by Brenda Joyce
At least she had learned the truth before it was too late. And at least the truth had doused all her desire for him.
If she looked at it that way, she was one lucky broad.
33
Mary had been down to the job on several occasions. Now she parked in front of the open chain gates, next to a red Toyota. She stepped out of her car, clad in jeans and a sweater and sneakers. The sweater was tight, and sure enough, she got a few interested looks from the carpenters as she walked up to the house. She had chosen it especially for Vince; it was one of his favorites.
She kept running a dialogue in her head: Vince, honey, I’ve invited Jim and Barbara over for dinner Saturday, and I want to really do it up. I need a hundred dollars …
He was going to wonder why she needed so much.
Worse, even if he gave it to her—what would happen when there was no dinner party?
“Where’s Vince?” she asked a man fitting Sheetrock across diagonal supports.
“Inside,” he said.
She stepped into the house, over a pile of debris, glancing past two carpenters banging nails in a corner.
It was her. She knew it the minute she saw them, Vince looking upset and angry, a woman with a Raquel Welch body clad in a red knit dress, talking to him with her back to Mary. A blonde. Superb.
Her.
She knew it.
Vince grabbed the woman by her shoulders, such an intense look on his face that Mary felt sick. Then he looked up, past the woman, at his wife. He instantly dropped his hands, a look of absolute shock crossing his face.
Her instinct was to turn tail and flee.
Instead, Mary walked over slowly, steadily, trying to breathe naturally—not as if she’d just run a marathon. But her head was throbbing. She desperately needed a drink. “Vince.”
“Mary,” Vince croaked.
Mary looked at the woman, who had turned and was looking at her equally carefully. She was beautiful. Thin. Not thin-thin, but there wasn’t an ounce of flab on her. She had a body like an aerobics instructor. Mary knew she couldn’t compete. Not with this. Sick desperation rose up in her, and she wanted to kill the woman, or at least scratch her eyes out.
“Hello,” the woman said somewhat curtly. “I’ve been admiring this house for weeks, and I was trying to get the foreman to show me around. Are you the owner?”
Mary knew it was a lie, bullshit. This woman was Vince’s lover. This woman and Vince were sleeping together. She knew it. “The foreman is my husband,” Mary said tensely.
“What are you doing here, Mary?” Vince quickly said, taking her arm.
Mary barely looked at him. She couldn’t stop staring at the woman, who was watching them although pretending not to. “Mary Spazzio,” she said. “You are—?” She had to know.
There was a brief hesitation. “Belinda Glassman. Well, thank you, Vince, for the tour, Nice meeting you, Mary.”
Mary watched her leave with a long, strong stride, and then she looked at Vince. Before he had seen her watching him there had been naked hunger on his face—and desperation. She suddenly couldn’t cope, couldn’t be near him—hated him, hated her. Mary turned and hurried after Belinda.
“Wait,” she said as Belinda was about to get into her car.
Belinda stopped and turned.
“Stay away from him,” Mary cried. “Stay away from him, or I’ll kill you!”
Belinda looked at her. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” she said and slid into the Toyota.
“You bitch!” Mary said, but the car was already gone, a red blur through her tears. “You bitch!”
34
With great reluctance—a vast understatement—Vince turned his Ford pickup into the driveway of his home.
He had run over the awful meeting of his wife and lover a hundred times in his head, and he thought Belinda had pulled it off. She had been perfect. She had given no clue. Her explanation had been logical, flawless. Then why hadn’t Mary believed her?
Vince climbed out of the truck and stopped to water the primroses. Methodically he plucked a few dead flowers, not looking at the house, but his ears were burning. Finally, unable to delay the inevitable, he walked in.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes red, her face flushed, spitting fury. “How long,” she demanded. “How long, you bastard!”
“Mary, what are you talking about?” He tried to bluff. He didn’t know why he didn’t just confess the truth—it was what he had been wanting to do for months. Somehow, though, cowardice and the instinct for survival won out.
“You know what I’m talking about,” she shrieked, standing. “You’re fucking her—Belinda Glassman. Aren’t you?”
