Lovers & Players

by Jackie Collins

  ‘This–this isn’t right,’ she said, forcing herself to say the words.

  ‘Feels like it is,’ he said, stretching lazily.

  ‘No, it isn’t. We can’t do this.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know why.’

  ‘Because of Max, huh?’ he said, wondering if she’d mind if he lit a cigarette, then deciding she definitely would, so he didn’t bother asking.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But, Amy,’ he said, propping himself up on one elbow and gazing down at her, ‘you gotta realize that Max isn’t right for you.’

  ‘Please listen to me, Jett,’ she said earnestly. ‘I can’t leave him, not with everything he’s going through. Besides, you’re with Gianna, you live in Italy.’

  ‘How many times have I gotta tell you?’ he said impatiently. ‘Gianna an’ me, we’re not together.’

  ‘You sleep together,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘Casual sex,’ he responded.

  ‘What’s casual about sex?’ she said, frowning. ‘To me it’s a commitment. A future together. A family. A life.’

  ‘Whoa!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are a serious girl.’

  ‘I never said I wasn’t. And what we’re doing is wrong.’

  ‘Does it feel wrong?’ he asked, stroking her face.

  She sat up, reaching for a sheet to cover herself. ‘Yes,’ she muttered. ‘To me it does.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘If I am, it’s to protect both of us,’ she said, sighing deeply. ‘This can’t go any further. I mean it.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m telling Gianna it’s over. If it’ll make a difference, I’ll do it tonight.’

  ‘You shouldn’t on my account. There is no future for us. I have to stay with Max.’

  ‘Even though you don’t love him?’ he questioned.

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’

  She started to cry, tears of pure frustration at the situation she found herself in.

  Jett reached over and put his arms round her, cradling her against his chest, stroking her hair and kissing her forehead. ‘We’re gonna work this out,’ he said quietly. ‘I promise you, Amy, we’re gonna work this out so that you and I can be together, because you know as sure as I do that it’s where we both belong.’

  Detective Rodriguez irritated the crap out of Max. He couldn’t stand him with his dumb moustache and intrusive questions.

  As soon as the two detectives were out of his apartment, Max poured himself another brandy–his third. Then he knocked on the guest-room door.

  Chris was still on the phone talking to his office in L.A. He held up a hand indicating to Max that he would be through in a couple of minutes.

  Max stayed in the room, forcing him to curtail his conversation with Andy.

  ‘Here’s the latest,’ Chris said, hanging up. ‘I have to get back to L.A. tomorrow, so I’m hitching a ride with Birdy Marvel.’

  ‘You are?’ Max said, trying to hide his disappointment, because having a brother to bond with was a whole new experience, and quite a pleasant one.

  ‘It’s necessary,’ Chris explained. ‘Clients are screaming for my attention, plus I need to deal with my house situation.’

  ‘I understand,’ Max said.

  ‘You’ll be okay?’

  ‘Of course I will, and I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How about I give you the cash I found in Mariska’s box? That way you can pay off your gambling debt.’

  ‘Are you fucking nuts?’ Chris exploded, looking at his brother as if he’d totally lost it. ‘I wouldn’t touch that money. Besides, it’s not yours, Max. You have to give it up, hand everything over to the detectives or at least tell your lawyer about it. Jesus Christ! You’re too smart to fuck around like this.’

  ‘You think that’s what I should do?’

  ‘Damn right. Mariska was violently murdered. Vladimir is obviously a desperate man. Step away.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. I should do that.’

  ‘When, Max?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘I hope so, ’cause this is crazy shit.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Did you hear from Red yet?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘He must know what happened–it’s all over the frigging news. You’d think he’d call.’

  ‘Why are you surprised? I’m not.’

  ‘Yeah. Typical Red behaviour,’ Chris agreed. ‘The bastard doesn’t give a shit.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How’d your session with the detective go?’

  ‘He knew I went into the apartment.’

  ‘I bet that pissed him off.’

  ‘Nothing he can do about it now. Oh, and you won’t believe this one.’

  ‘Go ahead, surprise me.’

