by Brenda Joyce
“You’re finished in New York, pretty boy. Nobody ever fucks with Abe Glassman.”
17
Nancy was nervous. It was Friday night. Her insides were twisted into knots. It was silly. But ever since she’d found out that Jackson Ford was going to star in Belinda’s movie, she had been a bundle of nerves. Warning bells were ringing. It was like being swept into the past. Worse. He was coming back into her life again, insidiously. Oh, God! Nancy could feel it—the fierce foreboding of a lurking disaster.
She hated him.
She had lain in the hospital too depressed to move after the miscarriage, lain crying and waiting for him to come and take her in his arms and tell her it would be all right, that he was going to take her away once she was better. She waited and waited, for days and days and finally weeks, but he had never come. He hadn’t come. She had never seen him again.
God, even now, seventeen years later—how she hated him!
When she had gone home the drinking had started. First an early cocktail hour, then just a white wine with lunch. She never drank before lunch, but from the moment she awoke, it was her anticipation of that drink that got her through the morning. Abe, of course, was rarely home, and when he was his contempt was not disguised. But he never suggested divorce, and neither did Nancy.
She needed a drink now, to steady her nerves.
Why had Abe brought her to California this time, when she hadn’t traveled with him in years? Nancy hadn’t lived thirty years with her husband not to be suspicious. She knew Abe had brought her for a reason. And she couldn’t figure it out. She had been too afraid to ask. And now there was this insistent feeling of fear.
She began to get dressed for the party. Some Hollywood affair, Abe had said, and he hadn’t given her any more information. What if—she began to think, then cut herself off with a shaky laugh. There was no way! It was ridiculous to even think it! Hollywood was a big place; it would be the ultimate twist of fate if Jack Ford were to be there tonight.
How silly.
Relax.
He is not going to be at this party.
A vast, heavy emptiness was weighing him down.
Jack had shot his last scene four or five hours ago. He expected to crash and he hated it. It never failed, after all the tension and excitement and creative effort, the striving for perfection, the actual metamorphosis of himself, Jack Ford, into someone else, and then—nothing.
Emptiness.
The shoot was over. He had never been better. He didn’t think he was deluding himself—he had been good enough in this part for an Oscar nomination. Even the cast and crew seemed to think so. They had actually applauded today after the final take. A nomination would be the culmination of all his dreams, all his ambitions.
He knew he would never win.
Because everyone in the industry knew how he felt. He hadn’t kissed enough ass. Didn’t let the bloodsuckers leech onto him. He wouldn’t play the game. And there was the jealousy, because his star had risen so fast, burning so bright.
Still, a nomination was within the realm of possibility.
He looked at his watch. He had to get a move on, had to get dressed. North-Star was sending over a limo and he was running late. Of course, stars were allowed to be late—and he smiled. Remembering a time when there were no limos and no Ferraris and no home in Santa Barbara, no Rolex, no agent, no roles, nothing.
God, he had come a long way. A long way from the tough kid chauffering Glassman’s limo in New York City.
He was on top.
A star.
He had made it.
* * *
Abe was smiling.
He hung up the phone, anticipation sweet and melting in his mouth. He had been talking to his arb. Schumann had begun the surreptitious process of buying shares and parking them for a hostile takeover. Abe’s grin widened. It didn’t hurt to be starting out from the strong position of owning nine percent of North-Star. He laughed.
He knew he could count on three men who owed him heavily—he owned them because he could ruin them—to sell him a total of four and a half percent more. One of those men was Will Hayward, who wouldn’t dare refuse, not after Abe had fixed it so Detective Smith wouldn’t bring charges for possession and dealing. Dealing! Hayward had lost it, he was an idiot! Abe knew he was supporting his habit but that made no difference. Hayward knew too much and Abe didn’t trust him, especially now. He had to keep him away from the police and out of trouble. Will was becoming a serious liability.
He would deal with that next week.
