by Brenda Joyce
“Oh, Peter, I’m exhausted. I’ve been working. I need to have an early night.”
He wasn’t disappointed. He was angry. He hung up, positive she had used him.
How could he have been such a sucker?
Vince was so angry he put his fist through the living room wall at Ron’s.
That bitch had paid him.
Fucked him and paid him.
He had thrown the money back in her beautiful Irish face.
Now he turned to face Mary, who was watching him wide-eyed. “What’s the fucking rush?”
“Please, Vince. Why not?”
He couldn’t believe she wanted to fly to Vegas for a divorce. “I’m not in the mood to deal with this now.”
“Well, you’ll have to,” Mary said, standing.
He eyed her. Something had changed, and it wasn’t just the designer jacket and high heels. She was glowing. She actually looked good. He suddenly had the urge for a farewell bang. And why not? It wasn’t as if they were strangers—they were still married.
“You look great,” Vince said.
Mary looked surprised. She was even more surprised when he came close and pulled her against him. “Vince!”
“You smell good too,” he said, nuzzling her hair.
She pushed herself free. “What are you doing?”
“Old time’s sake?”
“Forget it, you bastard! Look, I’m going to be honest with you, Vince. I’m seeing someone. So I want to end this as soon as possible.”
“What!”
“I’m seeing someone, and there’s no point in dragging this out,” Mary said, smiling.
“Who?” he shouted, furious. “Who are you seeing? And how long has this been going on?”
“What do you care?”
“Goddammit, who the fuck is it?”
“Abe Glassman,” Mary said proudly.
Abe Glassman.
Will Hayward kept repeating the name in his mind, like a litany. It was what kept him going. There were a hundred ways to do it. He had to pick only one.
“Sir?”
He focused on the woman across the counter. “I’d like a round-trip ticket to L.A.”
Abe Glassman was not going to kill him.
Will was going to kill Abe Glassman.
112
Abe had loaned her the silver stretch.
It cruised slowly through the brick-walled entrance and up the long, curved drive of her mother’s mansion. Mary sat in the backseat, clad in a blue-and-black print dress by Ungaro, Jourdan pumps, a Chanel bag. She was admiring the ten-carat diamond pendant Abe had bought her this morning, one she had wisely not worn while with Vince. It sparkled and caught even the tiniest, faintest shaft of light. It was nearly flawless.
She realized, surprised and bemused, that she hadn’t had the urge for a toot since she had started seeing Abe again.
That man was all the high she needed.
Imagine—she, Mary Spazzio, the glamorous, sexy mistress of a billionaire.
Damn Vince for being so stupidly full of macho pride.
The limo stopped. Mary waited until the driver opened her door; then she slid out. She was disappointed that her mother didn’t see her arrival, but then, what did she expect? Celia to be waiting like a maid on the front steps?
A valet, someone new, let her in and told her to wait in the living room. Mary debated ignoring him. After all, she knew this house; she was the daughter; and if she wanted to, she could damn well go where she pleased. But then she decided her entrance would have more impact if she waited. Celia appeared within five minutes.
“Mary?” she asked, as if unsure of her own daughter’s identity.
Mary stood casually. “Hi, Mom. I came to tell you the good news.”
Unfortunately her mother looked very chic and elegant in a skintight designer jumpsuit. Chic and elegant and thin. Mary started to feel fat. Then she reminded herself that Abe thought she was perfect the way she was—he had said so. He had told her if she lost weight he would be very upset, and she instantly felt better. He thought skinny broads were ugly. She smiled.
Her mother stared at her pendant. “What is that?”
“Oh, this?” Mary lifted her hand. “A gift.”
“A gift,” Celia Holmes Bradbury Davis echoed.
“Yes.”
“Who would give you a gift like that?”
“Abe Glassman.”
Her mother’s eyes popped.
Mary smiled. Triumph was sweet.
Celia found her voice. “Not the Abe Glassman.”
