Lovers and Liars

by Brenda Joyce

  He didn’t know who had sent them over, and he didn’t particularly care.

  Jack could think of only one thing: Belinda was back in Laguna Beach.

  He was sure of it. He hadn’t spoken with her, but he had called several times. And although he always got her answering machine, the messages were different. She was back. It had been more than a week since he had seen her. And he laughed—bitterly.

  What had he expected? That she would fall eagerly into his open arms?

  Yeah, he sort of had.

  He wished he knew what she was thinking. Did she still hate him? Or did she hate him more now that he was actively engaged in a lawsuit against North-Star, because she knew that was really an excuse to take on her father and drag him through the mud?

  He wished he knew what she was thinking. And what about the fact that he had slept with her mother? Christ, that was the least of it, as far as he was concerned—seventeen years ago was another lifetime. But women were funny about things like that, and maybe that clinched it for her. If only he knew.

  If only she’d come back.

  If only he didn’t care.

  If only he had felt like laying the bimbo who’d pursued him last night.

  If … if … if …

  There was a knocking on his door. “Yeah,” Jack said.

  Peter Lansing came in with Melody at his heels. They both looked angry, Melody a bit frightened. “What’s going on?” Jack asked, relieved to have his attention diverted.

  “Jack, I don’t know how to tell you this …”

  “What’s up?” Jack repeated.

  “Melody asked me to do her a favor. To steal a videotape of you from Bart Shelley. She told me she was protecting you—and she asked me not to tell you so as not to worry you. I gave her the videotape the other day.”

  Lansing pointedly looked at Jack’s desk, where the rags were open.

  Jack followed his gaze.

  So did Melody.

  A silence ensued.

  “I don’t get it,” Jack said. He was confused, first looking at Lansing, then at Melody.

  “It’s not a coincidence,” Lansing said harshly, turning an accusing gaze on Melody.

  Jack looked at her too, completely bewildered. “I still don’t get it.”

  Melody stepped forward aggressively. “Go ahead, tell him the rest,” she said nastily. “I sold the video to Glassman, Jack.”

  He stared.

  “And now I quit!” she said into the heavy pause.

  Jack knew his mind wasn’t functioning the way it should. “You … sold it … to Glassman?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mel?”

  Tears filled her eyes but not tears of contrition. Tears of anger.

  And then Jack understood.

  Betrayal. Again.

  Unaware that he did so, Jack touched his chest as if to still his pounding heart. “Why?”

  She turned on her heel and was gone.

  Jack sat down, visibly shaken. He looked at Lansing. “Why did she do this?” he said.

  Lansing shrugged. “She loved you.”

  Jack tried to focus, to understand. “She loved me? I love her. She’s my best friend. How could she do this to me?”

  “A woman scorned,” Lansing said simply. Then, “I’m sorry, Jack.”

  Jack stared at his desk and heard Lansing walk out. A woman scorned. Melody? He loved her. How could she do this to him? When the phone rang he picked it up reflexively.

  “Motherfucker, Jack,” Brent Baron said. “You see the rags? Is this for real?”

  “I got them.”

  “I mean, Jesus Christ! Should I be expecting more of this shit?”

  “I don’t think He had anything to do with it.”

  “I don’t think this is funny, Jack, not with you on page ten with a goddamn ten-inch hard-on.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “An hour of your time—like now.”

  “All right,” Jack said heavily.

  Then there was a pause. Baron said, “Is it true? Because if it is, it’s more shit we have to deal with.”

  “Is what true?”

  “That you married Belinda Glassman, and she left you because of the porn you did?”

  Jack’s hand tightened on the phone. “What?”

  “It’s in The Reporter. I’m sorry I have to ask—”

  “No, it’s not true!” He slammed down the phone, momentarily stunned. He didn’t want Belinda dragged into this …

  Seconds later he was out the door, heading for his Ferrari. At the corner newsstand he bought a copy of The Reporter and rapidly began reading it. His heart sank when he came to the paragraph about his wife having been interviewed. And then—grim determination.

