“What did she tell you?” Catherine asked gently.
“She . . . she said that Michael was once a hit man for someone in the mob.” Her eyes met Catherine’s, and she stared at her hopefully. “That’s completely crazy, isn’t it?”
“It must seem crazy to you,” Catherine murmured. “To me, it’s something I always knew. From the very beginning I warned Beth she was playing a dangerous game, but she loved Michael, and there was nothing I could say to change her mind.”
“Did you try?” Madison asked, sitting down again.
“Many times.”
“And she wouldn’t listen?”
“Beth and I came here from Cuba as teenagers. We lived with an aunt who died shortly after we arrived. Beth met Michael when we were still in high school—they became inseparable.” Another long sigh. “For a while, Michael took care of both of us. He paid the rent on our apartment, and even after Beth moved in with him, he still supported me.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “There was a time I loved him like a brother. I loved him because he loved Beth so much. But when he murdered her . . .” she trailed off, tears filling her eyes.
“So . . . you do think he killed her?” Madison said, hardly able to get the words out.
Catherine laughed bitterly. “I don’t think anything,” she said. “I know he’s guilty. He got off because he had a powerful attorney—paid for by his mafia boss.”
“Oh, God!” Madison said, her heart pounding. “So it is true?”
“I tried to take you away from him—he wouldn’t let me. Michael had the power, the money, the lawyers. Me—I had nothing.”
“Why?” Madison demanded. “Why did he do it?”
“He thought she had taken a lover. It wasn’t so.”
“I don’t believe it,” Madison said sadly, reluctant to face the truth. “It’s the same story as Stella.”
Catherine shrugged. “Michael is aware I know the truth about him. He could find me if he wanted to. When he was acquitted, I knew I was probably safe. There was no necessity for him to come after me. But just in case, I keep a loaded gun beside my bed.”
“I don’t understand,” Madison said, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to engulf her. “Why didn’t you want to see me?”
Catherine shook her head. “It’s too painful,” she said abruptly. Her voice softened. “My sister was everything to me. You—I’m sorry, but you’re somebody I don’t know. You’re Michael’s daughter.”
“No. I’m Beth’s daughter,” Madison said, her voice rising. “And I’ve only just found out all of this. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“I know it should,” Catherine said, her voice a flat monotone. “However, I cannot bring back the memories that haunt me.”
“How can you say that?”
“I wish you luck, Madison, but Michael is your family.”
“So you’re saying you don’t want anything to do with me?”
“No,” Catherine said. “I’m saying that I can’t allow Michael back into my life, and if I accept you, then Michael will follow. I know him; he is filled with enormous jealousy. If he thought you and I were close, his ego couldn’t take it. I don’t know what it is with him—when he possesses somebody, they have to be his all the way.”
“He doesn’t possess me,” Madison said vehemently. “I’m his daughter, but he’s always left me free to do my own thing.”
“He’s allowed you to think that.”
“I really am a journalist—I work for Manhattan Style.”
“I know,” Catherine said. “I’ve followed your career.”
“You have?” Madison said, surprised. “How did you know who I was?”
“I have friends,” Catherine said. “They’ve kept me informed. I know you were raised thinking Stella was your mother, and when she was murdered—well, I expected you to come searching for the truth. I’m surprised Michael told you. It must be his punishment to Stella.”
“Listen,” Madison said. “I’m only here for one night, but I’d love to come back and spend some time with you.”
“No,” Catherine said sharply. “This is impossible for me. You must understand.”
“I need to know more.”
“Then you’ll have to find it out elsewhere,” Catherine said, standing up. “I must go, my guests are waiting. Please, Madison, do not tell Michael we have spoken or where I am, because if you do—he will try to ruin everything I’ve worked for.”
“I’d never do that.”
“I wish you luck, Madison.”
“That’s it?” she said disbelievingly.
Catherine nodded, her dark eyes full of sorrow. “I’m afraid that’s all I can offer you.”
Angrily, Madison got up, left the room and returned to her table. The first thing she noticed was that Kimm was taking risks on the dance floor locked in a close embrace with the black woman who’d been coming on to her earlier.
“They look good together, huh?” Juan said, sidling up next to her. “Jealous?”
“No way,” Madison answered recklessly. “Get me another margarita, Juan, then I want to dance. With you.”
“With me?” he said, grinning confidently.
“Yeah,” she said, fixing him with a look. “You’re it tonight.”
He fetched her another drink, and she tossed it back fast. Her head was spinning, spinning, spinning. This was all too much. She’d found her mother’s sister who did not want to be her friend, did not want anything at all to do with her.
So be it.
She could take it.
She could take anything that was dished out.
And yet . . . she was enveloped in a cloak of sadness. What had happened to her perfect life?
She grabbed Juan and hit the dance floor, soon finding out that he was an accomplished and sensual dancer. The last margarita had made her into a wonderful dancer too, for suddenly she was swaying and twirling to the beat of the music, all else forgotten.
She remembered her last visit to Miami—the sexy male model, their passionate one-night stand.
That’s what she wanted more than anything—another one-nighter. Another incredible night of hot, unforgettable sex.
Dangerous sex.
