Cat was staying on Merrill Zandack’s yacht, a luxurious ninety-footer with six guest bedrooms and a staff of twenty. It was some setup. She wished Jump could see it as she prowled around her cabin getting herself together, finally taking a long look in the bathroom mirror, squinting at her full-length reflection. She’d made a supreme effort. Low-slung Juicy Couture jeans, showing off her finely toned abs and a recent diamond piercing in her navel; a black Rolling Stones cutoff tee, Loree Rodkin chains and crosses hanging around her neck; and large gold hoop earrings.
Her outfit probably wasn’t everyone’s idea of how to impress at a big film festival, but screw it, at least she was comfortable. She hadn’t worn a dress in years and she wasn’t about to start now. Besides, Jump was on tour with his band in his native Australia, and without him by her side she felt ever so slightly vulnerable.
Whenever she went anywhere by herself, guys came on to her. She did not get off on the attention. Cat was a one-man girl, and in spite of her fiery independence she kind of missed having Jump beside her. They did everything together. Or at least they used to, before her career took off at such a startling pace and Jump decided to hit the road. Not that she minded him getting out there; it was something they’d both been working toward, and the success of his sound track had thankfully helped him score a few good gigs. Opening for mega rock legend Kris Phoenix in Sydney was a real break. Jump and his band were totally psyched. She was happy for him, although she still couldn’t help wishing he was with her tonight.
A knock, and Jonas Brown, Merrill Zandack’s diligent assistant, put his head around the door.
“The tender is ready to take us to shore,” Jonas announced.
“Where’s Merrill?” she asked, staring at Jonas, who was the complete opposite of his loudmouthed, somewhat uncouth boss. For a start, Jonas was young—probably still in his late twenties. And quite good looking in a low-key, not at all her type, way.
“Mr. Zandack has already left,” Jonas said. “He asked me to tell you that he’ll meet you at the premiere.”
“You mean I’ve got to go there on my own?” she complained, hating the thought of walking in by herself.
“I will accompany you,” Jonas said.
“I don’t know why he wants me there,” she grumbled, reaching for her fringed purse.
“Mr. Zandack feels it is important for you to be seen,” Jonas said, his narrow gray eyes inspecting her outfit. “Is that what you’re wearing?” he asked, unable to conceal the note of disapproval in his tone.
“No,” she snapped, annoyed that he seemed to be judging her sense of style. “I’m planning on changing into a black Prada uniform so I can look exactly like you.”
“I wasn’t criticizing,” he said quickly.
“Yes, you were,” she retorted, adding an airy “That’s okay, I’m totally secure in the way I dress. Who needs affirmation?”
“Then we should go,” Jonas said unblinkingly. “Mr. Zandack does not appreciate being kept waiting.”
“Glad you shared that with me,” she drawled with a sarcastic edge. “Wouldn’t want to be the one who kept the big man waiting.”
• • •
Lola spotted the back of Linc walking into the theater. Damn! She’d wanted to impress him. And who wouldn’t be impressed with the way the cameras were flashing just for her, while every journalist in the place clamored for her attention?
Linc Blackwood might be married to a movie star, but she, Lola Sanchez, was the movie star of the moment. Nobody was hotter or more desirable.
A big difference from her last encounter with Mr. Blackwood. Oh yes, things were very different then.
Lucia Conchita Sanchez. A pretty girl of eighteen. A would-be actress-singer-dancer getting nowhere fast. Waitressing by day and playing records by night— helping out Carlos, her disc jockey boyfriend, who worked three nights a week at a Hollywood club. Lucia had long, chestnut brown hair that reached below her waist, and a curvaceous body. She lived at home, in Silverlake, with Claudine, her half-black, half-Native American mother, and her philandering Mexican father, Louis Sanchez, a small-time boxer who considered himself a regular stud. She had two older, married sisters, Isabelle and Selma, and a lazy, out-of-work brother, Louis Junior, who aspired to be exactly like his dad. Lucia couldn’t wait to leave home.
At school she had excelled at singing, dancing, and drama class. Acting was her passion, so as soon as she graduated high school she had set out to pursue an acting career. She was very ambitious and quite determined to break into show business. Problem was, nobody wanted to hire her. She couldn’t even get an agent to take her on. “You’re too ethnic looking” seemed to be the general opinion.
