“Don’t worry about it,” Matt said, winking at his son. “Let’s leave the two lovebirds alone. I suggest we all take an afternoon nap.”
Dexter knew exactly what his dad had in mind.
After his parents retired to the guest room, he followed Rosarita into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them. “Good idea,” he said.
“What’s a good idea?” she said.
“Taking a nap before we go to Chas’ tonight. You’ve had a tough day. I know it’s not easy taking my mom shopping, she doesn’t make quick decisions like you.”
“Is that a dig?” Rosarita asked suspiciously.
“No, what I mean is you’re an excellent shopper. I remember when we went to Bloomingdale’s and you bought me some shirts. It was like, wham bam. You chose right, and they looked great. I still wear them.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked, regarding him with narrowed eyes.
“Because . . . I love you.”
Rosarita sat down on the edge of the bed. “Love’s not what makes the world go around, Dex,” she said. “Sorry about that.”
“You look beautiful today,” he said.
“I do?” she replied, enjoying the compliment. She’d never told him about her various plastic surgeries, so he was under the impression she was a natural beauty. God! She’d better tear up all her old photos, it wouldn’t do to get busted; her previous face was a horror.
Dex walked over and stood in front of her. His belt buckle was at her eye level, and she couldn’t help noticing that he had the beginnings of a hard-on.
You’re just a raving sex magnet, she thought to herself. As soon as anyone gets near you, it’s let’s go, mama!
Idly she wondered if she should teach Dex a thing or two before bowing out of this marriage. He certainly had the most gorgeous body. And his cock wasn’t bad either. Of course, he wasn’t Joel, but maybe while she was waiting for Matt and Martha to leave town, she could teach him a thing or two.
Brilliant red nails sprang into action as her hands snaked forward, preparing to pull down his zipper.
His dick popped out immediately—one of the advantages of wearing no underwear.
“Ooooh, Little Dexie is lookin’ good today!” she crooned, putting on her “I’m ready for sex” voice.
He picked up the remote and activated the drapes, closing them.
Not exactly Joel’s style, Rosarita thought, Joel was interested in people watching his sexual antics, which was a major turn-on.
She gave Dex a little lick to encourage him, then jumped up. “I’ll be right back,” she said, hurrying into the bathroom.
He walked over, locked the bedroom door, removed his clothes and lay back on the bed, waiting.
He wondered if she’d notice the damage he’d done to her diaphragm and emerge from the bathroom screaming with fury.
How could she possibly notice it? The holes he’d made were tiny—just big enough for those pesky little sperms to fight their way through.
It was a sneaky thing to do, but she hadn’t given him any choice. And when they had their first child, a healthy, bouncing baby boy, she’d thank him.
Oh yes, she certainly would. Dexter was sure of it.
CHAPTER
9
“HERE’S THE DEAL,” Michael said, his worldly green eyes fixed firmly on his daughter’s face.
Deal? Madison had no idea what he was talking about. She was already upset enough, she didn’t need to hear anything else.
They were sitting in the restaurant of the palatial Plaza Hotel. She’d ordered a mimosa to drink, and eggs over easy with bacon and sausage to eat. Now the food sat on a plate in front of her, abandoned—because she couldn’t touch a thing. And the mimosa was almost finished.
“Yes, Michael,” she said, staring back at him, her green eyes alert.
He was on his second cup of coffee. For the first time she noticed he had dark shadows under his eyes, and tiny flecks of gray in his jet black hair. Was her handsome father finally getting old?
No. Not Michael. It was impossible.
“I never thought I’d tell you this,” he said, his voice serious enough to match his expression. “Somehow it didn’t seem necessary. But now that Stella has taken this step, you should know the truth.”
“The truth about what?” Madison asked, wishing that this wasn’t happening.
“About you and me,” he said steadily. “About our family.”
She felt queasy. Something bad was going to come out of his mouth, something she didn’t want to hear.
