Lovers and Liars

by Brenda Joyce

  Jack felt hope for the first time.

  “And you and Belinda, Jack—a love story! After all Glassman did to you, you and his daughter fell in love. Romeo and Juliet.” He was triumphant.

  “Leave her out of this,” Jack said, feeling a shaft of pain. “I mean it. She hates my guts. And I guess I don’t blame her.” If anything, he felt the same way.

  “Can’t you pour on some of that old Jackson Ford charm?” Sanderson asked.

  “No, Home, I can’t,” Jack snapped, furious.

  “Jack,” Brent had said. “If you’ve left out anything, I need to know it—everything there is about you, about you and the Glassmans, so I won’t be surprised by any stops he pulls out. Once this thing gets going, it’s going to be dirty and we have to be ready.”

  “I’ll tell you how often my mother changed my diapers, Brent, if it makes you happy.”

  Baron was smiling like a bloodthirsty general about to do battle. “Melody, start taking noto.”

  Melody nodded, pen poised.

  Baron hadn’t been smiling an hour ago when jack had told him he was going up to Tahoe in search of his wife.

  “We need you here, dammit!” Brent exploded. “This is fucking important!”

  “I trust you, Brent. Whatever you decide is fine with me.”

  Brent hung up angrily.

  Jack wished he could concentrate one hundred percent on taking on North-Star. And Abe Glassman.

  But he couldn’t.

  How could he concentrate on anything until he found Belinda?

  He had no choice. He had to come clean.

  He couldn’t bear her hating him. All he wanted, he told himself, was a chance to explain everything, to make her understand, to make her stop hating him.

  That was all he wanted.

  120

  “Why don’t you smile more often, beautiful?”

  She glared. “Get lost, bud.” She practically threw her skis into the back of the Jeep; then she did throw her poles, and she was conscious of the man walking away, footsteps crunching in the snow. Jerk! she thought vehemently.

  And, of course, she thought of Jack.

  Her husband.

  And wanted to cry but didn’t.

  Damned if she’d shed a tear over him—he wasn’t worth it—and so far she’d succeeded in her resolve. Belinda flipped up the tailgate of the Bronco with a bang, clumped around to the driver’s side, fished for furry boots. After she’d changed her ski boots she jumped in. The car had been running, and it was nice and toasty inside.

  She leaned back for one long moment, eyes closed. As usual she’d skied herself into the ground, hard, unrelenting, viciously almost; and now every muscle in her superbly fit body was shrieking for rest. And she was starved. Famished. Shifting into reverse, she backed out.

  As she sped through the canyon at Squaw Valley toward the little cabin she had rented, she debated about calling Lester. After all, she was professional as far as her work was concerned—what if she was needed? What if, for some reason, the Outrage production was being resumed? Of course, she wasn’t ready to go back to L.A., not with him there. Motherfucker. But it wasn’t exactly as if he cared where she was. So if she did go back, they wouldn’t have to see each other.

  She still couldn’t believe it.

  Still couldn’t believe she had been used so cruelly. Nancy had been right—more than right. She, Belinda—the Queen of Man-eaters—had taken the plunge for a stud con artist. Worse—not just the plunge, a free fall with the shoot not opening. Jesus Christ. She had fallen in love with an egotistical, manipulative stud. Impossible. True.

  So many lies.

  She would have to go back to the real world sooner or later and face everything, including divorce. God! She just wasn’t ready. Couldn’t face it, bear it. Not yet.

  And she would never tell him about the baby. Never.

  She thought about the reporter who had appeared on her doorstep yesterday. God, what was that all about? She didn’t believe for a minute that Jack had been involved in porn. But if he had, it was the past and his own business, no one else’s. Not that she cared he was making headlines—she didn’t. So why did she feel sick with worry inside, just thinking about what he was going through? If anything, he deserved to suffer, the way she was suffering. But she knew she didn’t feel that way either.

  And had he really been with Donna Mills last night?

