Lovers and Liars
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Synopsis
LOVERS . . .
Belinda—The movie mogul’s sensual, stunning daughter, she was determined to make it on her own as a screenwriter. Independent and driven to succeed, she never dreamed she’d be sidetracked by her own need for a Hollywood superstud who made her feel like a woman . . . and act like a whore.
Jack—The street tough who became the sexiest star in Hollywood. He was hooked on pleasure and pretty women, but the dark secret in his past made him hot to seduce Belinda for the sweetest of all reasons—revenge.
AND LIARS
In Hollywood the last words a woman should believe are spoken when she’s between black satin sheets and in her lover’s arms.
Release date: March 16, 2011
Publisher: Dell
Print pages: 416
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Lovers and Liars
Brenda Joyce
1
Heads turned.
Today she didn’t just look like a star, she felt like one. She was on top of the world—the world was at her feet. “Adam!”
She made a stunning figure. She was not as tall as one thought, five feet six or so, taller now in high-heeled pumps, clad in a pencil-thin black skirt that showed off strong, muscular legs. Her shoulders were broad under an even broader neon-orange jacket, as straight as the skirt, and her golden hair fell in glorious, disheveled waves to her shoulders. Her face was model-perfect, with high cheekbones, straight nose, full, sensual lips, and a strong jaw.
Adam Gordon rose as she made her way among the tables of the Bistro Garden. “Belinda, you’re dazzling today.”
She grinned, allowing him to seat her, once again impressed by his old-world charm. She had forgotten it still existed. “Adam, we are celebrating. I want the best champagne in the house. My treat,” she added quickly. Normally she would never be so extravagant in a town where extravagance was the norm, for she could not afford it. But today she was three hundred and fifty thousand dollars richer—three hundred and fifty thousand dollars!
Adam, tall, dark, and slim—and not her type—took her hand. She was still surprised that she had agreed to go out with him and told herself it was not because he and her father seemed to dislike each other so intensely. “Share the news,” he said. His look was warm.
“My screenplay has sold! God! Finally! North-Star bought it. In fact, they’re picking it up as a vehicle for Jackson Ford. Do you know who Ford is?”
This was Hollywood. And Adam was a lawyer in one of the largest firms in L.A. Among the firm’s numerous clients, both corporate and otherwise, were the likes of Charlton Heston and Joan Collins. It was his business to know everything about the entertainment business. “Of course. He’s on that television detective series—or was. The show’s been canceled and North-Star grabbed him. He’s a very hot property right now, maybe the hottest. Congratulations, Belinda,” Adam said, smiling, but he was wondering if this was going to interfere with his plans.
“Oh, Adam, I’ve waited so long for this—so damn long!” She thought about the one screenplay she had sold two years ago, the one that had never even made it into production. But this time was different. This time North-Star was the producer, not some small independent; this time it was a vehicle for a super-hot property; this time it was going all the way. “I think I’ve finally made it, Adam. All those years of listening to ‘Why don’t you go and get a real job?’ ”
Adam smiled. “You have made it.”
“There’s more. They’re interested in another product of mine, so I’m crossing my fingers. We may be making another sale soon.”
“Then this is definitely cause for celebration.”
Belinda started to bite a long red nail, then promptly stopped. “I think Ford is hot,” she said tensely. “But can he act …”
It was a rhetorical question, so Adam ordered a bottle of Cristal champagne.
“I mean,” she mused, “he has been nominated for Best Actor in a Dramatic Series every year since he got the show, but so what, right? Has he won?” she demanded. “I mean, granted, he has the greatest ass and an even better smile, but …” She sighed. “I’m so nervous, Adam. I want everything to be perfect. I can’t help it—this is my ticket to success. If the box office is good for this, God, imagine if it was one of those weekend multi-million-dollar grossers! Damn! I wish Mel Gibson was doing the role. Everyone knows he can act.”
“Ford will sell tickets,” Adam assured her. “He is very hot right now.” Belinda gave him a grateful smile, but her mind was light-years ahead.
