“And what can I do for you, Mrs Carpenter?” Elliot–a tall thin man with drooping eyelids and a sparse moustache–asked.
“I was thinking,” Anya replied, fingering the soft leather rim of her bustier, her pale blue eyes fixed firmly on him, “if there is anything I can do for you?”
Elliot glanced around to see where his wife was located. Mrs Von Morton was busy talking to friends across the room.
This girl was coming on to him, he was sure of it.
Where was her husband?
Fast approaching.
“Call me at the office,” Elliot said to Anya, boldly slipping her his card. “I’m certain I can think of something.”
A mortified Seth, red in the face, rushed up to them. “Uh, excuse me, Mr Von Morton,” he said, stumbling over his words. “Anya is new to these events. I hope she isn’t…uh…bothering you.”
“Not at all,” Elliot replied with a crocodile smile. “Your wife is charming,” he added, his eyes raking over every inch of Anya’s tight black leather cleavage, while he imagined this girl with the face of an angel standing over him armed with a leather whip, beating the crap out of him. “Quite charming.”
Six weeks later Anya left Seth, Elliot split from his wife, and Anya moved into Elliot’s Park Avenue penthouse.
Her journey was gaining ground.
Chapter Forty-One
Stretched out on a lounger in her bikini watching Don barbecue hamburgers and corn on the cob, Cameron felt totally at ease. Three exhausted dogs lay on the deck around her, lazily sunning themselves. After a ten-minute battle with Lennon for control, Butch had backed down, quite content not to be the Alpha dog.
“Y’know,” Cameron remarked, “you need to get Butch a companion–see how happy he is?”
“I’m his companion,” Don joked. “He comes to the studio with me, makes out with a couple of French poodles on the lot. Believe me, Cam, he has a great old time. And speaking of great old times–guess who’s entertaining at my house today?”
“Entertaining? While you’re away?” she said, reaching for the suntan lotion.
“Not exactly entertaining in the ‘we’re throwing a party sense.’ More like getting together with someone other than his old lady.”
Cameron experienced a quick jab in the pit of her stomach. It was Ryan, she knew it was Ryan.
“Who is it?” she asked calmly, smoothing suntan lotion onto her legs.
“Birthday Boy,” Don said triumphantly. “He’s finally giving himself the present I’ve been urging him to give himself for years.”
For a moment she was silent. Ryan wasn’t like that. Or was he?
How well did she know him? Hardly at all. And yet she felt that she’d known him for years.
“So…” she said, forcing herself to sound casual, although she was desperate to know. “Who’s he seeing?”
“Dunno,” Don replied, expertly flipping burgers. “Ryan’s a close-to-the-chest kinda guy. Although he was spotted out with a knockout A.M. the other day–surprised the shit out of me.”
“What’s an A.M.?”
“Actress/model. Sometimes an escort when the money’s tight.”
“Isn’t escort a polite word for call girl?”
“C’mon, Cam,” Don said, amused. “Ryan would never pay for it. He has women falling over themselves to get near him, although he never notices–until now, that is.”
“Then I guess you’re pleased he’s playing around on his wife?”
“Don’t sound so uptight,” Don said, throwing her a quizzical look. “You met Mandy. She’s impossible, nags the crap out of him. I’m hoping this will be the precursor to the end of his marriage. Ryan deserves a life without Mandy hanging around his neck, he’s a great guy.”
“I suppose so,” Cameron murmured, imagining Ryan in Don’s house making love to a gorgeous A.M. who may or may not request payment. She hated the thought of him being just like other men. She’d hoped he was different, a man with a high moral compass. How wrong was she.
“Cheese or no cheese on your burger?” Don called over his shoulder.
She’d lost her appetite. “Whatever,” she answered vaguely. She’d choke it down one way or another.
Running several red lights, Lucy was in a reckless frame of mind as she headed for Venice and Marlon. Phil Standard screwed around, everyone knew that. But in her house with some skank assistant that he assured her he’d fired weeks ago? No damn way.
Lucy Lyons was one furious ex-movie-star wife.
Running her fourth light in a row, she didn’t even care when a cop car slid out of a side street and flashed her down.
She swerved her new Mercedes into the curb and pulled to a sharp stop.
The cop got out of his car and approached her window with a cocksure swagger. “License and registration,” he said, barely glancing at her.
She checked him out. Approximately thirty-six or seven. Quite a few pounds overweight. White. Disinterested. Simply doing his job.
She’d soon change that.
“I’m so sorry, Officer,” she purred. “I recently caught my husband with another woman, and as I’m sure you can imagine, I was extremely upset.” Pause while he digested that little piece of information. Then straight in for the kill. “I’m Lucy Lyons,” she added, raising her sunglasses. “You probably saw me in Blue Sapphire. Most everyone did.”
The cop snapped to immediate attention. Bending his head to get a better look, he licked his lips and swallowed hard. “Uh, yeah, I sure did,” he said, thinking who could ever forget that rack. Lucy Lyons was built and then some. And she still looked hot–not that he could see much more than her face and that sweep of long jet-black hair. Like his other favorites, Sharon Stone and Demi Moore, she was ageing well. “You did jump a light,” he managed, clearing his throat.