  Don’t! she told herself.

  She didn’t notice the smoke rising from the chimney when she pulled into the drive.

  Her Lab barked a welcome. Belinda slid out of the Jeep, hands deep in her pockets. She went cautiously up the icy steps and opened the unlocked door. Then her heart stopped.

  “Hi,” Jack said very seriously. He was standing in the middle of the small living area before a blazing fire.

  For a moment she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even get a grip on anything except his presence—and the awful realization leapt out at her that she loved the bastard despite all his lies. Then reality intruded, unpleasant and demanding. “How the hell did you know where I was?” she demanded.

  “A private investigator,” Jack said, his green gaze never moving from her face.

  She gestured to the door. “Get out. Now! Before I call the cops.”

  “I want to talk to you, Belinda.”

  “I believe everything has been said—and quite succinctly too.” She stared, rippling with tension, and he stared back, his gaze deep and so damn sincere and stricken that she wanted to scream. “That does it!” she said, reaching for the phone.

  Jack came up from behind just as she was dialing, and grabbed her small hand with his larger one. “No,” he said, quietly.

  The contact unnerved her, and she jumped away. “Damn you!”

  “Come on,” he said, taking her arm and guiding her toward the kitchen table. “I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen.”

  She jerked free. “All right,” she cried, furious and upset. “Five minutes. You’ve got five minutes to make your pitch.” She slammed into the wooden chair and stared at the tabletop.

  “I never wanted to hurt you, and you have to believe that,” Jack said intensely. “Please believe me, Belinda.”

  “You made me fall in love with you so you could play your game with my father, and you never wanted to hurt me?” she snapped.

  “I guess I didn’t think it through,” Jack said softly. “And I never expected him to tape me. Those words were meant to get to him—not to you.”

  She made a noise of disgust, but it sounded more like a whimper. Jack’s hand covered hers. She tried to pull away. He wouldn’t release her.

  “I love you,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, but I did. Be—”

  She wrenched free and to her feet. “How dare you!” she screamed. “How could you do this to me? How dare you even try to continue this lie!”

  He was standing too. “I’m not lying! I think maybe I fell in love with you the first time I saw you. I just refused to recognize it. Belinda, dammit! Do I have to talk to your back?”

  She strode to the couch and sat, her back still to him, hugging herself. She couldn’t handle this, and she hated him for doing it to her. “I don’t know why you’re doing this. Is it to score more points against Abe?” To her horror, her voice sounded choked, as if she were ready to cry.

  “No, no!” He protested vehemently, and he sat on the small sofa next to her, taking her shoulders and turning her to face him. “Belinda, I’m sorry. I love you—I do. I wish I’d never done this.”

  “Your five minutes are almost up, Jack.”

  He cursed. “Then I’m making it ten. No! Sit still and listen—listen, dammit! If you don’t listen, I’ll never leave.”

  She gritted her teeth, looking at the floor. He took her clenched hands in his. “Seventeen years ago I worked for your father in New York City.”

  The thought intruded. Would he tell her the truth now? Would he finally tell he
r about Nancy?

  “I drove for him. And your mother. I was only twenty-one, a tough kid trying to make a buck while I was studying acting.”

  Belinda could hear her own heartbeat.

  Jack stood, made a gesture. “It was seventeen years ago.”

  Belinda didn’t move.

  “Belinda,” Jack said softly, “your mother was lonely and beautiful, and I was twenty-one and the horniest guy you’d ever met. I don’t even remember how it happened—but it was the most natural thing in the world. And for a kid like me, a street punk, it was the ultimate fantasy.”

  “What was the ultimate fantasy, Jack?”

  “Your mother and me. We had an affair. It was only for a couple of weeks. And it was seventeen years ago.”

  Belinda stared at him through a blur of tears. “Is it your conscience?” she asked bitterly. “Or is it because you have no choice—you can’t think of any more lies? Any lies I’d believe, that is.”