“No,” he lied. The instant the word was out he knew she saw the lie.
“I hate you!” she screamed. And before he saw it coming, she had picked up her wineglass and thrown it at him.
He ducked just in time. The glass flew past his right temple and hit the wall behind him, shattering. “Jesus!” he said.
“How long has it been? I want to know how long you’ve been fucking her!” She was screaming, and Vince realized she was heavily sauced.
“Mary … I don’t know what to say.”
“Pig!” She threw the saltshaker. “Cocksucker!” The pepper mill followed.
“Damn it!” he exploded. “I’m glad you found out”
She froze. “So it is true?” Her voice quavered with hurt, and she looked so young and vulnerable that he suddenly felt awful. Hadn’t he loved her once? He hadn’t meant to hurt her.
“I … it just happened.”
“What about me? I’m your wife.” She was sobbing.
“I …” There was nothing to say.
“Do you love her, Vince?”
He hesitated.
She stared.
“Yes.”
“You motherfucker.” Mary stood up unsteadily. “She’s a rich broad. Abe Glassman’s daughter. She’s got millions. What do you think she wants with a carpenter like you? Huh? What? All she wants is your ass, Vince.”
It hurt. He knew she wanted to hurt him, but the fact was, she was right. And the truth, while he had known it all along, was awful. Because he did love Belinda, against all his better judgment. “I’m sorry.”
“I hate you,” she shrieked, and she grabbed a glass from the drying rack and hurled it. He ducked just in time. Missile after missile followed, along with a string of the worst curses he had ever heard. She’s crazy, he thought, frightened suddenly; and he slipped out the door and back into the night.
“I hate both of you,” she screamed after him. “You’re both going to be sorry, you and Belinda Glassman, both of you!”
35
Jack walked in with only a perfunctory knock. His spirits were higher than high. They had just checked into their rooms, and he had his script in his hand. (Not that he needed to go over his lines—he already knew them by heart.) On the way out from the airport, as they were driving through the saguaro-studded desert to Ventanna Canyon, where half the crew was staying, he’d had a major inspiration about the character of the hero, Nick Ryder. He wanted to run it by Melody.
He stopped short.
Melody sat abruptly upright, wiping her red eyes.
“Mel!” Jack gasped. “What’s wrong?”
She turned her face away. “Please, Jack, not now.”
She was crying. Why was she crying? In all the years he’d known her he’d only seen her cry once, over some schmuck who’d hurt her. “Mel, are you okay?” He approached instinctively, touching her shoulder lightly.
“No, I’m not,” she said heavily, pathetically. He couldn’t see her face, but her shoulders shook. His hands closed over them. “Tell me what’s wrong?” he whispered. “I can’t stand seeing you like this.”
She moaned and was suddenly embracing him, her face nestled in his chest. Jack sank onto the bed and held her while she sniffled and clung. He stroked her back. “It’s not something I did, is it?”
It took her along time to answer. “No. God, Jack, sometimes it’s just … I get so depressed … sometimes I can’t stand it anymore!” She started crying again.
He held her and rocked her. “Tell me about it, Mel, I want to help.”
“It’s the loneliness.” She sobbed. “I’m so alone. I hurt from the loneliness. I have no one. No one at all.”
“You have me,” Jack said, tightening his hold.
Melody was shaking. “Don’t you see, Jack? It’s not the way it is for you. I’m not pretty and I’m not a star. There’s no one in my life, no men, no man to be with. I haven’t been with anyone in years. I have needs just like anybody else. Not only physical needs but emotional ones too. I hate being alone. I hate the nights!”
She collapsed against him.
“God,” Jack said, stricken. “I take up all your time, don’t I? And leave you with nothing for yourself.”
Jack felt awful, and guilty. “I’m so self-absorbed I never even bothered to think about you, about what you need,” Jack said. “I make a lousy best friend, don’t I?”
Melody didn’t answer.
