‘Do you know who did this to Mariska?’ he asked.
‘No, no,’ Irena said, shaking her head. ‘I know nothing. That what I tell police. I know nothing.’
At this point Max took out money, a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills held together with a rubber band. He didn’t offer it to her, simply kept it in his hands where she could see it.
‘But you do know about Vladimir, don’t you?’ he said, watching for her reaction.
Alarm flashed across Irena’s face. ‘Vladimir? Who this Vladimir?’ She was obviously lying.
‘No more games, Irena,’ Max said, flicking several bills from the stack and handing them to her. ‘This stays between you and me. No police. No Immigration. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ she agreed.
‘Did Vladimir kill Mariska?’
Irena collapsed in a heap on her unmade bed, sobbing uncontrollably. ‘I know nothing,’ she cried hysterically. ‘Nothing!’
He peeled off a couple more bills and walked over to her. ‘It’s good you know nothing. It’s good the detectives haven’t found out about Vladimir.’ He handed her the money. ‘We should keep it that way.’
‘Yes?’ she said, her tears abruptly ceasing as she grabbed the money and peered up at him.
‘It’s best that the memory of Mariska is not dragged through the mud. Do you agree?’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Diamond,’ she said, cheering up considerably. ‘It is best. I tell police nothing about men. Not their business.’
‘Men?’ Max questioned. ‘Don’t you mean man? One man? Vladimir?’
Irena’s eyes, full of greed, slid towards the roll of bills still in his hands.
He understood immediately. Irena was telling him that there was more than one man, but that was all she was telling him. If he wanted more information he had to pay more money.
One thing he knew for sure, Irena was definitely Mariska’s mother.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Damon was staying around, and Chip and the gang didn’t mind at all.
‘The man is crazy about you,’ Teddy informed her.
‘The man is married,’ Liberty responded.
‘He’s still crazy about you,’ Teddy insisted.
‘No, he’s not,’ she said, making sure she sounded casual, because she certainly didn’t want anyone finding out how she really felt. ‘He’s just looking to get laid.’
‘Surely he could accomplish that in New York?’ Teddy pointed out, fiddling with her hair extensions during an afternoon break.
‘I’m sure he can. But not with me.’
‘He’s gorgeous!’ Quinn raved, joining in. ‘Very urban and masculine and street. I so get off on that tough, manly quality.’
‘Then maybe you should sleep with him,’ Liberty said drily.
‘I wish!’ Quinn responded. ‘Methinks he doesn’t stroll the same boulevard as little old me.’
Liberty couldn’t help smiling. Not only were Teddy and Quinn a trip, but Chip’s photographs were turning out to be sensational, and the work was fun. There was also the added bonus of Damon’s presence and, much as she fought her feelings for him, she couldn’t help liking him more every time she saw him.
The night before he’d charmed everyone at the restaurant, followed by the walk on the beach–which, whether she cared to admit it or not–had been magical. And, after a shaky start, he’d even become friends with Tony A. They’d all sat in the hotel lobby swapping stories until two a.m., when she’d excused herself and gone up to bed, leaving Damon, Tony and even Hector having a fine old time.
Wednesday morning she was up at six, after a scant amount of sleep, and as her ‘team’ prepared her for the day’s shoot, they began plying her with questions about Damon.
Do you like him? What’s he doing here? How long’s he staying? Do you like him? Exactly how rich is he? Did he fly to L.A. to see you? Have you been on his plane? Do you like him? Have you slept with him? DO YOU LIKE HIM?
Yes! She liked him. Only she wasn’t about to admit it, so she played it cool, and when he appeared at the shoot around three p.m. she pretended she wasn’t interested in what he’d been doing all day, although she couldn’t help wondering if he had a hot little honey stashed in Beverly Hills just like Parker. And since she wasn’t jumping into bed with him, was he casting his eyes around for other opportunities? There were certainly plenty of good-looking women in L.A. She’d noticed them driving up to the hotel in their Mercedes, Beamers and their husbands Hummers. They were all fresh and glowing, with perfectly coiffed blonde hair, immaculate manicures, toned bodies and lightly tanned skin.
