Lethal Seduction [NOOK Book]

Read an Excerpt

"What's the best sex you've ever had?" Jamie Nova asked her best friend, Madison Castelli. At twenty-nine Jamie was heartbreakingly lovely. A cool, willowy blonde with classic style and an impeccable pedigree, she was a cross between a young Grace Kelly and a contemporary Gwyneth Paltrow.

"Huh?" Madison said, glancing quickly at the adjoining table in the packed Manhattan restaurant. The couple sitting there were deep into their own conversation and had failed to hear Jamie's provocative question.

"You know what I mean," Jamie said, brushing a lock of fine, blond hair from her forehead. "Mind-blowing, earth-shaking down and dirty sex. The kind where you never want to see the guy again, but at the exact moment you're doing it -- anything goes." A long wistful sigh. "And I do mean anything."

"Well..." Madison said, wondering where Jamie, her former college roommate, was going with this.

"Come on," Jamie said impatiently. "Answer me."

"Hmm," Madison thought for a moment, realizing this was not a question Jamie was about to drop. "Miami," she said at last. "Vacation with my father. I was sixteen, and the guy was a forty-five-year-old major playboy with all the toys. Penthouse, Porsche, porno videos."

"Porno videos!" Jamie said, rolling her aquamarine eyes in exaggerated horror. "Doesn't sound too sexy to me."

"I can assure you it was," Madison retorted crisply. "He had this oversized water bed covered in rose petals. A pitcher of champagne with sliced peaches. Sexy European body oil. And" -- she paused for full effect -- "an extraordinarily talented tongue!"

"Ah...the old talented-tongue trick," Jamie retorted a touch bitterly. "Gets 'em every time."

Madison raised an eyebrow. "What's with you today? Why all this sex talk? You're a married woman and -- if what I hear is true -- once you're married, sex is supposed to be nothing but a distant memory."

"Very funny," Jamie said glumly.

"I was joking," Madison said, sensing trouble in the paradise that Jamie inhabited. It was a fact that everyone who knew Jamie and her Wall Street hotshot husband, Peter, considered them the golden couple. They seemed to have everything, and yet today Madison sensed a lurking storm. "So, what's up?" she asked, leaning across the table. "Tell me everything."

"Well," Jamie said, biting on her lower lip. "Last night we were at a dinner party and the question arose."

"What question?"

"The best-sex-you've-ever-had question," Jamie said, toying with her salad. "And here's the thing -- everyone was coming up with really good answers."

"Yes?" Madison said curiously.

"Naturally, when it came to me, I carried on about it being the first time Peter and I made love. I told a cute little story about it, and everyone oohed and aahed. Then it was Peter's turn, and he suddenly went very quiet, muttered that he couldn't remember and abruptly changed the subject."

"Maybe he was embarrassed."

"Peter?" Jamie shook her head vigorously. "Not him."

"Had he been drinking?"

"Not at all."

"Then...what?" Madison asked, perplexed.

"I think he's having an affair," Jamie blurted.

"Come on!" Madison exclaimed. "You've only been married three years. Give the guy a chance to get bored."

"Thanks a lot," Jamie said huffily. "What makes you think he'd ever get bored?"

True, Madison thought, how could any man be bored with a woman like Jamie by his side? She was perfect. Everyone knew that. Besides, in a proper world, no man would cheat on Jamie.

But the world wasn't proper, and most men were dogs, so maybe Jamie was right, maybe Peter was exercising his precious manhood in another neighborhood.

"What makes you suspect Peter might be screwing around?" she asked.

"Intuition," Jamie answered. "That and the fact that we haven't made love in two weeks."

"Two weeks!" Madison exclaimed teasingly. "Jesus! Send in the Marines!"

"You don't understand," Jamie muttered, twisting her diamond wedding band on an elegant French-manicured finger. "Peter is a very sexual man. He likes sex every day." A meaningful pause. "Sometimes more than once."

"Hmm..." Madison murmured, thinking that shehadn't had sex in almost a year. Her choice, because who needed to sleep with assholes? And unfortunately that's all she'd come across in the last year -- major assholes. The truth was that ever since her live-in love of two years, David the TV producer rat, had run out on her, she'd been off men. Although there was that very attractive photographer she'd met in L.A. earlier in the year while on assignment for Manhattan Style, the upscale magazine she worked for. His name was Jake Sica, and they'd had chemistry. Unfortunately he'd been involved elsewhere.

Too bad.

Then there was the one-night stand in Miami, where she'd been interviewing The Donald. She'd met a male model at one of the happening clubs in South Beach. He was not very smart, but quite beautiful, with a muscular body and an untamed mane of sun-streaked hair.

One long, passionate night of unbridled lust accompanied by a condom and later a feeling of "Why the hell did I do that?"

No. One-night stands were not for her.

"What do you think I should do?" Jamie wailed. "I can't stand not knowing. It's driving me insane."

"Well...uh...find out, I guess," Madison offered.

"Very helpful," Jamie snapped. "You're supposed to be the smart one with an answer for everything."

Madison sighed. What a label to be stuck with. Unfortunately, it was true. In college she and Jamie were known as "The Beauty" (Jamie) and "The Brain" (Madison). And a third friend, Natalie De Barge, a pretty black girl, was nicknamed "The Sexpot." The three of them had been inseparable.

College had ended seven years ago, and in those seven years they'd all made their mark. Apart from marrying Peter and leading a hectic social life, Jamie had her own successful interior-design firm in Manhattan. It helped that her rich daddy had put up the money and partnered her with Anton Couch -- a gay genius with connections up the kazoo.

Natalie, with nobody to back her, had carved out a career on television. She was currently living in L.A. and cohosting Celebrity News, an E.T.-type entertainment show.

And Madison had an interesting, challenging job and quite a reputation. Her profiles of the rich, powerful and infamous were an important part of Manhattan Style's outstanding success as the magazine of the moment -- regularly outselling Vanity Fair and Esquire. In fact, the piece she'd written on Hollywood call girls earlier in the year had caused quite a stir -- she'd even sold the film rights, although she doubted if the movie would ever get made.

"Okay, here's the plan," she said, deciding that Jamie needed help.

"Yes?" Jamie said, placing her elbows on the table, wide aqua eyes eager for an answer to her problem.

"Have him followed."

"Followed!" Jamie exclaimed, causing the couple at the next table to finally take notice. "I can't do that, it's so...so...cheap."

"Expensive, actually," Madison corrected. "But worth it I'm sure."

"How can that be?"

"Peace of mind. If he's cheating, you'll find out. And if he's not...hey, it'll have cost you a few bucks and normal life resumes."

"Maybe..." Jamie murmured hesitantly, followed by a much firmer, "Okay, I'll do it!"

"Let me check into our options," Madison said briskly, "find out who's the best."

"And the most discreet," Jamie added quickly. "There's no way this can get out."

