'You always do.'
'Can I come over or not?'
'I suppose so,' he said, not filled with enthusiasm.
She ran back and forth, piling her car full of as much stuff as it would take, jumped in, and roared off down the long driveway.
* * *
From his study window Jordan watched her go. So beautiful, so unsettled, so like her mother.
Dammit, he wished there was something he could do for her, but the truth was he had no idea what Jordanna wanted. Materially he'd given her everything possible. A place to live, a new car of her choice every year, charge cards and a generous allowance. He'd never said no to her, how could he?
For a moment his mind wandered and he thought about Lillianne - his first wife, the mother of his children, and the one true love of his life. Certifiable. Everyone had said so. When he'd signed the papers to put her away in the private clinic it was for her own protection. How was he to know she'd slit her wrists and die a miserable death, leaving him with two children to bring up on his own? Of course, he hadn't been on his own for long, marrying again had seemed like a good idea, except the children had never taken to any of his wives - a shame because he'd tried a few.
And then, as if he didn't have enough problems, his only son had killed himself - a boy with everything to live for.
The police said drugs had caused Jamie to jump from the forty-sixth floor of Jordan's New York penthouse. Jordan didn't know what to believe, his son was no drug addict, as far as he was concerned it was a terrible accident.
For a while Jordan was shattered. The press pounced on him, Jordanna had turned into a wild thing and his life was a mess. But Jordan knew better than anyone how to survive. After all, he'd arrived in Hollywood as a sixteen-year-old runaway in 1948 with no money and no prospects. Over the years he'd built himself a formidable reputation, it would take more than a few tragedies to pull Jordan Levitt down.
Within the next few months he'd sent Jordanna off to boarding school in Paris, divorced his current wife, and produced two new movies.
Kim entered his study, interrupting his thoughts. Out of all his wives Kim was the youngest and the most loving. She put him above all else, and it was damn refreshing to have a woman who cared so much for him. What did it matter that she was nearly forty years his junior, age was irrelevant.
'Curtain samples,' Kim announced, waving a swatch of fabric in the air. 'I need your opinion, darling.'
She was redecorating his house and doing an excellent job. It was costing, but whoever said women came cheap?
He stood up, towering over his young bride. 'Come here, little one,' he said, opening his arms.
Kim ran into his embrace, and they stood entwined while Jordanna zoomed down Sunset in her white Porsche, tears streaming down her face as Jimi Hendrix blasted full volume on the tape deck.
* * *
The next day a composed Jordanna Levitt sashayed into Cafe Roma, nodding at a few acquaintances, taking in the action, checking out the usual group of Italian out-of-work actors who gathered at a corner table comparing testosterone levels, job opportunities, and how many girls they'd fucked.
Cheryl was already there, sitting at a table drinking coffee, studiously making copious notes on a yellow legal pad.
I'm not late, am I?' Jordanna asked, glancing quickly at her Cartier Panthier watch.
'Nope,' Cheryl replied, putting down her pen. 'I was here early. Had to interview a girl, a gorgeous blonde fresh in from Dallas.'
'Christ!' Jordanna exclaimed. 'You're even beginning to talk like a pimp. Did you inspect her teeth?'
Cheryl allowed herself a small smile. 'Sensational teeth.'
'I was being sarcastic,' Jordanna said sternly.
'So what else is new?' Cheryl replied, adding more Sweet 'n' Low to her coffee and stirring it vigorously.
Jordanna shrugged. 'Nothing much. I moved out.'
'Again?'
'This time for real.'
'Well...' Cheryl said. 'I guess I have to tell you the big scoop.'
Jordanna couldn't wait. 'Yes?'
Without further ado Cheryl gave her the news. 'Your stepmother was a whore,' she said, relishing every word.
Jordanna blinked. 'Excuse me?'
'Actually we don't call them whores,' Cheryl added nonchalantly. 'Party girls is the politically correct way of referring to them.'
Jordanna frowned. 'Are you f-ing with me?'
'Would I do that?' Cheryl asked innocently.
'I certainly hope not. This is way too serious to joke about.'
