Lovers & Players Page 2

  She moved off to get them both coffee. And maybe her demo CD?

  No! Too soon. I’ve got to develop a relationship. Like a cool waitress–customer kind of thing.

  Oh, yeah, now you can use the word waitress.

  That’s because he’s not some whiny white woman who thinks she’s better than me.

  ‘Waitress!’ screamed the woman in the knock-off Armani. ‘I’m getting nowhere here. Where are my eggs?’

  She was tempted to say, ‘Stuffed up your dried-up old snatch where nobody’s gonna find ’em.’ But she didn’t, because Manny and Golda wouldn’t approve and, as bosses go, they were decent people, and she didn’t want to get fired. Besides, she needed the job, and so did Cindi. As usual they were late on the rent, and bills were mounting. It was hard keeping up–they could never seem to get ahead.

  Before working in the coffee shop she’d tried a variety of jobs. All horrible. Being a waitress was the best of the bunch, although it was murder on her feet. Usually she took the day shift, leaving her evenings free to write songs and hang with her musician friends, including her current boyfriend, Kev, a guitar player. She’d been seeing him for a few months, and he was a nice guy, but nothing serious. She didn’t believe in serious, not before she’d forged a career.

  ‘They’re on their way,’ she yelled across the room at the hateful woman.

  ‘I should think so!’ the woman huffed, raising her painted-on eyebrows to let everyone know how pissed off she was.

  ‘Excuse me, Liberty,’ said an older, regular customer, sitting by himself at a corner table. ‘Might I get a refill?’

  This one never gave her any trouble and always tipped well. She flashed him a smile and her most used words: ‘Coming right up.’

  She grabbled a pot of freshly brewed coffee from behind the counter, filled the man’s cup and headed for Damon’s table. Only before she could get there, a young boy playing with a toy car scooted it in front of her, and bam–she tripped over the toy, taking a fall, coffee pot smashing to the ground, hot liquid burning her arm, right ankle twisted beneath her.

  Silence descended while everybody turned to stare at the crash site. After a few seconds, conversation resumed, and she was left sprawled on the floor, looking and feeling like a clumsy idiot.

  For a few seconds she didn’t know what to do, then she heard the horrible female customer laugh in a rude fashion. Quickly she got herself together, even though her arm was burning from the scalding liquid, but when she tried to stand, her ankle gave way under her.

  Fortunately Cindi and Mr Regular Customer came to her aid. The older man helped her to a chair, while Cindi began clearing up the broken glass and spilled coffee.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Mr Regular Customer asked, genuinely concerned.

  She nodded tearfully and shot a look across the shop to see if Damon was watching.

  He wasn’t. He was carrying on talking, gesticulating wildly, his diamond stud earring flashing against the fluorescent lights.

  She suppressed the urge to cry in earnest. Her arm was on fire, her ankle throbbed, and Damon P. Donnell hadn’t even acknowledged her existence. Was anything ever going to go right for her?

  Man, she needed a break and she needed it desperately.

  Chapter Two

  Jett Diamond had always experienced great success with women. They fell for his sexy Mediterranean blue eyes, sculpted cheekbones, the tousled lock of dirty blond hair that fell casually over his forehead, his athletic body and cocksure attitude.

  Jett took full advantage of his appealing looks. Getting women had never been a problem. Getting rid of them was the hassle. They came. They stayed. They wanted more–when all he wanted was for them quietly to remove themselves from his apartment without turning into hysterical wrecks.

  Gianna did not turn into a hysterical wreck when he informed her he had to leave for New York. Gianna was an Italian supermodel, edgy and assured: she was quite confident he’d be back before she even missed him.

  Jett had arrived in Italy three years ago. At the time he was broke, a recovering alcoholic and a druggie. Within months he’d managed to clean up his act–thanks to an excellent rehab programme–signed with a modelling agency and soon after had made a name for himself, appearing in popular cigarette and liquor commercials on TV, and in print ads for everything from expensive cars to designer suits. The camera captured his particular brand of sexiness combined with a lazy insouciance that made him a big hit. Italian women responded to his bad-boy good looks with great enthusiasm.

