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Prologue
THE BLONDE FELL WITH A sickening thud—the razor-sharp hunting knife cutting through her carotid artery as if it were slicing butter. Blood pumped from her like oil gushing from an open well.
The woman attempted to scream, her eyes open wide with the fear and knowledge of what was to come next. But when she opened her mouth, blood gurgled out, spilling down her body and soaking her clothes.
Then her assassin struck again—the lethal knife viciously stabbing her breasts.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
She sighed. A horrible death rattle of a sigh.
And within seconds she was dead.
chapter 1
MADISON CASTELLI’S green eyes regarded Jake Sica with a certain guarded amusement as he entertained his brother’s dinner guests with a hilarious story about a recent photo safari he’d been on in Africa. Jake had a kind of deadpan delivery that really caught her attention and attracted her to him, although she had no intention of getting involved again. Not after her last disastrous relationship—absolutely no way.
I’m twenty-nine, a successful writer for Manhattan Style magazine and happily single, Madison thought, continuing to check Jake out across the dinner table. So why am I even thinking about this guy? Especially as I only just met him. Plus he doesn’t seem at all interested in me—so what’s my problem?
She glanced over at her best friend, Natalie, who’d brought her to the dinner. Natalie and Jimmy were both enjoying their one night off—especially Natalie, who seemed to be making out okay with Luther, a huge ex-football player and old college buddy of Jimmy’s.
“You’re a hoot,” Natalie said to Jake, shooting Madison a sideways “why don’t you do something about him?” look.
Madison did not respond; she wasn’t about to encourage Natalie’s not so subtle matchmaking, even though she did find Jake extremely attractive.
“I love this!” exclaimed Bunny, Jimmy’s pretty wife, clapping her hands together like an excited little girl. “We used to entertain all the time in Detroit. What fun we had!”
“We sure did,” agreed Jimmy, flashing his perfect smile.
“How about we play charades later?” Bunny suggested, still full of girlish enthusiasm.
“How about not?” Jake responded, with a wry grin.
“I’m with you,” Madison agreed. She couldn’t stand parlor games—probably because she didn’t consider herself very good at them.
“Me, too,” said Luther, pushing his chair away from the table and stretching. “Man, I do not get off on all that goofin’ around. Makes me feel like some kind of big old fool.”
Bunny pulled a face. “It’s my party,” she said petulantly. “I can do what I want.”
“Honey!” Jimmy said, slightly embarrassed. “Whyn’t we take a vote?”
“Don’t want to,” Bunny said, pursing her pink lips, her pretty features contorting into a scowl.
“Sweetheart—” Jimmy started to say.
“Don’t nag me all the time!” Bunny shrieked, cutting him off, her baby blue eyes flashing sudden major danger signals.
“Oh, good,” Natalie murmured, attempting to lighten things up. “A family fight.”
Bunny suddenly jumped up from the table. “I hate you all!” she screeched, before running from the room.
There was a stunned silence.
Jimmy’s smile wavered. “She’s only kidding,” he said, getting up and hurriedly scooting after her.
“Holy shit!” Natalie exclaimed as soon as Jimmy was out of earshot. “What was that all about?”
Both Luther and Jake appeared unaffected by Bunny’s outburst.
“Nothing,” Jake said, with a wide, unconcerned grin. “That was simply Bunny being Bunny—no big deal.”
“Yeah,” Luther agreed, reaching for a bottle of red wine and refilling everyone’s glass. “Nothin’ changes.”
“Does she usually scream at her guests like that?” Madison asked, surprised at their calm reaction.
“She only throws a fit to get Jimmy’s attention,” Jake explained. “It’s her way.”
“Good for her,” Madison said crisply, pushing her chair away from the table. “Only I don’t have to stay around to watch.”
“No, no,” Luther said, chuckling. “You don’t get it. This shit’s bin goin’ on since college. They’ll be back in a minute all cozy an’ down each other’s throats. It’s their thing.”
“Well, it’s not mine,” Madison said, standing up. “Besides, I’ve got work to do.” She stared pointedly at Natalie, waiting for her to get up, too.
Natalie didn’t budge.
“I guess I’d better call a cab,” Madison said irritably, swearing to herself that tomorrow she’d hire her own car—no more being trapped.
“Oh,” Natalie said innocently, as if it had only just occurred to her. “You’re in my car, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Natalie, I am,” Madison said, stifling the urge to strangle her.
Natalie was not about to give up on Luther. “Maybe Jake’s going your way,” she suggested.
Now all eyes were on Jake. Madison was furious, especially as Jake was not exactly leaping up to offer her a lift.
“A cab’ll be fine,” she said stiffly.
“I’ll call one,” Jake said. “I would drive you, but . . . uh . . . I’m kind of expecting someone.”
Oh great, Madison thought. He’s got a late date, and Natalie’s begging him to drive me home. How embarrassing is this?
“Who?” Luther asked, all interested.
“No one you know,” Jake replied, picking up his glass and taking a gulp of wine.
Natalie finally rallied. “I suppose I should be going too,” she said, batting her long eyelashes at Luther, waiting for him to stop her.
