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The trouble with men was that most of them had no balls. Except her father. Jordan Levitt had balls enough for an army.

  Sometimes she thought about Jamie and Fran. Just as she sometimes thought about her mother, the exquisitely beautiful Lillianne who'd been dragged off to a mental institution when Jordanna was six. A few weeks later the fragile and famous Lillianne had slit her wrists and died a lonely, messy death.

  Daddy had mourned for a good three months before marrying the first of four other wives. Kim was number five. Why did he have to keep on getting married? What was wrong with staying single for a while?

  Jordanna sighed. The truth was, if he could do what he wanted, so could she. There was nothing and nobody to stop her.

  She considered phoning him back, then decided against it. She knew exactly what he'd say. Are you all right, skinny bird? Do you need money? When are we going to see you?

  Her answers were always the same. Yes, Daddy. No, Daddy. Soon.

  He loved her. In his own way.

  She clung on to the knowledge that he did. Without it she had nothing.

  * * *

  Sharleen climaxed with a piercing shriek. Mac was surprised the occupants of the house they were parked outside of didn't come running out to see what was going on. Would they get a surprise if they did. A half-naked movie star and a world-renowned director. What The Enquirer wouldn't give for this picture!

  Sharleen began wriggling into her clothes while Mac resumed his position behind the steering-wheel. Soon they were on their way home to Pacific Palisades, where they shared a large house with Sharleen's sixteen-year-old daughter and Mac's seventeen-year-old twin sons from a previous marriage.

  As soon as they hit Sunset, Mac drove fast, constantly checking the rear-view mirror, making sure they weren't being followed. Crime was on his mind a lot. Two months ago some tall skinny cokehead had sprung out at him in an underground parking structure, shoved a gun in his stomach and demanded his solid gold Rolex. He'd slipped it off his wrist and handed it over without a word. Once the robber had fled, he'd regretted the fact that he hadn't put up a fight.

  He would never admit it to Sharleen, but after the incident he'd felt less of a man. Whenever he related the tale to his friends he made light of it, but deep down he was sick that he hadn't fought back. Now he carried an unregistered gun and screw anybody who tried to take him.

  Back in his Brooklyn days he'd had real balls. Was it possible that twenty years in Hollywood had softened him up?

  Sometimes he thought his entire life was a dream - from amateur boxer in Brooklyn to Oscar-winning director in Hollywood. Quite a leap. With a little help from his friends.

  He tried not to think about the old days - his past was buried, and he didn't want anyone digging it up. The one time he'd done someone from his past a favour, it had ended in disaster. After that no more favours. Mac was an expert at keeping a low profile as far as his early beginnings were concerned. The truth would blow everyone's mind.

  Lately he'd had a strong urge to get rid of the yellow Rolls and buy a less conspicuous car. Unfortunately Sharleen wouldn't allow it, she was into image in a big way, as far as she was concerned the Rolls said it all.

  As they approached their house he noticed two police cars with blinking lights up ahead. 'Goddamn it!' he muttered, cops always made him uncomfortable - a hangover from his Brooklyn days.

  'What?' Sharleen said.

  'There's two police cars parked outside our house.'

  'Why?' Sharleen asked, reaching for her powder compact.

  'If I knew I'd tell you,' he replied shortly.

  She studied her perfectly made up face in the small compact mirror and began applying more lipstick. 'I suggest you find out.'

  Beautiful and sexy as she was, sometimes Sharleen got on his nerves. 'Sweetheart,' he said, trying hard not to let his aggravation show, 'that's exactly what I intend to do.'

  Chapter Two

  Michael Scorsini arrived in LA on a Friday night worn out, fucked up and ready to make a fresh start. He'd had it with New York.

  The airline had lost his one suitcase and didn't seem to care. Eventually he flashed his detective's badge, informing them they'd better damn well care or he'd arrest every one of them.

  That put a rocket up their collective asses. They tracked his missing luggage to Chicago and assured him it would be delivered to his door the next day.

  Fine. So he couldn't change his underwear for twenty-four hours. What did they care?

