“Thanks a lot,” she’d said huffily. “You’re one big bossy man.”
“Yeah, an’ y’like it, don’tcha?” he’d said, grabbing a handful of her nicely rounded ass.
“I like you, Chas,” she’d answered coyly. “I’d be good for you. I could be a mommy to your little girls.”
“Didn’t I tell ya?” he said, irritated. “You’re a coupla years younger than the youngest one.”
“No, I’m not,” she’d said, widening her eyes. “I’m thirty.”
One thing about Varoomba, she was a quick study.
•
Venice arrived first. Chas had named her for the romantic city in Italy where she’d been conceived.
Not exceptionally pretty, Venice had a look. Long, straight brown hair, nice eyes, nose slightly too long, lips too thin, but her husband, Eddie, thought she was a babe, and that’s all that mattered.
Whereas Rosarita had changed everything about herself with plastic surgery, Venice was totally natural. She kissed her father on both cheeks. “Are we the first to arrive?” she asked.
“Ya sure are, kiddo. So come inside an’ meet my uh . . . friend.”
“Friend?” Venice said, teasingly. “Don’t you mean girlfriend, Daddy?”
“It’s this uh . . . nurse I bin seein’,” Chas explained. “You’re gonna get it in y’head that she’s a bit younger than me. Forget it—she’s older than she appears, so don’t be shocked.”
“Daddy, I would never criticize anyone you’re seeing,” Venice said. “I’ve told you before—if this woman makes you happy, that’s all that matters to me.”
Eddie—a nondescript-looking man—hovered in the background. Chas shook his son-in-law’s hand, and they all entered the living room, where Varoomba, rechristened Alice for the night, waited to greet them.
Chas threw a critical eye on her. She’d managed to squash her huge boobs into a high-necked orange dress. If she were smart, she would have chosen black, because, to his annoyance, he could spot her nipples straining the orange material.
At least she’d toned down the makeup. However, in no way, shape or form did she resemble a nurse. She looked like she was about to appear on the Howard Stern TV show and strip off for one of his bizarre evaluations.
“This is my kid Venice,” Chas said.
“Venice,” Varoomba repeated in her high, squeaky voice, which irritated Chas now that he had to listen to it. In bed he was able to tell her to shut up, and she did. In his living room he had no such luck.
“Hi,” Venice said. “What a pretty dress. That color suits you.”
This immediately put Varoomba at ease. She winked at Chas as if to say, “See, I’ve already charmed one of your daughters.”
Rosarita, completely lacking the ability to be on time, arrived twenty minutes later. She marched into her father’s house, Dexter behind her, his parents trailing after him.
“Mr. Vincent,” Martha gushed, pushing her way in front of everyone. “What a magnificent home you have. I’ve never been in a town house in New York before. This is such a treat!”
Oh, for God’s sake, calm down, Rosarita thought.
“Thanks,” Chas said, gesturing to an overstuffed couch. “Make yourself comfortable. Name your poison.”
Rosarita stopped short when she saw her sister. She and Venice were not the best of friends. Rosarita did not care for competition of any kind, and as far as she was concerned, Venice competed for their father’s attention—not to mention his money. And it particularly infuriated her that Venice had two brawling brats who would probably inherit plenty.
“Hello,” she said coolly. “Nobody mentioned you were coming.”
Venice was never quite sure why her sister was so hostile toward her, but over the years she’d learned to accept it. Eddie had taught her patience. “She’s probably unhappy about something,” he’d told his wife when she got upset. “Try to be nice and refuse to let her affect you.”
So that’s exactly what Venice did. She smiled at her sister and greeted Dexter with a big hug. To Rosarita’s constant irritation they got along exceptionally well—not that they saw each other much, but when they did it was as if they were on exactly the same wavelength.
“How are you?” Dexter said, patting her on the shoulder.
“Fine,” Venice replied.
“And the kids? We haven’t seen them lately.”
“You’re always welcome to drop by any time.”
“I know,” he said. “Thing is I’ve been so busy working on my soap that I never have time to do anything.”
