Lethal Seduction

by Jackie Collins

  She was hurt, angry and confused.

  Was it possible that she could ever face Michael now that she knew the truth?

  Did she care?

  No. He was lying scum, and she hated him.

  And yet . . . he was still her father.

  As far back as she could remember, Michael had always told her that neither he nor Stella had any immediate family. According to him, his parents had perished in a fire when he was a teenager, and he’d been raised by different sets of foster parents, some of whom had abused him. Stella’s story was that she’d run away from home when she was sixteen and had not contacted her family since that time.

  So Madison had grown up accepting the fact that she had no grandparents, no cousins, no relatives at all. Just Michael and Stella. Her loving parents. Or so she’d thought. What a sham!

  She’d been raised in a New York apartment, with either a maid or a nanny for company. At a very young age she’d been sent away to boarding school, while vacations were usually spent at summer camp. But there were times she was home, and she remembered those times well. Sometimes Michael would go on business trips that lasted anywhere from a few days to a week. That’s when Stella would lock herself in her bedroom and play classical music, telling Madison that she wasn’t allowed to disturb her.

  When Michael came home, he’d always bring her presents—stuffed teddy bears or dolls. As she grew older, the presents were books, jewelry, gold pens—anything she wanted. She looked forward to him leaving, because every time he came back it was like Christmas.

  It was a lonely childhood, but since she didn’t know any other kind, she’d assumed it was normal. Growing up that way, she’d learned to be satisfied with her own company. An avid reader, she’d always done well in composition at school and genuinely enjoyed the learning process. It wasn’t until she’d gone away to college that she’d finally made friends. There she’d met Jamie and Natalie, and they’d become like the sisters she’d never had.

  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,” Kimm had said before she’d left. “Think about everything. I know you’ll have more questions, so I’ll come back when you’re ready.”

  She’d thought about it all right. She’d done nothing but think about it.

  Your father was a hit man for the mob.

  Your father was accused of murdering your mother.

  Your mother’s name wasn’t Gloria, it was Beth.

  Kimm’s words kept coming back to haunt her; she couldn’t shake them.

  She knew why Michael had said her mother’s name was Gloria—he didn’t want her digging, trying to learn more. Of course, he’d never expected she would, but he’d done it just in case. Michael was a man who covered his tracks.

  She needed to talk to Kimm again, meet with her to discuss everything, because Kimm was the only person who could possibly understand. They both had unspoken questions. Who was responsible for Stella’s death? Was it Michael? Had he gone to Stella’s apartment and shot her and her lover?

  It was too horrifying to consider.

  Another thought—should they inform the detectives investigating the double homicide who Michael really was? Or would they figure it out for themselves.

  Probably not. Why would they? He had invented a new identity for himself. His trial was almost thirty years behind him.

  Sensing her distress, Slammer stayed nearby, sleeping on her bed, gazing up at her with sympathetic eyes, only slouching from the apartment when Calvin came to fetch him.

  “I’ve got flu,” she explained to the concerned doorman. “You’ll have to walk Slammer for me until I feel better.”

  “Sure, Miss Castelli,” Calvin said, only too happy to oblige.

  The first thing she did when she started to emerge from the fog was call Kimm. “I have to know more,” she said.

  “I understand,” Kimm answered quietly.

  “Can you come over?”

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  Kimm, as usual, arrived on time. Striding into the apartment, she took in Madison’s appearance, which was disheveled, and immediately asked, “Have you been eating? You’re about ten pounds thinner than the last time I saw you.”

  “Would you be eating if you were me?” Madison said listlessly. “For God’s sake—everything I ever knew about my parents was a lie. I’m totally alone in the world, and that’s the way it’s been for the last week.”

  “You’re not alone,” Kimm said calmly.

  “Maybe I’m having a nervous breakdown,” Madison said, pushing a hand through her uncombed hair.

  “You need help,” Kimm said briskly. “Not to mention a shower.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “Do you see a shrink?”