He thought of all the tail chasing him and tried to imagine how it must be for Melody. He could barely relate. He couldn’t imagine not getting laid for a week, much less a year or more. How could she stand it? And was this his fault? He knew that it was, at least partly, for monopolizing her. And now he wondered if she’d really meant it when she’d propositioned him the other day. She must have. Her loneliness and physical pain must have driven her to turn to him, her best friend. He knew he could make her happy. He wasn’t attracted to her, but he was assailed by so many feelings, some of them tender ones, that it was almost like wanting her. And what was the big deal? After all, they were good friends. Sex was, after all, only sex. And it was because of him that she had no free time to take care of herself.
He shifted her in his arms and brushed his lips against her temple. For the first time he became aware of the fact that she was soft in his arms, soft and all woman, her heavy breasts crushed against his chest. He nuzzled her cheek with his. “Mel, I don’t want you to be unhappy,” he said huskily. And he meant it.
She lifted her face, her eyes wide and vulnerable and confused. “I can take away the loneliness for a little while,” Jack said, pausing long enough for her to understand. Her eyes widened, her mouth parted. Jack kissed her.
She opened her mouth, and Jack gently inserted his tongue.
Melody’s hands were twisting suddenly and wildly in his hair. She was somehow on her back; he was on top of her. Her mouth was open, aggressive, voracious. Her thighs were clamped around his hips, pulling him into the cradle of her groin. His reaction was immediate; his cock grew thick and hard and heavy, pulsing against her. Melody moaned, flinging her head back, and Jack’s mouth found her throat.
Her explosive passion surprised him only momentarily. It fueled him. He forgot it was Mel. The woman beneath him was soft and warm and trembling with need for him.
He undressed her with fluid, practised ease, freeing her breasts, surprised again with the abundance beneath his hands, against his face.
“So good. So soft, so hard,” he groaned, tugging on a large nipple.
He slid into her, his mind registering heat, wetness, wonderful tightness. The woman beneath him writhed uncontrollably. His mind vaguely observed, detaching itself, and he recalled that this was Melody—what a surprise, “Jack!” she gasped as he drove his huge organ into her. “Jack, Jack,” she chanted.
She came, crying, “Jack!”
36
“Abe, thank God you’re in town!” There was a note of panic in Ted Majoriis’s voice.
“God ain’t got much to do with it,” Abe said lazily, leaning back in his chair in his Los Angeles office.
“What’s going on? The Board’s going crazy! Rumors are flying like shit on a fan!”
“Whaddya mean?” Abe asked, smiling at Ted who was wringing his hands. “It’s a free country, ain’t it? A man can’t buy up a few shares of public stock?”
“Abe,” Majoriis said nervously. “I heard you got thirty percent of the company. That’s a few shares? Look, there’s a lot of speculation. Speculation about a takeover.”
Abe laughed. “A takeover? Ted, I’ve been a major investor in North-Star for almost twenty years.”
Majoriis hesitated. “There’s a big difference between eight percent and thirty percent. I don’t have to tell you that.”
“No, you don’t have to tell me that.” Abe laughed silently. “Look, I ain’t planning a takeover, so relax. My daughter sold that screenplay to North-Star, remember?”
“Yeah, they’re in production.”
“They go into production tomorrow,” Abe corrected. “I’m just backing her up a little, protecting her interests with a few extra shares, that’s all. You shouldn’t have come all the way across town, Ted—I could have told you over the phone.”
“Oh. Yeah, well, I guess that makes sense. You’re not kidding me, Abe? You know you can trust me—I wouldn’t say a word.”
Abe spent another five minutes reassuring him that he was not planning a takeover, knowing that the rumors would not stop now. In fact, they would increase because of the monkey wrench he’d just thrown into the works. Finally he got rid of Majoriis. “You got Adam Gordon on the line yet?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Adam,” he boomed.
“Abe—er, Mr. Glassman. Hello.”
“Where the hell were you yesterday? I was trying to reach you the whole goddamn day! I’m in town, and I want to see you tonight.”
“I was with Belinda.”
Excitement suddenly coursed through Abe, and he leaned forward. “All day?”