Ethnic looking? As far as she was concerned she was gorgeous, with her sultry looks, smooth olive skin, and voluptuous body. Okay, so she wasn’t cookiecutter pretty, but she had her own particular style.
After numerous rejections and no callbacks on the auditions she did manage to get into, she tried approaching a modeling agency. “Too fat,” announced a skinny bitch with legs like a couple of twigs and no ass.
Too fat. Ridiculous! Just because she did not conform to Hollywood’s obsession with thinness. She went on a diet anyway—eschewing Claudine’s delicious fried chicken and her dad’s favorite enchiladas.
Her parents thought she was crazy. Her papa sat her down one night and told her that she had absolutely no chance of making it, and since she’d been quite good at math in school, she should get herself a proper job, working in a bank like Selma, where she had a chance of eventual promotion. “Waitressin’ ain’t gonna take you nowhere,” Louis informed her.
Like boxing was such a big deal. Louis Sanchez had two cauliflower ears, scars all over his face, and a permanent limp. It certainly didn’t seem to stop women from throwing themselves at him.
Her mother was a real beauty, with exotic features, waist-length hair, and a sexy, rounded figure—maintained in spite of having given birth to four children.
Lucia liked to think she’d inherited the best of both her parents in the looks department. She had her mama’s long legs, big bosom, and thick chestnut hair. And her papa’s slightly flat nose, seductive brown eyes, and full lips. “Lover’s lips,” Louis was fond of saying. “They run in the family.”
Yeah, Lucia thought. Those lips of yours have run all over the neighborhood.
Sex was not an open subject in the Sanchez household. Although everyone knew about Louis’s indiscretions, they were never mentioned. When Lucia was old enough to hear the stories about her unfaithful dad, she was shocked. It always amazed her that Claudine allowed him to get away with it, and never said anything.
As soon as Lucia hit puberty, boys were all over her. They coveted her big breasts, fine ass, and the flirtatious attitude she’d inherited from her dad.
“Do not give it up,” Mama had warned her, wagging a skinny finger in Lucia’s face. “Let ’em look, watch the poor fools drool, then let ’em beg for more. You give it up, girl, an’ you’ll be good an’ sorry. The last thing you want is a baby growin’ in your belly.”
Those ominous words were enough to frighten her off sex, until at sixteen she fell for a bad-boy rapper who lived down the street, and after several delirious months with him she did get pregnant. Claudine was so mad that she refused to speak to her daughter for weeks. Louis was more understanding. He took her for an abortion at the local clinic. Selma came too. It was one of the worst days of her life.
After that experience she swore off sex, taking it no further than an occasional blow job—and that took place only if she really liked the boy.
Oral sex was a two-way street with Carlos, and although, when he had her skirt around her waist and her bra off in the back of his car, he pleaded with her to let him take it further, she held fast. No more abortions for Lucia Conchita Sanchez. She’d learned her lesson.
One night Carlos informed her that he’d scored a gig disc-jockeying at a fancy party in Bel Air, and he wanted her to assist him. For a moment she was too excited to speak. Bel Air. Stomping ground of the rich and famous. Maybe she’d finally be discovered, or at the very least meet an agent who was prepared to represent her.
She did not let on to Carlos how psyched she was. Carlos was kind of laid-back, with long greasy hair and gaunt rock star looks. Music was his thing; he was a master at putting together the sounds that everyone wanted to hear. According to all their friends, Carlos had a future.
The party, thrown by megaproducer Freddy Krane, was taking place in Freddy’s magnificent old mansion at the top of Bel Air. It was reached by driving up a long, winding, palm-lined driveway.
Lucia sat next to Carlos in his 1968 souped-up silver Mustang, savoring every moment. When they arrived, she helped him set up his equipment out by the enormous black-bottomed swimming pool. There were servants and caterers, bartenders and waiters swarming everywhere, preparing for the evening’s festivities.
Lucia took it all in—the hundreds of votive candles in exquisite crystal holders surrounding the pool, the lavish flower centerpieces on every table, the white-and-silver tablecloths and black silk napkins. She willed herself to remember every detail so that she could tell Mama, Isabelle, and Selma.
