Married Lovers

by Jackie Collins

  Since getting out of the hospital his sexual appetite seemed to have increased tenfold, and he was determined to enjoy himself.

  Problem was, none of the women were Cameron…none of them were as beautiful or as sexy or as smart as his murdering bitch of a wife.

  He missed her.

  He hated her.

  And he was determined to punish her.

  One afternoon while he was enjoying oral sex from a vacationing schoolteacher with an insatiable urge to give him head three times a day–he spied a tabloid magazine on the table by her bed. And on the front of the magazine was a photo of a woman who looked exactly like Cameron. In fact, it was Cameron.

  Jerking his erection out of the woman’s mouth, he grabbed the magazine.

  “What’s the matter?” the woman wailed. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Ignoring her, he read the magazine, devouring every morsel about his wife, who now called herself Cameron Paradise, and who was in the clutches of some famous American talk-show host, and who had opened her own fitness studio called Paradise.

  He could hardly believe his eyes. There she was, carrying on like she didn’t have a care in the world. She’d left him for dead, and proceeded to make a new life as if he’d never even existed.

  Fury overcame him. A white-hot fury that made him itch to find her, get her back, and force her to pay for the way she’d treated him.

  Two days later he’d taken a leave of absence from his job, and now here he was in Hollywood, and it had only involved a small amount of detective work to track her down.

  Now that he had her in his sights he decided that he was not in a hurry. First he had to find out exactly what she was up to–hence stationing himself on her street to observe her movements. She had two dogs and a rich prick famous boyfriend. The two of them looked like they were off on a weekend get-away.

  Did the Famous Prick understand that she was his property? She was Mrs Gregg Kingston–that’s who she was. And if he didn’t understand, he soon would.

  After the black SUV took off, Gregg made his move. He approached her house, made his way around the back, and easily slid a credit card to open the lock on the side door that led into what was obviously her bedroom. Cameron never had been big on security; he was surprised the door was locked at all, and naturally there was no alarm system.

  The house was neat and clean and quite small. One bedroom, one bathroom, a living room connected to the kitchen that overlooked the street.

  Gregg surmised that it was not a house that Famous Prick would want to hang out at.

  He took his time checking everything out, going through her closet, reading her mail, opening every drawer. When he came to her underwear drawer he stuffed a couple of thongs into his jeans pocket. Maybe later he could put them to good use.

  Finishing his inspection, he let himself out the same way he’d come in, and headed back to his rented car parked on the next street. Then he set off for the hills above Sunset, where he knew Famous Prick lived. Easy enough to find out where anyone lived nowadays. If you couldn’t find an address on the Internet, all a person had to do was buy a Where the Stars Live map on the street. Gregg had done both, so he knew he had the right location.

  Now that he was here, in Los Angeles, near to Cameron, he felt a real sense of satisfaction.

  He knew exactly where she was and what she was doing.

  And the kicker was that she didn’t know shit.

  Tough luck, bitch, I’m coming to get you.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Never had Ryan felt so trapped. Anya stripping off her clothes and trying to seduce him was the last thing he’d expected to happen. If he’d wanted to have sex with her he would have done it in Amsterdam when she was up for sale. But no, he’d rescued her, hadn’t he? And did she honestly believe that this was the best way to repay him?

  Wrong. Very very wrong.

  After finally realizing she was not about to get anywhere with him, Anya reluctantly slithered back into her dress and asked him if he was gay.

  “You’re screwing with me, right?” he said, shaking his head in wonderment that she would even think such a thing.

  “All men want sex,” Anya stated flatly.

  “Maybe with the right woman,” he replied.

  “And I am not the right woman?” she asked sulkily.

  “I’m married, Anya, and so are you. I don’t need repayment for anything.”

  “You are an unusual man.”

  “And you are a married woman who should have more respect for yourself,” he said, making yet another attempt to get through to her. “You don’t have to do this. You’re free now.”

