The Bad Always Die Twice

The Bad Always Die Twice

CHERYL CRANE

KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Copyright Page

For JLR.

“Did you not know that you are my hero?”

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the following people for their help, encouragement, and faith in me: Lennie Alickman, Evan Marshall, John Scognamiglio, Tom and Mike, Bill and Marc, and the other CC for all of the above and much, much more.

Chapter 1

N
ikki Harper snagged a Norwegian salmon canapé from a silver tray as a server passed her. Checking her Girard-Perregaux wristwatch, which she rarely wore (how embarrassing was it to own a timepiece that cost as much as a three-bedroom bungalow in Boise?), she popped the delicacy into her mouth. She truly adored extravagant food; it was these extravagant parties she could do without. They were all about seeing and being seen, neither of which appealed to her. She’d spent her entire childhood in the limelight, which still left a sour taste in her mouth. Or would have, had the smoky, salty salmon not been so amazing.

This party, like most she attended in Hollywood, was business, not pleasure. She came to these events because she had to, not because they were supposed to be fun.

According to the superior Swiss timing on her wrist, if she included the time it took in line for the valet parking, she’d been here forty-seven minutes. Surely another thirteen minutes and she could bid her hostess good night and be on her way. If she was lucky, she might even be able to escape before the grand entrance of Victoria Bordeaux, the honored guest of the evening, who was already almost an hour late. The fifties screen goddess would have it no other way.

“Are you staying?” Nikki glanced at her companion. A gaudy crystal chandelier overhead caught her attention, and she wondered how she had managed to sell this white elephant of a mansion in Outpost Estates in Hollywood for the ridiculous asking price. There were five additional, identical crystal monstrosities here in the salon where cocktails were being served.

Golden-haired Jessica Martin, as beautiful as any old-Hollywood screen goddess, regarded Nikki with arched eyebrows. She was wearing a red silk sheath dress that had no doubt been purchased on Rodeo Drive that morning. She completed the ensemble with incredibly tanned, muscular bare legs and her favorite four-inch spike-heeled red Jimmy Choos.

Nikki glanced down at her own attire, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She hoped she didn’t look frumpy in her vintage sleeveless sweater dress and sensible pumps.

At five-foot-ten, she rarely wore high heels; they always made her feel too conspicuous, like she was towering over others. And no matter what she wore, she would never be as curvy as Jessica. She was
willowy,
according to her mother. Translation: skinny and shapeless. The one physical characteristic she had always liked about herself, though, was her red hair—her father’s red hair. Strawberry blond, she wore it just below her shoulders. And her eyes. She’d had a love–hate relationship with
the blue eyes
for years.

“I doubt I’m staying. No one’s here.” Jessica wrinkled her pretty nose.

“Are you kidding? Everyone is here. Mother’s colorist says Angelina’s looking for a new place. Heard she’s adopting more children. You should go talk to her.” Nikki lifted her chin in the direction of the brunette movie icon surrounded by her entourage at the far side of the room.

Jessica sighed. “I’m not up for schmoozing. I think I’m going to go, if you don’t mind.”

She pressed her fingertips to her board-flat abs, reminding Nikki of the avant-garde restaurant on the Sunset Strip where sushi was served on the naked bellies of well-toned waitresses. Jessica could definitely get a job there.

“I’m starving,” Jessica declared.

“Starving? Here?” Nikki eyed a tray of mushroom and lobster thingies going by, just out of reach. “You could feed a small African nation with the amount of food Edith is serving here tonight.”

Edith March was Nikki and Jessica’s client and their hostess for the evening. Actually,
technically
, her husband Rex had been their client. He’d approached the realty company Nikki and Jessica worked for, eight months ago, about putting his tacky Old Spanish–style nine-bedroom home up for sale. The sixty-two-year-old actor had died tragically in a plane crash two months later, before the house had been sold.

His body was never recovered from the single-engine plane he’d been flying solo when he crashed in the California desert. It was a tragedy, of course. Any death in a fiery plane crash was. What was even more tragic, though, was that Rex didn’t seem to be missed all that much. Edith, Rex’s widow, had begun dating only weeks after the memorial service.

