by Brenda Joyce
In Hollywood
Where They Vied for Sex,
Power, and Wealth
They Were Safe
Until They Fell in Love
Belinda Glassman was the fabulous rich girl who used men to satisfy her passions, but kept her heart unattached … too hurt by her powerful father to risk falling in love.
Jack Ford was the year’s fastest rising star, with a big-money film contract after a hit TV series … and not into a serious relationship with anybody but the lady called Success.
Then fate brought them together on a movie set … and into the pitch-black heat of a Laguna Beach bedroom where the sex got so hot someone was bound to get burned.
LOVERS AND LIARS
Their passions felt like heaven on earth,
but their hungers could damn them …
straight to hell
Also by Brenda Joyce
THE CONQUEROR
THE DARKEST HEART
DARK FIRES
Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
666 Fifth Avenue
New York, New York 10103
Copyright © 1989 by Brenda Joyce Dworman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
eISBN: 978-0-307-78948-8
v3.1
Each character in this novel
is entirely fictional.
No reference to any living person
is intended or should be inferred.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part One: Strangers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part Two: Lovers
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Part Three: Liars
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Part Four: Lovers
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Epilogue
Prologue
February 1988
Lies.
All lies.
The pain was still so raw. How many days had it been? Two, three, four? A week? God, she didn’t even know, She was drifting in a cloud of hurt, drifting, like the snowflakes outside …
It was hard to focus on anything other than the betrayal. How had it happened? She, who had never needed anyone, not even her parents—not that they had been there for her—and certainly not a man. She, who had had more men in her life than she could count, who had played the singles game more callously than the worst playboy, had not just taken the plunge. It had been a freefall without the chute opening.
God.
Jack Ford.
Hollywood’s Golden Boy. Sex symbol nonpareil. Hot. As in hot property. One of the hottest in town. And notorious. Oh, so notorious …
The truth agonized.
He had used her to avenge himself on her father.
Dear God. If only she would wake up and find that all this was just a horrible dream.
A knock sounded. She started. The dogs barked. She thought she must be imagining things—no one knew where she was, where she had escaped to, where she was hiding, in this cabin at Lake Tahoe. But there it was again.
She got up, shoving aside strands of blond hair, squaring her broad shoulders, and opened the door. Outside, the wind howled, pine trees swayed, and the snow began falling more heavily.
“Belinda Ford?”
She was the daughter of Abe Glassman, whose multi-billion-dollar conglomerate spanned two continents, one of the most powerful men in America—and she recognized the press ID before she could make out the cardholder’s face, shadowed by the hood of his parka. Oh, no, she thought. Oh, no, not now.
And the name he had used in addressing her. Ford. It was still unfamiliar. She wanted to deny it. She couldn’t. “Yes?”
“I’m with the National Enquirer. Can I come in? It’s freezing out.”
“No, I’m
sorry,” Belinda said, starting to shut the door.
But he jammed his Gerry-clad shoulder into it. “When did you and Jack Ford get married, and why keep it secret?” he asked quickly. “And is the rumor true? There’s already trouble between the two of you—you’re estranged? Have you left him?”
“No damn comment,” Belinda said, coldly furious.
“You must have a comment to make on the article in the Star. Or is that why you left him? It must be a helluva shock to think you’ve married a movie star, only to find out he’s a porn star too.”
Belinda was stunned. What was he talking about? Jack—porn? She recovered. “Please leave before I have to call the police.”
“You didn’t know!” He was triumphant. “Then there had to be another reason you left Ford just days after the wedding. He’s infamous for his women. Is that it? Another woman? Or did you know—was it because of the porn? And what about all this publicity—your husband’s about to take a fall? His career is on the line, maybe finished—”
“Get out!” she shouted. “Just get out!”
“Ford was seen last night with Donna Mills. Do you have something to say about that?”