  “Don’t believe in them.”

  “I’m with you on that, but you should talk to someone.”

  “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” she said testily. “At least you understand what I’m going through. I can’t explain it to anyone else. And I don’t intend to.”

  Kimm nodded. “Where’s my water?” she asked. “Room temperature, remember?”

  “You’re awfully bossy,” Madison said, managing a wan smile.

  “I know,” Kimm said, glancing around the apartment, zeroing in on the answering machine. “Are you aware you have sixteen messages waiting to be heard?”

  “Would you be one of them?”

  “No,” Kimm said, shaking her head. “I expected you to phone me when you were ready.”

  “Then don’t worry about it,” Madison said, not interested in knowing who’d called her. “I’m not in the mood to speak to anyone.” She stared at Kimm defiantly. “That’s my prerogative—right?”

  “Hey,” Kimm said, holding out her hand to ward off bad vibes. “Do not take your nasty mood out on me. I’m merely here to try and help.”

  “How can you help?” Madison demanded. “How can you change what’s happened to me?”

  “Let’s analyze the situation,” Kimm said, forever calm. “What has happened to you? You were unaware of what your father did for a living, your mother wasn’t your mother; your real mom was murdered, and your father was accused of the crime.”

  “Great!” Madison interjected. “I belong on Jerry Springer.”

  “You’re an adult,” Kimm continued. “You can handle it. I always say that we can handle anything God hands us.”

  “Here you go with your philosophy again,” Madison sighed. “Where do you get these sayings?”

  “You don’t like my philosophy?” Kimm said. “Maybe you’d prefer to hear about my background?”

  “Why?” Madison challenged. “Is it worse than mine?”

  “It’s pretty out there,” Kimm said. “You’re a beautiful, successful woman with a great job, good health, everything going for you. I’m a six-foot-tall American Indian lesbian female who could lose a pound or two. I was raped by my uncle when I was seven, knocked down by a car when I was ten and told I would never walk again. And when I was twelve I was raped by my brother, who then freaked out and murdered my entire family. He’s now in a mental institution.” She paused before continuing. “But I think you’ll agree that I’ve done pretty well for myself. I have a successful business of my own—I don’t have to answer to a soul. And although I’m not in a relationship at the moment, I’ve had some pretty good ones in my time. So here I am—a living, walking testament that you cannot spend every moment worrying about what’s happened in your past, you have to get on with the future.”

  “Jesus!” Madison said. “Talk about a depressing story.”

  “And I survived,” Kimm said.

  “You certainly did.”

  “Moving on,” Kimm said matter-of-factly. “It’s the only way.” She took a long swig of Evian from the bottle. “Have you talked to your dad?”

  “No. And I don’t intend to.”

  “Okay,” Kimm said carefully. “If that’s the way you want it.”

  “I do. He deserves to be
punished for lying to me all these years.”

  “If that’s how you feel.”

  “It’s exactly how I feel.”

  “Then you must follow your instincts.”

  “You know,” Madison said hesitantly. “We haven’t discussed it, but about Stella and her boyfriend . . .” She paused, it was difficult voicing her fears, saying the words aloud made her feel weak and vulnerable—emotions she was not used to and didn’t like. “You uh . . . don’t think Michael could’ve had anything to do with their deaths, do you?”

  Kimm was silent for a moment. “It’s possible,” she said. “I have a friend who was able to check out the police report. There was a break-in. They were both shot execution style—in exactly the same way your real mom was murdered.”

  “Oh God!” Madison groaned. “This is insane.”

  Kimm put a comforting hand on her arm. “Distance yourself,” she said. “Let it go. That’s what I had to do.” A long beat. “I’m warning you—if you can’t do that, you’ll be pulled under and drowned.”

  “What do you have on your office door?” Madison asked wryly. “Private eye slash shrink?”

  “I have no office door,” Kimm replied with a faint smile. “I work out of my apartment; it’s more discreet that way.”