“The Abe Glassman.”
Celia recovered. “Mary—he’s older than your father. And what about Vince?”
“We’re getting divorced.”
“Well, this is news!” She laughed, for once in her life at a loss for words.
“Abe isn’t going to leave his wife, but I’ve decided I like being a mistress. It suits me.” She grinned. “Rather, I like being his mistress.”
Her mother had no response.
Mary started to the door, then paused and kissed her shell-shocked mother lightly, hardly touching her flesh, on each cheek, European-style. “Ciao,” Mary said.
Let’s see you top this one, Mom.
She laughed.
113
“Who are you?” Vince said, but he knew.
Abe looked at him and thought, Jesus, Mary is married to this? “Abe Glassman. Let’s talk.”
Vince scowled. “Me and my buddy are in the middle of dinner.”
“Yeah, well, let it get cold. We got a few matters to discuss.”
“I believe Mary and I already discussed them.” Vince put his hand on the door. “Why don’t you go back to L.A., Abe?”
“Listen, punk,” Abe said. “Mary told me all about your discussion, and you’re lucky I didn’t break your head open for touching her—got that?”
Vince drew back. He was big and strong, but he wasn’t a fighter and never had been. He instantly recognized the street-tough quality of the man standing in front of him, and his withdrawal was instinctive. He said, but not as hard as before, “She’s still my wife.”
“Not for fucking long.”
Vince was sweating. “Say what you came for, and let me get back to my dinner.”
“I want you to take off work tomorrow, and you’re all gonna fly down to Vegas so you and Mary can get divorced. Got that?”
“What’s the rush?”
“None of your fucking business, kid.” Abe reached into his breast pocket and removed an envelope. He threw it at Vince. It hit him on the chest, but Vince caught it before it fell to the floor. “What’s this?”
Abe folded his arms.
Vince opened it and looked at a stack of hundred dollar trills. He looked up.
“Count it,” Abe said. “That’s ten grand for a day of your time. And a no-contest divorce. You’re lucky I’m feeling so generous. And if you want to stay healthy and in one piece, you take the money, put it in your bank account, and be at the LAX private terminal tomorrow at eight A.M.”
Abe smiled and walked toward the door. “I can let myself out.”
Vince watched him leave. He heard Ron come up behind him. Ron whistled. “Jesus! Vince, you’d better do as he says.”
Vince didn’t answer. He was angry because he was being strong-armed, and even angrier because he knew there was no way in hell he would turn his back on ten grand. Especially since he wanted the divorce anyway.
“Vince, you know he’s superpowerful. Maybe Mafia. He’ll break your legs or cut off your balls or something if you don’t do as he says.”
“Shut up, Ron,” Vince said. Wondering how in hell Mary had managed to snag Abe Glassman. And why.
He was also figuring out how early he’d have to leave to make it to the airport by eight.
114
They returned exactly one week after their wedding, on a sunny, warm Monday afternoon. Jack dropped Belinda off at her house, telling her he’d return that ni
ght with some of his things. They had decided with little hassle that Jack and Rick would move in with her, although Jack would obviously have to spend more time in L.A. when he was working. Her place was much bigger, and Rick could have the downstairs without intruding upon their privacy.
He gave her a long, hard kiss before letting her out of the car. Then, to his surprise, he grabbed her hand as she was slipping out, pulled her back, and held her tight for another minute. He nuzzled her hair and released her, gazing at her, but he found that he couldn’t return her smile.
“Sure you don’t want me to come and help you pack a few things?” she said.
“I have some business to attend to first, and I think I should break the news to Rick alone.”
“Hurry back,” she urged and he nodded, wondering how any woman could look so good, so vital, so fit, so compelling. He shifted into first and cruised away.
He thought of Abe Glassman, and then he thought of Belinda. His wife.
His thoughts strayed to the past week of sheer bliss. He hadn’t intended to spend a week with her. He had intended to go to Glassman directly after the wedding. But somehow it had happened—a honeymoon with Belinda Glassman, the woman who was now his wife.
