Lethal Seduction

by Jackie Collins

  “Here’s the way we should play it,” Kimm said decisively. “We’re customers. We’ll sit down, order something and check out what’s going on. Maybe we’ll see her before she sees us.”

  “This is making me nervous,” Madison said, biting her lower lip.

  “I thought you didn’t get nervous.”

  “I wasn’t expecting a restaurant. I thought we were on our way to her house.”

  “She probably lives here,” Kimm said, as they made their way to a vacant table.

  A snake-hipped young waiter, clad in tight black leather pants and a white T-shirt, swayed over to them bearing menus. “You ladies here for tea?” he said. “Or how about something stronger? I can recommend the house margarita.”

  “I’ll have one,” Madison said, totally ready for a drink.

  “Make mine water,” Kimm said.

  “Ah,” the waiter said, staring straight at Madison, “the beautiful lady likes to live dangerously.”

  “Huh?” Madison said, meeting his direct gaze. He was all of nineteen, but full of confidence.

  “I am Juan,” he announced. “Anything you need, call for me.”

  “This is an interesting place,” Madison said. “I love the art deco theme. Who owns it?”

  “Another beautiful lady,” Juan said, flashing his exceptionally white teeth, marred by one gold filling in the front. “She’s older, but women are like wine . . . they only get sweeter and more precious.”

  “Come on,” Madison said, laughing. “You’re not going to tell us those lines actually work?”

  “Ah yes,” he said with a wide grin. “Especially in the tourist season. Are you ladies tourists?”

  Kimm was unamused by this banter. “No, we’re not,” she snapped. “We’re here on business.”

  “Sorry to insult you, serious lady,” Juan said. “I will fetch your drinks.”

  “What’s with the serious lady crap?” Kimm said as he walked off. “I could kick his skinny little tight ass.”

  “Don’t get pissed,” Madison said. “He might be the one to tell us about Catherine.”

  “Or her husband.”

  “No,” Madison said. “He told us this place is owned by a woman, so since it’s called Lione’s, that must be Catherine, right?”

  “It’s a helluva place to hide if her plan was to get away from Michael,” Kimm said. “What makes her think he’d never come to Miami? Especially with South Beach being so popular.”

  “Who knows?” Madison said, shrugging. “I like it here. There’s something free and sexy and kind of . . . welcoming. I’m starting to feel a lot better.”

  “No, you’re not,” Kimm argued. “You’re starting to imagine that your aunt is going to appear, open up her arms and say, ‘Madison, I’ve waited for you all these years, come live here with me and I will be your real family.’ Your imagination is shifting into overdrive.”

  “Get real,” Madison said tartly. “Do you honestly think I’m that stupid?”

  “You’re not stupid at all,” Kimm said. “You are merely experiencing a fact of nature. We all yearn for family, people who care about us no matter what we do. Now that you’ve found out about Michael, and that your mother is dead, you feel you have no one, so you’re reaching out. And right now Catherine is the only person you feel you can reach out to.”

  “All I want is to meet her,” Madison said defiantly. “So she can tell me something about my heritage. I know nothing about my mother. I don’t even have a clue where she was born.”

  “Now’s your chance to find out,” Kimm said. “I think this might be Catherine heading our way.”

  Madison glanced up and caught her breath. Coming toward them was a woman the absolute image of Beth in the photo. The same black curly hair, delicate, high-cheekboned face, full lips and seductive eyes. She was slim, wearing a scarlet dress and very high heels. She was in her early forties.

  Quickly, Madison figured it out. She was twenty-nine, so if Beth had given birth to her when she was seventeen, that would make her twin sister forty-six.

  The woman walked straight past them to the next table, where she stopped to greet a fat man in a white suit and a Panama hat. They kissed each other on both cheeks and began chatting. “I am so happy to see you,” the woman enthused. “I have missed your smiling face.”

  Madison was startled to hear that she had a slight accent.

  “She’s Cuban,” Kimm said in a low voice.

  “How do you know?”

  “The accent.”