  “Of course,” Madison said. “You do everything your way.”

  “And why not?” Kimm responded. “It works for me.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Madison said. “Do we tell the detectives what we know?”

  “No point in rushing to do anything you might regret,” Kimm said thoughtfully. “After all, what do you know? Nothing concrete.”

  Madison nodded her agreement. “So,” she said. “What do you have for me today? More good news?”

  “Maybe,” Kimm said, taking another long swig of water. “I’ve found out that your mom had a twin sister. I’ve got her phone number. She lives in Miami. I thought you might want to speak with her.”

  “God, yes!” Madison said, and found that she could barely breathe.

  CHAPTER

  24

  WEARING DARK GLASSES and a cashmere scarf over her tell-tale red hair, Rosarita entered the coffee shop to meet with a man who’d been recommended by her dentist as a person who could take care of anything. Of course, her dentist had not realized what she wanted taking care of, and neither did the man—a sorry specimen in a grubby raincoat, with coarse flyaway hair and a bad facial tic. She loathed him on sight.

  “What can you do for me?” she said, choosing her words carefully in case he turned out to be an undercover cop.

  “Anythin’ you be wantin’, ma’am,” the creature said. “Garbage disposal, pet cleanup, gutters, drains, roofs.”

  “What’s pet cleanup?” she asked, thinking it sounded kind of promising.

  “If you got animals who done messed up your rug—that kinda thing,” he said, facial tic going full force. “I be your man t’take care of it.”

  “How about . . .” she said, speaking very slowly and precisely, trying to make sure he understood what she was getting at, “if I had a . . . dead animal?”

  “We can be removing the body, ma’am,” he said, oblivious to her hint.

  She laughed, trying to keep it light. “And . . . if it was a dead . . . person?”

  His facial tic accelerated. “Oh no, no, wouldn’t be dealin’ with that kinda thing,” he said. “That be work for an undertaker.”

  Rosarita slammed down some money for the coffee, got up and left. It was obvious that her dentist had no idea what she was looking for. Damn! How did you go about hiring a hit man when your father refused to help? She was very mad at Chas. He could take care of her problem with no trouble at all. So why wouldn’t he? Bastard!

  That afternoon she had an appointment with her gynecologist. Not her favorite way of spending the day, but a boring necessity.

  Dr. Shipp was a distinguished-looking man with silvery sideburns and a gentle touch. Rosarita was sure that he found her extremely attractive. Well, why wouldn’t he, when she was lying with her feet in the stirrups, and he was getting a bird’s-eye view of paradise?

  “How are you feeling today, Rosarita?” Dr. Shipp inquired, entering the examining room, his prissy-faced nurse hovering discreetly by his side.

  “How would you feel, Doc, if you were lying here with your feet up in stirrups, exposed for all to see?”

  “I would be glad that I had such an understanding doctor,” he said, putting on a pair of thin rubber gloves.

  She wondered if he could tell by examining her that she’d been indulging in a flurry of activity. Husband every night, boyfriend every other day. Although for the last week she hadn’t heard from Joel, and had been unable to reach him—which was pissing her off.

  “You look a touch inflamed down there,” Dr. Shipp said, probing and poking with his rubber-covered fingers.

  “I have a very enthusiastic husband,” she replied with a saucy wink.

  “I’ll prescribe some cream,” he said, ignoring her comment. “Make sure that whenever you have sex you’re always fully lubricated. It’s most important.”

  Oh, he should only know!

  After a few more minutes Dr. Shipp was finished with his examination. “Let’s take a look at those breasts of yours,” he said. “Any unusual lumps?”

  Yes, Joel’s balls, she wanted to say. Two little lumps of sugar, which I love trying to cram into my mouth. And I miss them.

  “No, Docter, everything’s fine,” she said as he palpated her perky man-made breasts. “Although I have been feeling tired. It’s probably because my in-laws were in town, driving me totally nuts. Extremely demanding people.”

