if you don't mind being in the company of an older man." He smiled
when he said it, taking the curse off his words.
She thought about saying I have no intention of getting involved, but
it seemed presumptuous to assume anything at this early stage, so
instead she murmured, "I'd like that."
"So would I," he replied. "How about tomorrow night?"
Outside the club Oliver's Japanese chauffeur and sleek black Rolls
waited patiently.
"Not bad, huh?" Pia whispered, climbing in the back while Oliver and
Howard discussed business on the sidewalk. "Do you like him?"
"He's married," Lauren whispered back. "Stop trying to fix me up.
"Ah, but he's getting a divorce."
"Pia, he's old enough to be my father, maybe even my grandfather."
"So what?"
"Do me a favor-quit trying to matchmake."
They dropped Howard and Pia off first, and then the Rolls proceeded to
Lauren's apartment. On the street she spotted Emerson's limousine
parked outside her building. The last thing she was in the mood for
was another confrontation. Turning to Oliver she said, "Do you have a
guest room?"
He looked at her quizzically. "A guest room?"
"There's somebody I want to avoid and, uh . . . it seems to me if I
went home with you it would save me a problem."
"Certainly," he said, only too happy to oblige.
Located in a stately old building overlooking Central Park, Oliver's
apartment was sumptuous by anybody's standards. The ceilings were
high, the rooms large and the view incredible. He led her into the
living room and offered her a drink.
She shook her head. "I have to work tomorrow. Would you mind if I
went straight to my room?"
"Not at all," he said, leading her down a spacious corridor into a
guest bedroom. "Can I get you something to sleep in?"
"Maybe an old shirt?"
"I'll be right back."
She explored the tastefully decorated room, obviously designed by a
woman-certainly not his current wife-perhaps a decorator?
Picking up a silver frame she studied the photograph of a younger
Oliver and a woman who was obviously his previous wife. They made a
handsome couple.
Oliver returned and handed her a plastic-wrapped toothbrush, a tube of
toothpaste, a silk shirt and a hairbrush. "All settled?" he asked,
smiling.
She smiled back. "Thank you, I've got everything I need-you must have
done this before."
"No, Lauren," he replied seriously. "I can assure you I haven't."
He hesitated at the door. "Tell me, my dear, exactly who are you
avoiding?"
She shook her head. "Nobody important."
The next morning she was dressed and ready to leave by eightthirty. A
housekeeper greeted her in the hallway. "Mr. Liberty has alicady
left. He asked me to tell you that his driver is downstairs waiting to
take you wherever you wish to go.
She felt a tinge of disappointment-she'd hoped to see him, but
apparently he was an earlier riser than she.
She had the driver drop her at her apartment, where she quickly changed
clothes. No messages from Emerson. She felt relieved-or did she? Too
confusing, she couldn't make up her mind.
At the office Pia bombarded her with questions. "What do you think of
him? I told you he's getting a divorce, didn't I? Hmm, he is
attractive, isn't he?"
Lauren shook her head. "Stop fixing me up.
"I'm not fixing you up, I'm trying to marry you off! One day you'll be
old and shriveled-what then?"
"I'm sure I'll be very happy, thank you."
Pia pulled a face. "You know what, Lauren-you're a hopeless case. Oh,
and by the way, Emerson Burn called you three times this morning. What
does he want?
"If I knew I'd tell you."
"Sure you would."
"I would."
"Oh, yes, and pigs will wear tutus and fly down Fifth Avenue!"
"Very funny."
"You don't need a rock star, Lauren. You need Oliver. He's stable,
rich and crazy about you.
"I'll tell his wife."
"Ex-wife."
"Not yet."
"Sooner than you think."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Back in L.A. Nick found two messages from Frances Cavendish.
Good sign? Bad sign? He didn't know. He'd brought Cyndra and Annie
back to his place because he figured it wasn't safe for either of them
to go to their own apartments, but now they were getting on his
nerves.
Cyndra wandered around in a daze, and Annie complained hotly because he
hadn't dropped her home.
"We gotta get our stories straight before anybody goes anywhere," he
said. "I'll call Frances Cavendish back-then we'll talk."