  “Oh my God,” Madison exclaimed. “Does that mean I’m half Cuban? That I’m not American?”

  “Your mother probably came here from Cuba before you were born. You’re American all right.”

  “But does it mean I have Cuban heritage?” she said excitedly. “This is something I didn’t know about.”

  “There’s probably a lot you didn’t know about,” Kimm said. “How’s your dancing?”

  “Pretty damn good.”

  “Now you know why.”

  “Ah . . . not only is she an excellent detective, she has a sense of humor too. Although I have to admit that she keeps it well hidden.”

  Kimm flashed a smile. “You’re returning to your normal self. I like that.”

  “You don’t know my normal self.”

  “I can only imagine. Tough with a soft heart. Intelligent. Loyal friend. Hates stupidity and dumb people. Am I on the right track?”

  “I hope so. I sound nice.”

  They both laughed.

  “I am delighted to see that you ladies are having a good time,” Juan said, returning with their drinks.

  “Actually,” Madison said, “we are kind of tourists in a way—but not really. You see, I work for a travel magazine, and they’ve sent me and my colleague to check out South Beach. Y’know, rout out the hottest restaurants, clubs, that kind of thing. I was wondering if you could help us.”

  “I’m your man,” Juan boasted with a proud smile. “There is nothing I do not know about Miami.”

  “When do you get off?”

  “I have a four-hour break at six. Then at ten I am back to deal with the chaos.”

  “What chaos?” Madison questioned.

  “You are sitting in one of the hottest places in South Beach,” Juan boasted.

  “We are?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you say Lione’s is owned by a woman?”

  “Madam is over there,” Juan said, indicating the woman sitting with the man in the white suit.

  “Can I meet her?”

  “Miz Lione does no personal publicity. Write about the restaurant, not her.”

  “So, this is where it all happens, huh?”

  Kimm was silently shaking her head, her expression saying, What do you think you’re doing?

  Madison winked at her. She had a strong hunch this was exactly the right way to approach the situation. “I’ll tell you what, Juan, for a hundred bucks can you give us a tour of the place and some of the history?”

  “You mean when I get off?”

  “We were planning on flying back to New York tonight, but I’m sure we could stay over for one night.”

  “I can recommend a hotel for you,” Juan said. “If you’re writing about the nightlife in South Beach, you have to live it. I will tell you exactly where to go, and I will make sure you are welcomed in every place.”

  “That’s very accommodating of you,” Madison said. “But I’d prefer to concentrate on here. Can you book us a table for dinner?”

  “Of course,” Juan said. “You and your . . . uh . . . friend. Will there be any gentlemen with you?”

  “No, this trip is strictly business.”

  “There is no lack of gentlemen who would be happy to spend the evening with you,” Juan suggested slyly.

  “We’re not looking for company,” Madison said, patting Kimm’s hand. “We’re perfectly happy . . . together.”

  “Ah, I see,” Juan said, rolling his eyes at his
own stupidity. “You are a couple.”

  “Right,” Madison said, smiling. “A couple.”

  Kimm threw her a furious glare.

  A woman at a nearby table began calling for her check.

  “I’ll be back,” Juan said, tight leather pants taking off.

  “What are you doing?” Kimm demanded as soon as he’d left.

  “Giving us background,” Madison said. “This way we’ll get to meet Catherine casually, and later I’ll tell her.”

  “So we are staying the night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh good,” Kimm said, full of sarcasm. “Have Juan book us a cozy double since we’re a couple.”

  “Hey, I only told him that so we’re not bothered by unwanted attention.”

  “Just two dykes on the road. Is that it?”

  “Don’t get touchy. Anyway, if it’s action you’re after, it’s always easier to cruise if you’re with someone. This way all your options are open.”

  “Madison,” Kimm said, shaking her head in wonderment. “I’m seeing a whole new you since we left New York. You’re kind of . . . a changed person.”

