Exclusive

by Fern Michaels

  “Sure thing, Pops,” Mohammed said, then smacked Sammy so hard on the back that Ida about jumped out of her skin. If that was the way he treated Sammy once they were married, she would fire him regardless of what Sammy said.

  “Do not pay any attention to Mohammed, this is just his way. He means no harm,” Sammy offered as an explanation for his driver’s behavior.

  “I don’t like him, Sammy.” There, she’d said it.

  “Yes, I am aware of that, but there is more to the man than meets the eye. Someday I will tell you his story, then you will understand why I am so tolerant. Now, forget Mohammed for tonight. Let’s not allow him to spoil our time together.”

  “If you insist,” Ida said a bit too sharply. He’d already ruined their evening by showing up, she wanted to say, but stopped. She would give Sammy a chance to explain himself, but not just then.

  He was silent as they entered the dimly lit house. Windows facing the Pacific provided a stunning view. Outside on the deck, which ran the length of the house, Ida saw that a table for two had been set up. On it was a white linen tablecloth, a single rose lying across each dinner plate, and a candle flickering in the slight evening breeze. A bucket filled with ice and a bottle of wine or champagne was placed to the side of the table. A scene for seduction. Ida smiled. Her Sammy was a die-hard romantic. Seeing this and all the preparations he’d made for their evening, Ida forgave him for not taking her out to a fancy restaurant. She couldn’t wait to see what kind of ring he’d chosen.

  They stepped outside together. “Please sit.”

  Ever the gentleman, Sammy pulled her chair out, waiting for her to sit down before seating himself.

  “This is perfect,” she said, meaning it.

  “I am glad you approve.” He removed the bottle resting in the bucket of ice. Ida saw the label, recognized the Dom Pérignon, and was disappointed that he’d picked something so common. She must remember to tell him that after they were married. He uncorked the bottle, filled two crystal flutes with the bubbly liquid, and handed one to her.

  “I would like to propose a toast.” Sammy held his glass out in front of him. “To the future, to our future.”

  Ida clinked her flute against his and again felt a deeply rooted seed of disappointment begin to sprout. This was so…trite and common. She had expected more from him. Or at least something original, more classy and polished.

  “The future,” she said glumly.

  Maybe it was only the chase that was so tantalizing. She’d had better marriage proposals from younger, less experienced men. But he hadn’t really proposed yet. She owed it to him to wait and see if he measured up.

  “You sound so bleak, Ida. Have I upset you?” Sammy asked, concern all over his face.

  He hadn’t. Not really. It was just her. She had been anticipating this date all week, and now that it was happening, she’d been let down by her own expectations. Straightening up, she took a sip of her champagne. At least she had good sex to look forward to.

  She smiled at her thoughts, thinking she sounded just like Sophie. “Not at all, Sammy. I was just woolgathering.” Wasn’t that what Toots would’ve said? She was more like her friends than they gave her credit for.

  “Good, because I have something I want to ask you. I wouldn’t ask if you were upset.”

  Here goes, she thought. “What is it you wanted to ask me, Sammy?” She knew but didn’t want him to know she knew.

  He took a deep breath, reached for her hand, placed a soft kiss on her palm. “Do you remember our conversation a few weeks ago when I explained the clinic wasn’t doing well?”

  She did, but what did that have to do with proposing? “Yes, I do.”

  “As much as I hate to, I must relent and accept your offer for financial assistance. It pains me to do this, my love, but I have no other choice, as my patients are dependent on me for their continued care.”

  Shocked, Ida didn’t know what to say. She had made the offer, but he’d refused, and she’d never given it another thought. Apparently Sammy had thought about it enough to stage this scenario.

  “How much?” The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop them.

  Apparently taken aback by her bluntness, Sammy replied, “Oh,…well if I were to name a figure off the top of my head, I would say three million.”

  Three million dollars?

  To say that she was shocked would have been putting it mildly. Flabbergasted was more like it.

  Three million dollars!

