She did as he asked and waited for him to say something nice. He didn’t.
For once they went to bed without making love.
Their first dinner party.
Their first fight.
If this is what marriage to Evan was going to be like, then maybe she was about to make the biggest mistake of her life.
•
LISSA CALLED ROOM SERVICE, ordered a selection of ice creams with hot chocolate sauce, and instructed the operator to have the waiter leave the cart outside the door. Then she raided the minibar and poured herself a brandy.
As soon as room service delivered, Michael stepped outside and brought the cart in.
“This is crazy,” Lissa sighed, settling on the couch and kicking off her shoes.
“Crazy how?” Michael replied.
“Me, in a hotel room,” she said restlessly. “Do you realize how much work I’ve got coming up? There’s my Vegas show, a book I’m supposed to be collaborating on, a new CD to plan. I don’t have time to sit around in a hotel doing nothing.”
“Hey, listen,” he said, trying not to stare, because in spite of the well-disguised-with-makeup black eye, she truly was the most breathtaking woman he’d ever seen. “You wanted your husband out, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s what you got.”
“Fine, but please can I go home in the morning?”
“You can,” he said, dipping into the ice cream. “And if it’s okay with you, I’d like to put on extra security for a week or two.”
“You don’t think he’ll do anything crazy, do you?” she asked anxiously.
“He’ll probably use the media to get to you. He can hide behind ’em.”
“You don’t even know Gregg, yet you imagine the worst of him.”
“I’ve dealt with this kind of case before—you’re not my first famous client.”
“I’m not, huh?” she said, mildly flirting because she couldn’t help herself. “And I was under the impression I was special.”
“You are special.” A long beat. “All of our clients are special.”
She did not appreciate being lumped together with the entire roster of Robbins/Scorsinni’s clients. “How’s the ice cream?” she asked, finishing her brandy.
“Pretty damn good.”
She got up and helped herself to another small bottle of brandy from the minibar. “I used to make ice cream from scratch when I was a kid,” she said, remembering one of her few happy childhood memories.
“Hidden talents, huh?”
“You could say that,” she replied, settling back on the couch.
He felt tense and yet comfortable in her presence. There was something about her that kept drawing him closer.
“Tell me about your ex-wife,” she said, slowly sipping her brandy.
“There’s not much to tell.”
“There must be something,” she insisted, fixing him with an intent look. “When did you get divorced?”
“I guess you could say that technically we never did. She ran off to L.A. while I was still living in New York.” He was silent for a moment before adding, “Later she was found . . . murdered.”
Lissa sat up straight. “Are you serious?”
“She got involved with the wrong people. Rita had a way of doing that.”
“Michael . . . I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “It was a difficult time.”
“I bet it was.”
Christ! If he kept this up, she’d think he was the world’s worst loser. First the alcoholic thing, and then the murdered wife. “Uh . . . listen,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’d sooner not discuss it.”
Hmm, Lissa thought, a man who doesn’t want to talk about himself, how unusual.
“Tell me about you instead,” he said, determined to change tracks.
“I’m sure you’ve read all about me.”
“I’m probably one of the few who hasn’t,” he replied. “And I’d like to know.”
“Why?”
“Do I have to come up with a reason?”
“Well . . .” she said slowly. “How about I give you the condensed version?”
“Go ahead.”
She started the recital, a tale she’d told hundreds of times—usually to journalists. “I ran away from home at sixteen. Went to New York to be a dancer, married a boy my age, moved to L.A., where we lived in one room with three other people for a year.” She grimaced at the memory. “Naturally he cheated on me, so we got divorced. Then a few years later I was discovered.”
“Discovered?”
“Oh, you know, ‘I’m gonna make you a star’ kind of discovered. There was a producer who liked me—he put me in a movie, and after that my career kind of took off.”
“Sounds like you made all the right moves.”
“Not really,” she said wryly. “I met Antonio, husband number two, when I was nineteen, and before I could even think about it we were on a plane to Vegas where we got married. Nine months later I had a baby girl.”
“Makes you a young mother.”
“Raising a child is such a big responsibility,” she sighed. “I know I haven’t devoted enough time to Nicci. She spent most of her teenage years with her father in Europe.” Another long sigh. “We’re not as close as we should be.”
“It’s never too late to do something about that,” he said, finishing his ice cream and taking a quick peek at his watch. “Gotta go,” he said, standing up. “You get some sleep. I’ll be back in the morning to drive you home.”
“I don’t want to be alone, Michael,” she said, suddenly panicking. “Not in a hotel. Not tonight. Can’t you stay?”
He wasn’t quite sure if she was coming on to him or not. But he reasoned that even if she was, he had to keep this on a business level. Quincy would kill him if he got involved with a client.
And yet . . . he wasn’t made of stone, and Lissa Roman was an incredibly vibrant and sexy woman. Although, at this particular moment in time, she was also a very vulnerable woman, and the worst thing he could do would be to take advantage of the situation.
“Y’know, Lissa,” he said slowly. “I’m not good at sleeping on couches. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
She gave him a long, lingering look. “And I’m not good at taking no for an answer.”