The tabloids had struggled to find anything nice to say about the man and his work, and the initial excitement over his untimely death had faded as fast as the luscious taste of lox on Nikki’s tongue. She scanned the room for the nearest red-vested server.

Although Rex had played the occasional small role in films over the years, his one true claim to fame had been the lead in an early seventies family comedy set on a desert island; it wasn’t a great hit at the time, but it had become a residual blockbuster.

Nikki hadn’t personally cared for Rex. He’d been a typical soggy Hollywood has-been who’d never had any talent to begin with nor enough sense to know it. He’d had entirely too large an ego and hands like an octopus.

Edith March, on the other hand, Nikki genuinely adored. Edith was a classy lady who had remained loyal to her philandering husband to his death, and now she was making lemonade out of lemons. With the mansion sold, there was talk of buying a condo in Belize and a penthouse in New York City with her new,
young
boyfriend.

And Edith knew how to throw a party. Everyone was here: the film actors and actresses of the old Hollywood days as well as current box office draws. She was even kind enough to invite a few TV stars. Edith was saying good-bye to the mansion she had never liked, good-bye to her previous life, and maybe a final good-bye to Rex, whose larger-than-life-size portrait was painted as a mural on the wall of the salon.

“I can’t eat here.” Jessica looked at Nikki as if she’d just grown a horn in the middle of her head. Or maybe worn Manolo Blahniks to the gym. “Not in this dress. I haven’t eaten for two days and I still had to lie down on the bed to get it zipped up.” She drew her hand over the red silk and her amazingly fit torso. “Besides. You know me. I don’t eat raw fish eggs. Give me a well-done burger with special sauce any day.”

Nikki chuckled. She and Jessica didn’t see eye to eye on fashion any better than Nikki and her mother did. Nikki was into comfort, old styles, and recycling perfectly good garments from her favorite vintage used clothing stores on Santa Monica in Beverly Hills. Jessica liked her designers big and her heels high. But Jessica was what she was, and Nikki liked her because of it. Sometimes in spite of it. One of Jessica’s most endearing qualities was that she wasn’t any more impressed by celebrities than Nikki was. Their only difference was that Nikki had grown up with them and Jessica slept with them. The combination of their personalities made them a great team at work.

Take this sale, for instance. Jessica had brought the client in; she had catered to him, cooed and batted her lashes at him. Nikki had hit the pavement in search of prospective buyers. In the end, they had both wound up with
phat
commissions.

“Hey, check that out. Ten o’clock.” Jessica eyed the host of a new late-night talk show. She liked her men mature. Preferably
rich
and mature. Sadly, also married. “Know him?”

“Met him.” Nikki glanced at the bar. She wanted a glass of champagne before she was on her way, but there was a casting executive there whom she wanted to avoid.

“
Mother’s?
” Jessica questioned dryly.

“Where else?”

“Nikki! Darling! How good of you to come.” Their hostess squeezed through her crowd of guests and enveloped Nikki in plump arms and yards of buttercup yellow chiffon. Hugging the breath out of her, Edith March still managed to keep the champagne glass in her hand from tipping and spilling its contents on the floor, or worse, on Jessica’s red silk number. “Really, you should be the guest of honor. None of this would have been possible without you.”

Nikki air-kissed Edith’s cheek and extracted herself from the sea of nose-tickling fabric. “That’s kind of you, but we were just doing our jobs, Edith. You remember my partner, Jessica Martin,” she said, knowing full well that Edith remembered her.

There had been some unexplained friction between the two women from day one; during the process of selling the estate, Nikki had kept them apart as much as possible. Nikki knew from experience that that happened with Jessica sometimes with their older female clients; just part of the territory when working with a drop-dead gorgeous partner.

Nikki smiled at Edith. “We’re just pleased we were able to work out a deal that was acceptable to both you and the buyers.”

“Acceptable? It was more than
acceptable
. Wasn’t it, dear?” Sipping from the glass, Edith opened and closed long red talons, beckoning to a good-looking thirty-something model/actor in a white dinner jacket.