Over the years she’d made it her business to discourage her daughter as much as she could, which wasn’t easy, because Liberty was a stubborn girl and there was no getting through to her. Plus she was talented, but Diahann knew that talent wasn’t enough to get you where you wanted to go. There were too many pretty girls with talent who were prepared to do anything to make it. Unfortunately doing anything didn’t guarantee a thing. Luck and timing was what it was all about. Finding the right mentor who believed in you and worked steadily to build your career.
Diahann sighed again. Mariah Carey was a shining example of luck and timing. If the famous singer hadn’t met Tommy Mottola, and if the powerful record mogul hadn’t decided to create a star…
Diahann made her way downstairs to her basement apartment in Mr Diamond’s brownstone, thinking that she was happy to have her daughter home–if only for a few days. On the other hand, Liberty would probably be full of criticisms and snippy remarks–unless she’d changed, which was highly unlikely.
It would be so nice if they could get along for once. But Liberty harboured too many issues, and Diahann was wise enough to realize that she was asking the impossible to expect her daughter not to get on her case.
The afternoon dragged by. Unused to doing nothing, Liberty found herself severely bored. She thought about working on one of her songs–there were several unfinished lyrics she was desperate to complete. Then she decided it wouldn’t fly. She had to be in the mood to write: it was impossible to just pick up a pen and create magic.
Too bad. She wished she could. She wished many things–number one being she wished she had a father.
Fact of life: according to Mama, she didn’t. For Mama refused to discuss who her father was, and no amount of questioning had ever produced results. Even Aretha had no clue who that man might be. ‘Your mama never told no one nothin’,’ Aretha had informed Liberty, when she’d first moved in. ‘Lil’ sis left home when she was sixteen to chase some kinda singin’ deal in New York, an’ a few years later, when she got herself knocked up, she never told no one back in Atlanta. She must’ve bin doin’ okay, ’cause she had you all by herself, raised you till she sent you t’ me, never got married, an’ we never heard nothin’ regardin’ no steady man. ’Course, your mama’s always bin private ’bout things, that’s her way. We’re sisters, only we ain’t that close.’
Liberty had listened carefully, for this was more information than Diahann had ever confided. ‘Why do you think she gave it all up and started working as a maid?’ she’d asked.
‘Gave up what, sweet thing?’ Aretha had answered, exasperated. ‘From everythin’ I heard she was strugglin’ from week to week tryin’t’ make a livin’ singin’ in all kinda dives. A steady job along with some place to live must’ve seemed pretty damn nice. No rent. No worries. An’ let me set you straight, she be that man’s housekeeper, not his maid.’
‘Same thing,’ Liberty had muttered.
‘No, it ain’t,’ Aretha had argued. ‘It’s not like she’s down on her hands an’ knees scrubbin’ the old dude’s crapper.’
Liberty often thought about the possibilities of who her father was. Before they’d moved into Mr Diamond’s house Mama had entertained plenty of boyfriends. She remembered one man in particular: his name was Leon and he was tall (she was tall), he had artistic hands (so did she) and, like Mama, he was a singer. As far as she could recall he’d moved in for a while when she was five, and treated her as if she was his kid. He’d taken her on long walks through Central Park, visits to the zoo and, best of all, every Saturday afternoon he’d sat her down and let her listen to all his favourite recording artists. Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, the Temptations, Gladys Knight. She’d loved it. By the time she was seven she was familiar with all the soul greats and, to the amusement of the grown-ups, she could manage a fair imitation of Diana Ross or Patti LaBelle.
Sometimes, as a special treat, Leon and Mama would sing a duet, and she’d sit watching them, totally enthralled, thinking that they sure made a handsome couple, and they sounded wonderful.
Leon had lived with them for a couple of years, until one night Liberty had woken up to a fierce amount of screaming and yelling, and in the morning Leon was packed up and gone.
Looking back, she’d realized that his skin was very black, and so was her mama’s. Her skin was light, a creamy milk chocolate, so she’d finally reached the regretful conclusion that Leon couldn’t possibly be her dad. This saddened her, but there was nothing she could do about it.