Although quite impressed, she forced herself to maintain a cool exterior as she sorted through Carlos’s extensive CD and record collection, setting everything out in neat piles. Carlos was very particular; he liked things just right.
There were times she daydreamed that if she didn’t get a break in show business soon, perhaps she should consider marrying Carlos. He was hot to screw her, so she knew it would be no problem nudging him into a proposal, if that’s what she decided she wanted.
Would marrying Carlos be such a bad thing?
Maybe not.
Once the party got going it was a blast, full of faces Lucia recognized from the popular entertainment magazines she devoured each week. It could be her imagination, but after a while she began to think that Freddy Krane kept glancing her way. Freddy, a big, sloppy-looking man, with an unruly reddish beard and small piggy eyes, was old, at least fifty, and that was ten years older than her dad.
Lucia had dressed for the occasion in a short brown fake-leather skirt (unfortunately the real thing was far too expensive) and a midriff-baring white tee shirt that showed off her large breasts, encased in a flimsy bra, her nipples at attention through the thin material. Her long chestnut hair hung below her ass—she hadn’t cut it since she was eight.
She knew she looked hot. A couple of the waiters sniffed around trying to get her phone number. She politely declined, although she was secretly pleased they’d asked.
Carlos played and she swayed, moving her body in an undulating, provocative way. The sounds were primo, everything from N.W.A. to Santana to Mötley Crüe, with plenty of Marvin Gaye and Smokey Robinson thrown in for the nostalgia junkies.
Yes, Freddy Krane was definitely taking notice, even though he was surrounded by a bevy of blond beauties. Earlier in the evening one of the waiters (a would-be actor) had given her a list of the host’s credits. According to the waiter, Freddy Krane specialized in high-budget action movies and had worked with all the macho stars from Eastwood to Schwarzenegger. “He’s the real deal,” the waiter confided. “Word one from him, an’ you’re in his movie. You should go for it.”
“No thanks,” Lucia retorted. She craved stardom, but not at any price.
Just before midnight she spotted Linc Blackwood walking in. Linc Blackwood! Her favorite movie star! She’d seen all his movies at least three times. She could hardly believe it!
She nudged Carlos, who could have cared less. Carlos wasn’t into movie stars, he was into his record collection, his precious Mustang, smoking a little weed, and getting a lot of head.
“Look who it is,” she said in a low, excited voice.
“Stay cool,” Carlos responded, throwing her an irritable look.
“I can’t stay cool!” she wanted to scream. “It’s Linc Blackwood—recently voted the Sexiest Man Alive by People magazine. How can I possibly stay cool?”
She was breathless, in awe, her stomach churning. There were other famous faces at the party, but as far as she was concerned they meant nothing. Linc Blackwood was it.
She kept her eyes on him, checking out his every move. Women began swarming all over him, silicone-breasted blondes with overteased hair and all-American smiles. He didn’t seem to take much notice. He sat at a poolside table drinking and holding court. After a while he was joined by Freddy Krane and several more gorgeous girls. Freddy kept patting him on the back and howling with laughter.
Lucia moved her body to the sounds, giving a raw and sexy performance, the music sweeping away her inhibitions. She saw Freddy nudge Linc and gesture in her direction. Then, to her delight, the two men began watching her. She glanced at Carlos, who didn’t appear to have noticed. Her heart started beating fast—she was about to be discovered! After a few minutes Linc Blackwood was on his feet, holding a drink, pointing her out to one of the many girls who surrounded him.
The chosen girl nodded, then circumvented the pool and hurried over. “Hi,” the girl said.
“Hi,” Lucia replied. She wasn’t stupid; she knew the girl had been sent on a mission.
“I’m Zara Light,” the girl said in a distinctly English accent. “And you are . . . ?”
“Lucia.”
“Okay, Lucia,” Zara said briskly. “It’s your lucky night. Linc and Freddy have requested that you join them for a drink.”
“They did?” she responded breathlessly.
“That’s why I’m here,” said Zara, a pretty girl with dark curly hair.
“When?” Lucia asked blankly.
“Now,” Zara said, rolling her eyes.