  Sammy emptied his champagne glass in one swallow, then poured another. After he drained the second glass, he looked at her. “Please forget I asked this. I don’t know what came over me. I will go to the bank. I am so distraught over the clinic’s finances that I am not thinking clearly. Please accept my apology.”

  Right then Ida wasn’t sure what to think, but she had made the offer. Sammy was a caring man, of that she was sure. Concern for the clinic and his patients always came first with a doctor. Ida knew that, too. Did she want to be number two in Sammy’s life? She wasn’t sure she could accept second place and knew she would have to give the question some serious thought. Soul-searching, Toots would say. But she was a very wealthy woman, so why not share her wealth?

  “You have nothing to be sorry for. I did make the offer. If I’m anything, I am a woman of my word. I’ll call the bank first thing tomorrow and have that amount transferred to your account. I’ll need your banking information.”

  Sammy reached for her hand again, bringing it to his mouth. His lips barely touched her palm, but it was enough to send sparks shooting straight to her stomach, settling just below her waist.

  “You are an amazing woman, Ida. I don’t know what to say or how to thank you. I will think of something. Now that business is out of the way, let’s eat. Suddenly I am famished.”

  Ida felt like a glass of ice-cold water had been tossed in her face. So much for romance. “And suddenly I am feeling sick. Please, take me home now. And I don’t want your limo driver anywhere near me!” Ida jumped out of her chair and raced inside, Sammy chasing after her.

  “Ida, my love, what has come over you? What can I do?” Sammy seemed genuinely concerned.

  Ida took a deep breath. “Just take me home. I think the champagne went from my stomach straight to my head.”

  Without another word, Sammy helped her out to the limousine. He slid into the driver’s seat. Not a word passed between them on the ride home, as neither knew what to say. Ida feared she’d just been screwed.

  Royally.

  Chapter 14

  When Patel returned from taking Ida to Toots’s house, Amala was waiting to give him a piece of her mind. “You are a stupid old man! I can’t believe you would ask her to lend you $3 million. What’s even worse, I can’t believe the old broad would even consider doing it.” Mohammed smirked.

  “No, it is you and Amala who are the stupid ones. This is our chance to make a small fortune without even committing a crime. There is no law that prevents a wealthy woman from lending her money to whomever she pleases. Amala, your plan is not working. Part of being in this business is knowing when to walk away,” Patel explained. “You are young and beautiful, there will be other opportunities, other gentlemen.”

  Patel watched Mohammed. He got angry when Amala’s name was mentioned in connection with another man. Patel knew this but could not stop himself. He did not want to hurt Mohammed, only to remind him what kind of woman she really was.

  “Both of you are stupid. Go on and rip off your wealthy old women. They will soon tire of you and see through your schemes. Mohammed has been watching the redhead. I think he wants her,” Amala said.

  The three were seated around the empty table Ida had run away from earlier that evening. Amala had just returned from smoking a joint on the beach. The breeze from the Pacific carried a tinge of the sweet-smelling weed with it as a gentle wind blew across the deck. Mohammed had refused when she’d invited him to join her, but Patel was not
a fool. Had he not been there, Mohammed would have enjoyed smoking weed with her.

  “Shut up! You don’t know what I want, bitch.” Mohammed stood up, preparing to go inside. “I am staying at the apartment tonight. You two can stay here in the good doctor’s house. I am sick of this scam.” He yanked the glass door aside as he entered the house, not bothering to close it behind him.

  “He is angry. Serves him right,” Amala said. “You like it when he is this way. I see it. You think you know Mohammed better than I do, old man? I sleep with him. I know his secrets, private things he will never tell you.”

  Patel stood, brushed the sand from his slacks. “Your plan is falling apart. You need to cut your losses while you still can.”

  “And then what will you do? What about your clinic? The old woman really thinks you’re a doctor. Without my clinic, you have nothing to bargain with.”

  “You are wrong. With $3 million in my bank account, I will not need your clinic, Amala. By the time dear, lovely Ida discovers she has been taken for a fool, I will be long gone, and you, my dear, will be left to explain my absence.”

