Married Lovers

by Jackie Collins

  Fortunately it was around that time that she’d started getting together with Phil, so Hamilton–who had Phil working on two other projects–backed off, wise enough not to upset his Oscar-winning screenwriter. They had history and a future.

  “Blue Sapphire is not my best work,” she said, slightly irritated that Marlon would even bring it up.

  “It’s like–wow!” Marlon said enthusiastically. “Hadda keep on pausing the DVD t’ make sure I didn’t miss anything!”

  “Spoken like a true teenager,” she murmured, hardly impressed.

  “I’m not a teenager,” he said, scowling like a little kid. “I’m gonna be twenty any moment.”

  Then act like it, she wanted to say. But she didn’t. Since he was doing such an excellent job on the script it wouldn’t be smart to put him down.

  Placing the script on the floor, she stood up and stretched. Sitting on a bean bag was killing her back, it wasn’t as if she was sixteen. Why couldn’t he get a couch like normal people?

  Without warning Marlon came at her like a raging bull, slamming his lips down on hers while going for a quick feel of her breasts.

  “Hey!” she objected, pushing him away. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He stood there, nonplussed in his tight jeans with a visible hard-on.

  “Uh…sorry,” he mumbled, running a hand through his bleached-by-the-sun hair. “I thought—”

  “Exactly what did you think?” she asked, putting on a cross face, but secretly quite flattered. After all, she was old enough to be his…hmm…older sister. “Surely you have a girlfriend?” she said, recovering her composure.

  “I got a few,” he muttered. “Thing is–they’re not like you. You’re…”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re like the real deal.”

  She liked that. The real deal. This boy obviously appreciated a mature woman, unlike Phil, who took her totally for granted.

  But Phil was her husband, and didn’t all husbands take their wives for granted? Which was one of the reasons she was trying to resurrect her career. Perhaps if she reclaimed her movie-star status, that would get the great Phil Standard’s attention.

  “Marlon,” she said, the smooth voice of adult reason, “I’m a married woman. I have kids who could be your…uh…siblings. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a tad older than you.”

  “Yeah, but you’re way hot,” he said lustfully. “I don’t give a crap if you’re married and old.”

  Old!! Had he actually called her old?

  Briskly she strode toward the door. “I’m leaving,” she said coldly. “I’ll be back tomorrow at the same time. And perhaps you should think about being more professional.” A long beat. “Oh yes, and Marlon, the first twenty pages need a lot of work.”

  And with those words she made a dignified exit.

  Old indeed! She was a movie star. She’d always be a movie star. And no would-be screenwriter teenage boy was getting away with calling her old.

  Sometimes Mandy slept late, other times her sleeping pills wore off too early and she was up with the dawn. The thing she hated more than anything was being physically jolted awake, and that’s exactly what Ryan did to her on Tuesday morning. She vaguely remembered that he’d made an attempt to wake her earlier, that hadn’t worked, now he was at it again, roughly shaking her shoulder until she pulled off her sleep mask and reluctantly opened her eyes. “What?” she mumbled, leaving behind a delightful dream where Patrick Dempsey–or was it Don Verona–had been pursuing her across the sandy beaches of Mystique.

  “I need to tell you something,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Can’t it wait?” she said, sensing danger.

  “No, it can’t.”

  “Then what?” she said, struggling to sit up.

  “Evie and the boys are here.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, Mandy, in our house.”

  She tried to recall whether–in a moment of weakness, while trying to be especially nice to Ryan–she’d invited them over. But no such recollection came to mind.

  “Why, Ryan?” she asked petulantly. “Why are they here?”

  “Because they’re staying with us for a few days,” he said calmly.

  This information made her sit up in a hurry. “Excuse me?” she said, not quite sure she’d heard correctly.

  “It’s an emergency,” Ryan explained. “Marty’s finally lost it, so I had to go get Evie and the kids in the middle of the night.”

  “And you brought them here?” she said incredulously. “Here, to my house.”

  “Our house,” he corrected.

  That’s what he thought. When Hamilton had supposedly wedding-gifted them the house, he’d left the title in the name of one of his companies–just in case. It’s my house, Mandy thought. Hamilton is no fool.

  Her mind was running in different directions. Lately she’d been trying hard with Ryan, ever since she’d sensed him pulling away. She’d organized the dinner with his family; she hadn’t sulked when he’d gotten drunk and stayed out all night; she’d offered him sex; in fact, she’d been behaving like the perfect wife.

  Was this how he repaid her? By dumping Evie and the kids on their doorstep? Damn! This was not acceptable.

  “I’m a little confused,” she said, reaching for her robe.

  “Don’t be,” he said sharply. “It’s a done deal, and I’d appreciate it if you’d try to be nice to them.”

  She could tell that her husband was still edgy; better tread carefully and keep up the perfect wife act.

  “I’m always nice,” she said, deciding to make the most of a sticky situation. “Where is everybody?”

  This was not the reaction he’d expected. Who was this amiable woman who’d taken over Mandy’s body? It certainly wasn’t the Mandy he knew and didn’t love.