  “No, I’m not,” Madison said firmly. “I’m a survivor. I was thinking about what you said, and you’re absolutely right—I have to let go to continue. And what I’ve realized is that this devastating news is not going to slow me down. I’m my own person. I always have been. I’ve never believed those people who blame everything on their parents—you know—I’m a fuck-up because my father was a fuck-up. Or I’m a drunk because my mother was an alcoholic.” She took a deep breath. “So my father was a hit man? Maybe. So he murdered my mother? Maybe. I don’t know any of these things for a fact. But I’m accepting them, and I’m beginning to realize they’re not part of who I am.”

  “Okay,” Kimm said. “We’ll do this your way.”

  “Thanks,” Madison said. “And who knows, you might end up meeting the woman of your dreams.”

  “I’m not looking.”

  “Trust me,” Madison said, smiling. “That’s exactly when it happens.”

  Juan returned, filled with enthusiasm. “Ladies,” he said. “I will make this night totally memorable. You will not regret staying over. Juan—he is in charge of everything.”

  CHAPTER

  28

  “HOW WAS YOUR MEETING?” Rosarita asked, not particularly interested, but vaguely aware that she had to keep up some kind of front.

  “My agent quit,” Dexter said, his handsome face glum.

  “Quit you?” Rosarita said, not surprised, because Dex’s so-called career was going exactly nowhere.

  “No. Quit the agency.”

  “What now?”

  “I have a new agent. A woman.”

  “Oh. Attractive?”

  “She seems nice.”

  “Dynamic?”

  “No idea. She talks a good game.”

  “That’s what you need, Dex. Someone who talks a good game.”

  “You look rested,” he said, fully aware that she’d been in bed all day, because Conchita had told him on his way in. He considered it a good sign—maybe her body was trying to tell her something. “Did you only just get up?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” she replied, yawning. “I’m still recovering from that Chinese restaurant you insisted we eat at the other night.”

  He was not in the mood to remind her again that it was a restaurant she had chosen.

  “Annie wants me to study with an acting coach,” he said. “What do you think?”

  “Who’s Annie?”

  “My new agent.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Rosarita said, thinking she couldn’t care less what he did. Having spent the day in bed, she’d come up with a plan. And the plan was—poison!

  She smiled to herself. It was all so simple. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She didn’t need a hit man, she didn’t need her father. Why allow other people to have something on her? No, this was a project she could undertake all by herself.

  The idea had occurred to her while she was flipping TV channels and had come across an old Bette Davis movie. Poison. The ideal solution.

  She was planning to poison Dex, and she was going to do it in Las Vegas!

  •

  Carrie Hanlon was surrounded by a makeup artist, a body makeup person, two hairdressers, three stylists, an editor, an assistant from the magazine and a journalist who was writing a profile on her. Carrie Hanlon gave great entourage.

  Carrie, supermodel that she was, seemed completely unimpressed with Joel’s roses. She glanced at him like he was a creature from outer space, and threw them to one of her minions.

  For a moment Joel was intimidated. But then he thought, The hell with this bitch. I’m the son of one of the richest men in the world. Why shouldn’t she sit up and take notice like all the rest?

  Testio—a manic-looking Italian-American the same age as Joel, with long, greasy hair and several gold stud earrings—was pleased to see him. “This is like old times,” he said, flinging his arm around Joel’s shoulders. “Haven’t seen you, haven’t heard from you. Where you bin hiding, man?”

  “Whatever happened to Miss Denmark?” Joel asked, hoping there was no bad blood between them. It was stupid to fall out over a woman when there were certainly enough of them to go around.

  “Oh, her,” Testio said, obviously out of love. “She turned out to be the same as all the rest. Went back to Denmark and married a farmer.”

  “Who’re you talking about?” Carrie asked, sitting in the midst of her entourage at the long trestle table.

  “Dagmar. Remember her?” Testio said.

  “Not really,” Carrie replied, picking up a lettuce leaf and nibbling at it. “She can’t have been anybody.”

  Carrie Hanlon was a magnificent specimen of womanhood. She was five feet ten inches tall, with a mane of tawny hair, large eyes, full lips, a straight nose and the kind of body every red-blooded American boy wished lived next door.

