by Cheryl Crane
“Eddie, sweetie, put away the gun.” Eddie’s mother, Melinda, Abe’s ex-wife, stood opposite Nikki. At sixty, she was attractive for her age: slightly plump, with white-blond hair below her shoulders and only minimal plastic surgery. She was wearing denim capris and a cute age-appropriate blouse. “Please, Eddie. Your parole,” she whispered under her breath, softly enough so that only those closest could hear.
And listen closely to what I say . . .
The Skynyrd lyrics, Melinda’s plea . . . it would have been funny had there not been a loaded gun and male tempers involved.
“Mind your own business, Jorge,” the drop-dead gorgeous young Hispanic woman spat. “Go back to your lawn mower.” She was wearing cheap platform sandals and something that could only be described as hotpants. Unlike Jorge, she had a heavy Mexican accent.
. . . some sunny day . . .
Nikki saw blood on the young woman’s split lip and realized someone had hit her. Recently. As in, the last few minutes.
Nikki’s quick assessment of the situation told her it was Eddie. He was known to be heavy-handed in a relationship; he’d been arrested the previous year for assault against a girlfriend. That happened with Eddie a lot. He was charged with a criminal offense, but there never seemed to be serious consequences for his behavior; Nikki had always suspected it had something to do with his father’s net worth.
And Jorge didn’t hit women; Ina had raised him better.
“Jorge, what’s going on?” Nikki demanded.
Jorge held up his hand. His suntanned face was bright red with anger. His green t-shirt with the Jorge & Son logo on it was ripped at the neckline. It hadn’t been ripped when Nikki waved to him through the window a short time ago.
“Hector’s right. You don’t want to do this with him,” Nikki warned, taking a step closer, trying to get Jorge to look at her. “Not with him, like this,” she murmured, noting Eddie seemed twitchy, his pupils too big.
“And him having a gun,” Marshall said under his breath from behind her.
Nikki glanced over her shoulder, and was relieved to see that Marshall was holding Victoria back by the hood of her Michael Kors, which was good, because knowing her mother, the woman might have gone into the middle of the fighting ring. Both Victoria and Marshall were now attracting plenty of attention. The partiers didn’t know in which direction to gawk—at the gunfight or the honest-to-goodness stars. More people whipped out their cell phones to get candid pictures of Victoria and Marshall.
The crowd seemed to press against Nikki as she moved closer to Jorge. She had to get him out of here before something bad happened to one or both of them.
Fact one, Jorge was a hothead. Fact two, Eddie was obviously high. (So much for Dr. Drew and rehab in Pasadena.) Fact three, and perhaps the biggest mitigating factor, was that the two had hated each other since they were all kids. Jorge had always been jealous of the rich white boy who had everything and was always willing to throw it away. Eddie . . . he just liked picking on sons of Mexican immigrant housekeepers. Self-esteem issues out the yin-yang.
“Eddie, please,” Melinda begged. She rested her hand on her son’s arm, her fingernails, always filed too pointy for Nikki’s liking, sinking into his flesh a little. “Don’t do this. This is all behind you now.”
Eddie pushed his mother away, none too gently. He was of average height, average looks, with a three-hundred-dollar Daddy’s-money haircut and muscles that came and went depending on how much time he spent at the gym. It looked like they went this time in rehab; he looked pudgy and bloated. What he really looked like was a punk headed for jail and the tabloids again.
“Hey!” Jorge growled, flexing his hands into fists at his sides. “Didn’t I just tell you to keep your hands off women?”
“This is none of your business, Jorge,” Ree shouted, playing the tough girl.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Ree,” Jorge growled. “Letting him treat you this way. Shaming our family. And you, Eddie,”—he thrust out his chest like a rooster—“how can you do this? After everything your parents have done for you. How long have you been out of rehab? A week? Less than a week, and you’re already drunk and coked up?”
Eddie sniffed and ran the back of his hand over his mouth. He quickly looked left, then right, as if paranoid. Unfortunately, Jorge’s observation was accurate. Nikki could practically see the white powder under his nose.