  Patel watched as Amala realized what he had just said. “Then I will turn you in myself!”

  “You will not. Why would you want to involve the law when you are trying to pilfer millions from a well-respected doctor?” Patel raised a thick brow.

  “Go on, get out of my sight. You and Mohammed make me ill.”

  “I would not be so quick to make such demands if I were you.”

  Amala’s laugh was wicked. “You do not frighten me, old man. It is you who should be frightened of me. All it takes is one anonymous phone call to Immigration, and you will be sent back to your nasty country without your dear Ida’s money, and poor Mohammed will be left to live his life in peace.”

  Patel stood and put his hands in his pockets. It would be pointless for Amala to see how his fists were clenched in rage, how badly he wanted to wrap them around her slender neck and squeeze until all signs of life drained from her. Lucky for her, that was not his way. She would orchestrate her own demise if she continued to use the street drugs she believed to be of the highest quality.

  Patel was much more concerned with Ida’s reaction earlier that night. He had been confident she would lend him money for his clinic without a second thought. After he took her back to her friend’s home in Malibu, he replayed the evening’s events in his head over and over again.

  He was almost ashamed of himself when he realized why Ida had suddenly left, why she had been so hurt and upset. The champagne, the roses, a romantic dinner for two. How could he have been so blind? Amala was right. He was stupid. Tonight had been a very stupid move on his part.

  Ida had been expecting a marriage proposal. Asking her to lend him money was not a wise decision on his part. Had he not been blinded by greed, he would have known Ida’s desires. He would have proposed first, then once she accepted, he would have asked her to help save their clinic. Stupid. Yes, Patel, tonight you were a stupid old man. He considered calling Ida on her cell phone and apologizing but decided against it. If he wanted Ida’s $3 million, he was going to have to ask her to marry him. She would want a large wedding. Large in a monetary sense. Patel knew Ida had few friends. He understood why, since she was a whiny old bitch who wanted nothing more than to be catered to. He would cater to her all she wanted if it meant she would lend him that $3 million.

  He looked up to find Amala staring out at the ocean as the waves crashed against the shore. It would be so easy to get rid of her. Once she was out of the picture, he and Mohammed could relocate to another country. With $3 million, Patel was confident he could buy his way out of the United States as easily as he had bought his way in many years ago. However, he was not a complete fool. Mohammed was entranced by Amala’s beauty and sexuality. Though Patel knew he would never admit to it, if something tragic were to happen to her, Mohammed would be devastated. He was like a son to him, and because of that, Patel put aside any further thought of how much easier their lives would be if Amala were to disappear, never to be seen again. An old man’s wish, he thought.

  “I am going to bed, you can stay out here all night if you want to. I am locking the doors. I don’t want Mohammed tonight. Maybe you would like to take his place, see what a younger woman is like,” Amala said, though she continued to lean over the balcony overlooking the ocean.

  Patel was almost tempted to give her a shove, but again that was not his style. He turned to go inside. “You are nothing but a small-time whore, Amala. I am going inside. Good night.” Patel quickly covered the distance from the table to the door before the temptation to rid himself of her overwhelmed him.

  “Night, old man,” she tossed over her shoulder.

  Inside his room, Dr. Sameer’s room, Patel paced back and forth. Amala was a walking time bomb. Trouble followed her wherever she went. He had observed it first-hand. He knew nothing of her background other than that she had lived in several foster homes until she ran away at the tender age of fifteen. She had been living on the streets much like Mohammed when she tried to sell her body to Patel for a hit of meth. Knowing she was much too young for him, Patel had ignored her. For two weeks she followed him, begging him for drugs. Since she was neither a paying customer nor likely to become one, Patel wanted nothing to do with her. Children were nothing but trouble.

  But one of the occasions when she had tried to score drugs from him, Mohammed had been with him. He laid eyes on Amala and never looked back. That had been almost sixteen years ago. Patel regretted not giving her the drugs. Had he known then what he knew now, he would have supplied her with enough drugs to send her to eternity.

  Hindsight, people called it.

