Married Lovers

by Jackie Collins

  Damn Phil Standard. He was a cheating lying sonofabitch. But he was her cheating lying sonofabitch.

  “I can’t do this,” she said to Marlon, pushing his young hard body off her.

  Marlon was stunned. “Huh?” he mumbled, his mouth hanging open in shock.

  “It’s not right,” she said, quickly jumping up and starting to dress. “I’m sorry.”

  His eyes were fixed on her breasts, the same breasts he’d fantasized about ever since watching Blue Sapphire ten times on his DVD player. They were the best tits he’d seen in a while, still firm and luscious and big and round. Man, he just wanted to bury his head in them and never surface.

  Now she was saying no after getting him all primed for action. Blue balls were on his horizon; this was turning out to be a real bummer.

  “I…uh…I love you,” he said, trying out a line that always worked, especially with all the surfer chicks who stopped by his place on a regular basis.

  “Don’t talk such nonsense,” Lucy said crisply, fastening her bra–removing those great tits from his sight.

  “But I do,” he protested, still hard as the proverbial rock.

  “Go jerk off and get over it,” Lucy said, all business. “We’ve got work to do on the script.”

  Marlon slunk off to the bathroom, defeated.

  Older women, they sure weren’t as easy as the younger ones.

  “I can’t believe you beat me,” Don grumbled, climbing up on the deck behind Cameron.

  “And I can’t believe you honestly imagined I wouldn’t,” she teased, collapsing onto a lounger. “I’m a personal trainer–emphasis on the trainer. Besides, I’m younger than you.”

  “Oh, she’s playing the age card, is she?” he joked, falling down on top of her.

  “I’m all sandy and sweaty,” she objected, attempting to push him off. “I need to go inside and take a shower.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “What you need is me. Now. Right now.”

  “Out here? What about the paparazzi?”

  “Fuck ’em.”

  On the cab ride back to the Beverly Wilshire, Anya reflected on Ryan’s behavior. What kind of man was he? He’d resisted having sex with her, and that was not normal at all.

  She had learned over the years that by offering sex she could get men to do anything she wanted–including marrying her. She’d even got Hamilton Heckerling to marry her and he wasn’t easy.

  But of course Hamilton had no clue she was damaged goods, that from her early teenage years she’d been used and abused by men. If he ever discovered how many men had availed themselves of her body, he would never have even considered marrying her, he would have run like the wind.

  Was that why Ryan didn’t care to have sex with her? Too many men before him?

  Yes, she decided, that must be it.

  But if she had nothing to hold over him, how could she expect him to keep his silence?

  It was a big problem.

  Could she trust him?

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  She decided she would have to keep on trying to seduce him. Ryan Richards wasn’t made of stone, eventually she’d succeed.

  Directing the cab driver to the back entrance of the hotel, she paid him off, walked down the street to Neiman Marcus, went inside, and headed straight for the shoe department.

  “Since you won the race, then you get to choose what we do tonight,” Don announced. “Do we stay in or do we go out?”

  “Hmm…” Cameron mused, playing him because she knew he’d sooner stay in and so would she, but why not have a little fun at his expense? “Where would we go if we went out?”

  “Nobu,” he said. “Taverna Tony’s. There’s plenty of places around here.” A beat. “Or…”

  “Or what?”

  “Or we could order in, sit out on the deck, catch the sunset, go to bed early and—”

  “Sold!”

  “Huh?”

  “We’re staying in.”

  He grinned. “I knew you were my kind of girl!”

  “Pola?”

  For a moment Anya did not respond–sometimes she forgot she’d renamed herself.

  “Pola.” Mandy’s beringed hand clamped down on her shoulder, startling her. “What are you doing here? Spending Hamilton’s money?”

  “Excuse me?” Anya said, not appreciating Mandy’s tone.

  “Just joking,” Mandy said with an insincere giggle. “After all, it’s yours to spend as much as it is his. Nice shoes,” she added, sitting down beside Anya, and picking up the other shoe to the one Anya was trying on. “Hmm…” she said, checking out the price. “Eight hundred dollars. You have expensive taste.”

  Silently Anya snatched the shoe back. She knew Mandy hated her; it gave her a frisson of satisfaction to realize that she’d hate her even more if she ever found out that she, Anya, had been standing in front of her husband, naked.

  If only Ryan had responded…

  “Tell me,” Mandy said, “did Hamilton make you sign a pre-nup?”

  “What is pre-nup?” Anya asked, although she knew perfectly well what it was.

  “In America we have a little thing called a pre-nuptial agreement. Men give it to their intended to sign, so that when the divorce comes…oops, sorry! I mean if a divorce comes…then his money is protected.”

  “I sign nothing,” Anya said, delighted to observe an expression of fury and frustration flit across Mandy’s face.

  The truth was that she had signed a pre-nuptial. It guaranteed her half a million dollars for every year she stayed married to Hamilton.

  She planned on staying married to him for a long, long time.

  A half million dollars a year was not enough for Anya.