"I understand," Madison said, sure that her editor, Victor Simons, would be able to come up with exactly who they should hire. Victor knew everything and everybody. Maybe he even knew if Peter was hound-dogging after some sexy nymphet.

Then again, maybe not. Victor and Peter did not travel in the same social circles.

"I'm certain you're wrong," Madison said reassuringly. "But at least this way you'll know."

"Right," Jamie agreed, and felt sick at the thought of catching Peter with another woman.

After saying good-bye outside the restaurant, Madison strode along Park Avenue, heading for the offices of Manhattan Style. Heads turned, but she didn't notice, she was too busy thinking about Jamie and her suspicions.

Madison was a striking-looking woman, tall and slender, with full breasts, dancer's legs and a cloud of long black curly hair that she usually wore pulled back. She tried to play her good looks down, but nothing could disguise her green almond-shaped eyes, sharply defined cheekbones and full, seductive lips. She was a beauty, although she did not consider herself one -- her idea of beauty was her mother, Stella, a statuesque honey blonde whose quivering lips and dreamy eyes reminded most people of Marilyn Monroe.

Lookswise Madison took after her father, Michael. Dark and handsome, Michael Castelli was the best-looking fifty-eight-year-old in Connecticut. He also possessed a beguiling charm and steely determination -- two qualities Madison had definitely inherited, which had not hindered her rise to success as a well-respected writer of revealing and insightful profiles of the notorious and powerful.

Madison loved what she did -- going for the right angle, discovering the secrets of people in the public eye. Politicians and superrich business tycoons were her favorites. Movie stars, sports personalities and Hollywood moguls were low on her list. She didn't regard herself as a killer, although she wrote with searing honesty, sometimes upsetting her subjects, who were usually sheltered in an all-enveloping cocoon of protective PR.

Too bad if they didn't like it, she was merely reporting the truth.

She'd worked under the watchful eye of Victor Simons for five years. They had an excellent relationship, although sometimes Victor could be a total pain, especially when he wanted her to interview a subject she had absolutely zero interest in. Usually they compromised, and she'd reluctantly agree to interview some dingbat movie star sex symbol in exchange for a crack at a nuclear scientist or a computer genius.

Victor had discovered her fresh out of college. She'd written a provocative piece on the still-rampant double standard between men and women, and it had been published in Esquire. He'd taken her to lunch, told her to get more experience, then two years later hired her to write short question-and-answer pieces for his magazine. A year later she'd graduated to brief interviews, then suddenly she'd come up with her signature work: "Madison Castelli -- Profiles in Power."

Her first subject was Henry Kissinger. She'd captured the essence of the aging politician with a sharp, wry wit. After that it was easy. One interview a month, which gave her plenty of free time to work on her novel -- a book about relationships, which was making slow progress while she got over her anger at David for walking out. It wasn't easy writing about relationships while she was still so hurt.

Why had David left? That was the question. Was it something she'd done to turn him off?

No. Deep down she knew the answer. David hadn't been able to accept the fact that she made as much money as he did. It was as simple as that. He was searching for a woman who stayed home and did what he wanted, not an independent free spirit with ambitions.

Two years of great sex did not make a lasting relationship, because after the passion settled down, what was left?

In their case, apparently nothing.

A few weeks after David's abrupt departure, she'd heard that he'd married his childhood sweetheart, a vapid blonde with fake boobs and an annoying overbite.

So much for good taste.

Victor was crouched on the floor in his spacious office, playing with his precious model train set, which wound its way across the room and back again. Victor was a big, cuddly man in his late forties with a mop of frizzy brown hair that appeared to stand on end, matching eyebrows, several chins and puppy-dog eyes.

"Maddy!" he exclaimed in a loud, booming voice. "I wasn't expecting to see you today. Come in."

"Hi, Victor," she said, carefully stepping over a chugging red engine. "Working hard as usual, I see."

"Of course," he said with a hearty chuckle. "Keeps the

old heart pumping. Besides, Evelyn won't let me do this at home."

"I wonder why," Madison murmured, thinking of his pristine skinny-as-a-stick wife with her permanently uptight expression and designer wardrobe.

"Wouldn't do to mess up her living room," Victor responded, hauling himself up.

Madison perched on the edge of his desk. "I need a favor," she announced, picking up a heavy glass paperweight and examining it.

"Good," Victor boomed, sitting down in his leather chair. "There's nothing I like better than people owing me favors."

"I'm not people," Madison pointed out, irritated that he should regard her as such. "And it's not exactly a favor, more a request for information."

"What kind of information?" Victor asked suspiciously.

"Nothing earth-shattering," she said, putting the paperweight down. "I simply require the name of the best private investigator in New York."

Victor tapped his index finger on the desk. "And what makes you think I'd have that?"

"Because you know everything. And besides," she added quickly, "didn't you use someone to follow your first wife before you divorced her?"

His bushy eyebrows shot up. "Who told you that?"

"Office folklore."

"I hate gossip," he snapped.

"You thrive on it," she responded.

"Why do you need this?"

"For a friend."

"What friend?"

"None of your business."

"Bitch!"

"Slave driver!"

They exchanged smiles.

Madison was extremely fond of Victor, even though he sometimes drove her crazy with his loud voice and often overbearing attitude. And Victor adored Madison, whom he considered his own personal discovery.

Placing the train remote on his desk, Victor buzzed Lynda, his personal assistant who had worked for him for twelve years and, with her lank brown hair and lackluster smile, closely resembled a cross-eyed basset hound.

Lynda materialized immediately, unrequited love oozing from her every pore. "Yes, Mr. S?" she asked anxiously.

"It's confidential," Victor boomed.

Lynda threw Madison a dirty look as if to say, "Then what's she doing here?"

"Get me the name and number of the uh...person who trailed Rebecca," Victor said. "Do it now."

Lynda snapped to attention. "Yes, Mr. S."

And she was gone.

"So..." Victor said, turning to Madison. "You don't care to tell me what this is about?"

"Hey," she answered, purposely keeping it vague. "It's not about me, that should be enough."

"Well, it isn't," he grumbled.

"Don't sweat it, Victor," she said casually. "You wouldn't be interested anyway."

"You need a man," Victor said, his favorite comment whenever she pissed him off. "How long is it since David walked?"

"Stay out of my private life," she warned.

"You're twenty-nine and you have no private life," he reminded her.

God! How she hated it when Victor tried to get into her business. "Fuck you!" she said vehemently.

"Any time you're ready."

She burst out laughing. There was no way she could stay mad at Victor; after all, he meant well, even though he was forever trying to fix her up with any single man that came his way. He didn't care how old they were or what they looked like, as long as they had a reasonable bank account and a working cock he was determined she should give them a try.

She'd given up accepting invitations to dinner at his home. The last one she'd attended she'd found herself seated between an extremely ancient astronaut and a twenty-one-year-old computer nerd. Both interesting men -- but dating material? -- no way.