Cheryl began explaining. 'I found her in Donna's files. Kimberly Anna Austin from San Diego. She worked for Donna a good six months, then she met your father and that was it, retirement city.'
Jordanna was in shock, it was just too bizarre. 'Are you sure it's the same girl?'
'Absolutely positive. Donna was very thorough. She kept a complete dossier on every girl who worked for her, including a photo.'
Jordanna drummed her fingers on the table. 'Can I see it?'
Digging into her purse, Cheryl produced a glossy photograph and handed it over.
Jordanna studied it. Oh yes, it was Kim all right. Little Miss Sweetness and Light. Boy, had she gotten lucky, landing a man like Jordan Levitt.
'Yes, it's her,' Jordanna said slowly. 'Oh, shit! What am I supposed to do, tell him?'
'Knowing your father, I have a feeling he wouldn't appreciate it,' Cheryl replied. 'Talk about a blow to the male ego.'
'I can't not tell him.'
'He'll find out eventually - let him do it on his own time, believe me, you don't want to be involved, it'll only embarrass him.'
'I suppose you're right,' Jordanna replied, torn between the desire to reveal Kim's little game, and yet not wanting to be the one to hurt her father.
Why not?
Why yes? He's never done anything to intentionally hurt me.
Ah, but he has hurt you. In fact, he's just thrown you out.
'You're not going to tell anyone about this, are you?' she asked, knowing what a big mouth Cheryl had.
'I run a clean business,' Cheryl said, very full of herself. 'My clients are assured of discretion and privacy at all times.'
'He's not your client,' Jordanna pointed out.
'He could be,' Cheryl replied knowingly. 'Once Kim is history.' Taking a sip of coffee she added, 'I have some really lovely girls, you know. If you come across any would-be clients, send them my way. I'll pay you commission.'
'You're unbelievable!'
'Thanks for the compliment.'
* * *
It was early in the morning when Mac Brooks picked up the phone and called Bobby Rush. He'd spent the previous evening arguing with Sharleen. She hadn't wanted him to call Bobby direct, she'd preferred that he do the dance of a thousand agents. But Mac wasn't in the mood for all that agent crap, half the time they caused deals to fail, and he wanted this one to fly.
He had a strong feeling Thriller Eyes was destined to be a winner, and he was definitely interested in directing it. The agents could get into it after he'd made a verbal commitment - that way they couldn't do too much damage.
Bobby answered his own phone - a good sign because there was nothing worse than having to plough through an entourage every time you needed to reach the star.
'Hey, Bobby,' he said. 'It's Mac Brooks. Remember that high-ticket ride we were talking about? I've decided to take it with you, so, all I need to know is, when do we get started?'
Chapter Ten
Michael had never felt more helpless in his life, and it wasn't a feeling he enjoyed. His gut instinct told him Bella was all right, but the reality was he couldn't find her and it was making him frantic. When he finally reached Rita's aunt in New York she knew nothing, she still had the same old address for her niece with whom she was not close.
'How about her girlfriends?' Michael asked, referring to three big-haired Brooklyn blondes with loud mouths and bad attitudes whose names escaped him.
Rita's aunt promised to try and track them down. Two days of silence and he knew he had to do something fast before he went nuts.
He dropped by and visited Lily again, taking her flowers, hoping the attention might loosen her memory.
It didn't. She still couldn't remember anything.
He went downstairs to Rita's apartment and sat on the couch for a while. He'd already searched the place thoroughly, looking for a clue, anything to help find her. He remembered when they were married Rita used to hide things - money, her few bits of jewellery, letters from old boyfriends he wasn't supposed to know about. She'd always chosen odd hiding-places like ceiling light fixtures and the bottom of vacuum bags. He'd searched this apartment thoroughly, but decided to do it again for luck.
He started in the kitchen, graduating to the poky little bathroom, methodically sorting through everything, including a plastic bag full of dirty laundry.
Rita favoured lacy lingerie, there was a ton of it, push-up bras, thong panties, old-fashioned stockings and pantihose in many colours.