  She shrugged as if his words didn’t matter. “Is respect what Hamilton has for me when he brings in other women to make love to me while he watches and pleasures himself? Is that respect?”

  Ryan held up his hand. “No details of your married life, please,” he said firmly. “I am not interested. This is America. If you don’t want to do something–refuse. You’re not sitting behind a window with a pimp controlling your every move.”

  She stared at him for a long thoughtful moment. “You are a decent man, Ryan Richards,” she said at last. And then, to his relief, she asked him to call her a cab, and when it arrived she left the house.

  Anya. Pola. She was a complicated woman. So young and so damaged, and the unfortunate thing was that like all the men before him, Hamilton was still using her.

  “So here’s the deal,” Don said, feeling quite at ease opening up to Cameron about his career as they strolled along the shoreline. “The way I look got me on local TV in the first place–not as a regular, but as a roving reporter on a news show. Then one night the anchor called in sick, and since they couldn’t get hold of anyone else–I got to take over for a few nights. That was kind of the beginning of it. My aggressive personality took me all the way to my own talk show, and I never looked back.”

  “Did you want to?” she asked, watching as their three Labs frolicked in the surf, having a fine old time.

  “Want to what?”

  “Look back.”

  “Well, sure,” he said, kicking a clump of seaweed out of the way. “My big ambition was to be a serious war correspondent covering all kinds of shit across the globe.”

  “That sounds really interesting.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said ruefully. “Only problem is that it never happened for me. Instead of being on the frontline in Iraq, I find myself sitting behind a desk making small talk with Charleze Theron and Jessica Alba.”

  “Hey,” she said, surprised by his candor. “Don’t knock it–most men would kill to be doing that.”

  “I’m not most men, Cam,” he said, quite serious.

  “No, you’re not,” she said, thinking that if Ryan didn’t exist she and Don might have a shot.

  “Y’know,” he said, stopping abruptly, taking both her hands in his, “you’re gonna think this is kind of sudden, and you’ll probably say no–but how about moving in with me?”

  Things were speeding along much too fast. She liked Don, but she was certainly not at a point in their brief relationship where she would even consider moving into his house. Besides, she had a perfectly comfortable place of her own, and now she had what looked to be a successful business to run.

  “You don’t have to answer me immediately,” he continued. “But give it some thought.” A beat. A grin. “Think of all the money you’d save in rent.”

  “What gives you the impression that I don’t own my house?” she asked coolly.

  Hmm…It wouldn’t do to let on that he’d done a spot of investigating.

  “Do you?” he asked casually. “’Cause if you do, think of the score you’d make selling it–the market is high right now.”

  “Actually, I rent,” she admitted.

  “There you go,” he said, as Yoko ran up to them and began shaking out her fur, spraying them both with droplets of water. “You’d save a fortune every month.”

/>   “Maybe I don’t want to,” she said, shielding her eyes from the bright sun.

  “Maybe you should give it a bit more thought,” he said, bending down and brushing off his pants, which he’d rolled at the ankle.

  “A little splash of water’s not about to ruin your day–is it?” she asked lightly, glad for the diversion.

  “It’s not the water,” he said, taking a long look around. “We’re approaching Paris Hilton territory, and that means the paps will be out in full force.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah, they’re all over the place–hiding hiding like cockroaches. So far they’ve not caught on that I have a beach house, so let’s do the smart thing, go back in the other direction and not tempt Fate.”

  “You know, Don,” she mused, “that’s why I could never live with you.”

  “And that would be because?” he said, quite perplexed that she’d turned him down.

  “All the attention, the photographers, fans coming up to you. I could never be one of those women standing by their man at film premières while he gives an interview and they hover next to him with a fixed smile looking like nothing more than an appendage.”

  “You, my dear,” he said gallantly, “could never look like an appendage. And besides, I loathe film premières. Only go when I’m doing a friend a favor.” And with that he swooped in for a kiss; a slow, practiced, leisurely kiss.