Damon didn’t so much as glance in their direction. He informed anyone who cared to listen that he’d slept until one, taken a steam and then gone shopping.
‘Buy anything fab?’ Teddy asked. ‘Anything leather?’
‘Maybe,’ Damon replied, looking very L.A. in a white T-shirt and white pants, the usual Nikes, mirrored shades and plenty of bling. ‘I’ll let you know.’
Liberty admired the way he treated everyone the same. No star trips for Damon P. Donnell. He was a man of the people.
She wondered what his wife thought he was doing in L.A. Did they speak on the phone every day? Did they miss each other? Or wasn’t it that kind of close relationship?
Damon watched her for a while, standing silently in the background on the beach while she did her thing.
Today it was bikini time–if you could call the two flimsy strips of leather a bikini. She was starting to feel pretty confident–it was difficult not to with all the encouragement she was getting. Chip kept up a constant stream of compliments, while Teddy and Quinn creamed over the Polaroids. Even the stoic Uma managed to throw a few nice remarks her way.
Everything was amazing. The hotel, the people she was working with, Damon turning up in L.A. with Parker, bumping into Tony who’d left for Chicago early that morning. It was all such an adventure.
At the next break, Damon informed her he was going back to the hotel for a massage. ‘Dinner,’ he said, in a low, commanding voice. ‘Tonight. Just you and me.’
He wasn’t asking her. He was telling her. She shivered. It was usually she who called the shots in a relationship. None of that with Damon, he was a take-charge kind of guy, and she had to admit it made a refreshing change. ‘Where’s Parker?’ she ventured.
‘He had to get back.’
‘But—’
‘Now, don’t go frettin’ it, babe. Parker’s hot t’work with you. You’ll meet up with him next week in New York. This trip was for him t’ get a feel for you.’
‘Do you think he liked me?’ She asked, knowing that she sounded like an anxious little kid, but unable to help herself.
‘What’s not to like?’ Damon answered smoothly. ‘Oh, yeah–an’ did I mention that today you are lookin’ SMOKIN?’
‘I bet you say that to all the girls you want to go to bed with,’ she teased.
‘Yeah, well, only the difficult ones,’ he responded, adjusting his cool Versace shades. ‘See ya later, babe.’
And he strolled off. No entourage. No bodyguards. Just a simple hip-hop mogul with a yen to get into her pants.
Later, dinner at Mr Chow’s–a famous Beverly Hills restaurant peppered with stars, all of whom Damon seemed to know. Outside the restaurant several paparazzi jumped forward and took their photograph, then they clamoured for her name.
‘Meet Liberty, guys,’ Damon said, not at all worried about being photographed with her. ‘You’ll all be buyin’ this young lady’s new CD soon enough.’
Once they were settled at a table, Damon leaned over, took her hand and said, ‘Here’s what you gotta know. It’s never too early to get the hype goin’. By the time your CD drops, everyone’ll recognize your name.’
‘Including Tashmir?’ she asked, unable to prevent the words coming out of her mouth.
‘Now why you into spoilin’ a perfect night?’ he said, his expression quizzical.
‘Because if I was your wif
e, and I saw your photograph with another woman, I’d be pissed.’
‘I’ll remember that for when we’re married.’
Had he just said that? Was she hearing things?
He ordered her a lychee martini and a selection of the most delicious food she’d ever tasted. Spare ribs and seaweed, chicken satay and duck pancakes. It was an incredible array of dishes.
After a while she realized she was eating too much. Damon was watching her with an indulgent smile on his handsome face.
‘Guess I was hungry,’ she said, trying not to stare at Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas, who were being seated at the next table.
‘That’s okay,’ Damon said easily. ‘I like a girl with a big appetite.’
‘When are you leaving?’ she asked, taking a sip of her drink.
‘Whenever you’re ready.’
‘I didn’t mean tonight. I meant when are you leaving L.A.?’
‘I know what you meant,’ he said, leaning back.
‘So?’
‘So, like I said, whenever you’re ready.’
They were interrupted by a buxom blonde with huge fake tits and an enhanced-lip smile. She pounced on Damon as if he was a particularly delicious item on the menu.