Abe stood up and adjusted his tie, feeling very fine indeed. It was time to get his wife and take her to a party.
Beverly Hills.
Belinda was most definitely in the mood. She looked at Adam and smiled. Adam smiled back.
He was the perfect choice, she thought guiltily, in a town where appearances were everything. He looked elegant and handsome, like a young James Bond. She hadn’t really been attracted to him in the beginning, but there was no reason for her not to be, and now she could feel the spark kindling as their friendship grew. She was twenty-eight and wasn’t it time she gave up hunks? For someone like Adam? Someone successful and presentable and intelligent? She wondered if he was good in bed. Somehow she knew his performance would be just as polished there as everywhere else.
“You are going to turn a few heads tonight,” Adam said as he turned his Mercedes into the vast, graveled drive.
Belinda smiled. She was wearing a brilliant orange designer dress. It had a halter that plunged right to her navel, then curved in a skintight sheath to just below her knees. In the back, it was slit up her right thigh—almost as high as the top of her stocking.
“You will certainly be noticed. In fact, some paparazzi will probably think you’re a movie star.” Adam grinned. “They’ll be going crazy trying to figure out who you are.”
“Good,” Belinda declared. “A little attention never hurts. Especially at the stage my career is at.”
They climbed out, Belinda swinging long legs gracefully. She stared up at the neo-Tudor home with the huge lawns and gardens. There were limos, BMWs, and Mercedeses everywhere. A man looking incredibly silly was dressed in armor, sitting on a scarlet-robed horse right by the entrance. Belinda had to smile. Only in Hollywood.
“You’ll love this,” Adam whispered as they walked past the uniformed maid taking wraps at the door.
They entered a huge stone-floored living room. The ceiling was high and beamed. Shields and pikes and swords decorated the walls. It was right out of a medieval romance. Belinda knew the gossip, just like everyone else: Majoriis’s wife, who was thirty years his junior, fancied herself the reincarnation of some Tudor damsel in distress. The party was in full swing and crowded, all dazzling sequins and satin lapels, buzzing with chatter and laughter. Then the whole room became an unfocused collage of colors, textures, and shapes. Everything a blur.
Except for him.
Jackson Ford.
He stood almost smack in the center of the room, golden and glowing, crystal-clear in her vision, his presence a powerful magnet drawing her attention—like the sun at the center of the universe. She stared, not even looking at the group of people he was standing with, because they, too—like everything else in the room—were blurred and indistinct and inconsequential.
He was, if possible, better in person.
Then the unbelievable happened. Or was it the inevitable?
He raised his head and looked right at her.
For a long moment their gazes locked.
18
“Who is that?” Jack asked, staring at the woman in orange as she walked across the room.
Melody followed his gaze. “I don’t know,” she said, looking at his face.
He tracked the woman with his eyes. She walked with an athletic grace, as if she were very sure of herself, expecting heads to turn, which indeed, they did. She was more than stunning. Incredibly sexy. He could pick up on it all the way across
the room. An attitude seemed to emanate from her like a perfume, wafting, enticing, heady, and powerful. “Who the hell is that?” he muttered again.
He chatted with Melody and the starlet who clung to him and the character actor whose face was on every prime-time show although no one remembered his name. He chatted mindlessly, with none of his attention. She wasn’t his type, far from it. Too short, for one thing, maybe five seven or eight in heels. Blond, sun-gold blond. He liked dark-haired women. Too old. And too curved, too muscular, almost like a female jock if not for her sensual style, the aura of sex. Broad shoulders, a swimmer’s back, but real nice breasts, he could see that. He wished he could get a better look at her legs. There were too many people in the way.
He excused himself from the crowd and worked his way toward her, single-minded now, as if she were a mare in heat and he a stallion. Who was she? An actress, of course, but how come he had never laid eyes on her before? He nodded and exchanged inane pleasantries but never lost sight of her. Twice he caught her eye. Twice he caught her looking at him too. She seemed to be with some guy, a familiar-looking man, but he wasn’t sure, and if she was, well, he didn’t care.