I don't mind being alone, she told herself.

Yes, you do, an annoying little voice that lived in the back of her head replied.

NO! I don't!

Ten minutes later, armed with the name K. Florian and a phone number, she left the office, cutting down Sixty-seventh Street toward her apartment on Lexington. Now that she had the number she decided she'd better check with Jamie before using it. That evening they were both attending a dinner party at Anton Couch's penthouse apartment, so she'd be able to find out exactly what Jamie wanted her to do.

Yes, and she'd also be able to check out Peter, see what he was up to.

Her people skills were excellent. If Peter was screwing around on Jamie, Madison'd know it. No doubt of that.

Copyright © 2000 by Chances, Inc.

Chapter 2

"I want him dead!" Rosarita Vincent Falcon screeched, red in the face. "Dead! Dead! Dead!"

"Lower your voice," her father growled, his heavy-lidded eyes filled with disapproval at his daughter's petulant outburst. "Ya want the whole fuckin' neighborhood t'hear?"

"Who cares?" Rosarita yelled. "You own the fucking neighborhood!"

"Nice language," sniffed Chas Vincent, a large bear of a man with ruddy cheeks and a rough-edged voice. "Is that what I sent ya t'college t'learn?"

"Fuck college! Fuck the neighborhood! I want Dex fucking Falcon dead!"

"A little louder," Chas growled, sweat beading his forehead. "The maid next door didn't hear ya."

Rosarita stamped her foot on the thick pile rug. What was wrong with her stupid father? Whywasn't he getting it?

At five feet four, Rosarita was bordering on anorexic, helped along by bulimic tendencies. She was twenty-six, with red hair worn in a shoulder-length bob, a thin, pointy face, overfull lips (thanks to her busy plastic surgeon, who'd also helped out with a new nose and cheekbone and chin implants -- not to mention the best boobs in Manhattan) and plenty of attitude. Especially when it came to her husband of eighteen months, struggling actor and sometime model Dexter Falcon. She'd married him because he was unbelievably handsome, had an enormous underwear billboard hovering above Times Square and was absolutely crazy about her.

She'd thought he was destined to be a movie star. But no, the only acting job Dexter Falcon had managed to land was on an about-to-be-canceled daytime soap that paid shit and nobody watched. Damn him!

Now Rosarita wanted out because she'd met someone else, someone of substance with an attitude to match her own and an even bigger dick than Dexter's -- who was no slouch in the size department. Someone she planned to go places with.

But how could she go anywhere with a loser husband trailing along behind her?

When she'd brought up the subject of divorce, Dexter had freaked. "Over my dead body," he'd said.

Well...if that's the way he wanted it...

"I thought you was so in love," Chas said, swigging from a large glass of scotch. "I gave ya the big fuckin' weddin' with all the trimmin's -- exactly like ya wanted. I bought you a fuckin' house an' a fuckin' Nazi car. I thought you was all set."

"Sorry, I'm not," Rosarita said, gritting her teeth. "Dex is a deadbeat actor with no prospects, and I want you to get rid of him for me."

"Just like that," Chas said, wondering how he'd managed to get himself such a difficult daughter. Her year-younger sister, Venice, was a sweetheart with two kids and a down-to-earth husband who sold insurance for a living. Why couldn't Rosarita be more like her? "I warned ya about marryin' a fuckin' actor," he said dourly. "They got bird crap for brains, not ta mention fagola tendencies."

"He's not gay," Rosarita sniffed, insulted that Chas would think that any man who was with her might be gay. "Merely dumb."

"I told ya," Chas grumbled. "Only you wouldn't listen." He put on an exaggerated voice. "Miss I-gotta-have-everythin'-the-moment-I-want-it."

"Daddy!" Rosarita wailed, changing tactics because she knew how to play him like a violin. "Please help your little girl. I need you."

Chas could barely resist Rosarita when she was sweet -- during those rare times she reminded him of her dear departed mother who'd died giving birth to Venice, leaving him alone with a newborn baby and an infant to raise. In his opinion he'd done a good job -- with the help of an army of girlfriends -- none of whom had lasted more than a few months. Chas Vincent was not a one-woman man. He liked big tits and a closed mouth. Two or three months into the game and they got on his nerves with their whiny demands and money-spending ways.

Maybe Rosarita took after him when it came to living with someone. He couldn't blame her. Dexter Falcon was a white-bread putz with only a pretty face to get him through life. He had no balls, Chas could've told his daughter that the first time he met the dumb shit. Rosarita should've fucked him out of her system. But no, she'd had to marry the asshole.

Her wedding had cost a fuckin' fortune. Rosarita demanded -- and got -- only the best. Now Chas had a powerful urge to say, "I told you so." But his strong-willed kid didn't take kindly to criticism, so he choked back the words and patted Rosarita on her bony shoulder as she tried to perch on his knee, tears streaming down her cheeks.

They were actually tears of frustration and anger because she was having to fight to get her own way, but Chas didn't know that. "What shall we do, Daddy?" she sniffled. "I'm...so...miserable. Dex is so mean to me."

"Get a divorce," Chas suggested, sure that if Dexter was mean to her, he had good reason.

"Don't you understand -- he won't give me one," she moaned. "And that means I'll have to wait and go through lawyers and depositions and all that horrible, degrading stuff. He's threatening to go after half of everything I own. I don't want to wait, Daddy. It's not fair." A pause for a few deep sobs. "Besides, I've met someone else, and I can't have Dex getting in my way and ruining everything."

"Not another dumb actor, I hope," Chas said, taking a second hearty swig of scotch.

"No, Daddy. This one's got money. He's a someone, not a nobody like Dex." She narrowed her eyes. "I hate Dex."

"I'm gettin' the picture," Chas said, scratching his chin.

Rosarita wriggled off his knee, which was good, because he wasn't as young as he used to be, and last night he'd gone three rounds with a pneumatic blonde whose knockers alone must've weighed five pounds apiece.

"Lemme speak t'him," Chas said. "He'll listen t'me."

"Talking won't do any good," Rosarita wailed. "Killing him will."

"Enough of that crap," Chas snapped, suddenly angry. "I ain't in the killin' business. I'm in construction, an' don't you forget it."

"Ha!" Rosarita said.

"Ha, what?" Chas responded.

Rosarita stared at her father, a malevolent expression on her sharp-pointed face. "Whatever happened to that foreman you didn't like?" she said, knowingly. "You remember, the one who stole from you. And then there was Adam Rubicon -- your ex-partner who mysteriously disappeared. And -- "

"Shut your fuckin' mouth," Chas yelled, jumping up, red in the face. "I never wanna hear ya talk like that again. Ya hear me?"

"Then do it," Rosarita said, all cool and collected and sure of herself. "And do it soon."