Annie glared at him. He ignored her.
"Where have you been?" Frances said testily.
"Out of town."
"In the future leave a number where I can reach you."
Who the fuck did she think she was talking to? "Yes, ma'am," he said,
biting back a sharper retort.
"They like you, sonny," she drawled, calming down. "They like you a
lot."
"What does that mean?" he asked suspiciously.
"They want to see you again. In fact they might even test you."
"Is that good or bad?"
She made an exasperated sound. "How long have you been in this
business, Nick? A test costs them money-if they're paying, of course
it's good."
He wound the phone cord around his wrist, snapping it back and forth.
"When do I get to do this?"
"Today. Be at my office at ten." She hung up before he could reply.
Well, why not? She knew he'd be there. He was an actor after all, and
when a casting agent says jump it's all systems go.
Annie had stationed herself by the door. "I want to go home," she
said, daring him to say no. "I want to go home now."
"Okay, okay. But Cyndra stays here. And listen carefully. If Reece
shows up, you know nothin'. You never went to Vegas, you've been with
a girlfriend for the last twenty-four hours. Got it?"
She continued to glare at him. "Yes."
"And don't go making any phone calls you might regret. Whatever
happened in Vegas-it's history."
"If you say so," she said tightly.
"What's that mean?"
"I've never had to bury a body before."
"I said forget about it, Annie. It never happened."
"Maybe you can pretend it never happened. I can't."
"Okay. I'll take you home." He glanced over at his sister. She sat
by the window, staring out. "Cyndra, you stay here. Don't answer the
door or the phone. I'll get back soon as I can."
She nodded dully.
Annie gave him the silent treatment on the drive to her apartment. Her
attitude was shit, but there was nothing he could do about it. "Call
you later," he promised, dropping her off on the street.
She didn't say a word as she marched inside. He had a strong suspicion
she was going to cause trouble. Regrettably there was nothing he could
do about it.
The woman producer had eyes for him. No mistaking that hungry look.
The tall man hated him. Probably
a closet queen with a yen he didn't
want to let loose.
The director was into pleasing everyone.
"I don't think we need to test him," the woman said. "Do you, Joel?"
The tall man shrugged. "Whatever."
"I'm happy," the director said.
Nick sat in the room listening to them talk about him as if he wasn't
there.
"Shall we have him read again?" asked one of the casting people.
"Not necessary," said the woman, tapping her foot impatiently.
"The camera'll love him," said the director, running a hand through his
greasy brown hair. "He's got the eyes."
"I'd like to see his body," the woman said, crossing her legs, silk
stockings crackling.
He wasn't sure but he thought he caught a glimpse of a sexy garter
belt.
"Would you mind removing your shirt?" said one of the casting
people.
Where was Frances when he needed her? Nobody had warned him he'd have
to strip off.
"There's a scene in the movie where you're in bed with the hero's
girlfriend," the director explained. "Can't have you looking better
than the star."
They all laughed.
He stood up and awkwardly removed his shirt.
"Fine," said the woman.
"No competition," said the director.
"We'll get back to you," said the tall man.
Getting out of there was a pleasure.
Outside, he sat in his car trying to relive the events of the last
twenty-four hours. He'd buried a body, for crissakes. He'd buried a
fucking body in the Nevada desert, and that made him an accessory to
murder. Jesus. Maybe Annie was right. Maybe they should have called
the police and let Cyndra explain.
No way. She wouldn't have stood a chance.
The woman producer strode out of the building and got into a
cream-colored sports Mercedes. She wore large mirrored sunglasses and
a knowing smile.
Nick wondered who she was fucking. The tall man for sure. The
director-maybe.
He hadn't liked removing his shirt in there, it was demeaning. He was
an actor, not a stripper.
The woman drove off and he followed her for a while. Her Mercedes sped
down Sunset. He drew alongside her at a stoplight and said, "Hi." She
looked at him as if she'd never seen him before in her life.
"Nick Angel," he said, dropping the "0," just as Joy had advised.
"Do I know you?" she said, adjusting her huge mirrored shades.
Bitch!
He gunned the light and drove straight home. Cyndra was gone.
This wasn't his day.
