Dangerous Kiss Read online

  ‘Gino never hated me,’ Lucky had interrupted.

  ‘Well, you told me he always put you down ’cause you were a woman and he wanted his son to run his empire, right?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Lucky had said. ‘But I soon changed his mind.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Venus had said. ‘You got what you wanted. Now I’m going for what I want.’

  Lucky listened as Venus carried on about what her look for the evening ahead should be. She knew that her friend already had her entire outfit planned, but Venus liked affirmation.

  ‘And what are you wearing?’ Venus asked, when she finally stopped talking about herself.

  ‘Valentino,’ Lucky said. ‘Red. It’s Lennie’s favourite colour on me.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Venus said. ‘Sounds sexy.’ A pause. Then – ‘Is Alex coming?’

  ‘Of course,’ Lucky said matter-of-factly. ‘We’re all sitting together.’

  Venus couldn’t keep the purr out of her voice. ‘How does Lennie feel about that?’

  ‘Will you get off it?’ Lucky said, irritated that Venus was always trying to make a big deal out of her and Alex when there was absolutely nothing going on. ‘You know Alex and Lennie are good friends.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘No buts,’ Lucky interrupted briskly. ‘Take your fertile imagination and go write another song!’

  As soon as she hung up, she opened her desk drawer and took out the scribbled speech she planned on giving. She studied it for a few minutes, changing a word or two.

  One final read-through and she was satisfied.

  Tonight she was going to shock the socks off everyone in Hollywood.

  But, hey – shocking people – wasn’t that what her life was all about?

  Chapter Three

  ‘Fantastic! Unbelievable! More! More! Give me the lips! Those delectable lips!’ Fredo Carbanado crooned encouragement, his expressive Italian eyes flashing signals of deep lust as they appeared above his camera. ‘I get off on those luscious lips. More! Bellissima! More!’

  Brigette moved her body sensuously in front of the camera, giving him the exact poses he wanted. She was blonde and curvaceous, with luminous peaches-and-cream skin, enormous blue eyes fringed with the longest lashes, and full pouty lips. Devastatingly pretty and sexy in a child-woman way, her huge appeal had to do with a distinct air of vulnerability.

  ‘Can it, Fredo,’ she scolded, adjusting the top of her revealing coffee-coloured lace slip. ‘How many times must I tell you? I do not need to hear the riff. Save it for some new little bimbette who’ll get off on your phoney bullshit’

  Fredo frowned, forever puzzled that Brigette didn’t fall for him like all the other models.

  ‘Brigette!’ he said sadly, lowering his camera and pulling a disappointed face. ‘Why you always so mean?’

  ‘I’m not mean,’ she retorted. ‘Merely honest.’

  ‘No, you mean,’ Fredo said, scowling. ‘Mean and ornery.’

  ‘Thanks!’ she said tartly.

  ‘But, Fredo, he knows what you need,’ the Italian photographer said, nodding knowingly.

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘A man!’ Fredo announced triumphantly.

  ‘Ha!’ Brigette said, shifting her provocative pose. ‘What makes you think I’m into men? Maybe women do it for me.’

  ‘Hallelujah!’ exclaimed Fanny, her black lesbian makeup artist, stepping forward. ‘I’m here! All ya gotta do is say the word!’

  Brigette giggled. ‘Just f–ing with Mr Charm,’ she said sweetly.

  ‘As if I didn’t know,’ Fanny retorted, touching up Brigette’s full lips with a sable brush. ‘You have no idea what you are missin’. Women got it goin’, girl!’

  ‘Can we turn up the music,’ Brigette requested. ‘I so love Montell Jordan.’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ said Fanny. ‘If I was ever considering changin’ tracks, that’d be the man who’d do it for me!’

  ‘And if I made a switch,’ Brigette retorted, toying with all of them, ‘I’d definitely go for k.d. lang. Saw her at a benefit last week, she has, like, this insane sexual aura. It’s almost as if she’s Elvis or something.’

  ‘Dyke alert!’ screeched Masters, her hair stylist, a skeletal man dressed in a one-piece yellow jumpsuit with spiked hair to match.

  ‘Get out!’ said Brigette, giggling again.