‘How are you?’ she gushed, leaning over to give him a jammy kiss and an excellent view of her fake tits hanging out of a skimpy orange dress.
‘I’m good,’ he said, coolly polite.
‘How’s Tash?’ the blonde asked, shooting a meaningful look at Liberty.
‘She’s good too.’
An awkward silence. Fake Tits waited to be introduced to Liberty. It didn’t happen.
‘Who was that?’ Liberty asked, when the blonde finally got the hint and moved on.
‘Would you believe me if I told you I got no clue?’
‘Yes, I’d believe you. She’s hardly your type.’
‘Oh,’ he said, grinning. ‘You think I have a type?’
‘Well, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, you.’
After dinner, Damon was into club-hopping. ‘Need to hear what the DJs are playin’,’ he explained. ‘Gotta keep my ear current.’
They stopped by several clubs. He didn’t dance, hardly drank, just sat back and watched the action, and there was plenty of that going on. Settled in a booth in one of the VIP rooms, Liberty observed a pretty teenage TV queen snorting a line of coke, a well-known male movie star necking with another well-known and very married male movie star, a couple of stoned, so-called It girls hoping to score a date, and a very lonely-looking big-time female star of forty-five, pretending to be twenty-five–or at least acting as if she was.
Like Damon, Liberty was more an observer than a doer. She was feeling great sitting next to him, taking it all in, trying to remember every single detail so that she could regale Cindi with her adventures.
With Damon she was the most comfortable she’d ever felt with a man. Yes, he wanted to sleep with her, but he wasn’t all over her groping and pawing, going for a quick feel. He was a real man, laid-back and unbelievably hot, and the more time she spent with him, the more she was tempted.
Once again she started thinking, So what if he’s married? If it doesn’t bother him, why should it bother me?
‘Guess I’d better get you t’ bed–your bed,’ Damon said, finally winding down. ‘Thank for comin’ with me tonight, LL. It was time for me t’ check out the L.A. scene.’
‘So that’s why you came to L.A.’
‘No, babe,’ he said, giving her a long, lingering look. ‘Y’know why I came to L.A.’
They made it into the limo, Damon ignoring the attention of even more paparazzi darting around them taking random shots.
Guess he’s used to all this attention, Liberty thought. Like P. Diddy he kind of goes with it.
‘So, LL,’ Damon said, leaning back against the leather seat, ‘what time you finish tomorrow?’
‘They’ve got me booked on a nine o’clock night-time flight to New York.’
‘Tell ’em to cancel it.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m full of this crazy yen t’ take you to Cabo,’ he said, giving her the look she found so irresistible.
‘Cabo?’ she questioned.
‘Cabo San Lucas. It’s this happenin’ resort in Mexico. Why we gotta rush back to New York when we can fly there in two hours, spend the weekend, then back to the city on Sunday? Sound cool?’
‘Amazing,’ she replied. ‘Only I can’t do it.’
‘An’ that would be ’cause…?’
‘There’s a lot of reasons.’
‘Tell me the big one, an’ Damon’ll solve it,’ he said confidently.
‘Well…’ she began.
‘Yeah,’ he groaned. ‘I know, I know. I’m married, right?’
‘You said it.’
‘That’s not such a big deal, y’ know.’
‘To you it’s not.’
‘No shit.’
‘And what if I don’t want to fly to Cabo with you?’ she said, testing him.
‘That ain’t gonna happen.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
Damon P. Donnell was a difficult man to refuse. Just one look and she was hooked. ‘We’ll see,’ she said, keeping it vague.
‘We’ll see, the girl says.’ He laughed, rolling his eyes.
‘Like, you think every girl says yes to you, Mr Unturn-downable?’
‘Somethin’ like that,’ he said, grinning.
‘Your ego is huge.’
‘Believe me, baby, that’s not all.’
‘Damon!’
‘Move closer, LL. One kiss ain’t gonna kill ya.’
And so they’d started kissing again, and it was so damn hot that she’d almost forgotten he was married.
Not quite. When the limo pulled up to the hotel, she jumped out hurriedly. ‘I can’t do this,’ she said, then rushed inside and made it to the safety of her room before she weakened and changed her mind.