  Ryan made it down the hill to Evie’s house on Alpine in record time, cursing all the way. What was wrong with his mom, sticking him with a cryptic message and then not picking up her phone when he tried to call back? Was she attempting to give him a heart attack, for crissakes? Didn’t she realize he was forty, and forty was fucking old, goddammit!

  He was depressed. Anya had depressed him with her pathetic come-on. And he was ashamed for almost falling into her trap. But sex had ceased to exist between him and Mandy, so it was hardly his fault that the sight of a naked woman had caught him off-guard.

  Don was no doubt having incredible sex with Cameron and that pissed him off–although it shouldn’t. He should be pleased that Don had finally found someone who made him happy.

  If it lasted.

  Which it probably wouldn’t, since Don was the definitive player.

  Ryan’s worst fears were realized when he drew near to the house. There was an ambulance in the driveway, and a couple of police cars.

  Jesus! Evie…The boys…

  Heart pounding, he jumped out of his car and raced toward the front door.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Gregg Kingston drove his rented Chevy up to Don Verona’s house to check it out. Had to find out what he was up against, since the gossip rags seemed to be linking Cameron to Famous Prick, and he’d observed with his own eyes her taking off with him for what looked like a weekend jaunt.

  Don’s house was gated. No problem.

  Making sure no one was watching, Gregg scaled the gate with ease. There was a car parked in the driveway, so in case someone was home, he stealthily made his way round the side of the house, credit-carding his way through a locked side-gate.

  He moved slowly–wouldn’t do to get caught. He could hear the slight movement of a pool, and as he rounded the corner, there it was–a blue infinity pool overlooking Hollywood.

  This was some lush set-up–quite different from Cameron’s modest little shack down in the cheap streets. No wonder she was chasing this dude.

  Noticing big glass doors, he edged toward them, flattening himself against the side of the house.

  Then he saw them. Two people. A man and a woman standing close together inside the house.

  The woman was naked except for her shoes. T
he man was fully dressed.

  Gregg took a sharp breath, and at that moment his eye caught the glint of something in the surrounding bushes–was it a telescope, a camera? Yeah, someone had a camera and they were taking pictures, pretty pictures of the couple in the room.

  Moving fast, Gregg backed up out of sight and retreated the same way he’d come in, making it back to his car which he’d parked half a block down the street.

  He sat there for a while, listening to Linkin Park and Chris Brown on the radio. He didn’t know why he was sitting there, just had a hunch there might be something to see.

  Sure enough, ten minutes later a cab came barreling round the corner, stopping outside Famous Prick’s house. And then the naked woman emerged from the house, all dressed now. She got in the cab, but before she did, Gregg spied a shadowy figure with a camera snapping her picture.

  The woman had no clue that she was being photographed, and Gregg had no clue what was going on, but it was sure as hell interesting–especially when a black Lincoln town car fell in behind the cab as the driver took off.

  Naked woman in Famous Prick’s house having clandestine photos taken and then being tailed.

  Something was up.

  Twenty minutes passed before the man who’d been standing with the naked woman came out. He got in the car that was parked in the driveway, activated the gates and left. House now empty, Gregg surmised.

  Once more he scaled the gate, making his way round the back where he’d observed the sliding glass doors. His luck was in because they were not locked.

  Entering the house, he stood there for a moment, listening intently for any sound of movement.

  Nothing.

  House definitely empty.

  Gregg was enjoying himself. How powerful it was having free run of someone else’s house. Snooping in every nook and cranny and they didn’t know!

  Famous Prick, Cameron’s new boyfriend, had a lot of clothes. There were rows of expensive suits, jackets, shirts, all neatly lined up on matching hangers–the shirts were color coordinated. And there were dozens of shoes, mostly shiny and new. And many ties of all hues.

  “Faggot!” Gregg muttered, suppressing a sudden urge to piss all over everything.

  He checked out the bathroom. The usual shit. Dozens of packs of vitamins, and in the bathroom cabinet, prescription bottles of Vicodin and Ambien.

  Gregg was way familiar with both drugs. He emptied out half the contents of both containers and shoved them in the pocket of his jeans. Nice haul. Worth the visit.

  The bedroom was next. Huge oversize bed, black-out blinds, TV hanging from the ceiling on chrome chains. Too modern for Gregg’s taste. He opened the drawer in the cabinet next to the bed, and BINGO! Good stuff. Packets of condoms–magnum size. Yeah! Who was this dude kidding? Breath mints–strong ones. Hand cream. Several remotes. A digital camera. And best of all–a nine-millimeter hand gun.

  Gregg picked up the gun and slowly caressed it. He had a thing about guns, always had, and this one was a beaut.

  He checked the clip, fully loaded. In back of the drawer he discovered an extra box of bullets. Very convenient.

  Shoving the gun down the waist of his jeans and pocketing the bullets, he ran through the images on the digital camera. A few pretty girls who looked vaguely familiar sitting or lying in various stages of undress on Famous Prick’s bed, nothing too raunchy, no images of Cameron. Too bad. He was almost in the mood to jerk off.

  He thought about taking the camera, decided against it. The gun was the real prize. He couldn’t wait to wave it in Cameron’s face and take her the fuck back to where she belonged.

  Hawaii.

  With him.