  “That could be it,” Dr. Shipp said. “I’ll take a urine sample anyway, check what’s going on.” He left the room while she dressed.

  Outside his office, she used her cell phone to call Joel.

  “Not in,” snapped Jewel. “Won’t be back today.”

  “Have you given him my messages?” Rosarita demanded, wondering where the hell he was.

  “Sure have,” Jewel replied.

  Rosarita didn’t believe her. The girl was a bitch. That was obvious to anyone.

  She hurried out of the building, hailed a cab and sulked all the way home.

  •

  “That was your Mexicana honey again,” Jewel announced, hovering in the doorway of Joel’s office, her cornrowed hair newly blond in the front. “She doesn’t give up, does she?”

  “Keep saying I’m out. She’ll go away,” Joel said. “I had to change my home phone number.”

  “I know,” Jewel said, tapping her lethal nails against the door jamb. “You forgot to give it to me.”

  “Has Varoomba called?”

  “Varoomba?” Jewel shrieked, penciled eyebrows shooting up. “What kind’ve a name is that?”

  “You heard,” Joel replied. “Did she call?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “If she does, put her right through.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jewel said, returning to her post.

  As soon as she was gone, Joel opened his desk drawer and took out a small glassine envelope of coke. Emptying out the contents, he arranged the white powder neatly on his desktop. Then he snorted it line by line.

  He couldn’t believe that some dumb stripper was giving him a hard time. Varoomba had promised she’d call and come to his office. He’d offered her five hundred dollars to do so. So where was the bitch?

  Joel was unused to women letting him down. He picked up the phone and spoke to one of his supermodel girlfriends. If they weren’t away on some highly paid modeling gig, one or the other of his harem of supermodels was usually available. They liked to be seen as much as he liked to be seen with them. It was a mutual “let’s get our photo in the gossip columns” society. And they got off on the coke and champagne and all the other perks of going out with Joel Blaine. Frankly, he found most of them sexually unexciting—too stick thin and certainly not into public sex
. Try fucking a supermodel in the back of your Rolls with an avid audience, and you’d get exactly nowhere. Plus they never gave head, they considered themselves far too famous and pretty.

  There were exceptions. Joel knew most of them.

  He fixed up a date with an anorexic brunette for that evening, then decided to leave early.

  Jewel was sitting at her desk outside his office painting her alarming nails in intricate red and white stripes.

  “If anybody needs me, I’ve gone to a meeting,” he said, thinking that any guy who got his cock within two feet of those lethal nails needed serious therapy.

  “Sure, Joel,” Jewel said, thinking, Who is he kidding? The last legitimate meeting he’d attended had been months ago.

  Joel pressed the elevator button and waited impatiently for the car to arrive while trying to make up his mind how to spend the rest of the afternoon. He had choices. He could drop in on a weekly poker game with the guys; or he could go work out at the gym—not one of his main priorities. Then again he could drive straight home, settle down on his oversize couch in front of his oversize TV and watch sports. Maybe place a few bets with his bookie.

  As these thoughts went through his head, the elevator doors opened and there stood his unfavorite person in the world—Marika, his father’s significant other.

  Marika was a very tall, very thin Asian woman with ebony hair pulled back into a severe bun, deadly slanted eyes, thinly penciled eyebrows and the expression of a sphinx. She and Leon Blaine had lived together for several years, ever since Leon had dumped his wife of thirty-five years, giving her almost a billion dollars and the opportunity to start anew. Joel’s mother had promptly hotfooted it to New Zealand, where she’d shacked up with a farmer and was currently living happily ever after.

  Joel had visited his mother once. Once was more than enough.

  “Hello, Joel,” said Marika, barely cracking a smile.

  “Hello, Marika,” he replied, stepping into the elevator.

  “Going down?” she said.

  Oh, did he have an answer for her!

  He nodded.

  “Your father and I were discussing you this morning,” Marika said, snapdragon eyes boring right through him.