  “Belinda …”

  “I already know, Jack.”

  He stared.

  “I’ve known since we first met at Majoriis’s party. Nancy told me everything. That’s the real reason I stood you up that night.”

  “You married me, knowing I was hiding that from you?”

  “Nancy warned me!” Belinda cried bitterly. “She told me you’d do this—use me, hurt me, just the way you did her. She waited for you, Jack, when she was in the hospital, hurt and alone. When Abe started hating her because of you and because she’d lost the baby. But you couldn’t even visit her—not as a lover but as a compassionate human being. Is there any compassion in your heart?”

  Jack gasped. “I didn’t know.”

  “How could you not know?”

  He grabbed her hands and pulled her to him. “There was no way I could know. Listen to me. Your father found out.” He took a breath. “Belinda, I don’t know how much you know about your father, but you’re an adult—and my wife—so I’m not going to spare you the details. I used to deliver payoff money—grease money—for him. Envelopes full of cash. Like fifty grand—more. One night after you’d caught me with your mother, Abe sent me to deliver an envelope to Queens. It was a setup.” He paused. “I was beaten up with brass knuckles—almost killed. My nose and jaw were broken. My spleen and kidneys were ruptured. I had fractured ribs. Punctured lungs. I was in the hospital for six months.”

  Belinda was stunned.

  “That’s why I didn’t visit your mother, Belinda.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “It was the end of July in ’71.” He looked at her grimly. “I’ll never forget the date. There’s more.”

  She hugged her knees and looked at the floor, every sense and nerve alert, tense, throbbing. Jack went on. “When I came out of the hospital in New York, your father made sure I couldn’t get a job—not even waiting tables. I had no choice—I had no money, no place to stay. I was on the street, thanks to him. I met a woman here and there—rich, older. They paid me afterward, sort of goodwill money. I made enough to get to L.A.

  “In L.A. it was the same. I was young, hungry, and good-looking. It was easy to sell it to eat. I worked for a so-called escort service, except the deal always involved sex. I cared but didn’t let it get to me. As long as I had plenty of booze and dope in me, all the broads seemed attractive. Eventually I wound up in the drunk tank, and I straightened up fast. I quit the booze. I quit the whoring. I met my manager, Melody, and she got me my agent. Sanderson. He got me my first role—a tremendous break.” He stopped, reached out, turned her face to his. “Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “The lead in that pilot. It was instant fame and success. You know the story. When the show was canceled I signed an exclusive three-picture deal with North-Star. My first flick was great. Berenger. Then Glassman took over North-Star. Belinda, your father has canceled release of a major feature, costing him millions, to get me. To destroy me. And this isn’t supposition. I finally confronted him, and he admitted it.”

  She stared at him.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But the man’s a nut. It isn’t just because I screwed his wife seventeen years ago. I didn’t even know she was pregnant at the time. Nancy never told me. Her miscarriage”—he hesitated—“it was a boy. And Glassman somehow blames me—says I killed his son.”

  Belinda said nothing.

  “Outrage is cancelled.” he said. Belinda gasped. “That’s right, Belinda, it’s definite, written in stone—Abe told me. He’s so intent on destroying me that he’ll stop at nothing—not even at hurting his own daughter in the process. And I’m stuck—locked into an exclusive deal with North-Star. Until I make two more films for them I can’t work anywhere else. And Abe is going to make sure I never make another film for North-Star—which means my career is finished.

  “No one knows yet, and my lawyer would kill me if he knew I was telling you this, but I’m going to breach my contract and sign for another TV series—the only work I can get now.”

  He laughed bitterly. “North-Star will sue. As far as I’m concerned, I have nothing to lose. I’m finished unless I fight. We’re hoping that by dragging the whole damn story out into the public eye, I’ll be seen as a victim and turn into a hero, and my star will be rising again. But to do that, we’re going after Abe with both barrels loaded. No holds barred. All out.”