  Mohammed raced through the empty streets, not caring that the limousine stood out like a sore thumb. He was going to ditch it anyway once he and the redhead were finished. He’d planned and plotted for weeks. Now it was time to put his plan in motion.

  Though the concept was simple, he knew things weren’t always as easy as they seemed. Amala had thought ripping off the gay doctor would be easy. But other than the normal allowances for the clinic’s expenses, she had been unable to get her hands on any of the doctor’s money. She kept telling him and Patel to be patient, but Mohammed knew nothing would come of her half-baked attempt to steal millions from the doctor, and that was why she wanted, no, needed, his and Patel’s help. She wasn’t smart enough to pull off a con this size without some assistance. And now it was too late. He wanted no part of her little scheme; it was not working.

  When she came up with the bright idea to steal Dr. Sameer’s identity, he’d thought about it but knew she couldn’t pull that off either. That was when he started looking elsewhere for a means of income. And the redhead had big bucks. More than once he’d stolen mail from her mailbox and taken it back to his shabby apartment, where he carefully steamed the envelopes open, hoping to find a check, anything that he could gain from financially. The day he discovered he had her bank statements, he decided he’d hit the big time. She had millions and millions of dollars just waiting to be spent. He’d planned and plotted how to get his hands on the money. While it wasn’t the most original idea, it would work because he would make it work.

  Patel and the old woman he was screwing had given him an idea. Every morning when Mohammed brought the old bitch back to her beach house, he would hide the car and watch the four old ladies. No one came to their house except the girl in the bright yellow car, and she had only been there a handful of times. He’d followed her home once, then he broke into her little house. A reporter for one of those trashy papers that Amala liked to read when she wasn’t stoned out of her head. He’d rummaged through her personal belongings only to learn that she was the daughter of the tall redhead. The other three women were her godmothers. Who had three godmothers? How stupid, he thought.

  It was time to put his plan into action. The only chink in the armor was Patel’s Ida. The old woman was pissed at Patel. He’d been spyin
g on them earlier when they were together on the deck. She had been completely caught off guard—and he was, too—when Patel had asked to borrow $3 million to save that yoga center he called his clinic. He’d laughed when she told Patel she didn’t like his chauffeur. He wanted to shout out and tell her the feeling was mutual, but he hadn’t. If Ida stopped her nightly booty calls, he would have to make other arrangements to get to the redhead.

  Again, he believed his plan to be quite simple. When he brought the old woman home, his plan was to scare her into getting the tall redhead to come outside to the limo. How he was going to scare her, he hadn’t yet figured out, but he knew that if he had to, he could get a gun. If that didn’t scare her, then she really was a wacko. Once the redhead came to her friend’s rescue, he would shoot her up with one of Amala’s dirty needles filled with some of Patel’s most potent heroin, which would send her on a trip to hell. After she’d been there a few times, Mohammed was confident she would be more than willing to pay him a few million for a return ticket to freedom.

  He laughed. His life was about to change.

  Chapter 15

  The day after Ida’s unfortunate date with her Sammy, Abby opened her e-mail account for the zillionth time, hoping, praying, she would see the e-mail she’d been waiting on for over three very long weeks. One that gave a location and security arrangements for the exclusive interview and picture session The Informer needed to gain a bit of respect among the tabloids.

  She scrolled through several names, scanning for the e-mail address that she’d memorized. The publicist for the Pitt/Jolie crew, as she had come to think of them. Nothing.

  “Son of a bitch!” Abby got up and paced her office. Chester jumped off his chair and paced alongside her.

  Abby had jumped the gun, and now she was in the deep brown stuff. Piles of it. She’d been so hyped about interviewing one of Hollywood’s most famous couples that she’d thrown caution to the winds. She’d been given the go-ahead by the paper’s mysterious owners to write the teasers, anything to build up the readership. Sales meant money. As long as The Informer was making money, she had a job. According to LAT Enterprise, sales had almost doubled since she’d penned the headlining teasers. And now she had nothing. No Pitt/Jolie interview, not even a half-assed, mediocre, down-on-his-luck actor to interview.