He finally found himself next to her. By now the party was packed, and she had lost her companion, if he was her companion. He had a knot in his groin, and it had been growing. Everything had been growing. He felt out of control, about to take off. “Hi.”
She turned to face him and his best killer grin. A smile curved her lips. Full and pink. She had flair. Style. Jesus, she looked even better close up. Who was she?
“Hi, yourself,” she said, giving him the fast up-down. Her voice was husky. Did her gaze linger where he thought it had? His condition wasn’t obvious, but if she looked she’d see. He felt like a very hard-up high-schooler.
“I’m Jack,” he said, sure it wasn’t necessary, extending his hand.
She raised a brow. She didn’t seem to recognize him. He didn’t know whether to be thrilled or disappointed—he was both. “Belinda,” she said, slipping a warm, firm hand in his.
She smelled like something musky mixed with honey-dew and possibly sex. He looked into her eyes, intense brown eyes, and felt a moment of panic. As if he were on the edge of a precipice and knew, absolutely, that he was about to take a fall. But the moment passed, the feeling passed. And was forgotten. Instead there was her mouth, so voluptuous; her breasts, also voluptuous; her thighs … Was that the faint line of a garter belt?
What was wrong with him? Why was he in overdrive? She wasn’t even his type!
“Who are you, Belinda? I’ve never seen you before.”
“Who are you?” she returned, her gaze locked with his.
She doesn’t know who I am! For a moment he just stared, completely off balance. This had never happened—or not in years, not since Success. Certainly not in Tinseltown. He had a flashing kaleidoscope image of the past seven years, all the favor and star-fucking. And he decided instantly that he wouldn’t tell her, not tonight. Not until after they’d made it, which he knew they would. Jack knew women. And he knew she wanted him too. “How do you like it?” he finally said, gesturing around.
Her smile was dazzling and genuine. “I love it.”
He understood her perfectly then, knew where she was and where she wanted to go. “First time?”
“Yes,” she said, holding his gaze again. Her eyes were so goddamn intense. His words echoed in his head, first time, and he knew from the way she was looking at him that she was thinking about it too—the first time. Tonight was going to be their first time together. His breathing felt thick and heavy in his chest.
“What do you do?” His gaze slid helplessly down her body.
“What do you do?” she rebutted.
His smile burst forth. “I do a bit of acting now and then,” he said lightly. He had never been a braggart, and even though he thought he was glad she didn’t know who he was, didn’t she watch prime time? Read magazines? Shop in the supermarket? “Now answer my question.”
“What do you think?”
“You’ve got to be a starl—an actress,” he said, catching himself before he insulted her. If she were anyone, he would know her, would have seen her.
She just smiled. “Do you always stare so pointedly?”
He jerked his gaze up to her face from where it had strayed, saw the wicked light, and laughed roughly. “Never.” A muscle on the side of his face twitched. “Are you wearing anything under there?”
Her gaze locked with his again. “You do tend to jump to conclusions,” she said huskily.
“I can think of something better to jump,” he said, getting throaty.
“So can I,” she said, her glance straying downward.
He took her arm, his hand closing around it tightly, then loosening to slide up and down. Her skin was soft, smooth. Electric. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Is that your boyfriend?”
“No, just a friend,” she said, staring into his eyes.
He stepped close. His thigh and hip touched hers. His hand moved to her back. Silk. Her scent was stronger. “Should you tell him we’re leaving?”
She shifted her body slightly, but enough. Pressing her hip into his hardness, one breast against his arm. For a moment they stared breathlessly at each other, nerves racing, burning. “I’ll have to meet you later.”
“Okay,” he said, trying not to lose focus. He didn’t know what he said. He was aware only of her, her feel and smell—and his intense need to get her into bed.
He swallowed. “In an hour? At Nicki Blair’s?”
“An hour and a half,” she said, giving him a long look.