“You know, sweetheart, I’ve always loved you and I always will,” he said. “You’re very, very precious to me.”
In a rush it came to her. Oh, God! He was about to tell her she was adopted!
So that’s why she’d had to call them Stella and Michael all these years. That’s why they’d never wanted to be called Mommy and Daddy like normal parents. Of course. It all made sense.
Her stomach lurched. Her hands were clammy. She felt sick and faint all at the same time. This was so bad, the last thing she’d expected.
Pull yourself together, she told herself sternly. Get a grip and listen to what he has to say.
“Yes?” she said blankly. Spit it out fast, Michael, because I cannot stand the suspense.
He gave a long, drawn-out sigh. “This isn’t easy,” he said, tapping his index finger on the table.
You think it’s easy for me? she wanted to yell. You’re about to tell me I’m adopted, and you’re sitting there telling me it’s not easy. Screw you! Screw you, Michael! I hate this.
“Here’s the thing,” he said, his eyes still fixed firmly on hers. “Stella . . . she’s uh . . . she’s not your mother.”
No big surprise. She waited patiently for him to add, And I’m not your father, but rest assured that we desperately wanted you. In fact, we chose you. Picked you out. Isn’t that the kind of crap adoptive parents usually came out with?
“So you adopted me,” she said, barely able to get the words out.
“No,” he said, vigorously shaking his head. “I’m your father. Your real father.”
This was all too weird. “You are?” she murmured faintly.
“You bet I am. I never would have abandoned you. Never.”
“I . . . I . . . don’t understand.”
“Let me try explaining,” he said, taking a gulp of coffee to fortify himself. “I . . . I was a single guy. I had a girlfriend, Gloria. Well, Gloria and me—we were cosmic twins. Inseparable. We grew up together, did everything together, eventually we made a baby together.”
Now her world was really spinning. He was telling her that Stella wasn’t her mother. How could that be?
A long pause before he continued. “That baby was you, sweetheart.”
“Me?” she said blankly.
“I was involved in something at the time that wasn’t exactly legitimate. It was a mess, and when you were six months old, the people I was dealing with decided they had to punish me.”
“Punish you?” Madison said, frowning. “For what?”
Ignoring her question, he continued with his story. “The deal was that uh . . . either I gave them what they wanted, or they’d take away my family. I didn’t believe them—besides, I had both of you well protected. Anyway, one day Gloria managed to get out of the house without anyone knowing. She wanted to buy me a birthday present. That’s when they shot her.”
“Who shot her?”
“It’s too complicated to get into now, it was a long time ago—twenty-nine years. They killed her. The bastards killed her.”
“Oh God!” Madison cried.
“Truth is,” Michael said, “I’ve never gotten over her. And Stella knew it.”
Madison felt like she was in the middle of some insane soap opera as she listened to his story. Everything she knew was crumbling around her. Stella—the beautiful, Marilyn Monroe–like Stella—was not her mother. And who was Gloria? She wanted to see a picture, find
out everything about her. She had to know what happened when Gloria was shot. Did she die immediately, or was she injured?
Oh God, so many questions, and who was going to give her the answers? Her mind was racing in a million different directions, and at the same time she was sick to her stomach and totally lost.
“A year later I met Stella, who was everything Gloria wasn’t,” Michael continued. “When we started talking about marriage, I gave her the conditions. If I married her, she had to become your mother in every way. And no more kids. You were it. She agreed, but I know she was never there for you the way Gloria would’ve been.” He shrugged hopelessly. “What could I do? And now . . .” His voice hardened. “The bitch has betrayed me. And believe me—as far as I’m concerned—she’s dead.”
All of a sudden Madison had a blinding headache. Maybe it was the mixture of champagne and orange juice. Maybe it was simply staring at this man whom she now realized she didn’t know at all. For God’s sake, was this her life? All these years, had she been living a lie?
“I . . . I have to go home and . . . digest this,” she managed, standing up.