Unaware of the ominous conversation taking place at his father-in-law's house, Dexter Falcon left the midtown TV studio where they shot the daily soap Dark Days, a smile on his handsome face. His name wasn't really Dexter Falcon, it was actually Dick Cockranger, a name too ridiculous to even contemplate keeping, unless he planned on being a porno star, and when he'd first come to New York from a small town in the Midwest four years previously, that was not his plan at all. Oh no, Dexter Falcon had far grander aspirations.

The name change was first on his agenda -- Dexter, in honor of a good-looking character on his mother's all-time favorite nighttime soap. And Falcon -- because it was powerful and strong and sounded very masculine.

And so Dexter Falcon was born. Again. It was a memorable day. He was twenty and ready for anything, and a few weeks after arriving in the big city he found "anything" in the person of Mortimer Marcel, a French-born designer whom he bumped into while jogging in Central Park.

"You a model?" Mortimer had asked.

"Actor," Dexter replied. He'd never acted, never even thought of it. But acting sounded like a far more exciting profession than washing dishes in a deli on Lexington -- which is what he was currently doing.

"You could be right for my new underwear line," Mortimer said brusquely. "I'll audition you tonight. My house. Seven o'clock." And he'd fished in the pocket of his fashionable running shorts and handed Dexter an engraved card.

Dexter had stood considering the possibilities while watching Mortimer jog out of sight. He was not naïve. He knew what went on -- especially in a big city like New York. Mortimer Marcel was obviously gay. And Dexter was not.

Mortimer Marcel was also obviously successful. And Dexter was not.

Was there a choice about what he should do?

Yes. He should not pursue it. But he'd been handed an opportunity, and it was his destiny to follow it through.

Within six months he was the Mortimer Marcel boy on television, the Internet, in print ads -- Marcel even took him to Paris and had him strut the runway wearing the latest line of Mortimer Marcel men's leisure wear.

And he didn't have to do anything sexual. Mortimer had a live-in lover -- Jefferson, a handsome black ex-model -- who was as jealous as a wildcat guarding its young, so Mortimer never laid a hand on Dexter, leaving him free to sleep with whoever he liked. And he did. Every night was supermodel night -- each girl more gorgeous than the next.

For two years Dexter fulfilled every sexual fantasy he'd ever had, but deep in his heart he wanted more than transient sex. He desperately craved a real relationship with a woman who cared about him. His main desire was to get married, have babies and be forever happy like his parents, who were still together after forty-five blissful years.

One night he met Rosarita at a party. She wasn't supermodel pretty, but she was attractive and seemed to be caring and sweet, and best of all -- she hung onto his every word. Since he never had much to say, this was extremely flattering. He liked it. He liked her. They started to date.

Over several dinners she talked about family values and how she loathed the whole New York social scene. He couldn't agree more.

She chatted about her sister's children, and how one day she hoped to have children of her own. Several. She was full of all the old-fashioned virtues he'd been searching for. What a girl!

A month later he asked her to marry him, and she said yes. Six weeks later they did the deed. And on their wedding night they had sex for the first time and it was quite something. Dexter was sure that marrying Rosarita was the best thing he'd ever done.

After they'd been married a few weeks, Rosarita informed him he was far too smart to continue being a model, and she arranged for him to go see an agent at William Morris. He did so, and the agent assured him they could make him a star and immediately began sending him out on auditions.

Dexter was elated. So was Rosarita.

Over the next two months he almost landed a Clint Eastwood movie. Very nearly got cast in a Martin Scorsese masterpiece. Just missed being Gwyneth Paltrow's lover in a Miramax film. And then, on his agent's advice, after several months of no auditions at all, he signed for a one-year stint on Dark Days.

"Do it," his agent insisted. "Once you get the experience behind you, they'll all be chasing after you."

From the moment he signed on for the soap, Rosarita's attitude changed. From sweet she turned to sour, complaining about everything, including the fact that they were unable to go out most nights because he had a 5:00 A.M. call every day. She nagged him continually. Nothing he ever did was good enough. Until finally, six weeks ago, she'd started muttering about divorce.

Dexter could not believe it. Divorce! They'd only been married eighteen months. Divorce was unthinkable. Not in his family. For a start, it would kill his parents. Besides, he was quite happy with the way things were.

So after much thought he'd devised a plan to calm her down. When they were first going out he'd taken her home to meet his mom and dad -- Martha and Matt. She'd loved them, and they her. The only other time she'd seen them since was at their wedding -- which had turned out to be an enormous affair. Fortunately, Rosarita's father had paid for the lavish event, and bought them a large apartment in Manhattan, plus a sleek Mercedes as a wedding present -- which they hardly ever got to drive because it was too difficult finding a parking spot in the city.

Martha and Matt Cockranger were Dexter's secret weapon. He was flying them in to New York for a surprise visit. He'd already instructed the maid to prepare the guest bedroom, and he'd booked a limo to meet them at the airport. They were arriving tonight, hence the smile on his face.

If Martha and Matt Cockranger couldn't talk some sense into Rosarita, nobody could.

Copyright © 2000 by Chances, Inc.

Chapter 3

Anton Couch gave great party. A stickler for detail, he hosted dinners that were always the best. Two tables of twelve -- twenty-four people who were either glamorous, talented, witty or extraordinarily rich. A New York mix with flavor.

As Madison entered Anton's fire-red living room she immediately checked out the group. Once she'd seen John Gotti there -- before his incarceration. And there were often movie stars, politicians and rock stars in attendance.

Tonight she spotted the legendary Kris Phoenix -- rock icon supreme, with his trademark spiked hair and intense blue eyes. Although almost fifty, he still had a magnetic quality. Like Mick Jagger, Rod Stewart and Eric Clapton, he never seemed to change. Kris was deep in conversation with music mogul Clive Davis. Since she knew Clive, she began heading in their direction, only to be stopped by Jamie's husband, Peter, who stepped in front of her, martini glass in one hand and a silly grin on his somewhat bland face. Peter had that "just came back from a weekend in the Hamptons" look. Like his wife, he was tall, with a light year-round tan, aquamarine eyes and tousled blond hair. He and Jamie made a spectacular couple.

"How's my wife's best friend?" he asked, favoring her with a lascivious leer.

"Fine, thank you," she said, thinking, Uh-oh, one more martini and he's over the edge.

"I hear you and my gorgeous wife had lunch today," he remarked.

"We certainly did."

"Talk about me, did you?" he asked, flirting.

"We always talk about you," she answered lightly. "Surely you know you're the most interesting subject in our universe?"

"Wish I was," he said ruefully, sipping his martini. "Truth is, I think my wife's going off me."

"Why would you say that?"

"I don't know...I sort of sense it."

Madison shrugged. "What can I say?"

"Nothing. If she does go off me and throws me out, I'll simply have to come live with you."

"That'll be fun," Madison said dryly. "You can sleep with the dog."