  Being a male model was hardly considered the most masculine career in the world, but it was one that enabled him to support himself in a decent fashion and not have to beg for handouts from his tight-fisted billionaire father or two half-brothers.

  When Jett had moved to Italy he’d distanced himself from them, which was a good thing. Nobody connected him to the Diamond family–especially as he only used his first name. Jett. An American model in Milan. Anonymous was the way to go.

  Gianna drove him to the airport in her latest acquisition–a gleaming yellow Lamborghini given to her by an ardent admirer. She and Jett enjoyed an open relationship, which suited them just fine. Neither of them wished to be tied down, they were both free spirits.

  Before leaving the apartment, Gianna had given him a world-class blow-job. He’d sat back and enjoyed it. Who wouldn’t? With her deliciously full lips and extraordinarily talented tongue, she certainly knew how to leave a man wanting more.

  He didn’t love her. But he sure loved what she did to him.

  As he boarded the plane, he wondered what his father wanted. Three years. No contact. And now the call from Lady Jane.

  You don’t have to go, his inner voice informed him.

  Really?

  Yeah, really.

  But, hey–I’m curious.

  Of course you are. He’s Red Diamond. And when he calls–everyone runs. Including you.

  It had been that way all his life.

  Five-year-old Jett was smart, but not smart enough for his father.

  The family were gathered in the garden of the farmhouse in Tuscany. His stunning mother, Edie–an ex-model with exquisite bone structure, his thirteen-year-old half-brother–Chris, making a rare visit and Red–a man whom, even at that young age, Jett regarded as a frightening figure.

  Jett had climbed up a tree and couldn’t get down. Earlier in the day he’d been forbidden to climb it by a stern-faced nanny. But later he’d watched Chris snake up the huge oak tree like it was nothing, and he’d thought, Why can’t I do that?

  Now he was trapped up high, clinging tightly to a branch, and he was scared. So scared that tears coursed down his cheeks and his sturdy legs were shaking.

  ‘Send up one of the guards,’ Edie pleaded, clutching a martini glass.

  ‘Hell, no,’ growled Red. ‘He got himself up there. Let the little bastard get himself down.’

  ‘But he could fall,’ protested Edie, nervously sipping her drink.

  ‘Teach the disobedient little asshole a lesson.’

  ‘He’s only five,’ Edie pointed out, her delicate hands trembling so hard that the ice in her drink clinked against the side of the glass.

  ‘The kid’s old enough to know better,’ Red said, in a hard voice.

  ‘I’ll climb up and get him,’ offered Chris. ‘’S easy.’

  ‘Anybody ask you, moron?’ Red shouted, glaring at his middle son.

  Chris faded into the background. It was safer that way.

  An hour passed. It was starting to get dark and rainclouds were gathering. Jett clung to the branch, almost losing his balance. By this time Red had sent everyone inside, and now he was walking towards the house himself.

  ‘Daddy!’ Jett screamed, his face contorted with fear. ‘Don’t leave me. Daddy! I’m scared. Daddy! Help me! Please!’

  Red turned round, and looked up at the small boy whose eyes were wide with terror. ‘Life lesson number one,’ he roared. ‘Never do anything
you can’t get yourself out of. Remember that, you stupid little piece of shit.’

  Later that night, when he was sure everyone was asleep, Chris had snuck out of the house, climbed the tree and helped his sobbing brother down.

  The next morning both of them received a fierce beating with Red’s steel-tipped cane, and immediately after that, Chris was put on a plane back to America.

  Jett wished his big brother was always around to save him. But it wasn’t to be.

  The tree incident was only the beginning.

  Max Diamond was anxious to find out what the hell Red wanted. His best guess was that the old man had a terminal illness and wished to make amends for the way he’d treated everyone over the years. Especially his three sons whom he’d never given a shit about.