  She loved the camaraderie of working on a shoot. These people were her family – even if Fredo was the lech of all time. He was a star photographer, and for that reason she would never dream of succumbing to his somewhat suspect charms, because Fredo could have anyone – and usually did. He went through models at an alarming rate, loving and leaving them like a regular Don Juan.

  Brigette watched him as he danced around behind his camera. Fredo missed being handsome on account of an exceptionally large nose, small eyes and alarmingly bushy eyebrows. He was also very short, which didn’t seem to faze him because most of his conquests towered over him. Her best friend, Lina, had given her a strong warning. ‘Stay away from Fredo,’ Lina had said, rolling her saffron-coloured eyes in a knowing fashion. ‘That boy fucks an’ tells. And in spite of all ’is boastin’, ’e’s got a tiny little dick! So, girlfriend, you do not wanna go there.’

  Lina was an incredibly exotic-looking black girl from the East End of London. At twenty-six she was a year older than Brigette, but in spite of their very different backgrounds, over the last eighteen months they had become good friends. Brigette had recently purchased an apartment in Lina’s building, so now they were neighbours on Central Park South.

  The fashion industry regarded them as supermodels. The very word ‘supermodel’ sent them both into paroxysms of uncontrollable laughter.

  ‘Supermodel, my arse!’ Lina would exclaim. ‘They should catch me in the mornin’ with me curlers in! Not a pretty sight!’

  ‘I can vouch for that,’ Brigette would reply.

  Lina’s turn. ‘An’ ’ow about you with no makeup? You look like a bloody albino caught in some bloke’s headlights!’

  Unlike Brigette, Lina went through men at an alarming rate. Rock stars were her favourites, but she wasn’t averse to any man as long as he was extremely rich and bought her lavish presents. Lina loved receiving presents.

  The other thing she loved was trying to fix Brigette up, but Brigette shied away from all involvements. She had a chequered history with men – as far as she was concerned they were all trouble. First boyfriend, young actor Tim Wealth. She’d been an innocent teenager with a crush; he’d been an ambitious man with an agenda. And he’d gotten himself beaten up and murdered – all because of his connection to her.

  Next there was the frightening encounter with the Santangelos’ arch enemy, Santino Bonnatti, who’d tried to sexually molest both her and her uncle, Bobby, when they were both kids. She’d shot Santino with his own gun. Lucky had tried to take the blame, but Brigette had made sure the truth came out. The judge had pronounced it a clear case of self-defence, and ordered her to check in with a probation officer once a month for a year. After that it was over.

  Then there was Paul Webster. She’d had a crush on Paul for a long time, right up until she got engaged to the wealthy son of one of her grandfather’s business rivals. When Paul finally came running, she’d decided a career was more important than any man, so she’d broken her engagement and concentrated on making it as a model. Unfortunately, one of the first people she’d hooked up with in the modelling world was Michel Guy, a top agent who’d turned out to be a sick pervert, forcing her to perform scenes with other girls, then blackmailing her with the photos. Once again Lucky had come to her rescue. Brigette loved and admired Lucky. She was her self-appointed godmother and a true friend.

  Since her disastrous experience with Michel Guy, Brigette had put men on the back burner, suspicious of their intent. And, apart from a brief affair with fellow model Isaac, that was it as far as involvements were concerned.

  ‘Doncha miss sex?’ Lina wa
s forever demanding, after another night of passion with one of her retinue of ardent – sometimes married – rock stars.

  ‘Not at all,’ was Brigette’s airy reply. ‘I’m waiting for the right guy, then I’ll make up for it.’

  Truth was she was wary of any serious involvement. To her, men spelled disaster and danger.

  Occasionally she dated. Not that she enjoyed the dating game – it was always the same dance. Dinner at a hot new restaurant; drinks at a happening new club; the inevitable grope; and then, as soon as they moved in for the kill, she moved on.

  Safe and never sorry, Brigette had found it was the only way to go.

  ‘What you and Lina do tonight?’ Fredo asked, snapping away.

  ‘Why?’ Brigette retorted, changing poses as fast as he clicked his shutter.

  ‘’Cause I got a cousin—’ he began.

  ‘No!’ she interrupted firmly.