Production was scheduled to start in December. Thinking about it made her stomach twist into knots. This was her first sale (the other not counting), and Outrage was her baby. She was determined to ride this ticket all the way down the pike. She wanted to be in on all the rewrites. If she managed to stay in—and she’d been in this town long enough to know how rare that was, for writers were changed as easily as a pair of pants and discarded with less thought than pantyhose—there would be a lot of ass-kissing and compromising. She wanted desperately to stay in. She wanted this film, Outrage, to be better than good, to be fantastic.
She could not concentrate on Adam or lunch. She wanted to be back at home, at her IBM PC, polishing up the climax of her third screenplay—just in case.
Home was a weathered gray beach house in Laguna Beach, a good hour’s drive south of L.A. and Hollywood. The house literally hung over the beach, on stilts. It was small and traditional on the outside, eclectic on the inside, with breathtaking views of Catalina and the surf. The floors were faded pine, the ceilings high and beamed, with an enormous skylight over the living room. There was barely any furniture, just the basics—a couch, a few chairs, a pine chest serving as a cocktail table. An oversized painting that was a birthday present from her grandparents dominated the room, taking up all of one wall. Done almost in a Fauvist style, with vivid colors and contrasts, it was a scene of a yacht and a navy destroyer in the New York harbor during the bicentennial celebration. Belinda had fallen in love with the painting in a San Francisco gallery. She had never dreamed she would own it. Next to her IBM PC, it was her most cherished possession.
A big black Lab greeted her at the door as she walked in, and she bent to scratch his head, then began to shed her shoes and hose in the middle of the living room. She thought about her parents. Shouldn’t she call them?
Her father didn’t give a damn.
Not that she cared. Maybe once, a long time ago, but not anymore.
Still … The biggest moment of her life, and she really had to face it, she had no one to share it with except some casual date. That or Vince.
If she looked too hard at that fact, she’d have to face some inescapable conclusions, so Belinda quickly paced to the huge glass doors that slid open onto a deck, bare except for plants and a waist-level glass windscreen. She stared out at the calm blue water, the surfers, and the boats with their white-and-blue sails flapping in the breeze.
After just a few minutes she turned and looked at the phone. So what if her father didn’t care? Didn’t she have some kind of inalienable right to share the biggest moment of her life with him? She crossed to the phone with long, aggressive strides.
The receptionist put her right through. The next phone rang four times before it was answered by one of the dozen secretaries working for Glassman. As usual, a tone of harassment seeped through the veneer of professional courtesy.
“Mr. Glassman, please,” Belinda said, wondering if her own voice sounded tense. For some reason the phone had gotten a bit clammy in her hand.
“Whom may I—”
“Belinda. Glassman. His daughter.”
That got the secretary off balance. She heard the indrawn breath. She never called her father, ever, not at work, not outside work, and she hadn’t been to his office since she was fifteen. But now, after a three-minute pause, the secretary informed her that she would have to call back later. Mr. Glassman was in a meeting and could not take the call. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“Forget it,” she said quickly. She hung up. Just as well. It was a bad idea.
Should she call her mother?
She started to think about the night ahead. She wanted to celebrate. Too bad today wasn’t Friday, because there was that North-Star party she had been invited to and had no intention of missing. But today wasn’t Friday, and she had always been a loner, even as a child, and it never bothered her—except at times like these.
She suddenly had a nostalgic longing for Dana—her best friend as a teenager. They had drifted apart when Dana had gotten married, and now she was a mother three times over. Belinda guessed that marriage and motherhood suited Dana, but she couldn’t imagine herself ever in that role. It wasn’t because she was such a loner and just couldn’t get close to people; it was rather because she knew men too well and had long ago given up her childish dreams of finding some kind of Prince Charming to share her life with. Most men wanted one thing, and Belinda knew exactly what that was. But that was okay. Belinda wanted it too. It was the lies that she could live without—and she intended to do just that.
Still, this moment cried out to be shared with someone special.
But there was no one, so Belinda shrugged the need away. Of course it would have to be a man. Her mind formed an image of massive male pectorals, thickly matted with black hair. Sometimes there was nothing interesting at all out and about. Other times they all came out of the woodwork.
She hadn’t had a really good fuck in too long. What she needed was to be super turned on.