  He had to explain.

  He had to.

  123

  Contrary to what one might think, she admired some of the pictures.

  Especially the one in Playgirl.

  Jack was a beautiful male animal.

  The photos in Hard Times she found arousing.

  Not just sexually. They made her angry as well.

  Belinda called her father, but found he was in Las Vegas. Damn him! She knew he was behind those pictures—he had to be. How dare he! How dare he attack Jack. Even if she hated him—which she knew she didn’t—even though the pretense of hatred was comforting, attacking her husband was a direct challenge. It was a frontal assault. It was an attack upon herself. She was ready to do battle.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Jack did not deserve this.

  And it proved that all those hateful things he had said about her father were true. What was Abe, some kind of megalomaniac? Worse. There was a term for a person without morals, completely self-serving, and she knew the term from one of her college psychology courses. Sociopath. A synonym for antisocial personality disorder. Of all psychoses, it was the one that was incurable, because the sociopath never thought he was doing wrong, and was therefore closed to anyone’s attempts to help him make behavioral changes. Sociopaths felt anything they did was justifiable.

  Even beating up a young man to within an inch of his life.

  Even destroying that same man professionally seventeen years later—for the same grudge.

  God!

  What should she do?

  And—how was Jack?

  Belinda paced her home, close to tears. She looked at the phone and wanted to call Jack. Her husband. Didn’t she have the right? But she couldn’t do it. Pride. She had so much of it.

  Well, it wasn’t as if she wanted a reconciliation.

  Or did she? She missed him terribly.

  No. She would simply ask—in a casual, friendly way—if he was all right.

  But he was so arrogant, he would think she was weakening.

  Well, face it—she was.

  Oh, Jack.

  124

  She had let the dog out, and he was roaming the beach or she would have heard the doorbell sooner, because of his barking. She went to get it reluctantly. A visitor was the last thing she was in the mood for.

  She opened the door to face Adam Gordon.

  She stared at him in surprise.

  He stared at her in fury.

  Belinda stepped back. “Adam?”

  She wasn’t prepared for the blow. Or its violence. He backhanded her across the face, knocking her off her feet and onto her backside in the foyer. Blood trickled from her nose.

  “Cunt!”

  She rolled to her knees to get up and flee. He yanked her to her feet by the hair, hurting her terribly, almost yanking her scalp off. He pulled her against his body. Belinda threw a weak punch at his face, but it glanced off his jaw.

  He grabbed her face with his hand, his fingers digging in painfully. “Rich-bitch cunt.”

  She clawed his face, drawing blood.

  He grabbed her wrists, forcing them behind her back, pressing her against him. She felt a hard-on. She was terrified. “Adam, please! I don’t und
erstand.” She didn’t even recognize her own voice, a whimper of fear.

  His face was close. “Me! It was supposed to be me!”

  Keep him talking. “You? What was supposed to be you?”

  He forced her hands up higher behind her back, making her gasp. She closed her eyes, the pain coming in a black wave. He was going to break her arms …

  “You were supposed to marry me.”

  She fought unconsciousness. She blinked. Focused. So much hatred. “B-but A-Adam. We—we were only dating. Please!”

  “Your father and I had it all planned. I was to be the son-in-law. Me! Not that prick Ford!”

  “You’re hurting me,” she managed.

  “Good!”

  “Adam, Jack and I are separated. The marriage was a mistake. Surely you know we’re separated!”

  “Lying cunt,” he said, and he dragged her onto the floor.

  Belinda bucked as he came down on her. No. This could not be happening. He transferred her wrists to one hand, with the other he unsnapped her jeans. She twisted wildly. He was too strong. “No! No! You fucker!” The last became a sob.

  “Cunt. Whore. Slut.” He hit her again, but she saw the fisted blow coming and turned her face to the side. The impact took her on the cheek. She felt terror.