Lucia glanced at Carlos. He was spinning away— caught up in an extended track of Ja Rule. Did she have to ask his permission?
No. It wasn’t as if they were married or anything. She was free to do whatever she wanted. And she wanted to go meet Linc Blackwood—her living, breathing fantasy.
She grabbed Carlos’s arm, causing a nasty glitch on the record.
“Fuck!” he exclaimed.
“I’ll be back,” she said quickly, and without any further explanation she was on her way to meet her favorite movie star.
Twenty-five minutes later, Lucia Conchita Sanchez and Linc Blackwood were rolling around on top of the king-size water bed in Freddy Krane’s master bedroom, clothes half off.
“I . . . I can hardly believe this is happening,” she murmured, completely starstruck.
“Believe it, kiddo,” Linc responded, pulling off her tee shirt. “You got great tits,” he added, expertly unclipping her bra and flinging it across the room. “They’re real, aren’t they?” She nodded speechlessly. “You got any idea how hard it is to come across real tits in this town?” he complained, caressing her nipples with his fingertips.
She didn’t know and she didn’t care. She only knew that from the moment she’d met him, her destiny was about to be fulfilled, and nothing else mattered.
When Linc wanted to, he could handle a woman in bed exactly the way he knew they all craved. He gave Lucia his full attention, enjoying her full, ripe breasts, the silky mound of black pubic hair between her long legs, the smooth curve of her generous ass.
He didn’t go for the gold immediately; many women along the way had taught him that plenty of foreplay led to real pleasure. So he got her hot first, spending time on her breasts, sucking on her large, erect nipples until she began moaning aloud.
Then he spread her legs, going down on her as if he really enjoyed it—which he didn’t. But what the hell, this one tasted sweeter than most.
Lucia was dazed and confused. How had this happened? She was not the kind of girl to jump into bed with someone on a first date. And this was not even a date. And she had a boyfriend, so obviously this was total insanity.
Or was it? Linc Blackwood was her hero, and how many times would she get an opportunity to be with the man of her dreams? An opportunity to be with a man who had the tongue of an angel or a devil . . . or . . . She gasped, struggling for breath, grabbing a pillow to cover her face as he went down on her. She was half embarrassed, half thrilled, half ashamed, half ecstatic.
What was she doing?
What was he doing?
Whatever it was, she was not stopping him.
They stayed in Freddy Krane’s bed all night, indulging in everything Lucia had ever dreamed of doing with Linc Blackwood. He made love to her every way imaginable, and he did not use a condom.
“You’re clean, aren’t you?” he asked at one point. “A virgin, right?”
If that’s what he wanted to think, it was okay with her. And she didn’t even care if he made her pregnant, because this time things were different, this time he would marry her and they’d live happily ever after in a big Hollywood mansion—the one she’d seen photographs of in People. And she’d become a movie star too. All her dreams would be realized.
Eventually she fell asleep in his arms, sticky and naked and satisfied.
The next morning she was awakened by someone shaking her shoulder. She opened her eyes. The events of the night before came flooding back. “Linc,” she murmured, rolling over to greet him.
Only it wasn’t Linc, it was Freddy Krane, standing beside the bed, bleary-eyed in a striped toweling bathrobe that flapped open, revealing that he had nothing on underneath.
“Ohmigod!” she muttered, grabbing a sheet to cover herself. “Why are you here?”
“Hate ta tell y a, doll,” Freddy said, pulling his robe closed. “Ya happen t’ be sleepin’ in my bed.”
“Where’s Linc?” she asked, alarmed.
“He hadda go, some kinda early meeting. Asked me t’ tell ya he had fun last night.”
She sat up abruptly, her mind racing in a hundred different directions. “Is that all he said?”
“Ya gotta realize Linc’s a busy man,” Freddy said, eyeing her as if she were prey and he were a hungry tiger.
“So . . . so you mean he’s gone?”
“That’s what I said.”
Suddenly realization dawned, the ramifications of what she’d done becoming horribly clear. She’d made love to a man she hardly knew. She’d spent the night with him. She’d done everything with him, opening up sexually in a way she never had before. And now he was gone. God! He might be a movie star, but what kind of man left her in a strange bed without a word?