“Don’t run away from me,” Michael implored, grabbing her hand. “I need you, sweetheart. I’ve always needed you.”
“Maybe you do,” she said, feeling a sharp pain burning within her. “But this is too much of a shock, and I have to deal with it on my own.” Pulling her hand away from his, she stood up and hurried from the restaurant.
Outside on the street everything seemed different.
She didn’t know what to do or where to turn. All she really wanted to do was burst out crying.
Why do you want to cry? a little voice within her asked.
Because I don’t know who I am anymore.
•
Jamie and Peter spent almost the entire day cruising around Barney’s. After one of Peter’s drinking bouts, he got a strong attack of the guilts, and to assuage them, he spent freely.
Jamie took advantage of every moment. She charged boots, jewelry, shoes, sweaters and a long blue cashmere coat, which, when she snuggled into it, made her look like a blond Russian Princess.
“You do know you’re the most gorgeous girl in New York,” Peter told her admiringly. “And I’m the luckiest man alive to be married to you.”
Jamie smiled. Why had she ever suspected him? He was the best, and they had the greatest marriage. Just because he’d gone off sex for a few weeks didn’t mean there was another woman. Plus, last night he’d made up for it. And how!
No. There was absolutely no reason for her to meet with Madison’s detective. Peter was one hundred percent a loyal and loving husband, he’d proved it to her today.
They left Barney’s at last, both of them loaded down with packages.
“Madison said something about meeting us later,” Peter said as they stood curbside, searching for a cab.
“Is your phone on?” Jamie asked.
“Of course it is,” he said, patting his pocket.
“Then she must’ve got tied up.”
“About time!” Peter said with a dirty chuckle. “Hasn’t it been rather a long dry spell?”
“You know Madison,” Jamie said airily. “She’s very particular about the guys she gets involved with. Especially after David.”
“I liked David,” Peter remarked.
“How can you say that?” Jamie said. “It’s so disloyal.”
“I told you I had dinner with him and his wife one night when you were in Boston with Anton, didn’t I?”
“No. You didn’t tell me.”
“I meant to.”
“How could you, Peter? That’s so disloyal.”
“He kept on calling me, and I had nothing else to do, so we went to Elaine’s.”
“What’s his wife like?”
“Blond, big overbite, enormous tits. Real, I think.”
“Ha!” Jamie scoffed. “You guys always think they’re real. Those kinds of girls never have real tits. They’re man-made for sure.”
“You’re being bitchy, sweetie.”
“Look,” she said, frantically waving. “There’s a cab—grab it!”
On the way home they necked in the back of the taxi while the driver pretended not to watch them in his rearview mirror. Jamie was almost inclined to tell Peter that she’d been about to put a private detective on his tail. But then she thought he probably wouldn’t appreciate it, so she managed to keep her mouth shut.
“What would you like to do tonight?” she asked when they reached their apartment. “We have no plans.”
“That’s what I like,” Peter said with a great big grin. “No plans. My kind of evening.”
“We could send out for Chinese,” she suggested. “Rent a video.”
“Which one?”
“Anything with Brad Pitt.”
“And I’ll watch anything with Charleze Theron.”
“Then we’ll rent two videos, and order in tons of Chinese food. I’m starving. You do know we didn’t even stop for lunch?”
“You wouldn’t let us,” Peter pointed out. “You were too busy buying out the store!”
Jamie waited until Peter was in his den, then she snuck into her bathroom and called Madison. The answering machine picked up.
“Cancel the meeting on Monday,” Jamie whispered. “I’ll call you later. Or phone us when you get this message. Whatever you do—don’t mention anything to Peter.”
•
Madison arrived home an hour later and picked up Jamie’s message. Goddamnit! Why had she volunteered to get involved in the first place? Jamie was like a yo-yo—up and down. One moment Peter was cheating, and the next he wasn’t. Who gave a shit? Her life was falling to pieces, and all Jamie cared about was canceling some appointment with a private detective.