She succeeded in finally pushing him out the door and slamming it shut in his face. She was breathless. It couldn’t be true, could it? Jack and porn? And Donna Mills? God, he couldn’t possibly be in her bed, could he? Were there already others? And why—why did it have to hurt so much, and why did she have to even care?
So many lies.
Every second of every moment—another lie.
She inhaled deeply. And faced the biggest questions of all.
What was between her father, Abe Glassman, and her husband, Jack Ford?
And why had Jack used her as the instrument of his revenge?
PART ONE
Strangers
July 1987
1
Heads turned.
Today she didn’t just look like a star, she felt like one. She was on top of the world—the world was at her feet. “Adam!”
She made a stunning figure. She was not as tall as one thought, five feet six or so, taller now in high-heeled pumps, clad in a pencil-thin black skirt that showed off strong, muscular legs. Her shoulders were broad under an even broader neon-orange jacket, as straight as the skirt, and her golden hair fell in glorious, disheveled waves to her shoulders. Her face was model-perfect, with high cheekbones, straight nose, full, sensual lips, and a strong jaw.
Adam Gordon rose as she made her way among the tables of the Bistro Garden. “Belinda, you’re dazzling today.”
She grinned, allowing him to seat her, once again impressed by his old-world charm. She had forgotten it still existed. “Adam, we are celebrating. I want the best champagne in the house. My treat,” she added quickly. Normally she would never be so extravagant in a town where extravagance was the norm, for she could not afford it. But today she was three hundred and fifty thousand dollars richer—three hundred and fifty thousand dollars!
Adam, tall, dark, and slim—and not her type—took her hand. She was still surprised that she had agreed to go out with him and told herself it was not because he and her father seemed to dislike each other so intensely. “Share the news,” he said. His look was warm.
“My screenplay has sold! God! Finally! North-Star bought it. In fact, they’re picking it up as a vehicle for Jackson Ford. Do you know who Ford is?”
This was Hollywood. And Adam was a lawyer in one of the largest firms in L.A. Among the firm’s numerous clients, both corporate and otherwise, were the likes of Charlton Heston and Joan Collins. It was his business to know everything about the entertainment business. “Of course. He’s on that television detective series—or was. The show’s been canceled and North-Star grabbed him. He’s a very hot property right now, maybe the hottest. Congratulations, Belinda,” Adam said, smiling, but he was wondering if this was going to interfere with his plans.
“Oh, Adam, I’ve waited so long for this—so damn long!” She thought about the one screenplay she had sold two years ago, the one that had never even made it into production. But this time was different. This time North-Star was the producer, not some small independent; this time it was a vehicle for a super-hot property; this time it was going all the way. “I think I’ve finally made it, Adam. All those years of listening to ‘Why don’t you go and get a real job?’ ”
Adam smiled. “You have made it.”
“There’s more. They’re interested in another product of mine, so I’m crossing my fingers. We may be making another sale soon.”
“Then this is definitely cause for celebration.”
Belinda started to bite a long red nail, then promptly stopped. “I think Ford is hot,” she said tensely. “But can he act …”
It was a rhetorical question, so Adam ordered a bottle of Cristal champagne.
“I mean,” she mused, “he has been nominated for Best Actor in a Dramatic Series every year since he got the show, but so what, right? Has he won?” she demanded. “I mean, granted, he has the greatest ass and an even better smile, but …” She sighed. “I’m so nervous, Adam. I want everything to be perfect. I can’t help it—this is my ticket to success. If the box office is good for this, God, imagine if it was one of those weekend multi-million-dollar grossers! Damn! I wish Mel Gibson was doing the role. Everyone knows he can act.”
“Ford will sell tickets,” Adam assured her. “He is very hot right now.” Belinda gave him a grateful smile, but her mind was light-years ahead.
Production was scheduled to start in December. Thinking about it made her stomach twist into knots. This was her first sale (the other not counting), and Outrage was her baby. She was determined to ride this ticket all the way down the pike. She wanted to be in on all the rewrites. If she managed to stay in—and she’d been in this town long enough to know how rare that was, for writers were changed as easily as a pair of pants and discarded with less thought than pantyhose—there would be a lot of ass-kissing and compromising. She wanted desperately to stay in. She wanted this film, Outrage, to be better than good, to be fantastic.