“I’ve watched the show; you’re terrific in it,” Venice said.
“You think so?” he said, pleased.
“It would be dull without you. Although I must say the character Silver Anderson plays is quite something.”
Privately, Dexter often thought he’d married the wrong sister. Venice was the caring, sweet one. A stranger would never believe that she and Rosarita came from the same parents.
While Rosarita was busy checking out Varoomba, Venice was making sure that Matt and Martha Cockranger were made to feel totally comfortable.
“What a gorgeous scarf!” she said to Martha.
“Yes, isn’t it lovely?” Martha said, beaming. “Rosarita bought it for me today.” She lowered her voice in awe. “Do you know it cost three hundred and fifty dollars. I didn’t want her to spend her money on it, but she insisted.”
“It’s quite beautiful,” Venice said. “Brings out the blue in your eyes.”
“Thank you,” Martha said, sparkling.
Rosarita veered back toward Venice. “Who the fuck is the tramp with Dad?” she hissed.
“That’s Alice. She’s a nurse,” Venice said.
“If she’s a fucking nurse, then I’m a fucking nuclear scientist,” Rosarita muttered.
Venice moved away.
All during dinner, Rosarita vied for attention with her sister, which did not make for a pleasant evening for the rest of the guests. Every time Venice uttered a word, Rosarita contradicted her.
“Wassamatter with you tonight?” Chas finally said. “You gotta be on everybody’s case?”
Not everybody’s, Rosarita wanted to say. Just that sweet sister of mine who you think is such an angel. But I know the real truth. The only reason she had kids was so she could be sure of getting all your money.
Halfway through dinner, Venice began passing around pictures of her two brats, which made Rosarita want to throw up.
Martha studied the photos and oohed and aahed in all the right places. “What adorable children,” she raved. Then she looked straight at Chas and said, “Matt and I are hoping that your little Rosarita will get pregnant next.”
Chas chuckled. His little Rosarita. Obviously they didn’t know the real girl—the girl who’d come to him demanding that he knock off her husband—their precious son. Boy, would that make interesting dinner conversation!
He was angry with Rosarita. Who did she think he was? Some kind of killer? She lived in a fantasy world, and he didn’t appreciate it. Dexter seemed perfectly okay to him. Good-looking guy, didn’t screw around. He hadn’t even eyeballed Varoomba’s mammoth tits, whereas most men would be drooling by this time. Chas noticed that Matt Cockranger had already managed a few surreptitious peeks. Jeez! The old guy probably hadn’t gotten laid in years.
Varoomba was enjoying herself. She was not used to meeting her men friends’ families, and after she’d gulped down a couple of glasses of wine, Chas was having a hard time shutting her up. Any moment she was likely to hand out cards inviting them all down to the Boom Boom Club for a private performance.
Chas remembered his first look at her. He’d walked into the club, and there she was—working those giant titties like a mechanic operating the Big Dipper. That was some good memory.
“We’ve got to go now,” Rosarita said, when dinner finally came to an end.
“Do we have to?” Martha pleaded. “I’m so enjoying myself.”
“If he’s planning to sleep late, why do you have to leave early?” Venice said innocently.
Rosarita wanted to bitch slap her. “Don’t you get it?” she said nastily. “He has to get twelve hours of sleep. So, if we go now, he gets it. But if we leave later, he’ll only get eight.”
Dexter looked at her as if she was totally crazy—which, of course, he was beginning to realize, she was. “How about another fifteen minutes?” he suggested.
How about sticking it up your ass? “Fine,” she muttered, her mouth tightening. I really want to sit here with my prissy sister, your stupid parents and Daddy’s tramp-of-the-week girlfriend.
Chas, who was busy keeping a watchful eye on his two daughters, realized once again how different they were. Why couldn’t Rosarita be more like Venice? He’d already decided that, although he loved them both equally, he’d leave the bulk of his money to Venice and her kids because she was the responsible one. If he left it to Rosarita, she’d probably pick up some fortune hunter who’d spend it instantly. Venice would make sure it wasn’t squandered away, besides, she’d always take care of Rosarita—in fact, he’d make sure that provision was put in his will. The best thing about his plan was that he wouldn’t be around to listen to Rosarita’s screaming.