  Michael Scorsini was over six feet tall with dark olive skin inherited from his Sicilian ancestors, an athletic body, thick jet hair, penetrating black eyes and a straight nose. He was handsome with a dangerous edge - an irresistible combination.

  Women loved his looks, which made him forever suspicious. Did they chase after him because he was good-looking? Or did they genuinely like him as a person?

  He'd never figured out the answer to that one. Probably never would. As it was he'd yet to come across a woman who really understood him.

  He glanced around the airport. His friend and ex-partner, Quincy Robbins, was supposed to be meeting him, but there was no Quincy in sight, and Quincy was not easy to miss - big and black, he looked like a retired ball player who'd put on a pound or two. Michael found a pay phone and spoke to Amber, Quincy's wife, who informed him her husband's car had broken down on the freeway and there was no way he'd make the airport.

  'Don't worry, I'll take a cab,' Michael said.

  'Hurry up,' Amber said.

  Oh yeah, like he was dying to hang around the airport.

  Outside he hailed a taxi, gave the Iranian driver the Robbins' address, settled back, lit a cigarette and tried to relax.

  Who'd have thought Michael Scorsini would ever move to LA? Certainly not him. Certainly not his ex-wife, Rita - boy, was she in for a shock.

  Over the last six months circumstances had changed his life considerably. One moment he was living in New York, doing his job, missing his kid, but getting along OK. The next he got himself shot -fucking shot - in a drug bust gone wrong. And for several days his life hovered on the brink because the bullet had lodged dangerously close to his heart.

  Not close enough. They'd managed to remove it and he'd lived to tell the story. Rita hadn't even called.

  As soon as he'd recovered he'd taken stock. He had a daughter he never got to spend time with because his ex had moved her to LA; a series of interchangeable girlfriends; and a family in Brooklyn he rarely saw, which was fortunate because when they did get together all they managed to do was yell at each other.

  Michael Scorsini was thirty-eight years old and just about ready for a new life, so he'd requested a year's leave of absence from the police department, figuring that would give him enough time to get his head together and decide whether he wanted to continue being a detective. Because of the shooting they'd allowed him the time.

  Quincy had been in LA almost three years. He'd starred his own private investigation business, and was always bugging Michael to join him.

  He'd resisted, sure that New York was the only place to live. But after the shooting he couldn't wait to make a move, and the good thing about LA was that he'd be near his four-year-old daughter, Bella, whom he hadn't seen since Rita had shifted them both to the Coast with barely a goodbye almost a year ago.

  Rita was in for one big surprise, because Bella's daddy was coming back into the picture with a vengeance whether she liked it or not.

  Amber Robbins opened the door of her modest house with a baby under one arm, a toddler clinging to her skirt and a big welcoming smile. She was a pretty black woman with dazzling teeth and a touch too much flesh distributed over her five feet four inches. Quincy had met her through a dating service which he'd joined because of a bet. He swore it was the best seventy-five bucks he'd ever spent, even though his family were not thrilled on account of the fact that Amber was a former exotic dancer. Quincy had solved that minor problem by moving to California.

  'I'm forty-s
even years old,' he'd told Michael at the time. 'And my mama still treats me like I'm a kid!'

  'Michael!' Amber's delight was almost as big as her smile, she had a warmth about her that was very appealing.

  Well, well, lookit little momma.' He grinned, hugging her tight.

  'I put on a pound or two,' she admitted ruefully, enjoying the hug, then ushering him inside.

  'It suits you,' he said, handing her an FAO Schwartz shopping bag.

  'Hmm... you always were a damn fine liar,' she said, opening the bag and pulling out a giant panda and a cuddly teddy bear. 'For me?' she said, smiling widely.

  'Aw, just somethin' for the kids.'

  She kissed him on the cheek. 'You shouldn't have bothered, Mike, but thank you.'

  * * *

  The baby began to cry while the toddler tugged impatiently at her skirt.

  Michael stepped back and raised an eyebrow. 'Two of 'em, Amber. You couldn't wait, huh?'