If he let himself, he knew he could fall in love with her.
He was, in fact, dangerously close to doing so.
He quickly shut off his thoughts.
He blocked out all kinds of emotions and concentrated on the upcoming confrontation—which he had been living for, probably for the past seventeen years—ever since that cocksucker had had him worked over with brass knuckles to within an inch of his life. He felt grim. His pulse was racing. He had a fleeting image of Belinda standing at the curb, in jeans and a tank top and denim jacket, smiling, eyes shining with love, disheveled from the wind, telling him to hurry back. He imagined Glassman’s face, the expression of incredulity, disbelief followed by rage, when he told him.
He couldn’t do it.
Rick took the news with bemusement, a touch of indifference, and some surprise. Mostly, it seemed, he wasn’t sure how he felt about moving. Jack assured him that it didn’t have to be done in a day or even a week. That seemed agreeable to Rick, who finally asked, “What’s she like?”
“Gorgeous,” Jack said, smiling.
“I guessed that already.”
“Well, she seems like a real tough cookie, but underneath she’s soft as a kitten. Smart, tough, and opinionated—too damn opinionated. And,” he added, remembering the movie Splendor in the Grass, “she’s a romantic—although you’d never guess, not for a while.” He realized he was smiling. He would never, ever have guessed, if they hadn’t watched that tear-jerker together.
His thoughts were filled with his wife and the time they had just spent together. He relived every moment. He wondered if it was too late—if he was falling in love with her, if he was already in love with her. He could barely wait to get back to Laguna Beach. And strangely, he felt relief, now that the charade and his plan for vengeance were over.
His agent, Sanderson, called, catching him just as he was about to walk out the door—to her.
“Jack, brace yourself.”
He tensed. “What’s up?”
“There’s an article in The Star about you. It’s called ‘My Life as an Escort.’ ”
The feeling that plummeted to his intestines was sick and heavy and dread-filled. “You’d better read it, Jack. And call your lawyer. We’ll sue the lousy pricks.”
Jack hung up. He didn’t have to read it. He knew what the article said.
And he knew who had planted it.
“If you want to see Mr. Glassman, you will have to call for an appointment,” his secretary said firmly, big breasts heaving in indignation that he should attempt to storm the fortress.
He ignored her, walked past, heard her protesting, heard her calling security. He opened the door. Glassman was on the phone, cigar in his mouth. He looked up, froze, said, “Hold on, will you?” and put his caller on hold. He leaned back, looking very amused. Jack shut the door behind him and came forward, smiling tightly.
“Well, well,” Glassman said. “Another surprise visit? Don’t tell me you didn’t learn your place, boy? At the bottom of the garbage heap?”
Jack’s smile broadened. He said nothing.
Abe stopped smiling, his keen radar noting that his adversary was not afraid, nor was he angry—he was poised like a predator. Abe sat up. “What do you want? You’ve got about two minutes before security comes and throws you out.”
“I want,” Jack said slowly, “congratulations.”
Abe stared, then gave a short bark of laughter. “For what? Shortest career in history?”
“For my marriage.”
Abe’s gaze was penetrating.
“To your daughter.” Jack smiled. He laughed.
Abe lunged to his feet. “What?”
Jack laughed again. “How do you feel about having a grandson with the last name of Ford? Because you can bet we’ve been working on it.”
“You little cocksucker!” Abe roared. “I don’t know how you did it, but I’ll undo it—before you can even blink!”
“What’s wrong, Glassman?” Jack taunted. “Or should I call you Abe? No wait—Dad?”
“You have a lot of balls,” Abe yelled, “to dare to use my daughter to get at me.”
Jack laughed coldly. “It was a stroke of genius, wasn’t it? I knew there had to be some way I could avenge myself. Appropriate, wouldn’t you say?”