“Just put the gun away,” Nikki said evenly, trying to sound calm, even if she was shaking inside. Guns did that to her; she didn’t like guns. She raised both hands. “You don’t want to hurt Jorge, Eddie. You don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Eddie’s hand holding the pistol fell slack to his side. “You can’t tell me what to do,” he told Jorge, his words sharply punctuated. “She’s my girlfriend. This is none of your business.”
“I’m not your girlfriend, Eddie, you stupid fu—”
“I don’t care what she is to you,” Jorge erupted, pointing accusingly, “but if I ever see you hit a woman again, I swear to God, Eddie, I’ll kill you.” He raised his fist. “Maybe I ought to kill you anyway.”
A hush fell over the crowd as everyone waited to see who would do what, next.
“Give that to me.” Melinda put out her hand. “Eddie, give me that thing before you hurt yourself or one of your friends.”
Nikki was surprised by Melinda’s backbone. She hadn’t known Melinda had it in her. Watching her now, Nikki felt sorry for her. Melinda had spent the last thirty-some years of her life running after Eddie, trying to keep him from harming himself or others.
Melinda took the pistol from her son’s hand and held it by the handle, between two fingers, as if it were something infectious.
“What the hell is going on here?” shouted a woman from the street end of the motor court as she marched through the open gates. Nikki looked up to see Ginny Bernard, Eddie’s stepmother, barreling up the front driveway in Jimmy Choo heels and a short skirt. Gucci and Prada shopping bags hung off her arms.
“I couldn’t even pull in to park in my own driveway! I thought I told you no more parties,” Ginny screeched, pointing. She was attractive with below-the-shoulders blond hair precisely the same color as Melinda’s, and a knock-out body. Nikki had always thought it interesting that when Abe replaced his wife after more than thirty years of marriage, he had done so with a younger version of Melinda. Ten years younger.
“Melinda! How did you let this happen?” Ginny demanded. “He just got out of rehab!”
“How did I let it happen?” Melinda, who had passed the pistol to someone else, pressed her hand to her chest. “You think I wanted this?”
Ginny took one look at her stepson’s face and shook her head. “You’re high. One week out of rehab, and you’re partying? At my house? I swear to God, Eddie, if your father doesn’t kill you this time, I will.”
Eddie spit something under his breath and twitched again. Melinda grabbed her son’s arm.
“Where is he?” Ginny gave Melinda a sour look and pranced away, her Jimmy Choos clicking on the pavement. “Abe! Abraham! Do you have any idea what’s going on out here?” She slammed her fist down on the Aston Martin as she went by it.
“Jorge,” Nikki said quietly, leaning toward him. “It’s over. Walk away.” With Ginny here now, the circus could definitely go three-ring. The police would be at the gates next.
“I won’t stand by and see my cousin get hit by this worthless bastardo.” Jorge made a sound and spat on the driveway as if disgusted by Eddie’s very presence.
Eddie rose to the bait. “Come on, Chico, you wanna try to take me?” He began posturing, and sneering, his shoulders thrown back, making him look like the complete ass that he was.
Of course, Jorge wasn’t looking all that rational right now, either.
Nikki linked her arm through Jorge’s. He smelled of freshly cut grass and aftershave.
Jorge resisted for a second, then let Nikki pull him away. Hector moved in to walk on Jo
rge’s other side.
Jorge whipped back around. “Go home, Ree! And don’t come back. I don’t want to see you here. You’re not to ever see Eddie Bernard again!”
“Who do you think you are, Mr. High and Mighty?” the young woman shouted after him, the disdain thick in her accented voice. “You’re not my father—”
“What would your father think?” Jorge snapped back, his anger seeming to rise and bubble over again. “God rest his soul.” He crossed himself.
“Get off my property, Jorge. Mind your own business,” Eddie shouted. “No spics allowed.”
Jorge jerked free of Nikki’s grip and lunged toward Eddie. Luckily, whoever Melinda had passed the gun to had carried it into the house.
“Whoa, easy there.”
Nikki saw a big, tanned hand shoot out and grab Jorge by the arm, stopping him short. She looked up gratefully to see Marshall, calmly reeling Jorge in. Though muscular, Jorge wasn’t a big man; Marshall towered over him.