  She blushed. 'What can I tell you? My husband's an animal and I love it!'

  'Yeah, yeah, he's an animal all right,' Michael agreed. Where is the asshole?'

  She settled the baby in its crib, talking over her shoulder. 'He called. They're towing his car.'

  'Bet he's thrilled,' Michael said, making his way through the cluttered living room, nearly tripping over a large furry toy lying in the middle of the floor.

  Amber headed for the kitchen, her two-year-old trailing behind her. 'You know our Quincy, Mister Impatient.'

  'Yeah, do I know Q!' he said, following her.

  She placed the toddler in a high chair and turned to survey him. 'Anyway, Michael, you look fantastic. I was expecting -'

  'A wreck - right?'

  What with the shooting and all...' she said, taking a jar of baby food from the fridge.

  He paced around the kitchen. 'I'm doing fine,' he assured her. 'In fact, now I'm here I'm doing great.'

  'Good,' she said, spooning apple sauce into the child's open mouth. 'Cause we want you to feel right at home.'

  'You know I will.'

  'I'm sorry we can only offer you the couch.'

  'I've had some of my best times on couches.'

  'I don't want to hear about your sex life,' she scolded, still smiling.

  'Hey, right now it's non-existent. I was hoping you had a girlfriend who looks exactly like you.'

  'Sweet talker! But I love every word of it!'

  'I only speak the truth.'

  'The good news is you can stay as long as you want. You know Quincy loves you like a brother.'

  'Yeah,' he nodded, scratching his stubbled chin. 'I feel the same way about him.'

  He thought about his friend for a moment. Quincy was one of the good guys, a very special person who'd taught him a lot. Back in New York they'd been partners for six years. Quincy had been like an older brother to him - a calming influence, because Michael had a wild streak and a temper he couldn't always control. It was better now he wasn't drinking, and getting shot was enough to calm anyone. Still, it was nice having a surrogate brother who'd watched out for him, especially as his real brother, Sal, was a low-life scumbag and he couldn't care less if he never set eyes on him again. Sal was a liar, a cheat and a con man, yet their mother, Virginia, still imagined the sun shone out of Sal's fat ass. Sal had always been her favourite when the two of them were growing up. Michael was the one who got to take the brunt of her anger, because she couldn't vent it on his father on account of the fact that the weak sonofabitch ran every time there was trouble, and in the Scorsini household there was always plenty.

  When he was ten his father had taken off permanently - kind of a moonlight flit thing - leaving them with no money and no forwarding address. Virginia was forced to take two jobs just so they could get by.

  It took her two years to track her missing husband. By the time she did, the man who was to become Michael's stepfather -Eddie Rowlinski - had moved in and taken over.

  Eddie was a tough bastard who drove a liquor truck for a living, and beat up Virginia and her two boys for sport. He was a bear of a man with hands like lethal weapons and a vicious temper. He was also a bad drunk.

  Eddie had kicked the shit out of Michael until one night, when he was sixteen, he'd run away, lied about his age and gotten a job as a bartender in New Jersey. He hadn't gone home for eighteen months, and by the time he did he was over six feet tall, strong and athletic.

  Shortly after he returned, Eddie got horribly drunk one night and tried to take a strap to him.

  He fought back, breaking his stepfather's nose. After that Eddie left him alone.

  A few months later he'd made it into the Police Academy, which really burned Eddie, not to mention Sal, because they both considered all cops the lowest form of life. Too bad. It had given him a feeling of strength and purpose, and after graduating with the highest score possible, he'd moved rapidly through the ranks, eventually - much to Eddie and Sal's continuing disgust -becoming a highly respected detective.

  The memories of Eddie were too disturbing, even today Michael had trouble thinking about him.

  So why was he? The aggravation wasn't worth it. It was almost as bad as remembering his real father, Dean, who'd lived in Florida for over twenty years with a new wife and family.

  Since Dean had walked out on them Michael had seen him twice - two uncomfortable short meetings arranged by him because he'd felt it important to attempt to get to know his real father. But it was not to be. Dean Scorsini had made it abundantly clear he was not interested in the family he'd left behind. He'd treated his son like a stranger, and after the second meeting Michael had decided never to try again.