Thinking about men and her needs made her look at the answering machine, and sure enough the light was blinking. She already knew who it was. Vince. Vince was good in bed, but …
She found her black book and flipped through. Rick, Ted, Harry (who in hell was Harry?), Brad, Tony …
Tony. Tony was very, very good. A bar pick-up, because Belinda didn’t believe in attachments. They were all one-nighters or short flings. Tony was really good. The more she thought about it, the more she remembered how much he liked giving head.
Heads turned.
Today she didn’t just look like a star, she felt like one. She was on top of the world—the world was at her feet. “Adam!”
She made a stunning figure. She was not as tall as one thought, five feet six or so, taller now in high-heeled pumps, clad in a pencil-thin black skirt that showed off strong, muscular legs. Her shoulders were broad under an even broader neon-orange jacket, as straight as the skirt, and her golden hair fell in glorious, disheveled waves to her shoulders. Her face was model-perfect, with high cheekbones, straight nose, full, sensual lips, and a strong jaw.
Adam Gordon rose as she made her way among the tables of the Bistro Garden. “Belinda, you’re dazzling today.”
She grinned, allowing him to seat her, once again impressed by his old-world charm. She had forgotten it still existed. “Adam, we are celebrating. I want the best champagne in the house. My treat,” she added quickly. Normally she would never be so extravagant in a town where extravagance was the norm, for she could not afford it. But today she was three hundred and fifty thousand dollars richer—three hundred and fifty thousand dollars!
Adam, tall, dark, and slim—and not her type—took her hand. She was still surprised that she had agreed to go out with him and told herself it was not because he and her father seemed to dislike each other so intensely. “Share the news,” he said. His look was warm.
“My screenplay has sold! God! Finally! North-Star bought it. In fact, they’re picking it up as a vehicle for Jackson Ford. Do you know who Ford is?”
This was Hollywood. And Adam was a lawyer in one of the largest firms in L.A. Among the firm’s numerous clients, both corporate and otherwise, were the likes of Charlton Heston and Joan Collins. It was his business to know everything about the entertainment business. “Of course. He’s on that television detective series—or was. The show’s been canceled and North-Star grabbed him. He’s a very hot property right now, maybe the hottest. Congratulations, Belinda,” Adam said, smiling, but he was wondering if this was going to interfere with his plans.
“Oh, Adam, I’ve waited so long for this—so damn long!” She thought about the one screenplay she had sold two years ago, the one that had never even made it into production. But this time was different. This time North-Star was the producer, not some small independent; this time it was a vehicle for a super-hot property; this time it was going all the way. “I think I’ve finally made it, Adam. All those years of listening to ‘Why don’t you go and get a real job?’ ”
Adam smiled. “You have made it.”
“There’s more. They’re interested in another product of mine, so I’m crossing my fingers. We may be making another sale soon.”
“Then this is definitely cause for celebration.”
Belinda started to bite a long red nail, then promptly stopped. “I think Ford is hot,” she said tensely. “But can he act …”
It was a rhetorical question, so Adam ordered a bottle of Cristal champagne.
“I mean,” she mused, “he has been nominated for Best Actor in a Dramatic Series every year since he got the show, but so what, right? Has he won?” she demanded. “I mean, granted, he has the greatest ass and an even better smile, but …” She sighed. “I’m so nervous, Adam. I want everything to be perfect. I can’t help it—this is my ticket to success. If the box office is good for this, God, imagine if it was one of those weekend multi-million-dollar grossers! Damn! I wish Mel Gibson was doing the role. Everyone knows he can act.”
“Ford will sell tickets,” Adam assured her. “He is very hot right now.” Belinda gave him a grateful smile, but her mind was light-years ahead.
Production was scheduled to start in December. Thinking about it made her stomach twist into knots. This was her first sale (the other not counting), and Outrage was her baby. She was determined to ride this ticket all the way down the pike. She wanted to be in on all the rewrites. If she managed to stay in—and she’d been in this town long enough to know how rare that was, for writers were changed as easily as a pair of pants and discarded with less thought than pantyhose—there would be a lot of ass-kissing and compromising. She wanted desperately to stay in. She wanted this film, Outrage, to be better than good, to be fantastic.