Ah, memories... The first time he'd gone out with her he should have known she was trouble, but somehow or other his hard-on had gotten in the way of rational thought and all had been lost.
Michael Scorsini had married Rita Polone on a cold December morning three weeks before Christmas. She'd worn a white satin dress studded with faux diamonds and cut way too low at the front.
He'd worn a dark suit and a dazed smile.
Rita was four months pregnant.
He was drunk.
Since she had no family, his had turned out in force. Brother Sal, smirking proudly as he tried to cop more than a look down the bride's revealing neckline. His mother, Virginia, a thin nervous woman who never stopped chain-smoking. His stepfather, Eddie, fat and old, plagued with arthritis. Plus a scattering of relatives and friends.
Michael remembered frantically dry humping his bride in the rented limo on the way to their honeymoon hotel. He and Rita were so hot for each other they couldn't wait.
When his hard-on finally faded he'd decided it was time to sober up. Rita no longer held the same fascination.
Now Rita had vanished with his kid and he felt like he was drowning. No clues. Nowhere to look. And the cops had nothing.
Lighting up a cigarette, he blew smoke rings towards the ceiling and focused his mind.
Rita used to love dancing. Saturday nights she'd get all dressed up, they'd hire a babysitter and hit the town. In his drinking days he'd made out pretty good on the dance floor. Once he stopped boozing it didn't work out.
'You won't take me, I'll go with the girls,' she'd threatened, daring him to argue.
He was perfectly happy staying home in front of the TV watching a ball game while Bella slept peacefully in the other room.
Was Rita still dancing on Saturday nights?
If she was alive she was still dancing.
The thought of foul play sent a chill through him. He had a daughter out there somewhere and he was determined to find her.
Stubbing out his cigarette, he took one final look around and headed back to the Robbins' place.
* * *
Kennedy was on time, she prided herself on always being punctual.
Bobby Rush was late. His publicist, Elspeth, an angular redhead in her forties with too many freckles and a bad nose job, offered no excuses.
Kennedy sat on a couch in the outer office and steamed as an hour passed. At eleven o'clock she said, 'Are you sure he's coming?'
'I can't do more than tell him,' Elspeth replied in a not-too-pleasant voice. She'd been on the phone for most of the hour conducting a low angry conversation with someone who was obviously her husband or boyfriend.
'Yes, you can,' Kennedy replied. 'I suggest you find out where he is and ask him.'
Elspeth gave a put-upon sigh and made a couple of phone calls. 'Apparently his assistant thought the interview was Monday,' she said brusquely. 'He's in Palm Springs.'
'Oh, great,' Kennedy said, waiting for an apology.
The woman didn't say a word. Picking up her copy of a Chanel purse she hurried to the door.
Kennedy got up and followed her. 'That's it, then? No Bobby Rush today?'
'I told you,' Elspeth said, irritated at having to repeat herself. 'He's in Palm Springs. Be here on Monday at ten.' Clutching her fake Chanel she walked out without waiting for a reply.
Unbelievably rude, Kennedy thought. There was nothing worse than a publicist who thought they were as important as the star they looked after. Bobby Rush must be stupid to employ such a person.
The day loomed ahead of her with nothing planned, and that really annoyed her, because she prided herself on being totally organized at all times. Phil used to call her queen of the lists - everything written down in an orderly fashion. He might have laughed at her organizational skills, but they'd sure accomplished a lot in their years together covering the world. They'd earned respect and kudos from the journalistic community and had a wonderful time. Now she was doing interviews with two-bit actors who couldn't even be bothered to turn up.
Damn Mason, he'd dangled the bait and she'd jumped. What the hell had happened to all her journalistic integrity?
Furious with herself, she left the office determined to talk to Mason and see if she could get Bobby Rush's cover dumped.
She marched down the corridor, buzzed the elevator and waited impatiently. Somebody had it stalled on the ground floor because nothing happened. After a few moments she banged on the doors sending an impatient message from the second floor. Of course she could have walked down the stairs but why should she? The way things were going she'd probably trip and break her neck.