She could not concentrate on Adam or lunch. She wanted to be back at home, at her IBM PC, polishing up the climax of her third screenplay—just in case.
Home was a weathered gray beach house in Laguna Beach, a good hour’s drive south of L.A. and Hollywood. The house literally hung over the beach, on stilts. It was small and traditional on the outside, eclectic on the inside, with breathtaking views of Catalina and the surf. The floors were faded pine, the ceilings high and beamed, with an enormous skylight over the living room. There was barely any furniture, just the basics—a couch, a few chairs, a pine chest serving as a cocktail table. An oversized painting that was a birthday present from her grandparents dominated the room, taking up all of one wall. Done almost in a Fauvist style, with vivid colors and contrasts, it was a scene of a yacht and a navy destroyer in the New York harbor during the bicentennial celebration. Belinda had fallen in love with the painting in a San Francisco gallery. She had never dreamed she would own it. Next to her IBM PC, it was her most cherished possession.
A big black Lab greeted her at the door as she walked in, and she bent to scratch his head, then began to shed her shoes and hose in the middle of the living room. She thought about her parents. Shouldn’t she call them?
Her father didn’t give a damn.
Not that she cared. Maybe once, a long time ago, but not anymore.
Still … The biggest moment of her life, and she really had to face it, she had no one to share it with except some casual date. That or Vince.
If she looked too hard at that fact, she’d have to face some inescapable conclusions, so Belinda quickly paced to the huge glass doors that slid open onto a deck, bare except for plants and a waist-level glass windscreen. She stared out at the calm blue water, the surfers, and the boats with their white-and-blue sails flapping in the breeze.
After just a few minutes she turned and looked at
the phone. So what if her father didn’t care? Didn’t she have some kind of inalienable right to share the biggest moment of her life with him? She crossed to the phone with long, aggressive strides.
The receptionist put her right through. The next phone rang four times before it was answered by one of the dozen secretaries working for Glassman. As usual, a tone of harassment seeped through the veneer of professional courtesy.
“Mr. Glassman, please,” Belinda said, wondering if her own voice sounded tense. For some reason the phone had gotten a bit clammy in her hand.
“Whom may I—”
“Belinda. Glassman. His daughter.”
That got the secretary off balance. She heard the indrawn breath. She never called her father, ever, not at work, not outside work, and she hadn’t been to his office since she was fifteen. But now, after a three-minute pause, the secretary informed her that she would have to call back later. Mr. Glassman was in a meeting and could not take the call. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“Forget it,” she said quickly. She hung up. Just as well. It was a bad idea.
Should she call her mother?
She started to think about the night ahead. She wanted to celebrate. Too bad today wasn’t Friday, because there was that North-Star party she had been invited to and had no intention of missing. But today wasn’t Friday, and she had always been a loner, even as a child, and it never bothered her—except at times like these.
She suddenly had a nostalgic longing for Dana—her best friend as a teenager. They had drifted apart when Dana had gotten married, and now she was a mother three times over. Belinda guessed that marriage and motherhood suited Dana, but she couldn’t imagine herself ever in that role. It wasn’t because she was such a loner and just couldn’t get close to people; it was rather because she knew men too well and had long ago given up her childish dreams of finding some kind of Prince Charming to share her life with. Most men wanted one thing, and Belinda knew exactly what that was. But that was okay. Belinda wanted it too. It was the lies that she could live without—and she intended to do just that.
Still, this moment cried out to be shared with someone special.
But there was no one, so Belinda shrugged the need away. Of course it would have to be a man. Her mind formed an image of massive male pectorals, thickly matted with black hair. Sometimes there was nothing interesting at all out and about. Other times they all came out of the woodwork.