One memorable day, shortly before she was banished from Mr Diamond’s house, Mama had stood her in front of the bathroom mirror and lectured her about the colour of her skin. ‘See that face starin’ back at you?’ Mama had said sternly. ‘That’s a black face, girl. Black. You hear me?’
‘Yes, Mama,’ she’d said, frightened by the intensity in her mother’s tone.
‘There’s a lot of prejudice in this discriminating world we live in, an’ society will see you as black, so you’d better know it now.’
‘I do, Mama,’ she’d whispered.
‘Then tell me.’
‘I’m black.’
‘That’s right, an’ don’t you ever forget it. ’Cause even though you’re light-skinned an’ could pass if you wanted, the truth will always come out.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘You’re a smart girl, you can do anything you set your heart on. Don’t ever let being black hold you back.’
‘I won’t.’
She’d felt bold that day–after all, it was her right to know. ‘Was my daddy a white man, Mama?’ she’d asked, holding her breath. It was not the first time she’d asked that question, but this time she’d hoped for an answer.
Diahann had frowned, rolled her eyes, and muttered something about it didn’t matter, her daddy wasn’t around, never had been, and Liberty should stop asking about him.
Great! Going through life without knowing. It wasn’t fair. She was entitled to the information, and today, trapped in her mama’s apartment, she was determined to find out.
After all, it wasn’t as if she was twelve anymore. She was nineteen, and her mother better respect the fact that she needed to know the truth.
Chapter Ten
Amy was happily doing all the things she never usually got to do, such as smoking weed, getting drunk on double lychee martinis, screaming at the trio of male strippers her best friends had thoughtfully provided, and generally letting loose.
Usually she was such a ‘good girl’, a dedicated worker, a credit to her well-connected family. Tonight she was a ‘wild girl’, egged on by her hard-living friends. Tonight she’d decided to forget about the past experiences that had always held her back, and go for it.
The strippers were a trip–three brawny Australian lads with bulging thigh muscles, lusty smiles and six-pack abs. Much to the girls’ delight, they were not shy about taking everything off. While one of them gave Amy a dangerously intimate lap-dance, Tina snapped pictures with her digital camera. The girls were screaming with laughter.
Amy was screaming along with them. She was having a great time, the best time she’d had in months, what with all the wedding preparations wearing her down.
After a couple of hours in a private room at Gatsby’s, Yolanda suggested they move into the main club where Usher was rapping on the sound system about women and sex and betrayal, and the place was jammed with a writhing, sweating crowd intent on chilling out to the loud music.
‘Order another drink,’ encouraged Yolanda, as they all squeezed onto the leather banquette in a corner booth.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Carolee, a frighteningly thin Courtenelli house model. ‘You gotta get wrecked, like, really.’
‘I am wrecked,’ Amy protested, with a small drunken giggle. ‘Anymore lychee martinis and I’m throwing up all over some lucky person.’
‘Maybe him,’ Dana said, with a sly glance at the ridiculously handsome man lounging in the adjoining booth. He was accompanied by a
stunning six-foot-tall black woman, and a skinny white man with a ponytail.
‘Wow!’ whispered Tina, leaning forward and checking out the good-looking one. ‘Now he’s hot!’
‘Stop!’ Amy admonished. ‘You’re married and pregnant, so cool down.’
‘I can look, can’t I?’ Tina asked innocently. ‘And may I remind you that you can do more than look.’
‘Shut up!’ Amy giggled, thinking that it was about time she downed a cup of strong black coffee before she slid under the table.
And yet why would she do that when she was having so much fun?
Lounging in a booth at Gatsby’s, Jett was feeling relaxed, even though he was not drinking or doing drugs. Both activities were strictly off his agenda, but he felt mellow and chilled out all the same. Sometimes you just had to suck it up and realize there were things you couldn’t do. He’d learned his lessons the hard way, and now he didn’t miss it. No alcohol. No drugs. He understood he was an addict, therefore he had to resist. Pretty simple, really.