  Suddenly the doorbell rang, startling him. His eyes swiveled to the security cameras and he observed a pretty girl in pink shorts and matching tank top standing by the outside gates. Gregg took a second look and recognized her as the other girl from the photos of Famous Prick in the rags. Mary Ellen Something. He’d seen her on TV in some stupid sit-com.

  What did she want?

  Maybe he should invite her in and show her a real good time.

  But no, he wasn’t in L.A. to have a good time. He was here to collect his fucking out-of-control cheating murderous wife.

  After a couple of minutes the girl put an envelope in the mailbox, turned around, plumped her pretty ass in a white convertible Mercedes, and drove off.

  Gregg waited a beat, then decided it was time to go before Famous Prick had any more visitors.

  On the way to his car he flipped open the mailbox and scooped up Mary Ellen’s note.

  Why not? It was a free country.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Marty was dead. Stone cold utterly dead.

  Ryan stood near the pool in Evie’s rented house, and stared in stunned silence as the police photographer finished his job. Marty’s body was sprawled beside the pool, his head blown to pieces, blood and fragments of human flesh scattered everywhere.

  A broad-faced detective approached Ryan. “I’ll never understand why they havta do it in front of the kids,” the detective said, digging at his teeth with a wooden toothpick. “Makes me sick. This is the second one this week.”

  “Second what?” Ryan asked, his stomach churning.

  “Second bastard who blew himself away with his kids watching.”

  “My sister had a Restraining Order,” Ryan muttered.

  “Yeah,” the detective drawled. “An’ I got a note from Bank of America saying they’re gonna give me a million big ones.”

  Ryan understood what the detective was saying. He’d been warned that Restraining Orders were a waste of time. Why hadn’t he had the sense to hire a security guard to watch over Evie and the kids?

  Thank God for small mercies. Marty had taken his own life and not Evie’s or the boys. It could so easily have gone the other way.

  He walked inside the house where Evie was being questioned by a female detective, his mother also. The three boys had been whisked away by his older sister, Inga.

  Making his way out to the front yard he pulled out his phone and called Mandy. She didn’t pick up. Same thing with Don.

  He ached to call Cameron, she would understand better than anyone, but he couldn’t do that, could he? No. She was with Don. They were enjoying their weekend together. He wasn’t about to ruin it for either of them.

  Back inside the house the female detective had finished taking Evie’s statement.

  Evie spotted him, got up and ran into his arms.

  Ryan hugged her tightly. “You can cry if you want,” he encouraged. “Go ahead, let it all out.”

  Between choked sobs she began explaining what had happened. She told him that the boys were out in the pool, all three of them excellent swimmers, while she and her mother watched them from the kitchen window as they prepared lunch. Then out of nowhere Marty suddenly appeared, screaming at the boys to get out and come home to Silverlake with him where they belonged.

  Confused, the boys started climbing out of the pool. Evie ran outside, followed by Noreen.

  Marty was drunk and a mess. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” Evie shouted.

  “Too fuckin’ bad,” he responded. “You’re all comin’ home with me.”

  “No, they’re not,” Noreen said, bravely stepping forward to protect her brood.

  That’s when Marty produced the gun, waving it randomly in the air. “Gonna give you a choice,” he said, turning to Evie. “You’re all comin’ home with me or I’m blowin’ my fuckin’ brains out. Whaddya think of that?”

  “Go ahead,” she said, never imagining he’d do such a thing.

  But he did.

  As she finished telling him, Ryan held her even closer. “It’s not your fault,” he assured her. “Marty was unbalanced, he wasn’t thinking straight. You didn’t cause him to do this, he did it all on his own.”

  “Yes, but I told him to go ahead,” she sobbed, tears tri
ckling down her face. “And the worst thing is that the boys saw everything.”

  “He would’ve done it anyway. It had nothing to do with you telling him to go ahead.”

  “I don’t know,” she said unsurely. “What if I’d stayed in Silverlake? What if I hadn’t taken the boys?”

  “Stop second guessing yourself. You did the right thing, that’s all there is to it.”

  “Are you sure, Ryan?”

  “About as sure as I can be about anything,” he said, once more enclosing his sister in the safety of his arms.

  After going over the script with a somewhat subdued Marlon, Lucy got in her Mercedes and drove home, her fury at Phil’s indiscretion somewhat abated. She’d gotten her revenge–of sorts. She’d been half-naked in front of another man, and that was enough to boost her confidence and infuriate Phil if he ever found out.

  Of course, she could never tell him it was Marlon, that would ruin any future relationship the two of them might have regarding her script. Actually she was quite excited about them meeting one day. Phil was often into mentoring young talent, and when he read Marlon’s work, who knew what would happen?

  Humming softly to herself she parked her car in the driveway and entered her house.

  “Mommy! Mommy!” both her children chorused, greeting her in the hallway. “Look what Daddy got you. Look! Look!”

  She looked, she couldn’t not look. The hallway was filled from one end to the other with an amazing array of Lalique vases filled with all different colored roses and tulips.

  “It’s not your birthday, Mommy, is it?” asked Abigaile, who was seven and a petite version of her mother.