“Once again I’m so very sorry,” she said, lowering her voice to a sexy new level. “I can promise you that it won’t happen again.”
“Uh well, I guess I can let you off this time,” the cop said, adding a stern–“But you’d better make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Of course, Officer,” she purred once more. “Thank you so much.”
She drove off, slightly calmer than before.
At least she hadn’t lost it. Lucy Lyons could still weave her particular brand of magic. No ticket for her.
Anya didn’t drive. She had Hamilton’s driver drop her off at Barney’s and instructed him to meet her at the back of Neiman’s in three hours.
As soon as the driver left, she headed down the street to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, walked though the lobby and got into a cab at the back entrance, giving the driver Don’s address.
She was nervous. She was on her way to see a man who knew far too much about her past. And what did she know about him?
Not a lot. Only the information she’d gleaned from Hamilton, and a few of his credits from IMDB on Miss Dunn’s computer.
After checking out his movies, it was clear he made meaningful films that mattered. Hamilton had called him a do-good loser; Anya only knew he’d been kind to her.
But now that she was married to his father-on-law, would Ryan Richards continue to keep her secrets?
It was imperative that she find out.
Before noon Ryan stopped by Evie’s to make sure everything was okay. His mother was there, all set to scold him for not informing her about what was going on with Evie and her drunken husband. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Noreen demanded, speaking to him as if he was six.
“Sorry, Mom, but I didn’t want to worry you,” he explained.
Noreen shook her head and scolded him some more.
He wondered if now was the time to tell her that he was asking Mandy for a divorce. Then he decided against it; best to wait.
After hanging around and playing a few hoops with his nephews–their favorite pastime–he headed for Don’s house. Don, who was so sure he was having a secret sex tryst that he’d left champagne on ice, and
a pound of caviar in the fridge.
Caviar and sex. The two didn’t seem to go together. Hey–maybe in Don’s glamorous bachelor existence they did.
Ryan wandered around the house biding his time until Anya arrived. Don’s house wasn’t very homely; it was all glass and chrome, pale beige leather furniture, modern art and too much technology. Everything was very pristine and ordered, the way Don liked things.
Ryan thought back to their USC college days when they’d shared a minuscule apartment. Even then Don was a neat freak, constantly tidying up after both of them. Who would have thought that he would become such a big star?
Ryan prowled around the bedroom searching for clues of Cameron. Had she spent the night? How did she really feel about Don? Was she about to move in?
Christ! Why torture himself?
She was Don’s latest girlfriend, that’s the way it was, and he’d better learn to accept it.
“This is the most relaxing day I’ve spent in a long time,” Don announced, settling on the lounger next to Cameron.
“Me too,” she murmured, raising her chin to the sun.
“There’s nothing like the sound of waves breaking,” he said, leaning over and trailing his fingers across her stomach. “It’s almost hypnotic, sends me off into another zone.”
“I know what you mean,” she agreed, feeling very comfortable.
“Ryan and I used to hit the beach every weekend when we were in college,” he said, laughing. “Two horny young guys, totally broke and full of big ideas.”
“You must have been quite a duo.”
“Yeah. Anyway, I always promised myself I’d get myself a beach house one day. And now here I am with you. Hey,” he added. “I got the beach house and I got the girl. How about that?”
“Not quite,” she said coolly.
“Still playing hard to get, huh?”
“Not used to it, Don?”
“Right.”
“You mention Ryan a lot,” she said, switching to a subject that interested her.
“Why not? He’s my best buddy and I want to see him in a good place with a woman who really cares about him.”
“Mandy doesn’t?”
“Are you kidding me?” Don snorted. “Mandy has her own agenda, always has.”
“Then how come Ryan stays?”
“Guilt. She lays it on thick about the miscarriages and the baby they lost at birth. She makes sure that in some insane way Ryan blames himself. Believe me–she encourages him to think like that.”
Reaching over, Don began caressing her thigh. “But that’s enough about Ryan and Mandy, it’s time for more about you and me.” His hand began moving upwards. “Is it my imagination, or do we have a very real connection going on here? I feel it–how about you?”
The woman who walked into Don Verona’s house was light years away from the damaged teenage whore with the defeated attitude and glassy-eyed stare Ryan had rescued from a life of misery and degradation. This young woman was assured, confident, or at least that’s the impression she gave.
“Whose house is this?” she asked upon entering.
“A friend of mine,” Ryan replied.
“It is like something from a magazine,” she said, moving over to gaze out of the glass doors at the spectacular view. “I like it.”
“Glad you approve,” he said, a touch sarcastically.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “It is nice. Hamilton prefers more traditional.”
Jesus–was that what this meeting was about? Home décor?
He wasn’t wasting anymore time. “Anya,” he said.
“My name is now Pola,” she replied. “Anya ceased to exist years ago.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It is all legal. I changed my name by deed poll when I married my second husband.”