Sipping Diet Coke, he checked out the action. There was plenty going on. The dance-floor was alive with beautiful, sexy women. He glanced over at Chet, who was chain-smoking French cigarettes, while Beverly was busy chatting to a group of girls in the next booth. Before long he found himself joining in the conversation.
It was a kick talking to a bunch of females who actually spoke his language. Three years in Italy was a long time to be away, and the truth was he’d missed America and all it had to offer.
After a while he realized that one girl in particular kept catching his attention. She was a real knock-out in a Reese Witherspoon, Gwyneth Paltrow kind of way. She had that silky blonde hair, shy-smile thing going. And the most appealing eyes. So all-American. So pretty. So nice.
As the evening progressed, he found himself becoming more and more attracted to her, and even though she was drinking along with the others, he sensed there was something different about her. Not only was she insanely pretty, but he couldn’t help noticing that she had a great body–and great bodies were his speciality.
It didn’t take long for his jet-lag to vanish. Leaning over he asked her if she wanted to hit the dance-floor.
She was about to say no, but a drunken shove from one of her friends persuaded her to get up.
Grabbing her hand, he led her onto the crowded floor and they started to dance.
As if on cue, the disc jockey switched from Outkast to a slow Marc Anthony salsa beat. Not about to miss the opportunity, Jett pulled her close. ‘So…uh…what’re you girls doing out by yourselves?’ he asked, inhaling her perfume, a mixture of fresh soap and seductive Angel. ‘Is this a no-boyfriend night?’
‘Somebody’s getting married,’ Amy murmured, feeling surprisingly comfortable in his arms.
‘Not you, I hope,’ he joked, pulling her even closer.
And she smiled.
They stayed on the dance-floor a long time before he managed to steer her over to the other side, away from her friends. Out of sight, he edged her into a corner and began kissing her.
‘You’d better stop that,’ she murmured, attempting to push him away.
‘Why?’ he said teasingly. ‘You’re not into kissing?’
‘I…uh…’
He pulled her close again and kissed her some more. This time she didn’t push him away. She had soft lips, so soft and inviting that he felt the beginning of a hard-on just kissing her.
Amy was as into it as he was. Earlier she’d smoked a joint, drunk too much, and now her inhibitions were at a dangerously low level. Besides, this guy was so good-looking, with his tousled dirty blond hair and mesmerizing blue eyes. Maybe Tina was right. One last fling…
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he whispered in her ear, after twenty minutes of serious tongue action.
‘I…I don’t know you,’ she responded, feeling confused and excited but becoming more turned on by the minute.
‘Hey–I don’t know you either,’ he said, caressing her silky blonde hair. ‘But, believe me, I’d like to.’
‘Yes?’ she asked tentatively, shivering slightly.
‘You bet,’ he said, kissing her again.
She felt dizzy. Soon she’d be a married woman. Forever faithful. No more opportunities to explore.
Only right now she was single, free, she didn’t have to answer to anyone, and this might be her last chance to do something totally out of character. Something completely and utterly crazy.
Tina was right. One wild fling before the doors of matrimony closed and she became the good, faithful wife.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she whispered, feeling light-headed and suddenly quite bold as he steered her towards the exit.
‘I’ll think of somewhere,’ he answered, a strong possessive arm firmly round her narrow waist.
Outside on the street he waved down a cab and bundled her inside.
‘And we’re going where?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘Now, now, don’t get paranoid, I’m not kidnapping you,’ he joked.
‘That’s not funny,’ she said, sinking back against the cracked leather seat, quickly shutting out the bad memories that threatened to flood back.
He didn’t get it. Of course he didn’t. He had no idea who she was. Poor little rich girl. Poor little engaged rich girl. Why would he know?
He kissed her all the way to Sam’s loft in Soho.
They didn’t speak. Not a word.
She was well aware that she’d had too much to drink: her head was spinning, but somehow it didn’t bother her. She wanted this. It was her choice, nobody was forcing her to do anything.