“Hate ta rush you, only ya gotta move it,” Freddy said. “You can use the shower in the guest room, then hustle your cute ass outta here.”
“Where’s my . . . boyfriend?” she asked hesitantly.
“You got a boyfriend?” he said disbelievingly.
“The disc jockey, Carlos. Where is he?”
“Oh yeah, that’s the dude who was askin’ ’bout you,” Freddy said, yawning. “Told him you were with Linc.”
“What did he say?”
“Guess he was pissed.”
“Oh God!” she moaned, shaking her head.
“Don’t sweat it, he got paid cash for last night’s gig,” Freddy said, clearing his throat. “Ya gotta get goin’, puss. I’m a busy man.”
She was too embarrassed to look at him. “Can you turn your back?” she muttered.
“Sure, doll, only you don’t got nothin’ I ain’t seen before.” He turned around, whistling tunelessly.
She quickly grabbed the sheet, twisting it around her body. Then she gathered her clothes, which were scattered across the floor.
“What’s Linc’s phone number?” she asked, pausing at the door, convinced there must be some mistake.
“Ya ain’t gonna get through, honey,” Freddy said sympathetically. “Linc’s got assistants an’ minders up the kazoo.”
“Then I’ll give you my number, and you can ask him to call me,” she said, knowing she probably sounded like some desperate fan, only she couldn’t help herself, she’d honestly thought Linc cared.
“Look, sweetie,” Freddy said in a kindly tone. “Ya had a great time. Why doncha leave it at that?”
“Excuse me?” she said, her cheeks blazing with embarrassment. “I’m sure Linc wants to see me again.” “Yeah, yeah, doll, I’m sure too,” Freddy said quickly. “But in the meantime, why don’t I take ya ta dinner tonight? Who knows—you an’ I might hit it off.”
“Linc wouldn’t like that,” she said, fighting back tears, still living with the hope that this was all some big misunderstanding and that Linc would come walking into the room.
“S’matter of fact, he suggested it,” Freddy said casually. “Y’know, seein’ as he’s so busy an’ all.”
“I can’t believe he’d do that,” she said miserably.
“Hey—what’s wrong with me?” Freddy said indignantly.
“Nothing,” she muttered.
“Then let’s get together for dinner. You an’ I can have our own party.” He winked knowingly. “If y a know what I mean.”
She knew what he meant only too well. “No thank you,” she said stiffly.
“Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging. “Guest room’s first on the left. Give me a holler when you’re finished an’ I’ll get the maid t’ call you a cab.”
She marched from the room with as much dignity as she could muster.
So this was Linc’s deal—he’d used and discarded her like a disposable doll, then passed her on to his friend as if she was nothing. What a bastard! How could he treat her in such a way?
Her parents were furious that she’d stayed out all night. She’d had to make up some lame excuse about getting sick and sleeping over at a friend’s house. As for Carlos, he wanted nothing more to do with her, and quite frankly she couldn’t blame him.
A few weeks later, to her horror, she discovered she was pregnant. How could this happen to her again? Well, she knew how, only it simply wasn’t fair.
For several days she contemplated trying to reach Linc Blackwood to tell him. Finally she decided she had too much pride to do that. Her once-favorite movie star had treated her like a one-night whore, and she was not about to beg for his assistance.
Petrified that her parents would find out, she managed to pull a double shift at her waitress job. The extra money allowed her to move from her family’s home into a small apartment with her best girlfriend, Cindi Hernandez, who was also trying to break into show business.
Her parents were not pleased. They didn’t like Cindi; they considered her a bad influence. Lucia pointed out to them that she was eighteen and they couldn’t stop her.
As soon as she could, she scraped together enough money for a cheap abortion. It turned out to be a horrifying experience. No clean clinic. No one to help her. Just some old gnarly Mexican man in a back room who forced her to lie on a table, spread her legs, and treated her as if he was doing her a big favor.
She’d bled for days afterward, until Cindi forced her to go see a legitimate doctor. The doctor cleaned up the botched job, and before she left his office, the doctor callously informed her that she could never get pregnant again.
His words still haunted her.
• • •
In her heart, Lola had always known that one day she would get her revenge on Linc Blackwood.
Now, as she watched him enter the theater, she realized that day was enticingly near.