"You know I've always had my eye on you," he said, edging closer.

Oh, God -- she hated it when Peter drank. He invariably came out with the same tired old lines, and nobody ever complained to Jamie because they all knew he didn't mean it.

"How's the stock market?" she asked, hurriedly changing the subject.

"You wanna talk stocks with me?" he said, licking his lips. "You want me to investigate your portfolio?"

"Excuse me, Peter," she said, backing away. "I must find Anton."

"Y'know, Maddy, I don't get it," he said, coming after her. "What's a beautiful woman like you doing all by herself?"

"My choice, Peter," she said coolly.

"David was a fool."

"We simply had different agendas."

"Yeah," he laughed scornfully. "Have you seen David's agenda? Big tits and no brains."

"When did you see her?" Madison asked, frowning, unaware that Peter and her ex-boyfriend were still in touch.

"We had dinner one night when Jamie was out of town. He'd been calling, bugging me to get together with him and his new bride."

"Bugging you?" Madison said, remembering David's less-than-flattering opinion of Peter. He'd once invested in the market with him and lost a bundle. This did not sit well with David, who expected to win at everything he did.

"I said yes. Had nothing else to do."

"What was she like?" Madison couldn't help asking, furious with herself for doing so.

"Bimbo with big tits, you know the type."

"No, actually I don't," she said coldly.

"He was crazy to give you up," Peter said, getting close enough so she could smell his boozy breath.

"Where's Jamie?" she asked abruptly, once more backing away.

"Met Kris Phoenix and had a total meltdown. What is it with you women and these rock stars?"

"We grew up watching him, Peter. In college he was our idol, the best of the older rock stars."

"Really? First sexual stirrings and all that?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"As a matter of fact, I would."

"Well, you're not going to."

"Hmm..." he said, rocking on his heels. "Since you lunched with my wife today, isn't it only fair that you lunch with me tomorrow?" Another deeply horny look. "I could examine your portfolio in detail."

She knew he wasn't serious, it was only the booze talking -- or was it, in view of Jamie's suspicions? "How about not ordering another martini tonight, Peter," she said gently. "You know Jamie hates it when you drink."

"How about...minding your own business."

She looked around for someone she knew. This conversation was going nowhere, and it was time to escape. "I really do have to go find Anton," she said. "See you later."

"I hope we're sitting together," he called after her.

Yeah. Right. She was just about to make sure that they weren't.

Anton was pleased to see her. He was a diminutive man with inquisitive eyes, a spontaneous smile and expansive gestures -- he had a warmth about him that was most appealing. Somehow he and Jamie had turned out to be a great business mix, much in demand to decorate the homes of the rich and frivolous -- homes that eventually appeared between the covers of Architectural Digest and In Style. Anton usually came up with an innovative concept for their clients, and Jamie followed through. Since putting them in business together, Jamie's father had more than recouped his original investment.

"Amazing turnout, as usual," Madison said, surveying the room and spotting the powerful agent Mort Janklow talking to publishers Sonny Mehta and Michael Korda in one corner, while across the room Betsy Bloomingdale, visiting from California, dominated the conversation with a group of New York wives -- including a striking Georgette Mosbacher.

"I always try to mix it up," Anton said modestly.

"And you always succeed," Madison said. "I wish you'd let me write about you."

"No personal publicity -- that's why all my ladies trust me. You'd be amazed what they tell me when I'm suggesting a new fabric for their dining room walls."

"Knowing you, I wouldn't be surprised if you stashed a little microphone in the wall," Madison said, grinning. "You love hearing all the gossip."

"I certainly do, my dear," Anton replied. "However, my strength is that I don't repeat it -- not even to you."

They both laughed.

"If I were looking for Jamie, where would I find her?" Madison asked.

"In the guest bathroom," Anton replied. Lowering his voice he added, "I think Kris Phoenix propositioned her, she's run off to recover."

"And what was Peter doing while all this was going on?"

"Getting drunk," Anton said. "Haven't you noticed?"

"I'll try to keep an eye on him for you."

"Do," Anton replied. "If there's one thing I crave, it's peace and harmony."

"Sure," Madison said disbelievingly. "If you liked peace and harmony, you wouldn't throw such incredible dinner parties every month."

"One's got to have a social life," Anton said with a sly smile. "By the way, your mother called me."

"My mother?" she said, surprised.

"You do have a mother, don't you?" Anton said crisply. "You didn't just spring from the streets of New York with a pen in your hand."

"Of course I have a mother, but why would she call you?"

"Stella, isn't it?"

"Yes, the beautiful Stella."

"If she's anything like you, she must certainly be very beautiful."

"Oh, c'mon," Madison said, embarrassed by his compliment. "My mother is a real beauty. Marilyn Monroe in her heyday."

"How exciting," Anton said. "I would've loved a mother that resembled the divine Marilyn."

"What did Stella want?"

"To inquire about a design concept for their new apartment."

"What new apartment?" Madison said, puzzled. "My parents live in Connecticut. They haven't lived in New York for ten years."

"Apparently they're moving back."

"I don't get it," she said, completely bewildered. "First of all, why would Stella call you and not Jamie? And secondly, how come I don't know about this so-called apartment?"

"Maybe they're planning to surprise you."

"Yeah, sure -- that'll be the day. The only surprise my mother ever gave me was when she once complimented a piece I wrote on Eddie Murphy."

"Eddie Murphy?"

"Yeah. Can you believe it? I write about politicians and all these other fascinating people, and the only one she has anything to say about is Eddie Murphy."

"Maybe she likes them black and bold," Anton said with a knowing chuckle.

"Have you seen my father? He's the best-looking man walking."

"Really?" Anton said, perking up. "How old is he?"

"Fifty-eight. Too old for you. Rumor is you don't like 'em over twenty-five."

"Oh, dear," Anton said, feigning dismay. "My reputation's out."

Madison laughed. "I'm finding Jamie. I need to talk to someone sane."

Jamie wasn't in the guest powder room.

"Miss Jamie is in Mr. Anton's bedroom," Anton's Filipino housekeeper informed her.

"Thanks," she said, still wondering about Stella calling Anton. What was that all about? Her parents loved Connecticut, why would they consider moving back to New York? Especially without telling her.

Oh well...she'd find out tomorrow.

Jamie was sitting in front of Anton's art deco mirrored vanity, applying lipstick with a trembling hand and a long thin brush.

"What's up with you?" Madison asked, perching on the edge of the tub.

"Kris Phoenix wants me to meet him at his hotel," Jamie said, her voice husky.

"What?"

"You heard. He asked me to meet him."

"When?"

"Later."

"Are you kidding?"

"No."

"What about Peter?"

"What about him?" Jamie answered defiantly.

"He thinks you're going off him."

"Ha!"

"This is crazy," Madison said, shaking her head.