  She kissed him back, feeling totally free and quite content. This weekend of doing nothing much except enjoying herself was exactly what she’d needed.

  “We’d better beat a quick retreat,” he said, pulling away. “Come on, I’ll race you back to the house. First one there gets to choose what we do tonight.”

  “You’re on!” she said.

  He had no idea how fast she could run.

  Marlon was lounging outside his place on the boardwalk cleaning the spiked wheels on his bicycle when Lucy showed up.

  Bronzed and hunky, he wore nothing but a pair of low-rider denim shorts, faded and torn.

  Two teenage girls in barely there bikinis hovered nearby. Lucy couldn’t decide whether they were with him, or merely hanging around with the hope of getting lucky.

  “Lucy!” Marlon said, genuinely pleased to see her. “Wasn’t expecting you today. Wassup?”

  What’s up is I caught Phil fucking his assistant in my house and I feel like killing him.

  “Nothing much,” she said with a casual shrug. “I figured I’d drop by, make sure we’ll have a finished script by the end of next week.”

  “Sure we will,” Marlon said, long dirty-blond hair flopping in his eyes. “Like I promised, didn’t I? And your party’s not till Saturday, so we got like plenty of time.”

  “One week is not plenty of time,” she admonished.

  “Are we gonna see you later, Marlon?” one of the bikini-clad girls called out. “We should meet up at Villa. I got the ID thing down, an’ there’s a late party up at Kim’s, her parents are outta town. It’ll be chronic. See you there?”

  “Maybe,” he said, throwing them a desultory wave.

  “I hope I didn’t break anything up,” Lucy said, her eyes drawn toward his tanned and taut six-pack.

  “Nah.” He stood up and stretched. “Wanna come inside an’ grab a Coke or somethin’?”

  “Great,” she said, finding herself unable to stop checking out his body. It was truly a work of art–all young rippling muscle, not an ounce of fat. So unlike Phil, who’d let himself wallow out of shape years ago.

  She flashed onto Phil’s big hairy ass leaping off Suki, and the image fueled her anger even more.

  Sonofabitch! She needed to do something to get back at him, and she needed to do it today.

  “Is Lucy with Mandy?”

  Ryan had the phone to his ear as he left Don’s house. It was Phil on the line, sounding agitated.

  “I’ve no idea,” Ryan replied. “Is she supposed to be?”

  “Who the fuck knows,” Phil mumbled. “We had an…uh…altercation. She ran out of here.”

  “You had a fight, big deal, she’ll be back.”

  “Give me Mandy’s cell number.”

  “Is it that important that you talk to her?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “What was this big fight about?”

  “She caught me with my pants around my ankles.”

  “And?”

  “And my cock happened to be inside Suki at the time.”

  “Oh Jesus, Phil, I thought you fired her.”

  “I did, I did,” Phil groaned. “But I owed her a check, so she came by to collect, and one thing led to my cock somehow making its way into her—”

  “Okay, okay,” Ryan said, not interested in hearing details–he had enough on his mind. “I get it.”

  “No, you don’t,” Phil said miserably. “Lucy’s never actually caught me in the act before. This is not a healthy situation. The woman has a temper, she could do anything.”

  “Well, she’s not going to kill herself, we know that for sure,” Ryan said dryly. “Maybe she’s out buying a gun and she’s going to shoot your dumb ass.”

  “Not funny, Ryan,” Phil growled. “Where’s Don? He’s not answering his phone.”

  “Oh, so my advice is not good enough, now you need Don.”

  “No offense. You’re too married. Don deals with unhinged women all the time.”

  “Yeah,” Ryan said with a rueful laugh. “Like Mandy’s not unhinged.”

  Phil managed a grunt.

  “Take down Mandy’s number, I’m getting another call,” Ryan said, giving Phil her number and switching to his other call.

  It was his mother on the line, frantic and verging on hysteria.