  “They’re downstairs,” he said slowly. “Consuela is making them breakfast.”

  “Then let’s go join them,” Mandy said cheerfully, slipping her feet into cozy cashmere slippers. “I haven’t seen the boys in ages.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-four hours before kick-off and Freddy–the eccentric contractor and his team–had done a phenomenal job of finishing everything. It had been costly, but their new mystery investor didn’t seem to care; the money was flowing.

  In her mind Cameron had pinned the investor down to Natalie’s current boyfriend–a successful real-estate developer with money to burn. This was all fine as long as the affair lasted, but what if they broke up? Cameron had high hopes that Paradise would be making plenty of money by that time, and they could pay off their investors and be done with outside interference.

  She was feeling quite optimistic and full of excess energy when she turned up for her regular seven a.m. work-out with Don.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he said, greeting her at the door of his house.

  “You’re all dressed,” she observed, thinking that she usually saw him only in his work-out clothes. “I certainly hope this doesn’t mean we’re not working out today.”

  “Right on, Miz Paradise,” he said, stepping outside and closing the door behind him. “It means I am taking you for breakfast to celebrate the opening of your establishment tomorrow night.”

  “You make it sound like a brothel,” she joked, wondering what he was up to.

  “Now that’s a quaint old-fashioned word,” he said, mildly teasing her. “I didn’t think brothels still existed, what with the Internet and all.”

  “Don’t look at me,” she said with a casual shrug. “I know nothing about such things.”

  “And so she plays innocent,” he said, starting to smile.

  Was Don Verona charming himself into her good graces? Perhaps.

  Recently she’d made time to watch his evening show. He came across as slightly cynical, witty and original. His interviewing skills were playful but right on point. She’d enjoyed seeing the professional side of him; now she could understand
why his show was so popular.

  So…Don Verona was smart, great-looking, and he always made her laugh. And since she’d decided to give up Marlon, and it was quite obvious that Ryan–damn him–was never going to call, what would be so wrong about going out with Don?

  Why?

  Why not?

  Idly she wondered what it would be like to date a man like Don. He was into the chase, she knew that. Twice divorced–everyone knew that.

  But…he was a player, and that was not such a good thing.

  Ha! Better than being with a married man.

  Like I have a choice. Ryan hasn’t called. Remember?

  “Okay, so where are you taking me for breakfast?” she asked, figuring she wouldn’t mind a break.

  “You mean you’re not putting up a fight?” he said, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Now why would I do that?” she answered lightly.

  “’Cause you always do.”

  “You’d better tell me where we’re going before I change my mind.”

  “Malibu.”

  “I don’t have time for Malibu.”

  “Yes, you do–that’s if you want me to appear at Paradise tomorrow night.”

  “I smell blackmail,” she said accusingly. “You’re always doing that to me.”

  “True,” he said, unabashed. “Seems to be the only way I can get through to you.”

  “You’re bringing Mary Ellen to the opening, right?”

  “Do I have to?” he groaned.

  “You most certainly do.”

  “Then I definitely need you to come to Malibu. If I give a little, you’ve gotta learn to do the same.”

  “Well…if you insist,” she said, giving in far too easily. “But I have to be back by ten.”

  “Deal, Cinderella,” he said, sensing victory.

  “Promise?”

  “Have I ever let you down?”

  “You mean apart from never being ready in the morning when I get here, and forcing me to make the coffee?”

  He laughed.

  She had to admit he had a great laugh.

  “What are you thinking?” he said, as he led her over to his Ferrari parked in the driveway.

  “That’s for me to know and you to guess,” she answered succinctly.

  “Jesus, Cameron,” he said, his expression perplexed. “Do you ever come out with a straight answer?”

  “Isn’t–what are you thinking–a very seventh-grade question?”

  “My bad,” he agreed. “I’m a talk-show host, guess I need my writers around me telling me what to say.”

  She got into the passenger seat of his Ferrari. This is crazy, she thought. I shouldn’t be doing this.

  Why not? I’m my own boss, I’m allowed to take time off. Natalie and Cole have taken over arrangements for the party, so what’s wrong with stealing a break?

  ‘Cause you’re starting to weaken.

  No. I am not.

  Don was a speed demon, darting his Ferrari in and out of traffic as if it were a toy and they were zooming around on one of those fun-fair car tracks. He roared down Sunset like he was competing in the Indie 500, hit the Pacific Coast Highway and never once slowed down.

  “You’re crazy!” she gasped, kind of getting off on the speed since she wasn’t exactly a slow driver herself.

  “Never said I wasn’t.”

  “Do you always drive like a maniac?”

  “Only when my date’s in a hurry.”

  “I’m not your date,” she corrected. “I’m your trainer.”

  “Point taken,” he said, finally making another sharp turn before racing down Old Malibu Road.

  “There’s a restaurant here?” she asked, surprised.

  “Yup. My restaurant.”

  “Your restaurant?”

  “S’right,” he said smoothly. “I make the best pancakes this side of Mississippi, an’ bacon that’ll bring tears to your eyes.”