"Why?" Jamie said stubbornly. "I know he's screwing around on me."

"You don't know, you merely suspect. You can't go run-ning off in the middle of the night to meet with some aging rock star."

"I can if I want to."

"Did you and Peter have a fight?"

"No."

"Then why are you acting like this?"

"To see if he cares."

"Of course he cares," Madison said, quite exasperated. "He wouldn't be with you if he didn't."

"People stay together for many different reasons," Jamie said mysteriously, applying a touch of blush to her already glowing complexion.

"Anyway," Madison said, "I have the number of a private investigator, and I think you should meet with him."

"Me? What about you?" Jamie wailed.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't it you with the might-be-straying husband?"

"Yes, but you're going to help me, aren't you?" Jamie said pleadingly.

Madison sighed. "If you insist," she said. Jamie always had been the champion at getting her own way.

"I can't do it alone, Maddy. Will you make the appointment and come with me?"

"Okay, okay," Madison said impatiently, wishing she could learn to say no. "But only if you stop all this Kris Phoenix crap. He's a horny old rock star for crissakes. Definitely not for you."

"I promise," Jamie said, an angelic expression on her lovely face. "However, I swear to you, if I find out that Peter is screwing around, I'll track Kris Phoenix down and fuck him in the middle of Times Square!"

Copyright © 2000 by Chances, Inc.

Chapter 4

In bed with Joel Blaine, Rosarita realized he was every-

thing Dex was not. Joel was a down-and-dirty lover, servicing her in ways she had only ever dreamt about. He pushed her around, making her do things Dex wouldn't dare try. When he was inside her, he wanted her all the way -- forcing her legs around the back of his neck, popping amyl nitrate vials under her nose whether she liked it or not -- biting her nipples until she screamed with a mixture of pain and pleasure. He was all man. Eight and a half solid inches that he made her deep throat until she gagged.

When she finally came -- spread-eagled on top of him -- she let out a scream so loud and out of control that he clamped his big hairy hand over her mouth and told her to shut the fuck up.

She liked a man who was in charge.

Personality-wise he reminded her of her father. In the looks department, he was no Dex. He was not very tall, dark and stocky, with plenty of thick body hair, brooding close-set eyes and fleshy lips. The combination made him attractive in a sexy, flashy way.

This was their second assignation -- their first one in a bed. The time before, right after they'd met at the opening of an art gallery show, he'd parked in a dark SoHo side street, shared a vial of coke with her and made rough love to her in the back of his gleaming gray Bentley while a couple of transients looked on through the open window. It was one big turn-on.

Tonight was even better. More coke. More sex. Her two favorite things.

"Jesus!" she exclaimed, reaching for a cigarette and lighting up. "That was sensational!"

Joel was already on his way into the bathroom. She took another drag on her cigarette and peeked at her watch. It was past six, time for her to go home and spend another boring evening with Dex. Was it any wonder that she wanted him dead?

If Dex was out of her life, she would be free to pursue a proper relationship with Joel. Right now he was playing it poker faced because he knew she was unavailable.

She'd give anything to spend the night with him. Dinner at a nice restaurant. Drinks at a happening club. Then back to his place for more of the same.

Idly she wondered what it would be like to be married to a man like Joel. He was a goer, a doer. At thirty-two -- according to what he'd told her -- he practically ran his father's enormous real estate business. What a match they would make. They both had powerful, rich fathers -- men from whom they'd learned plenty. Together they could rule New York.

Only Dex stood in her way.

Damn him! He was a dumb nobody. Why had she married him?

Oh yeah, yeah, she'd thought he was destined to be a movie star...

End of that story.

She could hear the sound of the shower coming from the bathroom. Surreptitiously she slid open Joel's bedside drawer and checked out the contents. A gun. Excellent, it showed he had balls. Six boxes of peppermint Tic Tacs. A porno video entitled Hot Spurts. An unopened package of extra-large condoms. And a pale-blue envelope with Sweetie written across the front. Quick as a flash she extracted the note inside.

Babykins. I love you. Always will. See you next week. Keep my place warm. It was signed -- Honeystuff. Honeystuff! Who in hell was Honeystuff?

Rosarita was outraged. Did Joel have a girlfriend he hadn't told her about?

She was about to rummage further when she heard the shower stop. Quickly she slid the note back into the envelope and closed the drawer.

Joel strode back into the room, a towel knotted loosely around his waist. He still had a hard-on -- the jut of his cock beneath the thick towel was unmistakable.

It was about time she put her mark on him -- something Rosarita knew how to do better than anyone.

"Come over here, hot stuff," she crooned, beckoning him to the bed. "I've got something for you."

Joel didn't need asking twice.

Dexter paced around the living room, glancing at his watch every five minutes. Where was Rosarita? He had hoped she'd be home before his parents arrived, making it the perfect surprise. But at six-thirty she was still not there.

Reluctantly he picked up the phone and called his father-in-law, breaking out in a sweat as he did so. Chas Vincent scared the heck out of him -- he looked like a refugee from The Sopranos, and acted like one too.

Early on in their relationship, Rosarita had proudly informed him that Chas was king of construction in New Jersey. He didn't know or care what Chas was king of, he simply preferred to keep as much distance as possible between them.

"Hi, Chas," he said, making sure his voice sounded strong. "Is Rosarita there?"

"Why'd she be here?" Chas growled suspiciously. "She left two hours ago."

"Did she say where she was going?"

Probably to buy a gun and blow you away, Chas thought. "Naw," he said. "Most likely she's hittin' the stores. You know women -- spend till their titties drop."

Dexter faked a laugh. Even though he'd been involved in the world of modeling, he still couldn't stand vulgarity.

"Call me if she's not home by midnight," Chas said jovially. "I'll send out the cops."

A concerned father. How nice.

Dexter roamed around the apartment, stopping at the guest room to make sure it was all ready for his parents' imminent arrival. He'd personally gone to the flower shop and chosen twelve perfect red roses -- his mother's favorites. Conchita, the maid, had placed them in an exquisite amber vase on the dresser next to the television. He'd also bought roses for Rosarita, white ones, which he planned to present to her later when they were alone.

Tonight was going to be special. He was absolutely sure of it.

"Shit!" Rosarita screeched, snagging her expensive tights as she entered a cab outside Joel's building.

"Where to, lady?" asked the cabbie, not even bothering to turn around.

"There's a sharp edge on the bottom of your door," she complained. "You'd better do something about it."

"Where to?" he repeated, cracking his knuckles.

She leaned forward to get a look at his ID. Moussaf Kiridarian. Another foreigner not worth arguing with. Chas said they should all be lined up and shot. Sometimes he could be a bit of an extremist. After all, if that ever happened who would be around to drive the cabs and trains? Get rid of the garbage? Run all the electronics and camera shops?

"Sixty-first and Park," she said brusquely. "And make it fast. I'm in a hurry."