  ‘From England.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘An English cousin?’

  ‘Carlo’s Italian, like me. He work in London.’

  ‘And you promised to fix him up with a couple of hot young models, right?’

  ‘It’s not like that, cara.’

  ‘I bet!’

  ‘Carlo is engaged.’

  ‘Even better,’ Brigette said, shaking her head vigorously. ‘Last fling before the wedding. I think not.’

  ‘So suspicious,’ Fredo grumbled. ‘I thought we could have nice dinner, the four of us. Just friends.’

  ‘The only thing you’re just friends with is your cat,’ Brigette said tartly. ‘And there’s been rumours about that . . .’

  Fanny and Masters, listening on the sidelines, shrieked with laughter. They loved seeing Fredo rejected, it was so unusual.

  Later, when the photo session was finished and Brigette was on her way out of his studio, Fredo stopped her by the door. ‘Please!’ he wailed. ‘I must impress my cousin. He’s what you Americans call a prick.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Brigette said crisply. ‘Now you want us to have dinner with a nasty guy. This is getting better every minute.’

  ‘Brigette,’ Fredo pleaded, ‘for me. It make me look good. One big favour.’

  She sighed. Suddenly Fredo the ladykiller appeared needy, and since she was a sucker for anyone in trouble, she immediately felt sorry for him. ‘Okay, I’ll ask Lina,’ she said, sure that Lina had a date with bigger and better, while she had a date with a double cheese pizza and an Absolutely Fabulous marathon on the Comedy channel.

  Fredo kissed her hand. He was still so Italian, in spite of having lived in America for many years. ‘You are special woman,’ he crooned. ‘My little American rose.’

  ‘I’m not your anything,’ she retorted crisply, and quickly skipped out of the studio.

  * * *

  ‘Don’t!’ commanded Lina.

  ‘What?’ said Flick Fonda, a married rock star with a penchant for gorgeous black women.

  ‘Don’t touch me feet!’ Lina warned, rolling away from her latest victim.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, crawling across the bed after her. ‘You ticklish?’

  ‘No,’ she said crossly. ‘Me feet are very sensitive – stay away!’

  ‘As long as that’s all I gotta stay away from,’ Flick said, with a ribald laugh.

  Lina tossed back her long straight black hair, inherited from her half-Spanish mother, and turned onto her stomach. She had hoped for Superman. What she’d got was an ageing rock star with no technique. She was bored with Flick. He was just another conquest and not that exciting between the sheets.

  The trouble with rock stars was that they were sated with women – all they really wanted to do was lie back and get their dicks sucked. Not that she was averse to such activity, but she did expect it to be reciprocal, and rock stars never cared to return the favour.

  She stretched languorously. ‘Gotta go,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ he said, lecherously eyeing her smooth black skin. ‘I have all night. My wife thinks I’m in Cleveland.’

  ‘Then she’s an idiot,’ Lina said, jumping off the bed in his sumptuous hotel suite. She’d met Flick’s wife once at a fashion show. Pamela Fonda was an ex-model who’d given him three kids in a pathetic attempt to keep him home. Trouble was, there was no one who could keep Flick home. The man craved constant action. He was a Hall of Fame rocker with a wandering cock and macho attitude.

  ‘Where you goin’?’ Flick whined, not used to women leaving unless he ordered them to.

  ‘Meeting my girlfriend,’ Lina said, plucking her skimpy Azzedine Alaïa dress off the floor and shimmying her slender body into it.

  ‘Whyn’t I take you both to dinner?’ Flick suggested, watching her as she dressed.

  ‘Sorry,’ Lina said, stepping into her scarlet Diego Dellia Valle exceptionally high heels. ‘We already got arrangements.’

  Flick stretched his sinewy body across the bed. He was naked, very white and quite hairless, apart from a full pubic bush of fuzzy orange. He was also hard again. Quite impressive for an almost-fifty non-stop raver, Lina thought. Shame he didn’t know what to do with it.

  He caught Lina looking. ‘See anything you might wanna hang around for?’ he asked, with a self-satisfied smirk.

  ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Can’t be late for me best friend.’ And before he could stop her she beat a hasty retreat.

