doorman hailed her a cab. She sat in the backseat, touching up her makeup. Sex with Joel was a trip. Sex with Dex was not nearly as much fun. Either a guy had it or he didn't. Dex didn't. And you would think that he would, what with all the experience he'd had in the modeling world.

Hmm . . .
Maybe he was secretly gay. He never got down and dirty the way Joel did. Yes, maybe Dex had gay tendencies he hadn't faced up to. After all, he'd been discovered by Mortimer Marcel, and nobody was gayer than Mr. Marcel.

Whatever . . .

She didn't care . . . all she wanted was Dex gone.

•

As soon as Joel entered the bar, Madam Sylvia waved him over to her table. She was not at all what he'd expected. He'd imagined worldly sophistication. Instead he was confronted by a short, dumpy woman with a heavily lined face, hardly any makeup, reddish, thinning hair and a complacent expression. She was wearing an ordinary moss-green suit and unobtrusive matching earrings. She looked like a housewife from the suburbs, not a notorious madam.

“You're
Madam Sylvia?” he said, hardly able to conceal the surprise in his voice.

“Yes,” she answered. “What were you expecting? A glamour-puss?”

“Hadn't thought about it,” he lied. “You hardly look like you're in the madam business.”

“That's the whole point,” she said, cackling heartily. “Nobody would ever suspect me, would they? I can hardly see
me
being hauled off for pandering, unlike—who was that girl in California?”

“Heidi Fleiss.”

“Ah yes,” she said, nodding knowingly. “Well, you see, the smart ones, like me and the late Madam Alex—one of the greats—
never
flaunt ourselves. We keep a discreet low profile.”

“That's nice to know.”

A smug smile. “It pleases our clients.”

“I'm sure it does.”

“Sit down, Mr. Blaine, and tell me what I can do for you.”

“It's like this,” he said, pulling up a chair and getting right to it. “There's a woman I'm interested in, and I think she's interested in me too. But she has a little uh . . . indiscretion that she's into playing out.”

“Indiscretions are my specialty,” Madam Sylvia said with a superior smirk.

“That's what I've heard,” Joel said, clicking his fingers for a waiter and ordering a Dewar's on the rocks.

“Then maybe you'd better tell me what it is,” Madam Sylvia said.

“She uh . . .” He glanced around the spacious room, making sure there was no one within earshot. “Likes 'em young.”

“How young?” Madam Sylvia said matter-of-factly. “I won't go below twelve.”

“Not that young,” he said. “Fifteen, sixteen will do. Puerto Rican. Hot looking. Kind of a junior Ricky Martin.”

Madam Sylvia repeated her knowing nod. “It'll be expensive,” she said.

“I can deal with that,” Joel said, eyeballing a tall, thin blonde on her way to the bar.

“When do you require this?”

“Gotta get back to you with the dates. I have t'be sure you can supply the goods.”

“I'll need twenty-four-hours' notice.”

“I understand,” he said as the waiter brought his drink.

“Do you want the price now?” Madam Sylvia inquired.

He took a couple of fast gulps of scotch. “Makes no difference to me,” he said, wondering why she would even bother to ask.

“Ah yes, I forgot,” Madam Sylvia said. “Can't scare a rich kid, isn't that right?”

Joel laughed and took another mouthful of scotch. “So, tell me,” he said, warming up to this dumpy woman. “Who're some of your clients?”

Madam Sylvia smiled mysteriously. “Wouldn't
you
like to know,” she said. “And wouldn't
you
be surprised if you did.”

“Truth is I'd never heard of you till Testio filled me in,” Joel said. “Had no idea this kind of service existed for women.”

“Why shouldn't it? There are respectable women in this town married to powerful, hardworking men—men who simply have no time for them. And there are certain things the husbands refuse to do to their wives sexually. So the wives use
my
service to satisfy their needs.”

“Doesn't that make them—?”

“What,
Mr. Blaine?” Madam Sylvia interrupted.

“Whores,” he said, before he could stop himself.

“No, it makes them female johns,” she said with a tight little smile. “I'm sure you find nothing wrong with
male
johns, do you?”

“That's different.”

“Not at all. Women desire the same amenities as men. And
I
make sure they get them.”

“So your service is for women only.”

Another mysterious smile. “Yes. And believe me, Mr. Blaine, I am
very
much in demand.”

•

“I wish ya wouldn't do that,” Chas grumbled, glaring at Varoomba, who was beginning to annoy him.

“What?” she asked innocently.

“Cut your freakin' toenails in the bedroom.”

“Somethin' wrong with my toenails?”

“It ain't a very ladylike thing t'do.”

“Oh crap,” she snapped, fed up with his constant criticism. “You've not got me livin' with you 'cause I'm ladylike, Chas.”

“No,” he agreed. “But if ya do somethin' that pisses me off, I gotta tell ya, right?”

“What pisses you off about me cuttin' my toenails, for crissakes?” she said, waving her foot at him.

He could see he was getting nowhere with this argument. “Do it in the bathroom,” he said gruffly. “That's an order.”

“Huh!” she said, jumping off the bed, her huge breasts shaking with indignation. “Any other orders you'd like me to take care of today? Such as suckin' your big, fat cock?”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise at her rudeness.
“What
didja say?”