  ‘Mariska’s personal maid, Irena, the old Russian woman I can’t stand–turns out she’s probably Mariska’s mother.’

  ‘No way,’ Chris said.

  ‘Apparently so. I think I should talk to her.’

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘She might know something she’s not telling the police, something about Vladimir.’

  ‘For Crissakes,’ Chris snapped. ‘Aren’t you listening to me? You’ve gotta stop this crap. They’re going to find out about Vladimir whatever you do.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Look,’ Chris said patiently, ‘give the detectives the box with everything in it, including the money. And remember, they’re the detectives, not you. Do it soon, Max, because I do not want to be the one bailing you out of jail for holding back evidence.’

  ‘That won’t happen.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. I really hope you’re right.’

  The Russian gangster was strong, brawny and rough, with big meaty hands to match his big meaty cock.

  Sonja would never admit it to anyone but herself, but she was quite into being dominated. It made a welcome change from all the old men she slept with for money. Old rich men with tired cocks and kinky tastes. A good old-fashioned fuck with a manly man made quite a welcome change. Until Alex Pinchinoff stuffed his enormous member into her mouth and attempted to choke her.

  That was the moment she remembered why she hadn’t wanted to see him again.

  At least this time he hadn’t insisted on handcuffing her, and he was attractive in a sinister kind of way. Tall, with heavy-set features, thick black hair and dominating eyebrows. For a moment she fantasized what it would be like to be married to a man like Alex. He’d want to fuck her every day, knock her up with a kid or two, expect her to cook and clean and give him regular blow-jobs. Then he’d take a mistress, a young American blonde with a tight little pussy and a big American smile.

  Fantasy over.

  She managed to give him head without gagging. Then he fucked her again until they both came for the second time and she lay there quite spent.

  ‘You pleased to see me tonight?’ he asked, lighting up a foul-smelling dark brown cigarette.

  They were in the bedroom of his mostly red apartment. Red-painted walls, red carpet, even red sheets.

  ‘You’re not bad,’ she allowed, with a faint smile.

  His big hand went straight to her landing strip of dyed pubic hair, which he proceeded to tug. ‘I make you come?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not too big for you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You interesting woman. Who those morons you with tonight?’

  ‘Not morons,’ she said, defending Igor and Vladimir. ‘One of them’s my cousin. The other guy–he was husband of murdered rich woman. He’ll get all her money.’

  ‘What woman?’ Alex asked, his interest piqued.

  ‘Murdered Russian woman in newspapers,’ Sonja replied, wondering where in hell Alex had come across red sheets.

  ‘Paulina Kuchinova?’ he questioned, blowing a stream of foul smoke
in her direction.

  ‘You know her real name?’ Sonja said, surprised. Maybe Vladimir was telling the truth after all. Who would’ve thought it? ‘How you know her real name?’

  ‘I know more than her name?’ Alex said, vigorously scratching his balls. ‘That bitch owes me plenty money. Whoever killed her did fine job. That was one greedy bitch who had it coming. Ah, yes,’ he added, nodding to himself. ‘I knew Paulina. I knew her good. So, you tell me where I find Vladimir ’cause now he owes me plenty money.’

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Liberty had a dilemma. Should she go to dinner with Chip and the gang or spend the evening with Damon and Parker J. Jones, her soon-to-be producer? She didn’t want to offend Chip–he’d been so great towards her. On the other hand, Damon was in L.A. and, married or not, how could she resist spending time with him?

  Away from New York, things seemed cooler. It was almost like she was on vacation where nothing mattered except having a good time. Not that she’d ever been on vacation–it was a luxury she’d missed out on.

  Wow! So much going on, and all of it unbelievable. If it wasn’t for her mother ruining everything, she’d be flying high.

  Damon was staying in the same hotel. What a surprise! She’d told him she’d call him in five minutes.

  First she buzzed Teddy’s room to check if it was okay to bring Damon and Parker to dinner.

  ‘Damon Donnell, the hip-hop king?’ Teddy asked, sounding impressed. ‘First Tony A, now Damon Donnell. Didn’t you tell me you were a new girl on the scene?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Someone’s been making up stories.’