“All day,” Adam said, sounding smug. “In fact, I just got home a while ago.”
Abe laughed with pure delight. “So you finally got into her pants, huh? Took you long enough. I was beginning to fucking wonder what was going on. Where do you stand? Is she falling in love with you?”
There was a moment’s silence, during which Abe could clearly see Adam, rigid and annoyed, maybe even angry. But, Christ, it had taken a long time! Abe had begun to wonder if he should do something about Adam’s extracurricular activities, if they were interfering with his pursuit of Belinda.
“She’s resisting,” Adam finally said. “She’s a stubborn woman.”
Abe laughed again. “Don’t I know it! You better head up to the shoot this weekend, boy, and follow through.” His easy, amiable tone became hard and filled with warning. “You got the edge—don’t lose it.”
He hung up and stretched, grinning with satisfaction. He imagined Adam chasing after Belinda in Arizona. Striking while the iron was hot. He chuckled. He was feeling great.
He buzzed Rosalie. “Send Helga in.”
He always felt great when he was on top, when he was winning. That thought made him think about Will Hayward, and he grinned. Fucking Will had to be an idiot, had to try and blackmail him. Will had just sacrifaced any loyalty Abe had felt for him based on their past relationship. No one fucked with him, not ever, not even an old friend. Will had just become a liability.
Will had just written himself off.
Helga appeared in the doorway, a tall voluptuous blonde, a Nordic beauty. “Shut the door,” he said. “And come over here.”
She came over, a knit dress clinging to full, erotic curves. Abe pulled her onto his lap, taking her hand and placing it on his rapidly stiffening member. “You ready for this, doll?”
37
“I’m starved.”
Melody couldn’t take her eyes off of Jack. She was still on the bed, holding the coverlet over her breasts. Twilight was settling over the desert, etching it in rainbow hues. Against the window Jack was boldly outlined by the setting sun as he pulled his trousers up over green-and-black briefs. He was breathtaking; he was magnificent.
And he had just made love to her.
Just the way she had imagined.
Still shirtless, he straightened to catch her staring. He grinned then sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. “Crazy, huh?”
Oh, God, I love you, Melody thought. She wanted to shout it to the world, to him. She wanted to tell him how fantastic making love with him had been. Instead she stared helplessly.
Jack shrugged on his shirt. “I hope the food is decent around here. Hey, Mel, I almost forgot, I wanted to run something past you.”
Instantly Melody was sitting up very straight. “Jack, why don’t you wait and we’ll grab something to eat together and we can discuss your ideas then?”
Jack’s gaze as it touched her was warm and relaxed. “Okay.”
Melody scrambled out of the bed, grabbing her clothes, her heart pounding with excitement—now they were going to have dinner together!—and she fled into the bathroom. Jack watched her, affectionate amusement lifting the corners of his mouth. He’d been with enough women to know she didn’t want him to see her body, as if she had something he hadn’t seen before. For a moment he couldn’t believe he had really slept with her. Then he shrugged it off. He turned to stare out the window, his thoughts full of the shoot now and the character he would be playing. He was so immersed in reflection that he didn’t even hear her when she returned from the bathroom, fully dressed.
“I’m ready,” Melody said almost shyly.
“Mel,” Jack said in the hall, “I had this great insight yesterday. That this is Nick Ryder’s last chance at salvation, his last chance to rediscover his compassion, his humanity. To rediscover himself as a man. What do you think?”
Melody blinked. “What?”
“We’re talking about my character,” Jack said impatiently, then repeated what he had just said. They had entered the vast terra-cotta-floored lobby. Indifferently he scanned the area without making eye contact with anyone, a feat he’d long since perfected, despite the fact that most if not all gazes were trained on him. There were a dozen or so guests in the lobby, including a woman who was checking in with her back to him, and two of the crew, Jack’s hairstylist and his boyfriend-assistant. Then Jack eyes went wide, zooming in to the woman in the fitted red jacket and straight black skirt, to the mass of disheveled blond hair cascading over her broad shoulders.