Once they arrived, he paid off the cab driver, then pushed her up against the wall outside Sam’s building and started once more with the kissing.
She could barely breathe. It was as if they couldn’t keep their mouths off each other, and he was such a great kisser.
Are you out of your mind? a stern inner voice suddenly yelled inside her head.
Yes! she fired back. And I don’t intend to stop.
You’d better!
Says who?
He unlocked the downstairs street door, urgently pulling her inside. She came with him willingly. He led her straight to a tiny elevator where he crowded her into a corner. Within seconds his hands were everywhere.
She knew that this was the moment she should tell him to stop, reveal the truth about her situation and beat a hasty retreat. Because if she didn’t do it now there was no turning back.
‘You’re so freakin’ beautiful,’ he whispered, leading her out of the elevator and into the apartment. ‘You do know that, don’t you?’
No, she didn’t know it. Max never told her. Max was polite and proper, always the perfect gentleman. Max plied her with expensive presents that she didn’t need and didn’t want. Max was safe. This guy wasn’t.
Inside the small apartment their kissing marathon continued, both of them totally into it.
After a while Jett began undressing her, slowly at first, then becoming frantic.
She responded by ripping at his shirt, pulling down the zipper on his pants.
They were kissing and fumbling with their clothes, laughing, until suddenly he picked her up as if she was weightless, and carried her into Sam’s bedroom where he placed her gently on the bed.
This is it! she thought. This is it. It’s time to stay or run.
Before she could make up her mind, he began to kiss her again, sucking her bottom lip, moving down to her breasts, positioning himself over her, stroking her skin, which was so soft and smooth–like fine cashmere. His lips found her nipples and she threw back her head with abandon and thought she might melt with pleasure. She didn’t want him to stop. Ever.
And when he moved on top of her, she gave a long, deep sigh, opening herself up to him.
He started to push inside her, when he suddenly realized she was a virgin. It was a shock. ‘Damn!’ he muttered, abruptly pulling away.
‘Don’t sto
p,’ she said, reaching out to guide him back. ‘Please don’t stop.’
‘Hey…’ he mumbled, wondering why he was suddenly turning into Mr Nice Guy. ‘You’ve had a few drinks and, uh…I’m not about to do something you might regret in the morning.’
‘Who says I’ll regret anything?’
‘This is your first time, right?’
‘Of course not,’ she lied, wishing he’d just continue what he’d been doing, because even though the room was doing a slow spin she was beyond caring: she needed this tonight, and nothing was going to stop her now. ‘Keep making love to me,’ she said softly. ‘I want to feel you inside me.’
Oh, Jesus, she was so gorgeous and he was totally hooked, why would he stop?
Resuming his position, he made love to her for what seemed like hours, until finally she fell asleep wrapped in his arms, warm and soft and so very lovely.
He’d never felt so totally at peace and satisfied. Within minutes he, too, was asleep, breathing in her sweet, sweet smell, totally content.
When he woke in the morning there were drops of blood on the sheets and the girl he’d spent the night with was gone.
It was then that he realized he didn’t even know her name.
Chapter Eleven
Unable to sleep, Max considered it Mariska’s fault. She’d purposely summoned him to her apartment, pretending Lulu was sick just so that she could ruin his night. He was sure she’d assumed he was with Amy.
Wrong. As usual.
And what exactly had that muttered ‘maybe’ been about when he’d said, ‘She’s my daughter, isn’t she’.
Surely Mariska wouldn’t stoop that low, intimating that Lulu might not be his child.
Yes. Mariska was a prize bitch, capable of anything. The woman would stoop as low as she had to if it meant getting his attention.
He truly loathed her, and he had good reason to. Several weeks ago a man had turned up at his office, a scruffy man with obviously dyed black hair and a sparse moustache. Clad in an ill-fitting suit and scuffed fake alligator shoes, the man had reeked of cheap cologne as he’d waylaid Mrs Barley, Max’s executive assistant, and informed her that he had personal and sensitive information regarding the ex-Mrs Diamond, and that Max could either see him or read about what he had to say in the National Enquirer.
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