God! She was so confused. Her resolve was crumbling. If she went to Cabo with him, she’d be just another girl he’d screwed outside his marriage, and then what?
Before she could give it anymore thought, her mom was on the phone. ‘Why haven’t you called me back?’ Diahann demanded. ‘I need to talk to you.’
‘I was out, Mama.’
‘I left messages.’
‘I know, but I thought it was too late in New York to call you. Isn’t it like four in the morning there? How come you’re still up?’
‘What time will you be back here tomorrow?’ Diahann asked tensely.
‘Uh…’ Liberty replied, hesitating for a moment. ‘I’ve kind of been invited to stay with some friends in Mexico.’
‘No!’ Diahann sounded distraught. ‘You can’t go.’
‘I’m not actually asking permission,’ Liberty retorted. ‘The reason I’m telling you is so you don’t start imagining I’ve been kidnapped into a life of slavery.’
Diahann gave a long-drawn-out sigh. ‘There’s something I have to tell you, Libby.’
‘Then tell me, I’m listening.’
‘Not over the phone.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s something I have to tell you to your face.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Liberty exploded, full of frustration. ‘I’m sick of this. First you tell me nothing at all, and now that I’m out on my own enjoying myself, you can’t wait to make me crazy. What is it you have to say?’
‘Get back to New York as quickly as possible, Libby, I’m begging you.’
‘What’s so damn important?’
‘Come back and find out for yourself. I promise you, it’ll change your life.’
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Irena fixed Max a mug of murky dark brown tea so strong he thought he might regurgitate the foul liquid on the spot. Then she indicated that he should sit, so he balanced gingerly on the one rickety chair.
Irena settled herself on the edge of
her unmade bed, and proceeded to talk. Words came pouring out of her mouth, harsh words mixed with venom about her deceased daughter. ‘Paulina–she was always user,’ Irena spat. ‘Always wanted best. Daddy’s little favourite.’
‘Where is your husband?’ Max asked. Early on in their relationship, Mariska had informed him that both her parents had perished in a train wreck when she was an infant. Like everything else about Mariska, that had been a lie too.
‘Dead,’ Irena stated, clutching her own mug of tea. ‘Shot in Moscow thirty years ago. Not nice man. Paulina take after him.’
‘But she sent for you, brought you to America, didn’t she?’
‘Ha!’ Irena snorted. ‘To be her slave. Iron her clothes. Press them. Take them to the dry cleaner’s. Polish her shoes. Wash her dirty underwear. Keep her secrets. I am slave. She live in palace. Look where I sleep.’
Max nodded. Irena wasn’t wrong. ‘Tell me about the men,’ he said. ‘Was she seeing Vladimir while she was married to me?’
‘Vladimir,’ Irena said scornfully. ‘He nothing. He peasant. Paulina play with him like toy.’
‘Go on,’ Max encouraged.
‘Paulina loved herself. Then Alex. But Alex only for sex.’
‘Alex?’ Max questioned.
‘Boyfriend.’
‘Boyfriend when?’
‘When she need sex. Or money.’ A crafty pause. ‘Alex give her cash.’
Did that explain the cash he’d found stuffed into her box? That would be some generous boyfriend.
‘Who is Alex?’
‘Bad man,’ Irena said, her face darkening. ‘Gangster. Criminal. He carry gun.’
Jesus! Mariska certainly had led a double life.
‘What’s Alex’s surname?’ he asked, thinking that Alex might be listed in her phone book.
Irena shrugged. ‘Russian man,’ she said vaguely, as if that explained everything.
‘Was she seeing him when she was married to me?’
‘Maybe,’ Irena answered cautiously.
Max wondered if Alex had stabbed Mariska to death, not Vladimir. Was that possible?
No. Vladimir was guilty. He was sure of it.
And then Mariska’s words came back to haunt him. The night she’d called him to her apartment claiming Lulu was sick, the night he’d said, ‘She’s my daughter, isn’t she.’ He’d said it as a statement not a question. But Mariska had murmured a sly ‘Maybe,’ and now–in view of what Irena was telling him–there was a distinct possibility that Lulu might not be his child. She could be Vladimir’s or even Alex’s. He felt sick.
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