Slammer greeted her as though she’d been away for a year. She sat on the floor next to him and rubbed his back. He immediately turned onto his side, legs akimbo, waiting for her to scratch his stomach—his favorite thing in the entire world.
“You’re a funny old dog, aren’t you?” she said.
Why hadn’t Michael told her the truth when she was young?
Why had he forced Stella to live a lie?
Memories of the woman she’d thought was her mother kept flitting through her mind. Her first encounter with a boy—Stella hadn’t wanted to discuss it. Her first bra—Stella had sent her out with the maid to buy one at Bloomingdale’s. Her first crush when she was twelve—Stella had been totally uninterested.
Now it became clear why she’d had no real closeness with her mother, it was because Stella was not her mother, had no desire to be her mother, was probably jealous of Gloria and hated the connection.
Then there was Michael. So handsome and charming, always overcompensating, always ready to listen to anything she had to say and be on her side.
Now she knew why.
Guilt. Pure guilt.
She kept on going over the things he’d said.
They shot her.
Who were they? And why would anybody want to shoot Gloria?
Michael had said he was involved in something that wasn’t so legitimate. What could that possibly be? Did he have more secrets she didn’t know about?
Obviously. And obviously he was pretty good at keeping them, since she’d never suspected any of this. It was all a terrible shock.
Having an analytical mind was a help. She grabbed a yellow legal pad and pen and started making a list of all the questions she planned to ask him—Were he and Gloria ever married? Did she have relatives? Were the people who shot her ever caught? Prosecuted? And if not, why not?
Oh, jeez! There was so much she needed to know. This was almost like preparing for an interview, only this interview would be the most important one she’d ever conducted.
She decided that when Michael called she’d ask him to come by her apartment. When he arrived, she’d sit him down and very calmly find out everything. Full disclosure. No more secrets.
&n
bsp; The truth would set her free. Only then would she be able to get on with her life.
CHAPTER
10
CHAS’ LATEST GIRLFRIEND’S professional name was Varoomba. She’d called herself that because of the amazing contortions she was able to perform with her outrageous bosom. A big, buxom girly girl with a squeaky voice and cheerful disposition, she was Chas’ preferred type.
That afternoon he’d sent her to Bloomingdale’s to buy a respectable dress. “Not a tits-and-ass number,” he’d warned her sternly. “Somethin’ that covers the goods. An’ while you’re there, pick out a bra that squashes everythin’ down.”
“What’s the matter?” she’d said, blinking her heavily mascaraed eyes. “You think I’m gonna disgrace you?”
“Naw, but I can’t let my kids know I’m datin’ a stripper.”
“Somethin’ wrong with bein’ a stripper?” she’d squeaked, quite insulted.
“It don’t sit well,” Chas had growled. “Not with my daughters. An’ another thing—you’d better be nice to ’em, ’cause they’re very special girls.”
“How old are they?” Varoomba had asked, expecting him to say something like ten and twelve.
“Older than you,” he’d said.
Varoomba was smart enough to know that they would probably hate her. Most women did, especially when they found out she was dating their father.
Chas was busy trying to figure out how he was going to explain to Venice and Rosarita that his date was only twenty-three. “If anybody asks,” he’d warned Varoomba, “tell ’em you’re thirty.”
“Thirty!” she’d shrieked in horror. “You want my career to be over?”
“Nobody’s gonna know who you are,” he’d said. “We’ll tell ’em you’re a friend a mine. A nurse.”
“A nurse?” she’d repeated, shocked. “You think I look like a nurse?”
“If ya wash off some of that goddamn makeup. An’ drop the beehive—it don’t suit you anyway.”
“What am I—auditioning for a soap opera?” she’d said, quite put out.
“Behave yourself, okay? If you behave, ya got a shot at stayin’ around. An’ if ya don’t, well, y’know whatcha can do.”
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