  Her jeans were skintight. He started cursing when he couldn’t get them off her writhing legs with one hand. He released her wrists to pull them down. She went for his eyes with her fingers pointed like talons.

  And missed when he ducked.

  Her jeans were around her ankles.

  And then thrown aside.

  She lifted her knee as hard as she could as he was throwing the jeans, catching him on the underside of his chin. There was a crack. He grunted. She rolled onto her hands and knees, scrambling across the pine floor. And then he had her by both ankles and he yanked them up, causing her chin to hit the floor with a thud. He ripped off her panties.

  He had both her wrists again, clenched in a bone-breaking grip over the small of her back. She felt the head of his hard penis on the cheeks of her ass. Then she felt his hand, riding between those cheeks, fingers penetrating anally.

  Terror.

  Helplessness.

  Pain.

  125

  As Jack pulled into Belinda’s driveway a Mercedes was pulling out. There was no mistaking Adam Gordon behind the wheel.

  Jack turned off the ignition and for one moment just sat, making no move to get out. Terrible jealousy assailed him. He started up the car. Fuck her. He threw it into reverse. He hesitated, then put it back in neutral and snapped the key off. He jumped out.

  He had every right to talk to her. They were married, weren’t they?

  He trotted up the steps. The black dog came running from around the side of the house, barking. “Hey, buddy,” Jack said and reached out a hand. The dog stopped barking. It wagged its tail, waiting at the door. Jack didn’t knock. The door was ajar.

  She was lying on her stomach.

  On the floor where the living room met the foyer.

  Clad only in a shirt and socks.

  Jack rushed forward with a cry, dropping down beside her. “Belinda, what—”

  He saw the side of her face. It had turned purple and swollen already. The blood had clotted beneath her nose. “Oh, God!” he said, his hand on her teck. “It’s me, sweetheart.”

  She moaned and turned her face away.

  He knelt and put his arms around her, his face in her hair. “It’s all right now. Belinda, it’s me—Jack. Belinda? How bad are you hurt? Sweetheart?”

  She didn’t answer. But she made a funny, pathetic noise, like a small animal that is frightened or in pain.

  Jack leapt to his feet and dialed the police and an ambulance, then grabbed a blanket from the sofa. He dropped down beside Belinda again, tucking the blanket beneath and around her. He saw blood between her legs and was filled with rage. He was going to kill Adam Gordon. “Belinda. It was Adam?”

  She looked at him for the first time. She nodded, tried to speak, whimpered instead. She shifted herself upright, into his lap, to cling. He held her, rocked her. He felt the first slight tremor. “It’s all right, darling. It’s all right.” He shushed her as he would a child.

  She started shaking violently. “Jack.”

  “Yes, yes, sweetheart, I’m here.”

  “J-J-Jack.”

  “Yes, what is it, darling?”

  “Oh, God!” She trembled convulsively, as if she were feverish. He held her as close as he could, saying anything, his voice soft and warm. But a part of his mind was completely detached, watching from a distance. He was going to kill Adam Gordon. Oh, yes. Soon. But not now. Later. He couldn’t leave Belinda now.

  “Jack—the baby.”

  He knew he had misunderstood.

  “Our baby,” she cried. “I don’t want to lose our baby.” She was weeping.

  His heart had definitely stopped. When it started again, it was in a mad dash for an Olympic gold. “Belinda, why didn’t you tell me?”

  She wept against his chest.

  He was overwhelmed. And horrified. He had seen all that blood … Where was that fucking ambulance? What was taking so fucking long? Jesus—Belinda was losing the baby!

  It finally came, with two patrol cars. “I think she’s miscarrying,” Jack desperately told the paramedics. They wouldn’t tell him anything. The police asked questions. Belinda clung to his hand as she was moved to a guerney. “Ride with me.”

  Impatient and furious, Jack told the police, “A Los Angeles lawyer named Adam Gordon did this. He works at Benson, Hull Harte Industries.”