He got the message. “No, baby,” he crooned, giving her a long, slow-burn look. “It’s way too early for you to leave.”
“Gotta get my beauty sleep,” she said, doing the eyelash thing again.
“Honey,” Luther said, right on cue. “You’re so fine you don’t need beauty sleep.”
Oh, God, Madison thought, do I really have to listen to this?
And then the phone rang, and all hell broke loose.
chapter 2
ARIEL SHORE WAS A STATUESQUE brunette in her late forties with an abundance of charm and a deceptively bland manner. Beneath the wide and welcoming smile lurked an astute woman who knew the movie business inside out, a woman who could sweet-talk like nobody else and then—if she felt like it—blow a deal right out the window without a second thought.
Ariel had started her illustrious career in advertising, moved on to marketing, produced a couple of low-budget films, then caught the attention of Billy Cornelius, who had championed her rise to head of his studio. Some said Ariel and Billy were lovers. Freddie Leon—the superagent—didn’t believe it for a minute. Ariel was way too smart to sleep with her boss. Besides, Billy’s feisty little wife, Ethel, watched him like a bird dog—ever since he nearly left her for a curvaceous starlet with big silicone-enhanced lips and a talent for latching on to other women’s husbands. Ethel had seen to it that the girl was run out of Hollywood—forcing her to seek employment (and other women’s husbands) in Europe.
&
nbsp; Ariel was career-driven, like Freddie—which was why the two of them got along so well. They usually managed to have lunch together a couple of times a month, at which they exchanged information—a lunch they both enjoyed, because they genuinely liked each other.
Freddie greeted her at the door of his house, hugging her close, whispering in her ear how glad he was she’d made it.
“This was very short notice, Freddie,” she scolded. “Only for you.”
“I know, Ariel,” he replied, poker-faced as usual. “I appreciate it.”
“So you should. You owe me, Freddie. And I always collect.”
“Like I doubted it,” he answered, thinking that when he told her that Billy Cornelius was planning on replacing her with his erstwhile partner, Max Steele, it would be payment enough. “Come on in,” he added, putting his arm around her broad Armaniclad shoulders.
Ariel nodded and strode ahead of him. She was an assertive woman with complete confidence in her ability to charm and conquer.
As Freddie followed her into the living room, he wondered how confident she’d feel when she heard of Billy Cornelius’ plans to replace her.
Freddie’s wife, Diana, stepped forward, greeting Ariel with a weak smile. Although Diana rarely voiced her opinion about any of her husband’s business associates, he knew she couldn’t stand Ariel, whom she considered brash and overbearing. He also knew that Diana suspected he might be attracted to the striking studio head, and had once accused him of just such a thing. He’d laughed off her suspicions; Ariel was too important for him to sully their relationship with sex.
“Hi, Ariel,” Diana said with about as much enthusiasm as a dead rattlesnake.
Freddie narrowed his eyes. It infuriated him when Diana exhibited attitude.
“Honey!” Ariel exclaimed, ignoring Diana’s coolness. “How sweet of you to include me.” And before Diana could summon up a reply, Ariel was heading in the direction of hot, sexy young movie star Kevin Page.
“I thought you said she was bringing her husband,” Diana hissed.
“She’s obviously alone,” Freddie replied, too preoccupied to bother with trivia.
“This ruins my table placement,” Diana seethed, tight-lipped.
“Get over it,” Freddie said, completely unconcerned.
Diana favored him with a hate-filled look, which he ignored.
Later, at the dinner table, all was back on track. Lucinda Bennett, diva supreme, was holding court, telling lurid tales of her early days in Hollywood and how every man on two legs was after her. Kevin joined in with hilarious stories about a particularly stoned director he’d recently worked with. And Ariel added anecdotes of her own early experiences.
Freddie noted that Max was uncustomarily quiet. Either he was contemplating what he considered his rosy future, or he hadn’t gotten over the obvious snub from Inga Cruelle, the luscious supermodel who was supposed to be his dinner partner. There had been no telephoned apology; she simply had failed to show.
Earlier Freddie had cornered Ariel and informed her about Max’s plans to take over her job, as he knew them. She was genuinely shocked. “I don’t think Billy would make a move like that without telling me,” she’d said. “Everything’s going so well at the studio. We’ve had two enormous hits this year.”
“And a couple of flops,” Freddie had reminded her.
“The hits make up for the flops,” Ariel had replied, not quite as pleasantly as usual.
“I’m merely telling you what I know,” Freddie had said. “I’m planning on talking to Max tonight, and I want you involved. After all, you and I are on the same side.”
Ariel had nodded, but Freddie knew she was angry, as well she should be.
He glanced around the table. Diana’s other guests were doing fine. The billionaire businessman and his wife, and the New York financier and his L.A. mistress, were completely enthralled to be in the company of stars. Good, Freddie thought, now both men would owe him favors—exactly the way he liked things to be.
Brock Martin, the head of one of the TV networks, was also enjoying himself. He had his eye on Kevin Page’s date, young actress Angela Musconni— her of the pouting lips and seductive eyes. Angie was only nineteen, but her knowing eyes signaled promises of wild sensual experience, and Brock felt he had a chance with her.