“Come on, Jorge,” Marshall intoned. “Let’s go back to the house.”
Hector grabbed Jorge’s other arm.
Nikki met Melinda’s gaze across the driveway. Melinda had her twitchy son by the arm, trying to tug him in the opposite direction. Nikki gave her a quick smile of understanding—maybe a little pity—and turned away, following Marshall, who had released Jorge, but was only two feet behind him.
“He’s loco,” Victoria whispered to Nikki, her Spanish accent pretty darned good. She fell into step beside her daughter. “I don’t know why Melinda didn’t drown him at birth.”
“Mother!” Nikki cut her eyes at her.
“I’m just saying he was always a worthless punk,” Victoria said under her breath. “Even when he was a child.”
Marshall gave Jorge a gentle push through the gate and Hector followed his brother-in-law. Marshall waited on the Bernard side of the fence for Nikki and Victoria.
“Miss Bordeaux? I don’t want to bother you, but . . .”
Nikki and Victoria both stopped and turned to see a young man in shorts and bare feet. He had a golden tan and a serious gym membership. He was holding out a black Sharpie marker.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” he babbled. “I’ve seen all your movies like a million times. Sister, Sister makes me cry every time.” He offered her the Sharpie. “Would you mind?”
Victoria hesitated, then smiled that gorgeous smile of hers and accepted the marker. “What would you like me to sign, dear?”
“My name’s Astro, Astro Wharton.”
Nikki raised her eyebrows, and then raised them even farther when he stepped toward Victoria and pulled his ripped muscle shirt to the side, flexing his massive pec.
“My left side; it’s my best.”
Victoria arched a brow, popping the cap off the marker. Mouth pursed, she signed her name with great flourish across his bare skin. Left pec. The smile.
Astro Wharton looked down at her signature as he accepted the marker back. “Oh my God, my friends at the gym aren’t going to believe this. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She flashed the smile one last time and walked away.
Nikki stood staring at the eye candy for a second. Had this guy really just asked a seventy-year-old woman to autograph his pec?
“Nicolette?” Victoria sang, curling a finger to beckon her.
Nikki flashed her best imitation of the smile her mother had made her practice in the mirror as a teenager. This smile was required in any public situation. “Have a good day.”
With Nikki, Victoria, Jorge, and Hector safely on the other side of the fence, Marshall swung the gate shut. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Jorge?” Marshall demanded. “You’re lucky he didn’t blow your brains out. You know better than to mess with Crazy Eddie.”
Jorge threw back his shoulders. “He’s lucky I didn’t—”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Nikki stepped between the two, afraid Jorge was going to get into it with Marshall next.
They’d attended the same elementary school, Nikki and Jorge; Victoria had thought it important that her daughter see how regular folks lived. Even in those days, Jorge had been a hothead, getting into fights, defending honor and pride. Nikki had ended up having to stick up for Jorge against teachers and the principal. In middle school, Nikki had joined the ranks of the privileged children and gone to private school and Jorge had been left to fight his own battles.
“I think I’m going to finish my cocktail.” Victoria halted in front of Jorge. “Are you all right?” she asked in a motherly tone Nikki didn’t hear often. “Not hurt, are you?”
Jorge shook his head, and lowered his gaze. He’d always been in awe of Victoria, maybe a little scared of her. Which was smart. She certainly scared the bejeezus out of Nikki.
“Good.” Victoria gave a regal nod, back in movie goddess mode. “Join me, Marshall?”
“By all means.” Marshall offered his arm and the two strolled across the side lawn toward the back.
Nikki heard her dogs barking and saw them appear in the yard, then take off after Victoria and Marshall. Nikki turned her attention to Jorge. “What happened? How did you end up in Eddie’s yard?”
“I was trimming,” Jorge explained, motioning to the azaleas. “I heard Ree’s voice. Like she was in trouble.”
“And she’s your cousin?”
He nodded. “My uncle’s daughter, Maria Gaza,” he said stiffly. “We never had much to do with them. Mom thought they were . . . low class. They haven’t been in the States long.”
Nikki nodded. She felt guilty that she knew so little of Jorge’s life now. They had never had a disagreement; they had just sort of drifted apart. “So you heard your cousin,” she encouraged.