  He rode with Belinda in the back of the ambulance, holding her hand, thinking about torturing Adam Gordon before he killed him. And praying for the little soul that was their child. The instant Belinda was wheeled into Emergency at South Coast Hospital, she disappeared down a corridor, and he was stopped from following her.

  “I want to go with her!” Jack cried to the nurse who had barred his way.

  “You can’t go back there, I’m afraid,” the petite nurse said, staring at him with awed recognition.

  “Dammit, she’s my wife! I want to be with her! What’s happening?” he demanded furiously.

  “You cannot go into Emergency, Mr. Ford,” the nurse said in such calm tones. “Dr. Paige will do everything she can to save your baby.”

  Jack cursed.

  “Please relax, Mr. Ford,” a detective, Lieutenant Perez, said. “Why don’t you sit down? I have a few questions.”

  Suddenly numb, Jack sat down.

  “A certain procedure has to be followed in cases of rape. Your wife didn’t bathe, did she?”

  Jack cursed. “No! She didn’t bathe, for crissake!” He was on his feet, pacing, cursing fluently, fretting, praying.

  “You called the police?” Perez asked.

  “Yes.”

  “As soon as you found her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you find her?”

  Cursing again, Jack told him, looking past him and down the corridor where Belinda had disappeared.

  “Was she alone?”

  “Yes,” Jack said.

  “Where were you this afternoon?” Perez asked.

  “In my office,” Jack said, straining to look down the hall again.

  “You mean, here in town?”

  “No. In L.A.”

  “I see. Do you usually come home in the middle of the day?”

  Jack suddenly stared. “What the hell is going on? What the hell kind of questions are these?”

  “Mr. Ford, I’m only doing my job. Please answer the question.”

  Jack’s jaw clenched. “I don’t live with Belinda—my wife—in Laguna Beach. I live in Westwood.”

  “I see. What were you doing there?”

  “She’s my wife—I was visiting,” Jack said, coldly furious. “Am I understanding this right? You’re questioning me while that bastard rapist is running free?”
>
  “Adam Gordon will be brought in for questioning,” Perez said. “You and your wife are estranged?”

  “Yes.” He stared. “I didn’t rape my own wife. I didn’t beat her up.”

  “I never said you did,” Perez said. “Was anyone at your office with you this afternoon?”

  “Yes,” Jack snapped. “My secretary.”

  Perez wrote down her name. “I’m sorry, but I have to cover all the bases. What is your wife’s relationship to Adam Gordon?”

  Jack went tense. “I don’t know.”

  Perez gave him a look of commiseration—loaded with innuendo.

  Jack wanted to slug the moron. Instead he answered the rest of his questions, then turned away. The wait was interminable. His anger at the police started to recede. Worry took over. God, over an hour and a half had passed! What was going on? Please let her be okay!

  Thirty minutes later a white-coated doctor appeared, introducing herself as Dr. Paige. “Is she all right?” Jack asked.

  “She’ll be fine,” Dr. Paige began. “In—”

  “And the baby?”

  Dr. Paige beamed. “The baby is fine. Your wife wasn’t miscarrying when she came in.”

  “Oh, God!” Jack said, and he sank down into a chair.

  “She has a few bruises, which will heal. A broken nose. We do have a fine plastic surgeon on staff, but people sometimes want to bring in their own doctor. Your wife was sodomized. The anal tissues are torn, and I put in two stitches. She’ll have some discomfort for a few days. I gave her a mild pain-killer. She should take one tablet every four to six hours as necessary. She can go now, but she should rest for the next few days. I want to see her in one week to remove the stitches. Of course, if there’s any vaginal spotting, she must come in immediately.”

  Jack nodded. “Can I see her?”

  “In a few minutes,” Dr. Paige responded. “She’s with a counselor from the rape crisis center.”

  Jack groaned and turned away. A few minutes stretched into forty-five. Perez approached him and said, “When your wife feels better we’d like her to stop by the station and make a formal statement.”

  Jack nodded and Perez left.

  “Sir? You can see your wife now.”