“I don’t do television,” Angie kept on insisting, as Brock offered her a miniseries, weekly series—or, if she preferred, a major development deal.
“Not even for me?” Brock finally said, perplexed by her lack of interest. He considered himself a stud, having started his career as an actor many years ago, and he simply couldn’t understand why Angie wasn’t reacting with more enthusiasm.
“Tell ya what,” Angie said, her New York twang reverberating along the dinner table. “If I ever do decide t’do TV, it’ll only be for you. How’s that?”
Her pronouncement pacified him, and he gave a satisfied smirk. She favored him with a seductive smile, while under the table her child-size hand groped its way up Kevin’s thigh, searching for his zipper, so she could pull it down and investigate the possibilities. Angie got off on living dangerously.
Kevin slapped her hand away; he was having a good time listening to Lucinda Bennett and didn’t need distractions. Freddie had persuaded him to sign for a movie with Lucinda. He’d almost turned the deal down, wary that Lucinda was too old. Now he decided she wasn’t too old after all, and he’d made the right move.
“So, Max,” Freddie said quite loudly. “Isn’t there something you’ve been meaning to tell me?”
Ariel sat up very straight. A silence fell across the table.
Max jumped to attention. “What would that be?” he asked, still wondering where the hell Inga Cruelle was. How dare the Swedish bitch stand him up.
“Come on, Max,” Freddie said, playing with him. “You and I have never kept secrets.”
“Yes, Max,” Ariel said, joining in—her voice sounding ever so slightly strained. “There’s a rumor going around.”
“A rumor?” Max said warily. Where the fuck was this leading?
“That’s right,” Ariel said, honoring him with one of her most charming smiles. “A rumor that you’re after my job.”
chapter 3
DETECTIVE CHUCK TUCCI hitched up the waistband of his moss green pants, which were uncomfortably loose due to the fact that over the last six weeks he’d lost twelve pounds— thanks to Faye, his wife, who, much against his will, had put him on a rigid diet. He hadn’t wanted to lose weight; he was forty-nine, six feet tall and perfectly happy at two hundred and twenty pounds. But Faye had insisted, nagging him about his heart and cholesterol level, and all other kinds of ominous ailments. He wouldn’t have taken any notice of her, but when she said he felt too heavy lying on top of her when they made love, he’d decided he’d better acquiesce. Hence the diet. Hence the loose pants. Hence his bad mood.
The murdered blonde lay before him in a spreading pool of thick crimson blood. Another dead body. Another brutal murder. Only this time things were different. This time the victim lying spread-eagled on the ground was extremely famous.
Tucci stared down at the once gorgeous woman, her half-naked body vulnerable and exposed, the clothes ripped from her body in a frenzy of violence. Somebody had hacked her to death, almost severing her right breast—viciously stabbing her at least seventeen times.
The white dress she’d been wearing was in blood-splattered shreds around her. No underwear in sight. Blond pubic hair shaved into the shape of a heart. A small tattoo of a colorful bird just below her pierced navel. Fashionable metallic blue polish on her finger- and toenails. She was a beauty.
As he took in the details he let out a deep and weary sigh. This was not his first violent murder— this was his twenty-sixth. However, this was his first famous one.
On his way into the well-appointed living room with its sweeping views from the huge glass windows, he’d passed a portrait of the victim. Young, blond, pretty. Like a to
p-of-the-line Barbie doll, her youthful body captured in a giant nude painting hanging on the wall.
Now she was dead, gone, her sexy image forever frozen in time.
The police photographer arrived and started setting up his camera and harsh, glaring lights. He nodded at Detective Tucci and soon began his grisly work—photographing the woman’s body from every possible angle—while several cops wandered all over the house, sealing off areas.
Tucci was particularly concerned with the security outside the house, for he was well aware that once the news hit the airwaves, the press and TV crews would descend, swarming around like packs of particularly ravenous vultures. Bad enough when the victim wasn’t famous. This time it would be a circus, rivaling the Nicole Simpson/Ron Goldman/O.J. debacle.
Salli T. Turner. Pneumatic princess of the small screen. Bountiful blonde with the amazing body and sweet sweet smile. The girl in the black rubber swimsuit.
Adorable girl.
Dead girl.
He continued gazing down at her lifeless, mutilated body and sighed again. Sometimes he thought Faye was right—it was time to retire and get out of the violence business once and for all.
This was one of those times.
chapter 4
“I CANT BELIEVE IT!” MADISON gasped, barely able to absorb the shocking news. “It’s impossible. I was with her only a few hours ago. There has to be some mistake.”
“No mistake,” Jimmy said grimly, his handsome face alive with the scent of a sensational story.
“Our boss never makes a mistake,” Natalie agreed, agitated because she hated violence and backed away from covering any stories that even touched on it. Now she was stuck, because she and Jimmy had been summoned to their TV station to get a handle on the case.
Madison shook her head, still trying to get her mind around the horrifying news. Salli T. Turner. So alive and vibrant and sweet. It seemed impossible that she was dead, gone, brutally murdered.
Obsession Page 1