“What are you smiling at, Daddy?” Rosarita said, suddenly reverting to her sweet side—which she could put on at will.
“Just thinkin’ ’bout a thing or two,” he said.
Varoomba grabbed his hand. “Your daddy has such a cute smile!” she exclaimed. “I love it when he laughs, he’s so adorable!”
Rosarita wanted to throw up. This one was a big-titted, squeaky-voiced nightmare. And stupid with it.
“Don’t go callin’ me no names in front of my girls,” Chas hissed, highly embarrassed.
“Sorry, honeybunch,” Varoomba cooed.
So the evening wound to its natural conclusion, and Rosarita and her group went home at the same time as Venice and Eddie.
As soon as they were gone, Varoomba shook out her mass of red hair, allowing it to fall around her face. Then she unzipped her orange dress, standing before Chas in a red-white-and-blue thong and nippleless bra. “How’d I do, babykins?” she crooned. “Was I the hit of the party?”
“C’mere,” he said, reaching out to tweak her enormous erect nipples. “C’mere, an’ put those big bazookas all over me.”
So she did.
•
Meanwhile, across town, Joel Blaine was in the Boom Boom Club, complaining to the manager, “Where’s the broad with the big knockers? How come she’s not here on a Saturday night?”
“She called in sick,” said the manager, a grim-faced man with patent-leather hair and a permanent scowl.
“Sick my ass,” Joel said. “I want my money back.”
“I got a nice little Puerto Rican number blew in yesterday.”
“I don’t do foreign.”
“How about Texas born and bred? That appeal to you?”
“Big tits?”
“Small, but nice.”
“Forget about it,” Joel said. “I’ll come back next week, and Miss Big Rack better be here.”
If he wanted small tits he could get them anywhere. Rosarita wasn’t exactly stacked, she’d informed him they were her own, but he knew they weren’t the real thing, he’d noticed the scars hidden underneath.
Honey, he’d wanted to say to her. If you had ’em done, why couldn’t you have had ’em done bigger?
Instinctively he knew Rosarita was not the type who took well to criticism. But maybe he’d see how far she’d go for him. “Sugar, you got the greatest boobs in the world,” he’d tell her, “but I like ’em bigger. Here’s twenty thou—go get ’em done again.”
Was she worth twenty thousand bucks? No fucking way!
The only woman worth twenty thousand bucks in his mind was Madison Castelli. Now there was a real woman. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t stacked like some freako stripper, she had what it took in the brains department, and that’s what Joel was looking for. A touch of class.
Maybe he should do something about her. Turn on the charm. Launch into pursuit mode. At least call her.
Maybe he would.
Eventually.
•
“Thanks,” Dexter said.
“For what?” Rosarita said warily.
“For being nice to my parents. Ever since we had that talk you’ve been pretty damn good.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, I do.” He was lying on the bed with his hands behind his head, watching her undress. She was down to black panties and a lacy bra. “Come lie beside me and we’ll talk,” he suggested.
Hmm . . . Rosarita thought, ever since she’d mentioned to him that they never had sex it had certainly made a difference. Yesterday he’d been quite enthusiastic. Now, tonight, she could see he was once again in the mood.
She bounced onto the bed beside him. “You want I should blow you?” she said, tantalizing him with her tongue, sticking it out and wagging it at him.
He hated her vulgarity. “Can’t we just lie here so I can hold you in my arms?” he said, ever the romantic.
“If you’re sure that’s all you want,” she said, immediately beginning to caress his half-erect dick.
Within seconds he was fully aroused, which didn’t surprise her. “I’ll only be a sec,” she said, jumping off the bed and vanishing into the bathroom.
He counted to twenty, and she was back.
Once more with feeling, he thought.
He had a hunch that tonight was the night he was going to get her pregnant.