  At forty-three, Max was one of the most successful real-estate tycoons in New York. He’d made it on his own with no help from his father. In fact, having Red Diamond as a dad was detrimental all the way. When he’d started out in business people had expected him to be rolling in money–but he’d never had a dime from his old man–he’d done it by himself. Hard work paid off, and Max had always been willing to work, asking no help from anyone, building his own empire. He’d certainly succeeded–until now: two banks had backed out of a major building project in Lower Manhattan that was already under construction. The multi-million-dollar commercial project needed an influx of funding immediately, or there was a chance he could lose everything.

  Max was the oldest Diamond brother. Jett, at twenty-four, the youngest, and then there was thirty-two-year-old Chris. All three had different mothers. Max’s mother, Rachel, had died shortly after giving birth to him. Chris’s mother, Olivia, had perished in a plane crash. And Jett’s mother–the once beautiful Edie–lived out in Montauk nursing a steady supply of vodka and a series of decades-younger boyfriends.

  Everyone knew about Edie Diamond and her bad habits. She was notorious. And who had made her that way? Red Diamond, of course. The old man had no respect for women and treated them badly. His pattern was to conquer, marry and destroy. He’d certainly done that to Edie.

  Max had struck out in the marriage stakes once. He’d experienced a New York divorce with legs. His ex, Mariska–a Russian-born, steely-eyed blonde who lived to see her name mentioned in Suzy’s column–had harboured no intention of going away quietly, in spite of an enormous financial settlement. They shared a child, Lulu, a very pretty, somewhat spoiled five-year-old. Mariska and Lulu resided in a luxurious penthouse in one of the Diamond buildings, the apartment was part of Mariska’s more than generous settlement.

  Max spent most weekends with his young daughter, whom he adored. They got along fine, enjoying all kinds of fun activities, such as riding on Max’s Lear jet to Disneyworld in Florida, or a quick trip to the Bahamas for the water-slides at the Atlantis, Lulu’s favourite hotel. Lulu loved spending time with her daddy, and the feeling was mutual.

  Recently he’d gotten engaged. This had infuriated Mariska, who had always imagined that she would be the one to remarry first. ‘Why you do this?’ she’d demanded haughtily. ‘You do not need another wife.’

  Tough. He was getting married again, and this time he would make sure it lasted. He had no intention of ending up like his father with several ex-wives and three sons whom Red didn’t give a damn about, and never had.

  Junior prom and sixteen-year-old Max had a date with Rosemary, his steady girlfriend of one year, a pretty girl in a pink dress with roses in her hair and a toothy smile. Max had it all figured out–tonight was definitely the night. They’d been seeing each other for long enough, and although they’d done some pretty heavy necking, he was confident that later Rosemary would allow him to go all the way. They’d talked about it enough times, and he had condoms in his pocket so he was well prepared.

  The prom was a blast. They danced all night, both got loaded, and on the way back to the house on 68th Street, she let him feel her up in the limo. Red and Max’s step-mother, Olivia, were out of the country, leaving his five-year-old half-brother, Chris, with a nanny, so taking Rosemary to the house instead of some tacky hotel seemed like a no-brainer.

  They began necking in the library with the Grease soundtrack playing on the stereo–Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta belting out ‘You’re The One That I Want’. Max was in full swing: he had the top of Rosemary’s dress pulled down round her waist and her skirt hiked up. She had full, luscious breasts that he wanted to bury his head in, and a mound of curly black pubic hair that surprised him because there was so much of it. He knew that this was it: they were about to go all the way, the first time for both of them.

  Just as Max was struggling to put on a condom, Red Diamond burst into the library, flicking on all the lights.

  ‘Dad!’ Max stammered, desperately trying to cram his hard-on back into his pants. ‘I–I thought you were away.’

  ‘Is that what you thought?’ Red said, eyeing Rosemary, who was so embarrassed she didn’t know what to do first–cover her breasts or pull down her skirt.

  ‘Crap, Dad!’ Max mumbled. ‘We’re on our way outta here. I–I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘Get your horny ass up to your room,’ Red interrupted, still watching Rosemary. ‘I’ll see the young lady gets home safely.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Get out, you horny little fuck!’ Red snapped. ‘Now!’

  To his ongoing shame, Max had left his half-dressed girlfriend alone with his father and slunk up to his bedroom, limp dick hanging forlornly between his legs.