  Their gazes met. If Belinda didn’t have an iron will, if she didn’t force herself to remember the lie that their marriage was, didn’t tell herself that this was probably a new part of the game, she would have leaned toward him, until her head rested on his shoulder and her arms went around him. Instead she stood up.

  Jack was looking at her anxiously. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

  “Yeah.” She turned. “The door is over there. Good-bye, Jack.”

  “Belinda, I want you back!”

  She walked to the door without looking at him and opened it. She heard him coming. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Won’t you even think about it?”

  She didn’t answer, didn’t watch him go out the door, didn’t even glance up when she heard him pause, giving her a chance to respond, before tramping down the steps. She couldn’t.

  She wouldn’t.

  121

  The thing that first brought the magazine to his attention was the National Enquirer.

  Standing at the checkout counter of his local supermarket, Lansing idly noticed the half-page cover photo of Jack Ford because of its strategic placement. He did a double take, then read the headline: THE SECRET LIFE OF JACK FORD—PORN STAR.

  Swearing, Lansing grabbed the rag and read it. Naturally there were none of the incriminating photos within, but they graced a dozen pages of a magazine called Hard Times as well as a few in Playgirl. The article was devoted to Jack’s days as a porn star before he signed with the L.A.P.D. series. The article also revealed the fact that Jack had a wife who was so furious about his secret past that, after an elopement just two weeks ago, she had left him and was filing for divorce. A picture of Belinda Glassman accompanied the article.

  Lansing went out and bought both magazines. In Playgirl, Jack was alone, merely naked and sporting a massive erection. But in Hard Times the photos were intimate and varied—Jack and one or two women at a time, doing it all in many different ways, and the coup de grace was Jack and another man—which, while not showing them in an act of sodomy, suggested it.

  He was furious.

  As a private investigator he did not believe in coincidence.

  Therefore, after these pictures had lain dormant on a videotape for years, having surfaced only since he had stolen the film for Melody, there was just one logical conclusion.

  He broke every speed limit on the way to Jack’s office. And walked in without ringing. Melody glanced up from her desk in the outer room.

  He threw the newspaper and magazines on her desk.

  She looked down at them.

  “It was you!” Peter said.
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  Melody gazed at him, her eyes wide and innocent. “What? What do you mean?”

  “If it wasn’t you, then it was one helluva coincidence, baby!”

  “Peter—what are you saying?”

  “I stole that video for you. To protect Jack—you said!” He was shouting. “And a few days later these pictures are plastered all over the fucking world! Why, Melody? Why?”

  She shoved her chair back and stood, enraged. Her face was an unfamiliar mask, which startled him. “Get out, Peter! I don’t have to listen to this!” Her eyes were so different—no longer big and vulnerable but cold and ruthless.

  Peter unconsciously took a step teck. Shocked.

  “Get out!” she snarled.

  “You little bitch, it was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes!” she hissed. “I sold that tape to Abe Glassman.” She lifted her chin triumphantly.

  “Why? How could you do this? I thought he was your friend.”

  “Because I hate him!” she said. “He’s an egomaniacal bastard. He deserves everything he gets. After all, I didn’t make this up—it’s the truth.”

  She was ugly in her spite and maliciousness.

  And Lansing felt sick. Sick at having been used and at having been the instrument of another man’s destruction.

  He walked to the door of Jack’s office.

  “What are you doing?” Melody cried.

  Lansing didn’t answer her. He couldn’t even look at her. He knocked.

  122

  It didn’t matter.

  Nothing seemed to matter.

  Jack looked idly at the cover of a magazine called Hard Times. Looked idly at himself, naked, probably about ten years younger, but undoubtedly himself, with a very large and very visible erection, poised over a lush female body and with another sex kitten’s openmouthed face and large breasts pressed against his buttocks and thighs. “Film Star Reveals All,” a red subtitle proclaimed. He pulled forward the Playgirl, flipped it open and studied his picture dispassionately. He pushed it away abruptly.