He stared at her disappearing back. A gorgeous ass. A glimpse of strong, long legs through the slit. Oh, God. An hour and a half. He could barely wait.
Then he rounded a corner, and there was Abe Glassman.
With his wife.
19
Jack and Abe Glassman stared at each other from across the room while Jack fought potent, painful memories.
Jack clenched his jaw so hard he thought he might grind his teeth to the gums. But he didn’t look away. He recognized the challenge. And damn, he wasn’t afraid of that bastard. Glassman couldn’t touch him now. Right?
Jack became aware of how tense he was, and he forced himself to relax, to smile and act cool. As if seeing this man again—who had almost had him killed, who had cost him six months in the hospital, who had then ruined his chances in New York—meant nothing to him.
But the shock of being in the same room with a man he hated made his pulse pound and his brow sweat.
Abe had his arm around Nancy and was pulling her with him as he approached. Jack looked at her for the first time and saw the horror in her eyes, which were riveted on him. She was as white as a ghost—as if she’d seen a ghost. Maybe she’d thought he’d died, after all. Had she once come to inquire about him when he’d been recovering in the hospital? Maybe they’d both thought he’d died—and then Jack immediately corrected himself. Abe Glassman didn’t deal in assumptions. He had known exactly what he was doing when he’d had Jack beaten up to within an inch of his life. Just as he knew exactly what he was doing now. The fear was just a stabbing, like the prick of a needle. He controlled his expression. He wasn’t about to give anything away. What did Glassman want?
His heart was pumping erratically.
“If it isn’t my old driver,” Glassman sneered.
“If it isn’t Abe Glassman, Upright Citizen of the Year,” Jack said coolly. He couldn’t control the trickle of sweat at his temple. But he didn’t brush at it.
“You remember my wife,” Abe said, holding Nancy tightly by the arm.
Jack met Nancy’s eyes briefly and was shocked by the hatred he saw blazing there. For a moment he couldn’t look away, and neither could she. “Abe,” Nancy whispered weakly, but she didn’t take her gaze from Jack’s.
“Maybe you two have some catching up to do,” Abe sneered.
His cruelty appalle
d Jack and angered him. “What in the hell do you want?”
“Still the tough punk.” Abe grinned. “Once a punk, always a punk.”
If it had been anyone else, anyone other than this man, Jack might have been amused. But amusement was the farthest thing from his mind right then. “I don’t think we have anything to say to each other,” Jack said, turning away.
“Don’t turn your back on me, boy,” Abe warned.
Jack froze. Then slowly, so as not to appear intimidated, he turned back. “If you have something to say, then say it. If not, I have a date.”
“Oh, I have something to say, all right,” Abe said, grinning. “I wanted to give you some advice.”
In that instant Jack knew. Knew that Glassman was about to go for his jugular. Knew it wasn’t over, that it had never been over. Dread filled him. “I can’t wait.”
Glassman laughed. “Stick to your own league.” He laughed harder. “Know what I mean? You’re bush league, Ford, and you always have been. You can’t make the majors—you won’t. I’m the Man in this town, just like I was the Man in New York. Ring any bells?”
The sweat was pouring now in a steady stream. “You can’t touch me, not now.” But he felt as if he were free-falling through space.
Abe laughed. “No? Just wait and see, boy. Just wait and see.”
Falling.
God, why?
PART TWO
Lovers
December 1987
20
He hadn’t had the dream in years.
Not since he was in his mid-twenties, but he’d been having it recently, and he had it that night. He was a boy—it was years ago. He was walking home. His block stood out crystal-clear in his mind. An empty lot, dirt and debris taking up half of one side, the chain fence partly torn down, so easily circumventable. Rows of rotting, squalid, wood-shingled homes, porches crumbling, paint gone, shutters hanging crookedly. Rats escaping from overturned, overflowing garbage cans. Wrecked and stripped jalopies dotting front yards and the sides of the street.