CHAPTER
11
SLAMMER WAS LIMPING and panting and drooling. In fact, he was doing everything possible to attract Madison’s attention. His mistress had been tramping across Central Park for two hours now, and he’d had enough. As a pampered New York City apartment dog, he was anxious to go home. It was hot, and he could do with a drink of water and a lie down. Pulling back on his leash, he looked up at Madison appealingly with his big brown eyes and gave a little whimper.
It was as if they communicated without words. “Okay, okay,” she said with a sigh. “I’m taking you home.”
Had she walked off enough frustration and fury? Had she gotten rid of the demons that were starting to plague her?
I’m twenty-nine years old, she thought. I have no man to go home to. I have a father who’s lied to me all my life. And I don’t have a mother. No, that’s wrong. The fact is, I have a dead mother that I never even knew.
She had to talk to somebody, get it out of her system before she went crazy. Michael was not the right person. All she had for him were questions, and he’d better damn well answer them, because she wasn’t taking any more of his evasive shit.
She thought about dropping by Jamie’s, but since it was Saturday, Peter would be around, and that wouldn’t do at all. Her other best friend, Natalie, was in Los Angeles. That would be a mammoth two-hour phone conversation, but surely it was worth it, wasn’t it?
Back at her apartment, she saw that the light on her answering machine was blinking. Three calls. The first one was from Michael. “We’ve got to talk,” he said, sounding tense and not at all like himself. “I’ve checked into the Plaza. Won’t go back to Connecticut until I’ve seen you. Call me.”
The second was from Victor. “Got several ideas for your next victim,” he boomed. “Most of which you’ll probably hate. Drop by the office Monday and we’ll discuss it. If you’re very good I’ll buy you lunch.”
And the third message was a voice from her past. Jake Sica, a guy she’d met in L.A. when she was there on assignment at the beginning of the year. He was the brother of Natalie’s ex-co-anchor, Jimmy Sica.
“Hi,” he said. “This is Jake—I’ll be in New York for a few days next week, and I’d like it a lot if we c
ould get together. Y’know, Madison, I think we—” The machine cut off.
“Damn!” she said, thinking about Jake for a moment, which was a welcome diversion from all the other crap she had churning around in her head. He was an award-winning photographer with a casual attitude. As far as she could recall he had longish brown hair and laughing brown eyes. He favored old leather jackets and denim shirts, and he had an easygoing, laid-back attitude.
She’d liked him a lot. But at the time they’d met she’d been caught up in a murder case in L.A. and he’d been involved with a call girl. Quite a convoluted situation. However, she’d gotten Victor to use his photos in the magazine, and they’d stayed in touch sporadically until he’d moved back to Arizona several months ago and they’d lost contact. Now he was on his way to New York next week.
Hmmm . . . she thought. Jake might be the perfect person to talk to. Someone she hardly knew—somebody she could pour her heart out to. And he’d listen, because he was smart and intelligent and, most of all, he was nice.
But how was she supposed to contact him with no phone number?
Oh well . . . that’s the way things were going lately. She wasn’t surprised.
She picked up the phone and called Natalie in L.A.
Natalie’s brother, Cole, answered. “Guess who?” she said.
“Don’t have to,” Cole said. “I’d know that sexy voice anywhere.”
“How’re you doing?”
“Great.”
“Natalie tells me you’re living with Mr. Mogul, so how come you’re there?”
“I drop by occasionally. Big sis is barely talkin’ to me though—still pissed ’cause of me and Mr. M. Keeps on waitin’ for him to dump me so she can say I told you so!”
Natalie did not approve of his current boyfriend—a much older megabusinessman whom she had unofficially christened Mr. Mogul.
“Your relationship with this guy has lasted quite some time, hasn’t it?”
“I get why she’s worried,” Cole said. “He’s big time, an’ what do I do? Stretch people’s muscles for a living. But hey—we’re havin’ fun. How’re you?”
“Getting by.”
“Comin’ to L.A. anytime soon?”
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