“I can believe that,” he said as he headed briskly for the door. “Eight o’clock too early?”
“You’re a hard man,” she murmured softly, liking him even more, because he didn’t jump, and most men usually did.
“I have to be in my profession,” he said.
And then he was gone. Leaving her thinking that he was probably the most interesting man she’d come across in a long time.
Chapter Sixteen
* * *
WHEN NICCI’S BOYFRIEND arrived back in town, it put Eric in a foul mood. The things they got up to were making him ill. They were disgusting, perverted sexual sickos. It was all he could do to force himself to watch.
And watch he did. Day and night.
He watched them bouncing around like a couple of acrobats doing things he’d imagined only took place in porno movies.
He was outraged. Nicci was a slut and a whore—like her mother. She deserved everything she was about to get.
In his mind he knew Nicci better than she knew herself. He knew her favorite clothes, what she liked to eat, her reckless driving, how she hardly ever saw her famous mother. He even went through her trash on a daily basis.
He also knew that even though they weren’t close, once he had her precious daughter, Lissa Roman would pay. Oh yes. Because if she didn’t . . .
That night, crouched in the bushes with his usual view of the house, he was surprised to observe that Nicci and her boyfriend were entertaining. He could see everything, he even spotted the chef pissing in their salad dressing.
He almost laughed aloud at that little scenario. It reminded him of the times he’d pissed in other people’s food.
The kick was seeing their dinner guests sitting around the dining table, thinking they were being grandly entertained, while the chef was in the kitchen pissing in their salad!
The things you saw when people lived in glass houses.
When Lissa herself arrived, he was surprised.
Lissa Roman. Money cow. Slut. Whore.
The following afternoon he went with Arliss to the building where he worked as caretaker. The skinny man had done an excellent job of setting up an escape-proof room in a gloomy, windowless basement buried at the bottom of the building. Arliss was quite proud of himself. “See—I put an old cot bed in the corner;” he boasted. “An’ a bucket for pissin’. An’ over there’s an orange crate for puttin’ food on.”
He’d also affixed two heavy-duty locks and a padlock to the door, plus he’d fashioned a crude peephole, which pleased Eric. It meant he could watch her at close quarters whenever he felt like it.
“Good work,” Eric said.
Not used to praise, Arliss preened.
This is going to be easy, Eric thought. Why didn’t I come up with this idea years ago?
Tonight they were recruiting the others. Arliss had set up a meeting, warning everyone beforehand that something was about to go down that could make them big bucks.
By the time Eric arrived at the bar that night, Arliss had Little Joe, Davey, and Big Mark all settled in a booth.
“Hiya, big boy,” Pattie said, accosting him on his way in.
Why don’t you put on some clothes, he wanted to say. What kind of job has you standing around with your tits hanging out?
Instead he nodded curtly and headed for the booth.
Arliss jumped up as he approached. “You know everyone,” he said, chewing on a strand of straggly hair.
“I certainly do,” Eric replied, his flat, cold eyes carefully checking them out. “How about I buy you boys a round of drinks?”
“Sounds good to me,” Davey the Animal said. He’d gotten the nickname the Animal because he resembled a ferret, and whenever he spoke he made disgusting snorting noises in the back of his throat.
“Me too,” said Little Joe, a rotund, short man, with pop eyes and a moth-eaten mustache.
Eric knew everything about both of them. Little Joe worked as a male orderly in a mental home, and Davey toiled in a wrecking yard. Two useful jobs for what Eric had in mind.
He clicked his fingers for Pattie.
“Yes, hon?” she called, hurrying to the booth, pleased that he’d summoned her. Eric was about the only gentleman she’d ever encountered, so she paid him extra attention. The trouble was, he never seemed to notice she existed, a sad fact she planned on doing something about.
“Drinks for everyone,” Eric said magnanimously. “Give ’em anything they want.”
“Oooh, you’re a big spender tonight,” Pattie said archly, sticking her droopy tits in his direction.
Eric ignored her.
Big Mark shifted in his chair. “When we gonna find out what’s on yer mind?” he said, reaching down to scratch his balls with an overlarge, hairy hand.
“Any minute now,” Eric said smoothly, thinking that if anyone was going to give him grief, it would be this huge hulk of a man. “If I bring you in, I expect loyalty all the way. We’ll work as a team, which means anyone who doesn’t care to be involved, should get up and leave now.”
Big Mark looked like he might do just that. But then he changed his mind and stayed put.
It was at that moment that Eric knew he had them exactly where he wanted them.
Greed had drawn them in.
And very soon it would be time to put his plan into motion.
Chapter Seventeen
* * *
LISSA’S DUMPING of her fourth husband hit the airwaves with a vengeance. And Gregg Lynch was not about to depart quietly. Angry and out for revenge, he’d decided to be more than vocal, trying to sell his story to every magazine and television program that would pay him. According to him, Lissa Roman was a selfish, obsessed, career-crazy bitch, with absolutely no concern for anyone except herself.