The cab set off with a jerk, almost throwing her off the seat. She muttered an insult under her breath and groped in her purse for a cigarette. She was about to light up when Moussaf caught her eye in the rearview mirror and announced sternly, "No smoking. See sign."

"Shit," she muttered, putting the cigarette away. What kind of stupid rule was that? And how come a lowly cabdriver was allowed to tell her what to do?

If she was very nice to Chas, maybe he'd spring for her own car and driver, especially if she suggested it as a Christmas or birthday present. He was rich enough to afford it, and there was no reason for her to ride around town in a filthy cab with some crazy foreigner who wouldn't allow her to smoke. Of course, Chas would ask why she didn't drive the Mercedes he'd bought her. But who could park in Manhattan? It was a fucking nightmare.

For a moment her thoughts drifted to Joel. What a guy! He'd been really pissed, though, when she'd sunk her teeth into his neck so deep that any little cupcake trying to put her claim on him would notice immediately that he'd been playing elsewhere. He'd jumped back a foot. "What the fuck have you done to me?" he'd yelled, rubbing his neck.

"Sorry," she'd murmured innocently. "You shouldn't be such a turn-on. I couldn't help myself."

"Fuck!" he'd complained. "This is gonna swell up."

"I know something else that's gonna swell up," she'd giggled, reaching for his ever-ready dick. It was solid and thick, just the way she liked them.

Now, sitting in the cab, she wondered what little Honeystuff would have to say when she got a load of her boyfriend's neck. Well...ex-boyfriend, because Rosarita had big plans for Joel.

He wasn't going to be easy, she could already tell that. He was stubborn, didn't care to be pushed. And like most men, he was probably shit-scared of commitment.

However, Rosarita was confident enough to think that she was quite capable of changing all that.

"When can we get together again?" she'd asked, before leaving his apartment.

"You're married, aren't you?" he'd said gruffly.

"Since when did that make a difference?"

Joel had laughed -- more a throaty growl. "I get off on an office matinee occasionally," he'd said. "Y'know, close the door, raise the shades. There's plenty of tall buildings around -- you never know who's watching. You into that?"

"When?" she'd asked eagerly.

"Call me in a coupla days. We'll make a plan."

She knew that she couldn't ask him to call her. It wouldn't do for Dex to pick up any message Joel might leave. "You do know I'm planning a divorce," she'd said.

"You told that pretty-boy husband of yours?"

"Not yet, but I will. My father's getting involved."

"How come?"

"'Cause he'll make damn sure Dex doesn't give me any trouble."

Joel had looked at her admiringly. "You're a piece of work, you know that?"

"Never said I wasn't," she'd answered with a knowing smirk. Then she'd given him a long French kiss he wouldn't forget in a hurry, and left his apartment.

Now she was groaning inside because she had to go home and face that big ox of a husband. And she knew exactly what he'd say. "Guess what happened on the set today?"

Who gave a flying fuck what happened on the set today? She certainly didn't.

Dex simply didn't get it. She wanted a divorce, and tonight she would hammer the point home. Because, if he didn't get it soon, he would be one dead pretty boy -- with or without her father's cooperation.

Copyright © 2000 by Chances, Inc.

Chapter 5

"I gotta tell you..."

"Yes?" Madison said, completely uninterested in what the man sitting next to her had to say.

"You have the sexiest lips."

"Really?" she responded, hardly taking a beat. "How interesting. I was about to say the same thing to you."

Her dinner companion looked at her, perplexed. "That's what I like about you, always got a smart answer."

That's what I don't like about you, she wanted to say, but she didn't. It wasn't worth the trouble.

She was seated to the left of Joel Blaine, playboy son of real estate billionaire Leon Blaine. Leon was an interesting man. Joel was not. Joel was the typical rich man's son who thought the world should kiss his ass because of his father. What a crock that was. As far as Madison was concerned Joel Blaine was a bad joke. The last of the useless playboys.

"What's the matter?" Joel said, wondering how he could get her to put out. "Can't take a compliment?"

"What happened to your neck?" she asked, pointedly staring at a red and swollen hickey. "Girlfriend get a little too...frisky?"

Joel glowered. That bitch Rosarita. Two rounds with her and he felt like Mike Tyson. Why couldn't a woman like Madison go for him? Smart, stylish and beautiful, she was the kind of woman he should be with. Not some coked-out married whore like Rosarita Falcon. Although he had to admit that Rosarita was something in bed, horny as a wildcat, with claws to prove it.

"If you like my lips, how 'bout us going out sometime?" he said with an encouraging wink. "You an' me, Maddy, we could make things happen."

"Make things happen?" she said, laughing derisively. "What century are you living in?"

He didn't like that. Women were all the same, a bunch of bitches, his father had taught him that. And that's about the only thing Leon had taught him. "Has anyone ever told you you're a ball-breaker?" he said with a sharp scowl.

"Has anybody ever told youyou're barking up the wrong woman?" she replied coolly.

"Jesus!" he muttered, turning away.

Madison reminded herself to have a little talk with Anton about his seating. Surely he knew better than to stick her next to Joel Blaine?

Why was Joel there anyway? He was a most unlikely guest, hardly on Anton's A list.

She turned to the man on her other side, Mortimer Marcel, the designer. Mortimer was gay, but always entertaining. A tall, slim man in his early fifties, he was elegance personified. "You must come visit our showroom sometime," he said, chic as ever in a pin-striped suit with crisp white shirt, pearl-gray tie and diamond cuff links. "I'm presenting some divine outfits this year. You'll love everything."

"Do I get free clothes?" she asked jokingly.

"For you, yes," Mortimer said, taking her seriously. "You're an excellent advertisement."

"I am?" she said, surprised. Hmm...first she had gorgeous lips, now she was an excellent advertisement. Hey, girl, she thought wryly, you're certainly scoring tonight!

She glanced across at the other table, where Jamie was glowing as Kris Phoenix plied her with compliments. Peter was slumped in a chair a few seats away from his wife. He did not look too happy. Next to him was a stick-thin, heroin-addicted supermodel -- a girl who was failing to hold his interest.

Tonight is not Anton's greatest seating triumph, Madison thought. She feigned a yawn. "I have to leave early," she whispered to Mortimer.

"So do I," he whispered back, indicating his live-in love at the next table. "Perhaps Jefferson and I can offer you a ride?"

"Great," she said, and was relieved to find that Joel had turned his full attention to the woman on his other side -- a gorgeous black opera singer.

Poor soul. There was no greater punishment than being hit on by Joel Blaine.

As soon as they finished dessert she was out of there, sitting in the back of a town car with Mortimer and the black, bald and sexy Jefferson. What a waste, she thought. Why are all the good ones either taken or gay?