“Hamilton is your second husband?”
“Third,” she stated matter-of-factly. “And I am now an American citizen.”
“Congratulations,” he said, his mind racing. She’d accomplished a lot in seven years, three marriages and a citizenship, no wonder she wanted to make sure it didn’t all come crashing down around her because of what he knew. She might be Mrs Hamilton J. Heckerling now, but his memories of her were very clear. The young girl forced to perform in a graphic live sex show. The young girl who was pissed on and humiliated and treated like she was less than human. And then the same young girl sitting forlornly in a room with a window in the famed red-light district of Amsterdam, offering herself for sale to anyone who passed by.
He would never forget the look in her eyes. A look so filled with pain and sadness and hopelessness.
Now the look in her eyes was different. He would have to say it was watchful, weary, calculating and quite hard.
“So,” he said, “I understand why you considered it important that we meet. You’re scared that I might reveal where I first saw you, what you were doing back then, and how I came to your assistance.”
Anya gave him a long penetrating stare. “It is human nature to reveal secrets,” she said flatly. “Have you told Mandy about me? Does she know?”
“Absolutely not,” he said quickly. “I haven’t told anyone, and I have no intention of doing so. You’ve made a new life for yourself, Anya, and you’re to be congratulated for that. I’m happy you’ve been able to forget about everything that happened to you in the past and move on. Really–you’re to be commended. Not everyone could get over the things you suffered.”
A half-smile flickered across her face and she moved toward him. “Thanks to you,” she said, her voice softening. “And now the time has come for me to repay you.”
“There’s no way you can repay me,” he said, automatically taking a step back.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “There is a way.”
And before he could stop her, she stepped out of her dress and stood in front of him in nothing but a lacy black thong and extremely high Christian Louboutin stilettos.
“Jesus Christ!” he said, taken completely by surprise. This was the last thing he’d expected. “No, Anya, no!” he said. “Put your clothes back on right now.”
“Why?” she asked, seductively licking her index finger, then touching her left nipple. “You know you want me.”
“No, I don’t,” he said, trying not to stare at her perfect little body, everything in the right proportion to her size, for without heels she couldn’t be more than five foot one or two. He felt a stirring where he shouldn’t be feeling a stirring, and once more he demanded that she put on her clothes.
Her eyes dropped to his crotch, and she was not surprised to notice the effect she had on him.
Men were so damn easy. Once they were hard, nothing else mattered.
“Do you like my breasts?” she murmured, still touching herself. “They’re real, you know, not like many American woman with bags of silicone filling their chests so they look like stuffed turkeys.”
Ryan bit down hard on his lower lip, experiencing pain, willing his hard-on to take a hike.
No way was he falling into this trap. No way at all.
Chapter Forty-Two
The man lurking on Cameron’s street had watched her emerge from her house twice. The first time she was with two dogs, and carrying an overnight bag. The second time she was with the guy he’d accosted on the street–the handsome dude driving the black SUV. Don Verona, that was the dude’s name. And according to the stuff he’d been reading, Don Verona was some kind of famous person on TV.
Trust Cameron to trade up without a second thought about the husband she’d left behind in Hawaii.
Trust the bitch to act as if she had no past.
Well, she had a past all right, and he was here in Los Angeles to prove it.
Gregg Kingston. Husband. The same husband she’d left lying on the floor in their condo in Maui, his head bashed in by a table lamp, blood everywhere, unconscious for six hours until the cleaning woman had discovered his almost lifeless body at eight a.m. and frantically call
ed for an ambulance.
He’d lain in a coma for almost three months. Everyone had given up on him, until one day he’d opened his eyes and struggled back into the land of the living.
Gregg was strong. He was a survivor. He was a goddamn angry survivor. And he wanted his fucking wife to know that she could never escape from him, however hard she tried.
And the bitch had obviously tried very hard indeed. She’d left Hawaii and vanished. Poof! Like that she was gone, and nobody could help him discover where she was. She’d taken their address book of contacts, so he had no one to chase. She could have gone anywhere–back to America, Australia, Thailand. The bitch could’ve gone anywhere in the world. She was a world-class traveler.
Gregg had no choice but to wait, hoping that one day she’d turn up again. She had to, because knowing Cameron as well as he did, eventually she’d want a divorce, and the only way she could get that was to return to Hawaii and face him.
Unless she thought she’d killed him.
Christ! Was that what she thought? Just because he’d pushed her around a little she’d imagined she could get away with fucking murder!
Not on his watch. No way. He would find her and punish her if it was the last thing he did.
And then, one day, purely by chance, he discovered exactly where she was.
Fate was a strange and wonderful thing. After his forced time off, he’d returned to his job at the luxury hotel in Maui, a hotel filled with vacationing families, couples and women.
Ah…the women. Single and horny as hell–all searching for a little vacation romance. And who better than the king of the beach, the surfing pro teacher–Gregg Kingston himself–to give it to them?
He screwed his way through three or four a month. They came to the island with great expectations, and he didn’t let them down.
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