She could not concentrate on Adam or lunch. She wanted to be back at home, at her IBM PC, polishing up the climax of her third screenplay—just in case.
Home was a weathered gray beach house in Laguna Beach, a good hour’s drive south of L.A. and Hollywood. The house literally hung over the beach, on stilts. It was small and traditional on the outside, eclectic on the inside, with breathtaking views of Catalina and the surf. The floors were faded pine, the ceilings high and beamed, with an enormous skylight over the living room. There was barely any furniture, just the basics—a couch, a few chairs, a pine chest serving as a cocktail table. An oversized painting that was a birthday present from her grandparents dominated the room, taking up all of one wall. Done almost in a Fauvist style, with vivid colors and contrasts, it was a scene of a yacht and a navy destroyer in the New York harbor during the bicentennial celebration. Belinda had fallen in love with the painting in a San Francisco gallery. She had never dreamed she would own it. Next to her IBM PC, it was her most cherished possession.
A big black Lab greeted her at the door as she walked in, and she bent to scratch his head, then began to shed her shoes and hose in the middle of the living room. She thought about her parents. Shouldn’t she call them?
Her father didn’t give a damn.
Not that she cared. Maybe once, a long time ago, but not anymore.
Still … The biggest moment of her life, and she really had to face it, she had no one to share it with except some casual date. That or Vince.
If she looked too hard at that fact, she’d have to face some inescapable conclusions, so Belinda quickly paced to the huge glass doors that slid open onto a deck, bare except for plants and a waist-level glass windscreen. She stared out at the calm blue water, the surfers, and the boats with their white-and-blue sails flapping in the breeze.
After just a few minutes she turned and looked at the phone. So what if her father didn’t care? Didn’t she have some kind of inalienable right to share the biggest moment of her life with him? She crossed to the phone with long, aggressive strides.
The receptionist put her right through. The next phone rang four times before it was answered by one of the dozen secretaries working for Glassman. As usual, a tone of harassment seeped through the veneer of professional courtesy.
“Mr. Glassman, please,” Belinda said, wondering if her own voice sounded tense. For some reason the phone had gotten a bit clammy in her hand.
“Whom may I—”
“Belinda. Glassman. His daughter.”
That got the secretary off balance. She heard the indrawn breath. She never called her father, ever, not at work, not outside work, and she hadn’t been to his office since she was fifteen. But now, after a three-minute pause, the secretary informed her that she would have to call back later. Mr. Glassman was in a meeting and could not take the call. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“Forget it,” she said quickly. She hung up. Just as well. It was a bad idea.
Should she call her mother?
She started to think about the night ahead. She wanted to celebrate. Too bad today wasn’t Friday, because there was that North-Star party she had been invited to and had no intention of missing. But today wasn’t Friday, and she had always been a loner, even as a child, and it never bothered her—except at times like these.
She suddenly had a nostalgic longing for Dana—her best friend as a teenager. They had drifted apart when Dana had gotten married, and now she was a mother three times over. Belinda guessed that marriage and motherhood suited Dana, but she couldn’t imagine herself ever in that role. It wasn’t because she was such a loner and just couldn’t get close to people; it was rather because she knew men too well and had long ago given up her childish dreams of finding some kind of Prince Charming to share her life with. Most men wanted one thing, and Belinda knew exactly what that was. But that was okay. Belinda wanted it too. It was the lies that she could live without—and she intended to do just that.
Still, this moment cried out to be shared with someone special.
But there was no one, so Belinda shrugged the need away. Of course it would have to be a man. Her mind formed an image of massive male pectorals, thickly matted with black hair. Sometimes there was nothing interesting at all out and about. Other times they all came out of the woodwork.
She hadn’t had a really good fuck in too long. What she needed was to be super turned on.
Thinking about men and her needs made her look at the answering machine, and sure enough the light was blinking. She already knew who it was. Vince. Vince was good in bed, but …
She found her black book and flipped through. Rick, Ted, Harry (who in hell was Harry?), Brad, Tony …
Tony. Tony was very, very good. A bar pick-up, because Belinda didn’t believe in attachments. They were all one-nighters or short flings. Tony was really good. The more she thought about it, the more she remembered how much he liked giving head.
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