His landlady was sunning herself outside. "You're two days late on the
rent," she reminded as he rushed past.
"You'll get it."
"I'd better or you're out."
Money was a problem. He'd almost blown the Tijuana stash and there was
nothing coming in. If he paid his rent there'd be hardly anything
left.
"Did you see my sister leave?"
"Your sister," his landlady sneered. "No, I didn't see your sister."
He jumped back in his car and headed for Annie 5.
"We're going to the police," Annie said. She was dressed and ready for
action, a silent Cyndra by her side.
He'd arrived just in time, they were almost out the door.
"You can't do that," he said.
"Oh, yes, we can."
He appealed to Cyndra. "I helped you out-you go to the cops now an'
it'll be me who gets it. Don't kid yourself-we'll all be in deep
shit.
Is that what you want?"
"I don't know . . ." she said unsurely. "Annie says it's the right
thing to do, otherwise this'll always be hanging over us.
"Fuck!" he muttered angrily, turning on Annie.
She backed away.
"Don't you understand?" he said angrily. "It's too goddamn late.
We're in this together an' we'd better learn to trust one another, so
stop this runnin' to the cops shit. I can't take it every time I leave
the house."
"But-" Annie began.
"But nothing-you do this again an' so help me I'll-" "You'll what?"
she asked defiantly.
He'd almost raised his arm to her. He'd wanted to strike out-just like
Primo, just like his father. Oh, God! There was no way he'd ever
allow himself to become like that fucking loser. He slumped into a
chair. "Don't do this to us, Annie. You gotta let it go."
Her eyes filled with tears. "I'm trying."
"Try harder."
She nodded, acquiescing.
They were safe-for now-but who knew how long it would be before she
spilled it all? Annie was dangerous. But he had a solution, and the
sooner he put it into action the better.
merson dropped out of sight and Oliver moved in. Lauren had never been
courted before, and it was strangely seductive. Oliver sent her
flowers every day, called at noon without fail, always checked out his
plans with her, and never so much as attempted a goodnight kiss.
After three weeks of this courtly treatment she was beginning to wonder
what was wrong with her.
"He adores you!" Pia confided, perching on the side of her desk.
"He told Howard."
"That's nice," Lauren replied, busily organizing a pile of papers.
"Stop being so cool and in control," Pia said, hardly able to hide her
exasperation. "What do you think of him?"
"He's a very charming man."
"You're so noncommittal."
"What do you want me to say?"
"Have you slept with him?"
"Pia-if I had, you'd be the last to know."
"Why?"
"Because since you've become a married woman you do nothing but
gossip."
Pia's eyes gleamed.
"Is he sensational in bed? Older men are suptechnique." She giggled
slyly. "I hear they posed to have fantastic give great head."
"I wouldn't know."
"What are you waiting for?"
Good question. What was she waiting for?
Actually she was waiting for Oliver to make a move. The fact that he
hadn't intrigued her. Was there something wrong with her? Did she
turn him off? It was about time she found out.
Later that week they went to the opening of a Broadway show and the
party afterward. Oliver seemed to know everyone-the musical comedy
actress who starred in the show, a slew of New York socialites whom he
jokingly called night runners, a famous senator and his equally famous
model girlfriend. Lauren guessed that he probably even knew Emerson
Burn-crazy Emerson who'd flashed into her life and vanished just as
quickly. A good thing-because he was definitely trouble. She'd read
that he'd left on a world tour.
On the ride home they discussed the evening. Oliver enjoyed filling
her in on everyone-he had interesting stories and was not shy about
telling them. According to him the musical comedy actress liked other
women, the senator wore red sequined stockings to bed, and the model
only slept with men worth over ten million dollars.
"How do you know all this?" she asked, studying his distinguished
profile.
"I'm in advertising. It's my business to know everything."
"Then who's going to
be the new Marcella girl? I hear they want Nature
but she's holding out for too much money."
Oliver frowned, he hated it when somebody knew something before he was
prepared to tell them. "Who told you that?"
"Samm."
"If she was worth it, I'd recommend they pay her."
"You don't think she is?"
"Too many covers in too short a time," he said brusquely. "Her face is
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