  “Really?” she said suspiciously.

  “You got it,” he said, pulling up outside a rustic beach house. He jumped out the car, opened the passenger door and helped her out. “This is my escape hatch,” he explained. “Nobody knows about it except me and my business manager.”

  “Then why tell me?”

  “’Cause you’re kinda special. And I want you to know you can use it any time. All you have to do is call, tell me when, and it’s yours.”

  “I might take you up on that.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “Can I bring my dogs? They love the beach.”

  “Dogs are welcome.”

  The house was so unlike his ultra-modern masterpiece in town. No TVs, no computers. It was a comfortable one-bedroom beach house with shabby chic decor and a real cozy feel. A well-worn dog bed took front position in the living room, next to an all-wood kitchen that appeared to be very cook-friendly.

  Don led her through the house to a small deck overlooking the ocean.

  “You’re sitting out here staring at the waves while I make breakfast,” he informed her, settling her on a comfy lounge chair. “Drift off, you’ve been working too hard.”

  He was right, she had been working hard. Ever since she’d left Hawaii she hadn’t actually stopped. She’d worked her butt off, saved money, and now Paradise was about to open and it was all because of her vision.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the smell of the sea and the light breeze ruffling her hair. The sound of the waves was mesmerizing. How nice it was to relax for once, forget about work, forget about everything.

  She must’ve fallen asleep, for the next thing she knew, Don was serving her his famous pancakes and bacon, along with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. He’d set everything on a wicker table, then he pulled up a chair and sat opposite her.

  “Please tell me you didn’t slip me the date rape drug?” she sighed, pushing a hand through her hair.

  “I would’ve,” he dead-panned. “Only we’re not on a date. Remember?”

  “Oh, that’s right.”

  “However…”

  “It’s too late now,” she said, picking up a strip of bacon with her fingers and nibbling on it.

  “Don’t you think it’s about time you went out with me?” he said, serious for once.

  “No,” she answered on automatic pilot.

  “Why no?”

  “Why yes?”

  “Here she goes again with the slippery answers,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “My answers are not slippery. I told you upfront I do not believe in mixing business and pleasure.”

  “In that case I’ll hire myself another trainer. Will that solve your problem?”

  “Fine with me,” she said casually, knowing he didn’t mean it.

  “You wouldn’t miss me?”

  “God!” she gasped. “You’re so persistent.”

  “I like you. Is that a crime?”

  “You do need writers,” she joked. “That’s a really old line.”

  “Screw you,” he said, a grin spreading across his face as he contemplated how refreshing it was to spend time with a woman who knew how to banter.

  “What about Mary Ellen?”

  “So I say screw you–and you immediately bring up Mary Ellen?”

  “C’mon, Don. You must admit that she’s very sweet, and she obviously adores you.”

  “I made a mistake, I shouldn’t have gone there.”

  “Well you did, so now you’ve got to treat her nicely. The poor girl’s been through tabloid hell, she doesn’t need you dumping her on top of everything else.”

  “You sound like my mom.”

  “You have a mother?”

  “Man! You’re something else,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Listen to me,” he said seriously. “Here’s the deal. I am not responsible for Mary Ellen. She’s a big girl who makes her own choices. I slept with her once. Nobody forced her.”

  “Ah
yes, but she thinks you like her,” Cameron said, feeling genuinely sorry for the girl.

  “What are you–a mindreader?” he said, perplexed. “You don’t even know her.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes. After the three of us worked out that day, she called me for a private session. I went to her house, and all she could talk about was you.”

  He frowned. Mary Ellen had no right contacting Cameron without his knowledge. The thought of them exchanging information about him was not a welcome one.

  “What did she say about me?” he couldn’t resist asking.

  “How much she likes you. That you’re witty, smart, oh yes, and that you’re a lousy lover.”

  “Hey–” he said, starting to grin. “If there’s one thing I’ve never been accused of–”

  “Just f-ing with you, Don,” she teased.

  “I should hope so,” he said, getting up.

  “Hmm…” she said, pausing for a moment. “Did I get too close to your ego?”

  “You can get close to any part of me you want,” he said, moving around the table.

  “According to Mary Ellen—”

  Before she could finish he bent down and kissed her, taking both of them by surprise.

  “What was that about?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Do not act all shook up and innocent. You know how I feel about you, and it’s time we did something about it.”

  “Yes?”

  “Most definitely yes.”

  “Okay,” she murmured, surprising herself. “You bring Mary Ellen to the Paradise opening, and I’ll go out with you.”

  “Finally!”

  “It wouldn’t be fun if I’d said yes immediately, would it?” she said, smiling at him.

  He had to admit she was right. And now he had something to look forward to.

  ANYA

  Ella was a resourceful girl. Once she discovered what Anya claimed to be good at–and that was quite a shock–she made it her business to try and make a connection. Ella was street smart; she might be only seventeen–the same age as Anya but she’d been around. And it did not escape her notice that Anya was better-looking than most. “I know this dude who says if we do sex stuff together,” she informed Anya, “he can get guys t’ pay us.”