“You heard,” she answered insolently.

It occurred to him that this relationship might not be working out. Varoomba was getting on his nerves, and even though he appreciated her incredible assets—enough was enough.

How
to get rid of her, that was the problem. Unfortunately that was
always
the problem. Especially with this one, as he'd persuaded her to give up her job and move out of her apartment. Some dumb mistake
that
was. Now he was stuck with her, and that wasn't good.

But he had a plan. Chas always had a plan. Vegas was coming up. She'd asked him the other night if he was taking her, and he'd said yes. She'd been excited because, as she'd informed him, her grandmother lived there. Bingo! They'd go to Vegas, and while they were away, he'd have his housekeeper pack up her things and transfer them to a rented apartment. By the time they got back, she'd be moved out. He'd buy her a mink coat, hand her a few thou in cash, take care of her rent for three months and it would be good-bye Varoomba. Nobody could ever accuse Chas Vincent of not being a sport.

On the other hand, if Varoomba wasn't around, he'd have to find himself another woman, because he couldn't take being alone—constant silence drove him nuts. Besides, he slept badly when there wasn't a warm body lying next to him. And he had a thing about tits. Big, warm, comforting tits.

Why couldn't he find a woman who behaved herself and didn't get aggravating?

Why couldn't he find a girl who was more like his daughter Venice?

Now Venice was a peach. Whereas all
he
ended up with were sour plums.

It occurred to him that maybe he was looking in all the wrong places. It might be a good idea to broaden his horizons, move out of the bars and strip clubs and get into the real world.

No, he thought glumly. In his experience, real-world women weren't any better, and even more important, they didn't have the tits to get a man
really
hot.

•

When Rosarita arrived home, Dexter was on his way out. Now it was her turn to question him. “Where are
you
off to?” she asked.

“Got a call from Silver Anderson,” he said. “She says she has to see me.”

“Silver Anderson?” Rosarita said. “What does
that
old bag want?”

“She mentioned something about a script.”

“Not another one of those dreary soaps, I hope,” Rosarita said, trying to conceal a satisfied yawn.

“Who knows?” Dexter said. “It's worth finding out.”

“Well, try not to be long, 'cause I'm starving.”

“Everything okay with Chas?”

“Who?”

“Your dad.”

“Oh, yes,” she said quickly, remembering her excuse. “Everything's fine.”

“You look flushed.”

“I hate riding in cabs. All those stupid foreigners drive like maniacs. They should send every one of them back to where they came from.”

“For God's sake, it's not nice to say things like that.”

She threw him a look. Dex was such a tight ass; she couldn't wait to never have to see him again.

“I'll be back soon,” he said. “Get into bed, rest and look after yourself.”

“I plan to,” Rosarita said, wishing he'd leave already. “I plan to look after myself all the way.”

•

A Filipino houseman came to the door of Silver's apartment and ushered Dexter in. “Follow me, please,” the man said, leading Dexter into a large living room, where Silver lolled on a brocade-covered chaise lounge. She was clad in a pale-peach negligee trimmed with dyed-to-match fox fur. On her feet were high-heeled silver mules.

Dexter's stomach dropped—it was definitely an “out to seduce” outfit, and he had no intention of allowing himself to be seduced again. Especially as somewhere in the future he was going to become a daddy.

“Hi, Silver,” he said, hovering in the doorway.

“Dexter, darling,
do
come in and sit down,” she said, waving a languid arm in his direction.

He'd never visited her apartment before. He entered the living room tentatively and glanced around, noting it was quite luxurious, in the diva style. There were enormous white couches, leopard throws and a great many ornate silver frames with pictures of Silver cozying up to various celebrities—not to mention a President or two. He couldn't help being impressed as he settled down on the vast couch opposite her chaise.

“Drink?” she offered.

“I'll pass,” he said.

“How about a glass of champagne to celebrate?”

“Celebrate what?”

She picked up a bound script from the marble coffee table and tossed it over to him. “Our new project, darling,” she drawled. “Forget about agents and managers.
I'm
the one who'll make you a star!
I'm
the one to whom you're going to be very grateful indeed.”

And he believed her.

Why shouldn't he?

M
ADISON AND
K
IMM
were sitting side by side on the plane, but there was no talking going on. Madison had a hangover from hell; everything hurt, especially her head. She gazed out of the window as the plane prepared for takeoff. God! What a way to handle things—getting drunk and laid. Big answer. Very smart.

She was mad at herself, and Kimm was mad at her because she hadn't gotten back to the hotel until 6:00 a.m. “Did it ever occur to you that I might be worried out of my mind about you?” Kimm had said.

“Sorry,” she'd mumbled, heading straight for the shower.

Standing in the shower for almost an hour, letting the cold water bring her back to reality, she'd thought about everything going on in her life, and it wasn't pleasant.

“Anyway,” she'd said, when she'd finally emerged, “I was under the impression you were too busy having fun.”

“I was,” Kimm admitted. “Not a one-night stand—just fun.”

“Okay,” Madison had said. “No lectures. I know what I did. I fucked up. I had an opportunity to convince my aunt we could mean something to each other and I blew it. I sat in her office in a drunken haze, listening to everything she had to say and
hardly reacting at all. Then I ran off with Juan and indulged in a night of mindless sex. Good move, huh?”