“You think you can win? Beat me? You think I’ll stand for this? You stupid bastard! I don’t know how you did it, but your marriage is over before it even begins—I can guarantee that.”
Jack laughed. “How does it feel? How does it feel to have your enemy as a son-in-law? Huh? How does it feel, you fucking bastard? And I’ll never agree to a divorce—never. You’re stuck with me until the day you die.” He was snarling.
“We’ll see!” Abe growled back. “How could Belinda be such a fool to let herself be conned by you?”
“Does it really matter?” Jack asked. “And if you think you’re going to have your thugs work me over again, think twice. My lawyer still has that letter telling everything, only now it’s been updated. If I go, I’m taking you with me—old man.”
“Get out!” Abe roared. “Get out while you can. But if you think I’ll give Belinda a single penny while she’s married to you, you’re wrong. She gets nothing! Nothing! If she has your son—he gets nothing. Not one fucking penny!”
“How does it feel to lose?” Jack said brutally, and then he walked out.
But the elation he had felt in his fantasy of this moment of triumph did not surge forth.
Instead he felt sick.
115
She felt as if she hadn’t slept in days. And actually, she hadn’t—or not much anyway. But she wasn’t tired. Her cleaning lady was coming tomorrow, but she began going through the kitchen, living room, and bedroom like a maniac, cleaning and straightening up. Her mind was on an intimate dinner for two. Contrary to what everyone believed, Belinda could cook—in fact, she was an excellent cook. She decided on pasta primavera and a Caesar salad. By candlelight.
She had an incredible urge to buy something new and sexy, a negligee. She laughed. If she did that, they wouldn’t get around to eating—not food anyway.
She was married.
To a man she hadn’t known for very long, but being with him was so damn perfect that it felt just like a cliché. It felt as if they had known each other their whole lives. It was right She was impossibly in love, now that she had let her fear go and her emotions run free.
Jack was perfect.
Together they were perfect.
And she had made a decision. She was going to tell Jack the truth. Come clean. He would understand, she was sure of it. He would be pleased. And she was positive he would confess to his past with Nancy. He had to.
She was putting fresh sheets on the bed when the phone
rang. She was tempted not to answer it—she hadn’t even checked her messages—but what if it was Jack? She picked up and was instantly disappointed. It was Abe.
“Belinda, I have to see you this minute, this goddamn minute! Come down to my office!”
She sucked in her breath. Abe was not going to ruin her day—her life. “Abe, first of all, I refuse to be ordered around by anyone. Secondly, I’m busy.”
“This is fucking crucial,” Abe snapped. “It’s about that stud con artist you married.”
She froze, just for a second. “You mean Jack. Please refrain from calling him names, Abe, or I’ll hang up this goddamn minute!”
“I call ’em as I see ’em, and you know it!”
“How did you find out?”
“He came down here to tell me.”
Belinda felt a tentacle of dread begin to wrap itself around her. She shook it off. “Look, I knew you would disapprove, but I love him and we’re married and you can’t do anything about it. I’ve got to go. Good-bye.”
“You wait—”
She hung up. Slightly out of breath. Why would Jack go down there to tell him? Well, when he came home she would find out. She would ask. And as for Abe, he could only ruin the most perfect day of her life if she let him. She finished making the bed.
She was sorting through her lingerie an hour and a half later when the doorbell rang. It couldn’t be Jack back so soon—but it had to be. She ran to the door, unable to suppress the wonderful feelings of excitement and delight rushing through her.
Abe shouldered his way in, something small and black in his hand.
“I don’t believe this!” Belinda cried, furious at the intrusion and disappointed that it wasn’t Jack.
Abe waved what appeared to be an audiocassette at her. “And I don’t believe you! Like most goddamn broads, you think with your fucking cunt, not your head.”
She was shocked that he would talk to her that way—shocked and angry. “Get out this minute!”
“Belinda, you are a big fucking fool, and I’m not leaving until you hear this tape.”
