Lovers and Liars (56 page)

T
wo nights in a row.

And last night he had told her she was a knockout.

Even his Brooklyn accent made her cream.

Mary smiled brightly as Abe handed her a glass of Chablis. The couch dipped as he sat next to her, smiling. “We’re gonna celebrate tonight, doll, whaddya say?”

“Let’s start right now,” Mary said, snuggling closer.

He laughed. “You’re the horniest broad I’ve ever met, Mary. And I like this dress on you.”

“Thank you,” Mary said. Last night he had given her more money, told her to buy herself another knockout dress. Told her he liked seeing her in dresses, low-cut ones. Mary had never felt sexier or more powerful than she did now. She had even lost two pounds. From all the fucking, she was sure.

“How old are you, Mary?”

Mary looked at him. “Twenty-four. Going on twenty-five.”

“You like kids?”

She blinked. “I guess so.”

“How come you don’t have any?”

“I’m only twenty-four, Abe.”

“How come you don’t have any?” he repeated impatiently.

“Vince said we couldn’t afford it yet.”

“Kids are expensive,” Abe said in agreement. Then he put down his beer and pulled her onto his lap. “C’mere.” He pulled her bodice down, freeing her breasts. He groaned. Mary felt her groin turn to liquid. He crushed her breasts in his two large hands, his mouth on hers, his tongue invading.

He pulled her into the bedroom. They stripped hastily, breathlessly, as if they were teenagers. “Look at us.” Abe laughed. “Like a couple of goddamn kids.” But his eyes were dark and unlaughing as they moved over her body.

Mary laughed, too, huskily and shakily, lying back on the bed, spreading her legs. Abe loomed over her with his huge red penis swollen and stiff, looking down on her. “I’ve never given you head, have I, Mary?” he said.

He knelt on the bed between her thighs, pushing them farther apart. “Spread ’em as far as you can. Farther. Come on, bend your knees …” She gasped when his thumbs spread her pussy lips and his tongue began a slow, patient journey, traveling back and forth over her hugely swollen clit, washing it devoutly until she came, screaming.

He chuckled.

He shifted around with his head still between her legs
and his cock over her face, dipping for her mouth. She grabbed him and nibbled, then began sucking the huge hammerlike head. He grabbed her cheeks to hold her in place and licked. Mary came again with Abe’s face buried in her cunt. When reality returned she became aware of Abe, thrusting deeper and deeper into her throat, half choking her. But she sucked him like a vacuum, and when he started coming in long, thick spurts, she sucked harder, as if to draw every drop out she possibly could.

“Jesus!” he said, panting.

“Mmmm.”

A bit later he said, “I don’t think you want kids.”

She stared. “What?”

“I want to set you up, Mary. As my mistress.”

She sat up. Her breasts bounced. For once Abe did not grab one. She stared.

“I’m not in love with you—I’m too old for that—but I can’t get enough of you. You know that, don’t you, doll?”

“Yes,” she managed.

“I don’t love my wife and I don’t fuck her, but I’ll never leave her. I want to make that clear.” He grinned. “I’ll give you whatever you want, Mary—cars, homes, yachts, furs, jewels. You just have to make me happy.”

Mary had a vision. She saw herself stepping out of a private jet in a Russian sable, by Fendi, of course. She was wearing a Chanel dress. Around her throat was a choker of diamonds worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. She descended from the jet like royalty. Below, on the concourse, her mother—clad in blue jeans, without makeup, her hair a mess from the wind—waited, a begging supplicant. Mary looked at Abe.

He laughed. “I know how to take care of a broad, Mary.”

“Yes.”

“But this is an exclusive thing. No other guys. First off, because I don’t ever share what’s mine; second, because of AIDS.”

“What about Vince?”

“He’s a loser. I want to fly you and your husband down
to Vegas. You two will get divorced—I’ll pay him off if there’s any problems. And when we’re through, Mary, you’ll see, I’ll be generous. You’ll be way ahead of the game. Well?”

“Yes,” Mary said, breathless, her heart pounding with excitement. Her cunt was so wet and tight she thought she might faint. “Yes, yes.”

111

T
he cunt.

The no-good, rich-bitch cunt.

Canceling on him at the last goddamn minute.

Adam was furious.

To make matters worse, he hadn’t been able to stay in town that weekend to take her out even for a single night because he would have looked pussy-whipped for changing his plans. So he’d taken Cerisse to Santa Barbara instead of Belinda—the cunt—and of course Cerisse had been amusing, but he was temporarily stalled. Losing time.

And he’d had to wait a few days before calling her after he got back to town. So it wouldn’t look like he was chasing her. And she wasn’t in. Or she wasn’t answering her phone. Damn and double damn.