Dangerous anything.
She had an unquenchable desire to get out of her body and into somebody else’s.
“What time do you finish here?” she murmured, clinging to Juan as he spun her around the dance floor, making her even dizzier than she was before.
“Any time I want. Miz Lione told me to make sure you are happy. She is pleased you are here.”
“No she’s not,” Madison said, holding back sudden tears. “But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.”
“She enjoyed your company,” Juan insisted. “Said you are an excellent journalist. And as long as you don’t write her name, she is pleased to help you.”
“Help me?” Madison said, laughing derisively. “She didn’t help me. You’re the one who’s helping me.”
And then they were kissing, their lips pressed hard together, his tongue exploring her mouth with a great deal of fiery passion.
“Let’s get out of here,” she gasped, when they finally parted.
“What about your friend?”
She glanced over at Kimm on the dance floor, still entwined with the black woman. “My friend will be perfectly fine,” she said. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
He put his arm around her, guiding her toward the door. “You are sure?”
The hot salsa music and the effect of all the margaritas she’d consumed swept over her. Juan was a conduit to forgetting everything. And he was right there beside her. “Oh, yes,” she murmured. “I’m very sure.”
And everything was still spinning, spinning, spinning.
And she knew things would never be the same.
CHAPTER
32
JOEL WANTED IT ALL—the whole nine yards—and Rosarita was so happy to see him, and
so psyched by the knowledge of her pregnancy, that she was prepared to go along with anything he suggested.
With the lights blazing in the bedroom, and the blinds wide open, the hotel guests next door were certainly getting an eyeful. There was Rosarita, in crotchless panties, posed on the bed, legs spread. There was Joel, parading up and down in front of the window with a full erection. There were the two of them, going at it in front of the window.
Joel got off on every show-off moment. This was his time in the sun. He was indulging in an activity his father could never top.
Joel Blaine—exhibitionist.
Joel Blaine—number one.
Yeah. He liked this action a lot.
Occasionally he glanced at the digital clock beside the bed. Had to keep an eye on the time; it wouldn’t do to keep Madam Sylvia waiting.
“I’ve missed you, Joel,” Rosarita managed to gasp as he thrust in and out of her. “Have you missed me?”
“Sure have, baby,” he lied, sweat beading his upper lip as he exerted himself.
“Then how come you changed your phone number without telling me?”
What was it with women? Why did they have to fuck and talk at the same time? Couldn’t they shut up for once?
“Whyn’t you quit with the small talk, honey, an’ concentrate,” he muttered, changing positions. “Here’s what I’d like you t’do.”
“Yes, Joel?” she said obediently.
“Get down on all fours,” he said, “we’re gonna do it doggie style.”
Okay with her. He was Joel Blaine, Leon Blaine’s son. He was also the father of her unborn child, so she was prepared to cooperate all the way. Besides, doggie style was a turn-on.
She tried to imagine his face when she gifted him with the good news about their baby, but first she had to get rid of Dex, then, after a few weeks of mourning, she’d tell him.
He grunted.
She came.
Getting together again was better than a day at the spa.
By the time she left the hotel, she felt like she’d experienced a vigorous workout, which in fact she had. She reminded herself to ask Dr. Shipp if too much sex was bad for the baby. Perhaps she shouldn’t be quite so adventurous.
The hotel doorman hailed her a cab. She sat in the backseat, touching up her makeup. Sex with Joel was a trip. Sex with Dex was not nearly as much fun. Either a guy had it or he didn’t. Dex didn’t. And you would think that he would, what with all the experience he’d had in the modeling world.
Hmm . . . Maybe he was secretly gay. He never got down and dirty the way Joel did. Yes, maybe Dex had gay tendencies he hadn’t faced up to. After all, he’d been discovered by Mortimer Marcel, and nobody was gayer than Mr. Marcel.
Whatever . . .
She didn’t care . . . all she wanted was Dex gone.
•
As soon as Joel entered the bar, Madam Sylvia waved him over to her table. She was not at all what he’d expected. He’d imagined worldly sophistication. Instead he was confronted by a short, dumpy woman with a heavily lined face, hardly any makeup, reddish, thinning hair and a complacent expression. She was wearing an ordinary moss-green suit and unobtrusive matching earrings. She looked like a housewife from the suburbs, not a notorious madam.
“You’re Madam Sylvia?” he said, hardly able to conceal the surprise in his voice.
“Yes,” she answered. “What were you expecting? A glamour-puss?”
“Hadn’t thought about it,” he lied. “You hardly look like you’re in the madam business.”
“That’s the whole point,” she said, cackling heartily. “Nobody would ever suspect me, would they? I can hardly see me being hauled off for pandering, unlike—who was that girl in California?”
“Heidi Fleiss.”
“Ah yes,” she said, nodding knowingly. “Well, you see, the smart ones, like me and the late Madam Alex—one of the greats—never flaunt ourselves. We keep a discreet low profile.”
“That’s nice to know.”
A smug smile. “It pleases our clients.”
“I’m sure it does.”
“Sit down, Mr. Blaine, and tell me what I can do for you.”