  ‘Tony A is a friend from way back,’ Liberty explained. ‘And Damon’s putting me together with Parker J. Jones, the record producer.’

  ‘I’m sure Chip won’t mind,’ Teddy said. ‘Want me to call him for you?’

  ‘Would you? Then get straight back to me.’

  Within seconds Teddy was on the phone again. ‘Chip’s down with it.’

  Now she had to ask Damon if he’d mind joining her friends for dinner. She called him. ‘A group scene?’ Damon quipped. ‘Naw, not for me. I’m into up close an’ personal, just the two of us.’

  ‘Be serious,’ she scolded. ‘Chip’s the photographer I’m working with, and the others are fun. I’d love it if you and Parker could join us. Then later we can talk about my music.’

  ‘Talk about her music, the girl says,’ Damon drawled. ‘Sure, babe. That’s ’xactly what I flew to L.A. for–to talk about your music.’

  ‘You brought a producer with you, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So we’ll come to dinner.’

  ‘Seven-thirty in the lobby.’

  ‘How many limos should I order?’

  ‘How many what?’

  ‘Limos–to get to the restaurant.’

  ‘I’m sure we can grab a cab.’

  ‘Nobody takes cabs in L.A.’

  ‘Maybe you should meet us at the restaurant. It’s Ivy at the Shore.’

  ‘Hey, LL, you do know I got on a plane ’specially to see you, so don’t go givin’ me no I’ll-catch-up-with-you-later shit.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to come here.’

  ‘It’ll be worth it.’

  ‘You think?’

  He laughed. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Really?’ she said. ‘But you still have a ring on your finger, right?’

  ‘Man,’ he complained. ‘You sure are playing hard to get.’

  ‘I’m being honest with you. Seems people being honest with you doesn’t happen very often.’

  ‘You noticed,’ he said wryly.

  ‘You’re incredibly hot, Damon,’ she said, deciding to throw him off guard, because in spite of what Beverly thought, she knew a thing or two about dealing with men. ‘And if you were single,’ she continued, ‘there’s no way we’d be having this conversation.’

  ‘We wouldn’t, huh?’ he said, intrigued.

  ‘No,’ she said boldly. ‘We’d be rolling around on a bed having insanely wild sex.’

  ‘Now she’s tryin’ to excite me over the phone,’ he groaned. ‘An’ it’s workin’. You into phone sex, babe?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ she said crisply. ‘And, believe me, I am not trying to excite you. I’m simply telling you the way it is–’cause if you flew here to sleep with me, you can forget it.’

  ‘Man, you’re a tough one,’ he grumbled.

  ‘It’s called self-preservation.’

  ‘So that’s what it’s called.’

  ‘Reverse the roles, you’ll get it.’

  ‘Smart too.’

  ‘I try.’

  ‘Well, LL, you think you can ride with me to the restaurant?’

  ‘I’m supposed to meet everybody in the lobby at seven-thirty.’

  ‘I’ll come get you at seven-fifteen. We’ll arrive early, grab a mojito or two.’

  She called Teddy back and told him they were coming and that they’d all meet up at the restaurant.

  ‘Miss Thing!’ Teddy exclaimed delightedly. ‘You know absolutely everybody. I am sooo impressed!’

  After an awkward start, everyone got along well. Liberty had to admit that Damon possessed charm and then some. He was warm and friendly, and in no way at all did he play the I’m-a-big-hip-hop-record-mogul role.

  Parker J. Jones–a big man with a matching personality–was a riot. It turned out he’d produced records for Brandy, Birdy Marvel, Toni Braxton, and a host of other female stars.

  Teddy and Quinn were all over him and even Uma was fascinated by his stories–especially the Birdy Marvel ones. Uma was obsessed with Birdy Marvel, she listened avidly as Parker confided that Birdy was a major pop-tart diva, with outrageous demands, including serious perks for whatever hunk she was banging at the time.

  Chip and Damon bonded. They were both into cars. Chip had recently purchased his first Ferrari–a 575 Maranello, and it turned out Damon owned three very special Ferraris, including the new Superamerica, and a Maserati.