Just as she was about to hammer again, the elevator arrived, the doors opened and a man in running shorts, a cut-off T-shirt and a baseball cap stepped out. 'Sorry,' he said pleasantly. 'Did I keep you waiting?'
'Yes,' she replied, taking her bad mood out on him.
'You know what it's like,' he said, smiling disarmingly. 'Some guy grabbed me downstairs and I couldn't close the doors and I couldn't get out.'
'You should've gotten out,' she said frostily.
As she spoke the door of the elevator closed again and the elevator took off.
'Damn!' she exclaimed.
'Sorry,' he said apologetically. 'Are you running late?'
'It's not my day,' she replied, with a rueful shake of her head. 'I had an appointment with Bobby Rush and he failed to show.'
'You're here for the interview?'
That's right.'
'Then come on in, we can do it now.'
'Mr Rush is in Palm Springs,' she said sarcastically. 'Mr Rush is too busy to do an interview today.'
'Hey,' he said, grinning. 'Mr Rush is standing right here, and I am in desperate need of an assistant, so let's go.'
She raised an eyebrow. ''You're Bobby Rush?'
His grin widened. 'Guilty.'
'I didn't recognize you,' she said, stating the obvious.
It was quite apparent that he likewise had no idea who she was or the real reason she was there.
He was already on his way to his office. Turning around he beckoned her. 'Come on,' he said, with an encouraging wink, 'you can make coffee while I shower.'
Oh, great, the little woman makes coffee, and the big man takes a shower. What a chauvinist! Was he going to come on to her, too? Sexual harassment would be a bonus.
Her adrenalin began to pump. This story had possibilities.
'I gave everybody the day off,' he explained, as she followed him into his office. 'Monday we start pre-production on my movie, they won't get another free day until we finish.'
'What movie is that?' she asked.
'Thriller Eyes,' he said. 'If you get the job you can read the script.'
Lucky me, she thought, as they moved through the outer office into his private domain.
Gesturing to a small bar he said, 'Coffee's in the fridge, coffee machine's over there. I take
it black, no sugar.' He opened a side door and she caught a glimpse of his bathroom as he walked in. Hmm... what could be better than interviewing Bobby Rush when he thought he was interviewing her.
She looked around his office - it was light and airy, furnished in minimalist style. There were movie posters on the walls, a stack of scripts on his desk, and nothing much else of interest.
Opening the small fridge, she took out a packet of ground coffee and shook the right amount into the machine.
Over the sound of the shower she heard a knock from the outer office. She went into the other room and opened the door.
An earnest young woman wearing owl-shaped glasses stood there. 'Hi,' the young woman said, 'I'm Jenny Scott. I'm here for the interview with Mr Rush.'
'Oh, Jenny,' Kennedy said, feeling guilty - but a story was a story and she was on a roll. 'Mr Rush isn't available today. Can you be here Monday at ten?'
Well, yes...' Jenny said unsurely. 'But I was told it was kind of urgent.'
'Not that urgent,' Kennedy said crisply. 'Come back on Monday, he'll be happy to see you then.'
The young woman left and she went back to the coffee machine, poured two mugs of black coffee with no sugar and sat down on the other side of his modern glass and chrome desk.
Bobby emerged a few minutes later clad in faded jeans, a UCLA sweatshirt and a big grin. His dirty blond hair was wet and curly. 'Jeez, that feels better,' he said. 'The only problem is I'm starving. How about walking over to the commissary?'
'Sure,' she said, deciding he was much better looking in person than on the big screen. He had these penetrating clear blue eyes and a certain energy about him. Sexually attractive definitely.
Who cared? Maybe her readers would.
'OK, let's go,' he said, already out the door.
She trailed him from the building, checking him out from behind. He had a confident walk and a tight butt.
Hmm... very nice...
Once outside, he covered his blue eyes with dark shades. She did the same.
'So,' he said, as they strolled over to the commissary. 'I was expecting someone younger. This job is for a gofer, a kid who's prepared to do a lot of running around for me. You look like you passed that stage in your career.'
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