  She stood in the elevator on her way down to the lobby trying to ignore an elderly couple who were blatantly staring at her. The woman began nudging her husband to make sure he recognized the famous supermodel.

  Lina was used to the scrutiny; in fact, there were times she got off on it. Tonight wasn’t one of them, however. She began staring back at the man, licking her full lips suggestively, poking out her extra long tongue. He blushed a dull red.

  Oh, yes, this was slightly different from the life she’d led in England where she’d been a hairdresser’s apprentice and treated like crap because she was young and had no money and lived in a one-room dump with her waitress mother, her Jamaican father having taken off shortly after she was born. What a bastard he was. Not that she’d ever met him, although one of these days – if he ever realized she was his daughter – he’d probably come crawling back to bask in the fame and glory.

  Fuck him if he did. She didn’t need a dad: she’d done very nicely without one.

  Everything changed when she was discovered by the aunt of a modelling agent who insisted she go see her niece. Even though Lina was only seventeen at the time, the niece, recognizing enormous potential, had signed her on the spot.

  After that it was all go, a dizzying ride to the top with plenty of adventures along the way.

  She’d moved to America permanently five years ago, although most of her time was spent travelling the world. From Paris to Milan to the Bahamas, Lina was always in demand, always the centre of attention.

  Downstairs she slipped the doorman ten bucks to get her a cab and fished a small cellphone from her oversized Prada purse. ‘Brig,’ she said, when her friend answered, ‘what we doin’ tonight? It just so ’appens I’m free.’

  Chapter Four

  Hanging out in his trailer during a late lunchbreak, Lennie Golden leaned over and grabbed a bottle of beer from his portable fridge, swigging heartily until the bottle was almost empty. Lennie was tall and lanky with dirty-blond hair and ocean-green eyes. He was extremely attractive in an edgy, offhand way, with a dark humour and sometimes acerbic wit. Age agreed with him: at forty-five, women found him more attractive than ever.

  Lennie liked being alone in his trailer where he could concentrate on his work, especially as he was writing an original script and was well into it. His laptop was laid out ready for action, so it was annoying that soon it would be time to put on black tie – which he hated – and get his ass in gear. He wasn’t into big-time Hollywood events, but since tonight it was Lucky who was being honoured, there was no getting out of it.

  Lucky Santangelo Golden, his wife – the most beautif
ul woman in the world and the smartest. He often thought how fortunate he was to have her, especially a few years ago when he’d spent several soul-destroying months as the victim of a horrible kidnapping plot, trapped and manacled in an underground cave in Sicily. He’d sat out those interminable months dreaming of his escape and of returning to Lucky and his children. Thank God his prayers had been answered. Now he was safe and settled and things had never been better.

  Looking back on his nightmare, it all seemed surreal – as if it had happened to someone else. If it hadn’t been for Claudia, the Sicilian girl who’d answered his prayers and helped him escape . . .

  A second assistant hammered on his trailer door, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Ready on the set, Mr G.’

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ he responded, shutting down his laptop, banishing the vision of Claudia with her big, soulful eyes, long tanned legs and smooth skin.

  Skin like silk . . .

  He’d never told Lucky what really happened, how he’d managed to secure his escape from the underground prison he’d been trapped in. He’d never told her and he never would. It was the one thing he kept from his wife because he didn’t want to hurt her.

  Lucky would not believe he’d had no choice. It was his secret, and he planned on keeping it.

  He turned off his laptop, left his trailer and headed for the street location nearby, greeting Buddy, his black cinematographer, with a friendly high five on the way.

  ‘Whass up, man?’ Buddy said, falling into step beside him. ‘No food today?’

  ‘Saving myself for the plastic chicken tonight,’ he answered, with a wry grin.

  ‘Yeah!’ Buddy said forcefully. ‘Bin there!’

  They both laughed.

  * * *

  Mary Lou Berkeley was feeling nostalgic. It was a week away from her ninth wedding anniversary and she couldn’t help thinking about how she and Steven had first met. Of course, what she should be thinking about was her role in Lennie’s movie, especially the upcoming scene. But reminiscing about Steven was irresistible. He was irresistible, and thankfully she still loved him as much as when they’d first gotten together. They were a perfect fit, and they always would be.