He was not going to forget this.

Oh, no.

   She wasn’t answering her phone.

Either that or she was out every night.

And she hadn’t returned his two calls.

Peter Lansing was pissed.

And starting to feel as if he’d been had.

Just when he was becoming furious, realizing he was
right, she called—sounding as sweet as ever, and for some reason Peter felt relief.

“You free tonight?” he asked bluntly. Wanting to see her. Horny as hell. Maybe more. There was something about Melody. Something so innocent. Sort of like the girl next door. It was possible he was starting to have feelings for her that transcended sex.

“Oh, Peter, I’m exhausted. I’ve been working. I need to have an early night.”

He wasn’t disappointed. He was angry. He hung up, positive she had used him.

How could he have been such a sucker?

   Vince was so angry he put his fist through the living room wall at Ron’s.

That bitch had paid him.

Fucked him and paid him.

He had thrown the money back in her beautiful Irish face.

Now he turned to face Mary, who was watching him wide-eyed. “What’s the fucking rush?”

“Please, Vince. Why not?”

He couldn’t believe she wanted to fly to Vegas for a divorce. “I’m not in the mood to deal with this now.”

“Well, you’ll have to,” Mary said, standing.

He eyed her. Something had changed, and it wasn’t just the designer jacket and high heels. She was glowing. She actually looked good. He suddenly had the urge for a farewell bang. And why not? It wasn’t as if they were strangers—they were still married.

“You look great,” Vince said.

Mary looked surprised. She was even more surprised when he came close and pulled her against him. “Vince!”

“You smell good too,” he said, nuzzling her hair.

She pushed herself free. “What are you doing?”

“Old time’s sake?”

“Forget it, you bastard! Look, I’m going to be honest with you, Vince. I’m seeing someone. So I want to end this as soon as possible.”

“What!”

“I’m seeing someone, and there’s no point in dragging this out,” Mary said, smiling.

“Who?” he shouted, furious. “Who are you seeing? And how long has
this
been going on?”

“What do you care?”

“Goddammit, who the fuck is it?”

“Abe Glassman,” Mary said proudly.

   
Abe Glassman
.

Will Hayward kept repeating the name in his mind, like a litany. It was what kept him going. There were a hundred ways to do it. He had to pick only one.

“Sir?”

He focused on the woman across the counter. “I’d like a round-trip ticket to L.A.”

Abe Glassman was not going to kill him.

Will was going to kill Abe Glassman.

112

A
be had loaned her the silver stretch.

It cruised slowly through the brick-walled entrance and up the long, curved drive of her mother’s mansion. Mary sat in the backseat, clad in a blue-and-black print dress by Ungaro, Jourdan pumps, a Chanel bag. She was admiring the ten-carat diamond pendant Abe had bought her this morning, one she had wisely not worn while with Vince. It sparkled and caught even the tiniest, faintest shaft of light. It was nearly flawless.

She realized, surprised and bemused, that she hadn’t had the urge for a toot since she had started seeing Abe again.

That man was all the high she needed.

Imagine—she, Mary Spazzio, the glamorous, sexy mistress of a billionaire.

Damn Vince for being so stupidly full of macho pride.

The limo stopped. Mary waited until the driver opened her door; then she slid out. She was disappointed that her mother didn’t see her arrival, but then, what did she expect? Celia to be waiting like a maid on the front steps?

A valet, someone new, let her in and told her to wait in the living room. Mary debated ignoring him. After all, she knew this house; she was the daughter; and if she wanted to, she could damn well go where she pleased. But then she decided her entrance would have more impact if she waited. Celia appeared within five minutes.

“Mary?” she asked, as if unsure of her own daughter’s identity.

Mary stood casually. “Hi, Mom. I came to tell you the good news.”

Unfortunately her mother looked very chic and elegant in a skintight designer jumpsuit. Chic and elegant and thin. Mary started to feel fat. Then she reminded herself that Abe thought she was perfect the way she was—he had said so. He had told her if she lost weight he would be very upset, and she instantly felt better. He thought skinny broads were ugly. She smiled.

Her mother stared at her pendant. “What is that?”

“Oh, this?” Mary lifted her hand. “A gift.”

“A gift,” Celia Holmes Bradbury Davis echoed.

“Yes.”

“Who would give you a gift like that?”

“Abe Glassman.”

Her mother’s eyes popped.

Mary smiled. Triumph was sweet.

Celia found her voice. “Not
the
Abe Glassman.”

“The
Abe Glassman.”

Celia recovered. “Mary—he’s older than your father. And what about Vince?”