To Lissa’s great relief, he’d not shown up at the house except the first night, when he’d arrived to find the locks changed and his possessions stacked up outside. Fortunately—thanks to Michael—she’d not been there to witness his fury.
Exactly as Michael had predicted, Gregg had gone straight to the media. What a publicity whore he’d turned out to be. She hated the fact that she’d actually married the asshole. Another big mistake. When was she going to learn?
She instructed her lawyer to arrange the quickest divorce on record.
Michael had put on extra security in case of trouble. Two ex-cops who worked part-time for the agency patrolled the grounds of her house, making sure she was not bothered by the hordes of paparazzi and TV crews who’d taken up residence outside her gates. All thanks to Gregg, who kept on promising them a public showdown.
A public showdown. Who the hell did he think he was?
She knew exactly who he was. A deadbeat songwriter, with no money, a vicious temper, and a big dick. Like he could create a public showdown.
Unfortunately, she was well aware that if he wanted to, he could. She vaguely remembered an Oscar-nominated English actress whose longtime husband had created a horrible scene outside the Oscar ceremony because he wasn’t invited. The press had gone berserk, writing about the event as if it was headline news. Lissa dreaded that kind of publicity. She didn’t mind promoting her movies and music, but when it came to anything personal, she cringed.
Her friends rallied as soon as they found out. James came to the house and spent hours counseling her on how she’d done the right thing. He claimed he knew Gregg had been screwing around for months.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” she’d wanted to ask. But she didn’t, because what good would it do to get on James’ case?
Stella dropped by and talked incessantly about the impending birth of her twins, the perils of using a surrogate, and the movie she was in preproduction on. “I hope he signed a prenup,” were Stella’s final words before departing.
“Of course,” Lissa said, silently thanking her lawyer for insisting that Gregg sign.
“He’ll try to break it,” Stella warned. “They always do.”
Kyndra phoned. So did Taylor. They both promised to visit soon. Danny, Chuck, and Nellie—her faithful home team—were great, anticipating anything she wanted and protecting her in every way. She was lucky to have them.
A huge number of acquaintances tried to reach her, but she refused to take any calls, realizing that all they were after was juicy gossip they could pass around.
She threw herself into rehearsals for her Vegas show and attempted to ignore the publicity blitz.
Max was beside himself. “Why didn’t you warn me?” he complained, almost jumping up and down in frustration. “I need an immediate statement from you, something. Your soon-to-be ex is shooting his mouth off everywhere.”
“I can’t help that,” Lissa answered, feeling surprisingly calm. “In a few weeks this’ll all go away.”
“Bullshit,” Max grumbled. “Gregg is money hungry and vindictive, a bad combination. He’s out to destroy you, Lissa, and you don’t get it.”
“Do you really think he can, Max?”
“No. However, I’d sooner you gave me a statement showing him up for the liar he is. The press loves you, but you gotta give ’em something.”
“I have no intention of indulging in a public showdown,” she said coolly. “You know that’s not my style.”
“A brief statement does not make it a showdown,” Max spluttered. “Say nothing, an’ the press’ll never leave you alone.”
“Okay,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll come up with a statement.”
“Soon,” Max warned. “We’d better get some kind of lid on this before your Vegas appearance.”
“I understand, Max. I’ll get something over to you today.”
&
nbsp; •
THE REPORTER WAS SMALL, blond, and compact, with an ageless, well-preserved air about her. Her name was Belinda Barrow, she’d been on television for quite a number of years and considered herself equally as important as the stars she interviewed. Currently she was the on-camera talent for a weekly half-entertainment, half-reality show called The Real News.
Gregg looked her over and decided she was easy pickings. He needed a score, and she could be it.
They made polite conversation before the cameras started to roll, he gave her the sincere act, and she seemed to go for it.
As soon as the red light came on, Belinda switched into interviewer mode. “So tell me, Gregg,” she said, an eager, almost hungry look in her guileless hazel eyes. “You were married to Lissa Roman for almost two years. If she was as difficult as you say, then how come you stayed married for as long as you did?”
“Lissa is a very insidious woman,” Gregg said, playing to the camera. “She gets off on drama. Whenever I attempted to leave, she always managed to pull me back in.”
“How so?”
“Well . . . she kinda threatened suicide, told me she couldn’t live without me, that sorta thing.”
“How soon after you were married did you try to leave?”
“It must’ve been on our honeymoon. I immediately realized she was unstable. I stayed because I felt sorry for her. And naturally, I loved her.”
“I see,” Belinda said. “So you stayed with her because you felt sorry for her?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Do you realize how many men watching this program will be pulling their hair out to hear you say that? After all, Lissa Roman is one of the most beautiful and talented women in movies today.”
“Beauty’s only skin deep, Belinda,” Gregg said, liking the sound of his own cliché. “It’s what’s within that matters. And within Lissa Roman there lurks a black soul.”
“Isn’t that rather harsh?” Belinda asked, playing up the sympathy angle.
“She threw me out on the street in the middle of the night with no warning, nothing,” Gregg complained. “Now I’m virtually penniless. Not only did I give up my career to help her, I also spent all my own money on her.”
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