David hadn't liked gay men, they'd threatened his masculinity or some such garbage. She remembered how they'd often argued about his homophobic tendencies. Of course, gay women were fine with him. There were many times he'd tried to persuade her to do it with another girl. To his annoyance, she'd always refused. Threesomes were definitely not her scene.

On reflection, there were quite a few things about David she hadn't liked.

So why the wasted two years?

Great sex, she was forced to admit. Great, uncomplicated, satisfying sex.

"How important do you think sex is?" she asked Mortimer.

"What?" he said, not quite sure he'd heard her correctly.

"I'm conducting a survey. How important is sex between two people?"

Mortimer glanced quickly at Jefferson. "What's your answer?"

Jefferson grinned. "Sex, man -- it's the most important thing in the world."

"I disagree," Mortimer said, adjusting one of his diamond cuff links. "Getting along with somebody is more important, especially when you live together."

"How long have you two been a couple?" Madison asked.

"I discovered Jefferson when he was a mere child," Mortimer said, patting his boyfriend on the knee. "Eighteen or nineteen...he'd just arrived in America from Trinidad. I was living with an older man at the time, so Jefferson and I became friends first."

"That's nice," Madison said.

"He was my favorite model," Mortimer said, turning to his significant other. "Isn't that right, dear?"

Jefferson grinned again and shook his head. "No way, man. You came on to me in the dressing room the first show I did. It was like, 'Oh, here we go!' Everybody was laughing about it."

"Who's everybody?" Mortimer said huffily.

"The people who work for you -- they know what you're like."

"They know what I used to be like," Mortimer corrected. "Then you came along, and now I'm a changed man."

"Yeah, you'd better believe it!" Jefferson said, with another huge grin. " 'Cause I don't take kindly to nobody messin' around on me."

"I'm duly warned," Mortimer said.

"So be it," Jefferson said, and they exchanged a long, intimate look.

Madison began to feel as if she was in the way. Maybe a cab would've been a better idea.

"Are you interviewing us for the magazine?" Mortimer asked curiously.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I was merely thinking about relationships. Y'see, I was in one where I hardly had anything in common with the guy. I mean, we didn't even like the same music."

"Not good," Jefferson interjected. "You gotta get off on the sounds."

"Right," she agreed. "I'm into soul and jazz, and he was a classical freak. We never read the same books, or watched the same TV programs. He loved sports. I'm bored by them. I guess we were totally different."

"Then what was the big attraction?" Jefferson asked.

"Sex, of course. And now that he's gone I realize that maybe I simply got too comfortable. Y'know what I mean?"

"Were you planning on getting married before you broke up with him?" Mortimer asked, ever the practical one.

"He broke up with me," Madison explained. "That's why I feel so kind of...like it's unfinished business." She paused for a moment before continuing. "Then he ran off and married someone else to make me feel really good."

"What an asshole!" Jefferson said.

"Agreed!" Madison said.

"How'd you like to see him again?" Jefferson ventured. "Y'know, fun times on the side. Do to her what she did to you."

"She didn't do anything to me," Madison said calmly. "She was merely around when he was ready for something different."

"But you're still pretty pissed, huh?" Jefferson said, nodding his bald head like he understood perfectly.

She laughed, slightly embarrassed because it was true, and she didn't want to be pissed, she wanted to forget all about David once and for all. "Oh God, I feel like I'm sitting in a shrink's office," she groaned.

"Maybe that's what you should do," Mortimer suggested. "It certainly helped me."

"No way. I hate shrinks -- all they do is sit there on their smug asses, nodding their heads, telling you what you want to hear. Either that or they don't say anything at all. Screw that!"

Jefferson nodded knowingly. "Get yourself to a shrink, girl," he said succinctly. "You need help."

Before she could summon up a suitable reply, the car stopped outside her building. She invited them up for a drink, but they declined, which was okay with her because she was tired and edgy and ready to crawl into bed.

Her dog, Slammer, a large black Labrador, greeted her at the door. Well, it wasn't really her dog, she'd reluctantly agreed to look after the animal for a friend who'd gone to Australia for a week. The friend had gotten engaged, and the week had turned into three months.

In spite of herself, Madison had grown quite fond of the big dog.

Slammer didn't need walking because she'd given the doorman a key to her apartment and he'd already taken him out. Which was good news, because she wasn't into late-night strolls with a pooper-scooper for company.

Wandering into her small kitchen, she checked her answering machine. No messages, so she picked up the phone and called her father.

Michael sounded half asleep, but she didn't care.

"Why you calling so late, sweetheart?" he mumbled. "Everything okay?"

"Are you sleeping?"

A very audible yawn. "I was."

"Sorry," she said, not sorry at all.

"What's goin' on? You sound down."

"No, no...It's simply that I do not appreciate hearing from Anton Couch that you guys are getting an apartment in New York."

"Hey, sweetie, I really am asleep." A pause. "Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

"Sure," she said, slamming down the phone.

She couldn't stand it when her father didn't give her his full attention. Michael had always been there for her -- unlike her mother, who was more of a distant figure in her life. It had always been that way. As far back as she could remember, her mother, Stella, was this exotic-smelling, glamorous creature she hardly ever saw. As a child she'd been raised by a nanny, then sent to boarding school at eleven, vacations at summer camp and, finally, college.

The day she graduated, Michael had handed her the keys to her own small apartment. It was quite obvious there was no going home, and that was fine with her. She loved her parents, although there were times she felt she hardly knew her mother, but that was okay too. Michael more than compensated. He was a dynamic, interesting man, and she was glad he was her father.

She undressed, got into bed and attempted to read. After a few minutes she found her mind wandering and knew it was impossible to concentrate.

Slammer jumped on the bed, snuggling up beside her. She didn't push him off. It was comforting that somebody cared -- even if that somebody was only a dog.

She thought about Anton's dinner and how she'd hated every minute of it. It hadn't been up to his usual standard. Joel Blaine hitting on her. Ugh! And Peter Nova, drunk. Double ugh!

Tomorrow she'd fix an appointment with Victor's private eye to sort out Jamie's problems. Oh well, that's what friends are for.

She switched off the light, but after ten minutes realized there was no way she was falling asleep. It was destined to be one of those nights. Maybe Jefferson was right, maybe she did need to see a shrink. Of course, Victor would know the best one in town, but how could she ask him?

She tossed restlessly, finally gave up and clicked on the television, flicking past several porno stations, marveling at a soft-core movie where the girls' breasts jutted to attention without a sign of the effects of gravity. What a bunch of freaks. You didn't see guys running out buying themselves perky silicone balls.

Silicone balls. What a hilarious thought!

She began to giggle. Slammer started to pant, a sure sign that he too was not ready for sleep.

Finally she got up and padded into the kitchen, where she fixed herself a cheese-and-ham sandwich with plenty of lettuce and pickles.

Slammer got the crusts. He was one happy dog.

Finally satisfied, they both returned to bed.

Copyright © 2000 by Chances, Inc.