“I told him to stay out of it,” Hector put in. “Ree can take care of herself.”
Jorge glanced at his brother-in-law and then continued. “I saw them through the fence. She and Eddie were arguing.” He shrugged. “He hit her, so I went out the gate.”
“And onto the Bernard property.”
“Gates were open. He can’t hit Ree,” Jorge insisted. “He can’t hit women.”
Nikki glanced away, her gaze settling on the still-flowering azaleas. He’d been trimming off the old blooms. “You have to stay out of this, Jorge. As Hector said, let Ree handle it. She should call the police.”
“Call the police? Really, Nikki?” He laughed, but without humor. “She’s not legal.”
Nikki looked at him again. “Then she needs to stay away from him.”
“Or I could just kill him,” Jorge said.
“I’d do it for you, hermano,” Hector put in quietly. “You know I would.”
Nikki frowned, looking from one man to the other. “You’re not killing anyone. Either of you. It’s a Friday night. Both of you go home, take a shower. Hector, play with your kids. Have dinner with your wife. Jorge, go out on a date. Have a beer with your friends.” She gave Jorge a gentle push on the arm. He had dark, expressive eyes. Ina’s eyes. “Have some fun, Jorge. You never look like you’re having any fun.”
He met her gaze and his features softened. “Haven’t seen you in awhile. You look good, Nikki. I like your hair longer, like this.” He motioned to her hair, which fell past her shoulders. “It’s pretty.”
Feeling weirdly embarrassed by his compliment, more so because he said it in front of Hector, she took a step back. She tucked a lock of strawberry blond hair behind her ear.
“I hope Jeremy realizes how lucky he is to have you,” Jorge said, his tone slightly teasing. Jeremy had grown up down the street; the three of them had been pals when they were kids.
She smiled. “Go home, guys. Workday’s over.”
Nikki walked away. In the days to come, she’d wish she hadn’t.
Chapter 3
No one expects to wake up to a bloodcurdling scream. Certainly not in Beverly Hills. Nikki sat straight up in her bed, her legs tangled up in Sferra Italian bed linens, disoriented. The dogs leapt do
wn, barking wildly, and ran for the closed door.
Nikki blinked, trying to chase the cobwebs from her mind. Had she been dreaming?
No, that was definitely a scream. The second one left no doubt in her mind of the existence of the first. It took only another second to figure out that it was her mother’s housekeeper, Ina, screaming.
Nikki flew across the room and slipped out the door, pulling it closed behind her. Whatever was going on downstairs, Ina didn’t need two nosy Cavies in the middle of it. Behind the closed door, her dogs continued to bark. Still in her preferred PJs—a t-shirt and sweats—she ran barefoot down the upstairs hall toward the open, winding staircase to the foyer.
Victoria’s door banged open and she emerged, tying a pink silk sash around her robe. She looked up at Nikki, her still-gorgeous face devoid of makeup and the goddess persona. She wore a white silk turban over her platinum hair, and even though half asleep, she appeared much younger than her true age. “What is wrong with Ina?”
“I don’t know.” Nikki ran past her. “You should wait here.”
“Ina!” Victoria called in an authoritative voice, hurrying after Nikki. “We’re coming.”
“What’s wrong?” Amondo ran down the stairs behind Nikki and Victoria. He too was tying on his robe.
Had Nikki had the time to think about it, she would have wondered where Amondo had come from. Her mother’s bedroom? He had been Victoria’s assistant, her bodyguard, her chauffeur, for more than thirty years. She received him in her suite all the time; her pink boudoir was her command center. But this early?
Ina screamed again from the back of the house. She was talking half in English, half in Spanish. Nikki rushed into the kitchen to find the housekeeper fumbling with the cordless phone.
“Ina! What’s wrong?”
“The . . . ga . . . garbage!” Ina was hyperventilating. She was a tall, thin, regal woman with golden-brown skin and the same expressive eyes as her son, Jorge. But right now she looked as if she had seen a ghost.
“Nueve, uno, uno.” She tried to punch the numbers into the phone, made an error, punched the OFF button, and tried again.