  Such was life. A father who didn't care. A mother who wasn't capable of doing so. And a stepfather who was a sadistic sonofabitch. He'd survived. Just about.

  'How about a beer?' Amber suggested, wiping a dribble of apple sauce off her son's chin.

  'You got non-alcoholic?' he asked, wishing he could grab a can of ice-cold Miller's and demolish it in three great gulps.

  'Ooopps, sorry, I forgot,' she said quickly. 'Quincy told me you're in that... uh... AA thing.'

  The programme,' he said drily. Twelve steps to peace and serenity.'

  Amber didn't understand what he was talking about, nobody did unless they'd experienced it. The programme had saved his life long before he got himself shot. It hadn't saved his marriage - nothing could have done that.

  'Quincy will go to the store when he gets back,' Amber said.

  'No problem. I'll have a Seven-Up.'

  'Diet?'

  'Nope. I'll live dangerously an' take it regular.'

  'Help yourself,' she said, gesturing towards the fridge.

  'You know what, maybe I'll smoke a cigarette instead,' he decided.

  She pointed to the back door. Take it outside, Mike. You don't mind, do you? Quincy and I gave it up.'

  He smiled. 'So what vice do you two have?'

  Amber smiled back. 'Never you mind.'

  He wandered into their back yard, mentally checking out all the things he had to take care of. First on his agenda was renting an apartment because he didn't plan on spending too many nights on the Robbins' couch. He'd already decided it wasn't wise to contact Rita until he was settled. When he did reach her, she needed to know he was ready to spend time with Bella on a regular basis, and he didn't expect to have to deal with any of her shit.

  Rita was a piece of work. He'd married her because she was pregnant - for once in his life he'd done the right thing.

  Yeah. The right thing. Soon after she'd given birth, Rita had turned into a nagging shrew blaming him for everything, from the loss of her showgirl figure - wrong, she still had a sensational body - to her stalled career. What fucking career?

  Rita had been a waitress when Sal had introduced them, but like many pretty women she'd harboured aspirations to become a model or an actress. She was furious when she'd realized the baby tied her to the house. 'I have no freedom,' she'd often complain. 'I can't b
e stifled like this.'

  He couldn't understand what she was bitching about, as far as he could see she had plenty of freedom. Every weekend when he wasn't working he babysat, while she ran riot in the shopping malls with her flashy girlfriends, spending too much of his hard-earned money.

  Rita was charge-card crazy. When the monthly bills came in it drove him nuts. 'How many pairs of shoes can you wear?' he'd demand, completely exasperated.

  'As many as I want,' she'd reply, spoiling for a fight.

  Rita was a feisty one with her flaming red hair and a temper to match. She was also an outrageous flirt, and knew how to press every one of his buttons. It had worked in the early days when he'd thought he was in love.

  Four years of marriage and she could have fucked the New York Yankees for all he cared.

  When Rita left New York he'd been relieved, except that it meant he couldn't see Bella on weekends. At first he'd spoken to his little girl every Sunday, but after he was shot, communication broke down, and whenever he called all he got was an answering machine.

  He'd felt guilty, but, what the hell, he knew he'd make it up to her, he hadn't deserted Bella like his father had deserted him. He and Bella were going to spend a lot of time together, and if Rita didn't like it, too bad, she'd simply have to accept it.

  He loved his daughter and he was determined to start being a good father. It was time.

  Chapter Three

  Kennedy Chase was thirty-five years old and couldn't pay her rent. Well, technically she could, she had savings, a small portfolio of stocks and bonds, several well-invested Treasury notes and a modest house she owned in Connecticut. But dammit, her one golden rule was never to dip into her savings, and she stuck to that rule rigidly.

  The rent problem meant she'd have to do something she tried to avoid - a celebrity interview.

  Oh, God, no! She hated the thought of sitting down with some egomaniac who probably considered themselves real hot because God had given them good genes and a few lucky breaks.