  The next morning he called Rosemary. She refused to come to the phone. This went on for several days until her uptight-sounding mother informed him that Rosemary had left for an extended stay in Europe, and would he please stop bothering her.

  It wasn’t until four years later, when he was in college, that he’d run into Rosemary at a party. At first she’d tried to avoid him, but later he’d found out the real truth about what had taken place that fateful night. According to Rosemary, after he’d left the room, Red had forced himself upon her, raping her repeatedly until she’d fainted. When she’d recovered consciousness, Red had sent her home in a cab, threatening her with bodily harm if she told anyone what had taken place. Unable to stay quiet, she’d immediately told her parents and her father had stormed over to the house to confront Red.

  After a long scene, Red had agreed to pay Rosemary’s family a great deal of money in exchange for their silence.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Max demanded. ‘Or go to the police?’

  Rosemary shrugged as if it really didn’t matter, although the pain behind her eyes revealed a different story. ‘We both know there’s nothing anyone could’ve done,’ she said. ‘Your father’s got connections. Mine hasn’t.’

  It was as simple as that.

  So, Red Diamond got away with raping a sixteen-year-old girl. And not just any girl: Max’s first true love, his steady girlfriend.

  When he’d confronted Red, his father had laughed at him. ‘She was begging for it, son,’ he’d sneered. ‘Frothing at the bit. She needed a real man, not a useless specimen like you.’

  ‘But she was my girlfriend, Dad. My girlfriend.’

  ‘Let this teach you a lesson about women,’ Red lectured. ‘You can never trust ’em. Never. They’re all whores one way or the other. You’ll find out soon enough.’

  And that was the only time they’d ever discussed it.

  Chris’s star client, Jonathan Goode, was setting off on a multi-city European tour to launch his latest movie, so Chris hitched a ride on the corporate jet the studio had thoughtfully provided to fly their star to New York, then onto Europe.

  Jonathan Goode was an extremely famous worldwide movie star, but he was also a quietly pleasant man in his mid-thirties who did not appear to be driven by an out-of-control ego. In spite of being low-key, he was accompanied by the usual star entourage: his hawk-eyed manager, his female agent, an overbearing PR woman, a muscled fitness trainer, a lesbia
n stylist, his French personal chef, and two extremely efficient assistants. There was also his current girlfriend, a curly-haired Armenian actress who spoke very little English and smiled a lot, especially when there were cameras around.

  Rumours about Jonathan’s sexuality abounded. Was he gay? Bisexual? Or simply not interested?

  Chris didn’t know and he didn’t care. Jonathan was a nice, unassuming guy, and what he did or didn’t do in bed was nobody’s business except his.

  ‘How come this last-minute trip?’ Jonathan asked, settling into a plush leather seat as two attractive flight attendants–a male and a female hand-picked by his manager–hovered over him.

  ‘Family,’ Chris replied, fastening his seatbelt.

  ‘Ex-wife? Mother? Sisters?’ Jonathan inquired, not really interested, but always polite.

  ‘I don’t have an ex-wife,’ Chris said. ‘My mom’s deceased. And no sisters.’

  ‘I have three older sisters,’ Jonathan said with a self-deprecating grin. ‘They taught me everything I don’t know about women.’

  Chris smiled, and understood why females across the world worshipped Jonathan Goode. He had that all-American boyish thing going for him. Like Kevin Costner and Tom Cruise, he had a hero aura, an aura that was extremely appealing to both women and men.

  ‘Excuse me, Jonathan,’ one of his assistants said, hurrying over and handing him a cellphone. ‘It’s Les Moonves, he’d like a word.’

  Jonathan took the cell, while Chris picked up a magazine which happened to feature a buff-looking Jonathan on the cover practising some kind of martial arts.

  It pleased him that the movie star seemed totally unaware that his father was Red Diamond. He’d never tried to hide it–on the other hand he’d never advertised it either. If people were curious, he steered them off the subject. Now that he’d managed to establish himself as one of the top entertainment lawyers in L.A., nobody asked or even cared.