  ‘Man, I gotta photograph you with your cars,’ Chip said enthusiastically. ‘For sure it’s a Rolling Stone cover. Or Vanity Fair. Graydon will definitely get off on the car thing.’

  ‘Don’t wanna disappoint, but I’m not into doin’ much personal PR,’ Damon admitted. ‘I kinda leave that shit to my wife.’

  Then he caught Liberty listening, and was sorry he’d mentioned the word wife.

  Screw him, Liberty thought, freezing up. After two glasses of wine she’d started thinking about what could happen between them. Then, when she heard the wife comment, it was over. Determinedly she turned her attention to Parker, where it should’ve been in the first place. After all, Parker was her future, he was the one who was going to help make sure she sounded great.

  ‘Did you get a chance to listen to my demo?’ she asked him.

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ Parker said, enjoying a dish of crab cakes. ‘Listened to it with Damon an’ I liked what I heard. Wouldn’t’ve flown to L.A. if I hadn’t. Although I gotta say, any time I can hitch a ride on Damon’s plane it’s kinda hard t’ say no. You bin on it?’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, then, little lady, you got yourself one big freakin’ treat waitin’ for you. That dude sure knows how to treat himself like a king.’

  ‘So you really liked my demo?’ she asked, steering the conversation back to her music.

  ‘With a few reservations,’ Parker said. ‘Nothin’ we can’t fix.’

  ‘Reservations?’ she asked, alarmed. ‘Like what?’

  ‘You gotta think about your material. Right now it’s too damn dark ’n’ gloomy. An’ remember–you ain’t no Alicia Keys, so stop tryin’ to copy her style. She’s an original, an’ that’s what you’re gonna be.’

  ‘I’m not copying anyone,’ she objected.

  ‘Now don’t go gettin’ defensive on me,’ Parker warned, ‘ ’cause we gotta lotta work t’ do together. Big
lesson–learn to listen to criticism and take it in ’cause if you can’t do that we ain’t goin’ nowhere. Are we understandin’ each other?’

  She nodded, suitably chastised. Parker was a professional. She wasn’t. Not yet. She would do as he said, listen and learn.

  Hopefully it would all work out.

  Driving back to the hotel, Liberty found herself alone in the limo with Damon.

  ‘Where’s Parker?’ she asked, a touch breathlessly. ‘I thought he was coming with us.’

  Damon laughed. ‘Yeah, well, here’s the deal. Parker’s got himself a hot little honey he keeps stashed in Beverly Hills. That’s the real reason he flew to L.A. on such short notice.’

  ‘I thought I was the reason,’ she joked.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, no offence, but he ain’t gonna get no sweet juice outta you.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘There she goes again.’ Damon sighed, shaking his head. ‘What are you? A secret rep for the moral majority?’

  ‘Can’t help it if I have principles,’ she said, smiling lightly.

  ‘Guess that means I’m not gettin’ any tonight.’

  ‘Tonight. Tomorrow night. You know why.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I know,’ he said ruefully. ‘I’m married. An’ it don’t mean nothin’ t’ you that my wife an’ me–we got ourselves an arrangement.’

  ‘Not what I heard.’

  ‘Yeah? What didja hear?’

  ‘That your wife would beat any girl’s head in with her eight-hundred-dollar Manolos if she caught you playing. Apparently she’s fierce.’

  Damon burst out laughing. ‘My wife wouldn’t do nothin’ with them Manolos if she thought it might damage ’em. She’s a shoe-whore, baby. A shoe-whore all the way.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Liberty said, leaning back against the leather seat, thinking, Who would’ve believed less than a week ago that I’d be sitting in a limo in L.A. with Damon P. Donnell himself. It’s too much!

  ‘I’ve been meanin’ to ask you, how come you don’t sound like no other black chicks I know?’ Damon asked, reaching over and taking her hand.

  ‘I don’t?’

  ‘You know you don’t.’

  ‘I guess it’s ’cause my mom got a job uptown, pulled me out of school in Harlem and sent me to a fancy one in Manhattan,’ she explained, carefully withdrawing her hand from his. ‘I hated the new school, and everyone hated me. I didn’t fit in, but I suppose that’s where I learned to speak properly.’