  “Get here as fast as you can,” Noreen gasped. “Something terrible has happened.”

  ANYA

  Living in a Park Avenue penthouse with Elliot Von Morton was a far different proposition from life with Seth in the small apartment they’d resided in on Lexington. Elliot was much older than Seth, and his tastes were far more sophisticated–but men were men, and Anya was used to catering to all different types.

  Elliot was into whips and chains and punishment. He was into being collared and put on a leash, while Anya led him around his tony penthouse on all fours. He wanted her clad in tight black leather and six-inch heels. Sometimes he wanted her to wear a mask. He appreciated a thorough beating, and Anya was happy to give it to him.

  Elliot was the chief partner in a powerful New York law firm. He dealt with many important clients. In a way he was the man controlling their lives, therefore it was no surprise that his main form of relaxation was surrendering all forms of power.

  Anya was so much more obliging than his wife, who refused to have anything to do with his perversions, forcing him to frequent a house of ill-repute on Forty-Seventh Street. He’d never felt comfortable going there, he was always on the alert for hidden cameras and spies who’d report his activities to the press. Not that he was famous–merely powerful. However, he had enemies who would like nothing better than to bring him down.

  One look at Anya on that fateful night when she’d walked into his event with Seth Carpenter–a very junior associate at his firm–and he’d immediately had a strong hunch that here was a girl who might be able to fulfill all his needs.

  And he was right. Anya turned out to be a devil with a whip, and she was a devil who showed no mercy.

  After their third assignation he informed his wife that he required an immediate separation. His wife was not surprised; she knew all about her husband’s sexual needs, and she had no intention of fulfilling them.

  Fortunately there were no children involved, only their New York penthouse, a magnificent house in the Hamptons, and a fleet of expensive cars.

  Elliot kept the penthouse, while his wife claimed the Hamptons house.

  Getting rid of Seth was not so civilized. When Anya informed him she was leaving he broke down and cried, sobbing like a heartbroken fool. She
did not tell him she was moving in with his boss, she merely said it was time for her to go.

  When Seth found out about her and Elliot, he’d stormed his boss’s office, and been fired for his trouble. Later that night he’d gone to a bar, gotten hopelessly drunk, and been picked up by a woman who’d lured him outside into an alley–where her pimp had robbed him, then stabbed him to death when he’d attempted to fight back.

  When Anya was informed by the police of her husband’s untimely death, she had not shed a tear. Death was something she’d witnessed too many times to be upset.

  While Elliot approved of her trashy outfits in the privacy of his home, he did not care to take her out in public looking so trampy. Anya was such a beauty, and yet she had no idea how to make the best of herself. He soon hired a stylist to teach her about clothes and makeup and hair.

  He wanted to be proud of her when they attended big social events. He did not relish the thought of being regarded as a laughing stock. His main desire was that every one of his peers–stuck with their original wives–would envy him.

  Once Anya had gone through her makeover–including a name change to Pola, which was her idea-other men did indeed envy him, for Anya/Pola was such a delicate and refined beauty in her Chanel and Valentino outfits, her exquisite evening gowns and fine jewels.

  Elliot got a kick out of spoiling her, and in return she beat him on a regular basis while secretly enjoying his pain.

  She did not love him.

  Anya did not know what love was.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Marlon was everything Lucy had expected, and yet he wasn’t Phil. He was young, strong, hard-bodied and horny, but still he wasn’t Phil. His kisses were amateurish. His fumblings with her clothes were juvenile. Foreplay? Apparently he’d never heard of it.

  And just when he was about to do the deed, she aborted the situation. She simply couldn’t go through with it. Bad as Phil was, she loved him and she couldn’t bring herself to cheat on him. Besides, she missed the feel of his furry belly and rolls of comforting fat. She missed his cigar breath and the way he kissed her. She missed the special way he touched her and went down on her and made her come a hundred different ways. She missed his all-encompassing love, his genuine warmth and his loud raucous laugh.