  “It’s been a while, Carrie,” Joel said, finding a place for himself at the table as close to her as possible.

  “Have we met before?” Carrie inquired, prompting a sly under-the-table giggle from her bisexual stylist.

  “Surely you remember?” Joel said. “Or maybe you were too stoned that night.”

  “I don’t do drugs,” Carrie said, causing her other stylist to break into insane laughter. “Coke isn’t drugs,” she muttered irritably. “Coke clears the sinuses. I have very bad sinuses. Anyway, I don’t do it.”

  The interviewer, a thin, bespectacled man, perked up considerably. “You don’t do what?” he asked, tape recorder in hand.

  “Any kind of drugs,” Carrie said, widening her eyes. “I take vitamins. They keep me full of energy and make me look good.”

  “No, I make her look so good,” muttered the Chinese makeup artist sitting at the other end of the table.

  “How come you’re here today?” Testio asked Joel, passing him a bottle of red wine.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” Joel said, pouring himself a glass. “Figured it had been too long. Had no idea you were working with Carrie.”

  “She’s not easy,” Testio muttered in his ear, “but she’s worth it.”

  “I hope you’re talking about the photos,” Carrie said, enjoying being the center of attention, although quite used to it at this stage of her career. She’d been a star model since she was fifteen.

  “No,” Testio teased. “I was talking about sex.”

  “I don’t have sex,” Carrie said, glancing at her interviewer. “I’m saving myself for marriage.”

  Testio roared with laughter.

  The interviewer said, “Is that true?”

  Carrie smiled her all-American–girl smile. “That’s what you’re going to print,” she said sweetly. “Isn’t it?”

  The man nodded. He was in the presence of true beauty, and it was making him a nervous wreck.

  “I have a business proposit
ion I’d like to discuss with you, Carrie,” Joel said, pouring her some wine.

  “Talk to my agent,” Carrie answered, dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

  “It’s personal,” Joel persisted.

  “I have no secrets from my agent,” Carrie said, licking her full, glossy lips with a wickedly pink tongue.

  “You might want to listen to me first. Why pay ten percent when you don’t have to?”

  “Fifteen percent,” Carrie corrected, as if paying more was a badge of honor. “And the reason I pay fifteen percent is because my agent gets me the best deals in town.”

  “And I thought you were smart,” Joel said, not endearing himself to her, but unable to stop.

  Carrie tossed her mane of hair, turned to one of her hairdressers and began talking about a recent Beck concert she’d attended.

  Joel realized he was being dismissed. He glanced at Testio, who pulled a face.

  “Come into my office,” Testio said, getting up. “There’s something I wanna show you.”

  The two men left the table and walked into Testio’s private office. The photographer shut and locked the door.

  “Supercunt is some trip, huh?” Testio remarked.

  “She certainly is,” Joel agreed. “Thing is—I need her for something.”

  “Yeah? Lots of luck,” Testio said, absentmindedly stroking his crotch.

  “No, I’m serious. My father is under the impression I’m bringing her to Vegas for the upcoming championship fight. I’ll look like a dumb ass if I don’t show up with her. What am I gonna do?”

  Testio shrugged. “Your problem, not mine. Wanna do some blow?”

  “Why not?” Joel said, although he wasn’t in the mood.

  “I’ve got a thought,” Testio said, going for his stash, which he kept in a locked black leather Gucci overnight bag. “There is one thing that our Carrie likes better than anything.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Boys.”

  “Boys?”

  “Yeah, her scene is fifteen-year-old boys.”

  “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

  “I know—it’s crazy,” Testio said, putting down several lines. “There you have this incredibly gorgeous twenty-three-year-old supercunt, and she only gets off on fifteen-year-old boys. I had this teenage intern working for me last summer—thought Carrie was gonna slice him up and eat him for dinner. So here’s your answer—all you gotta do is find her a hot fifteen-year-old. And, oh yeah, I forgot—she likes ’em to be Puerto Rican and built like a brick shit house.”