“It’s like this,” he said, pulling up a chair and getting right to it. “There’s a woman I’m interested in, and I think she’s interested in me too. But she has a little uh . . . indiscretion that she’s into playing out.”
“Indiscretions are my specialty,” Madam Sylvia said with a superior smirk.
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Joel said, clicking his fingers for a waiter and ordering a Dewar’s on the rocks.
“Then maybe you’d better tell me what it is,” Madam Sylvia said.
“She uh . . .” He glanced around the spacious room, making sure there was no one within earshot. “Likes ’em young.”
“How young?” Madam Sylvia said matter-of-factly. “I won’t go below twelve.”
“Not that young,” he said. “Fifteen, sixteen will do. Puerto Rican. Hot looking. Kind of a junior Ricky Martin.”
Madam Sylvia repeated her knowing nod. “It’ll be expensive,” she said.
“I can deal with that,” Joel said, eyeballing a tall, thin blonde on her way to the bar.
“When do you require this?”
“Gotta get back to you with the dates. I have t’be sure you can supply the goods.”
“I’ll need twenty-four-hours’ notice.”
“I understand,” he said as the waiter brought his drink.
“Do you want the price now?” Madam Sylvia inquired.
He took a couple of fast gulps of scotch. “Makes no difference to me,” he said, wondering why she would even bother to ask.
“Ah yes, I forgot,” Madam Sylvia said. “Can’t scare a rich kid, isn’t that right?”
Joel laughed and took another mouthful of scotch. “So, tell me,” he said, warming up to this dumpy woman. “Who’re some of your clients?”
Madam Sylvia smiled mysteriously. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said. “And wouldn’t you be surprised if you did.”
“Truth is I’d never heard of you till Testio filled me in,” Joel said. “Had no idea this kind of service existed for women.”
“Why shouldn’t it? There are respectable women in this town married to powerful, hardworking men—men who simply have no time for them. And there are certain things the husbands refuse to do to their wives sexually. So the wives use my service to satisfy their needs.”
“Doesn’t that make them—?”
“What, Mr. Blaine?” Madam Sylvia interrupted.
“Whores,” he said, before he could stop himself.
“No, it makes them female johns,” she said with a tight little smile. “I’m sure you find nothing wrong with male johns, do you?”
“That’s different.”
“Not at all. Women desire the same amenities as men. And I make sure they get them.”
“So your service is for women only.”
Another mysterious smile. “Yes. And believe me, Mr. Blaine, I am very much in demand.”
•
“I wish ya wouldn’t do that,” Chas grumbled, glaring at Varoomba, who was beginning to annoy him.
“What?” she asked innocently.
“Cut your freakin’ toenails in the bedroom.”
“Somethin’ wrong with my toenails?”
“It ain’t a very ladylike thing t’do.”
“Oh crap,” she snapped, fed up with his constant criticism. “You’ve not got me livin’ with you ’cause I’m ladylike, Chas.”
“No,” he agreed. “But if ya do somethin’ that pisses me off, I gotta tell ya, right?”
“What pisses you off about me cuttin’ my toenails, for crissakes?” she said, waving her foot at him.
He could see he was getting nowhere with this argument. “Do it in the bathroom,” he said gruffly. “That’s an order.”
“Huh!” she said, jumping off the bed, her huge breasts shaking with indignation. “Any
other orders you’d like me to take care of today? Such as suckin’ your big, fat cock?”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise at her rudeness. “What didja say?”
“You heard,” she answered insolently.
It occurred to him that this relationship might not be working out. Varoomba was getting on his nerves, and even though he appreciated her incredible assets—enough was enough.
How to get rid of her, that was the problem. Unfortunately that was always the problem. Especially with this one, as he’d persuaded her to give up her job and move out of her apartment. Some dumb mistake that was. Now he was stuck with her, and that wasn’t good.
But he had a plan. Chas always had a plan. Vegas was coming up. She’d asked him the other night if he was taking her, and he’d said yes. She’d been excited because, as she’d informed him, her grandmother lived there. Bingo! They’d go to Vegas, and while they were away, he’d have his housekeeper pack up her things and transfer them to a rented apartment. By the time they got back, she’d be moved out. He’d buy her a mink coat, hand her a few thou in cash, take care of her rent for three months and it would be good-bye Varoomba. Nobody could ever accuse Chas Vincent of not being a sport.
On the other hand, if Varoomba wasn’t around, he’d have to find himself another woman, because he couldn’t take being alone—constant silence drove him nuts. Besides, he slept badly when there wasn’t a warm body lying next to him. And he had a thing about tits. Big, warm, comforting tits.
Why couldn’t he find a woman who behaved herself and didn’t get aggravating?
Why couldn’t he find a girl who was more like his daughter Venice?
Now Venice was a peach. Whereas all he ended up with were sour plums.
It occurred to him that maybe he was looking in all the wrong places. It might be a good idea to broaden his horizons, move out of the bars and strip clubs and get into the real world.
No, he thought glumly. In his experience, real-world women weren’t any better, and even more important, they didn’t have the tits to get a man really hot.
•
When Rosarita arrived home, Dexter was on his way out. Now it was her turn to question him. “Where are you off to?” she asked.
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