Jackie Collins, page 30
like-boring, boring, boring. Or she could say yes to the accounting
firm-another laugh a minute. Her third alternative was to take the job
with this bossy, redheaded woman. It could prove to be interesting.
"Well?" the woman said abruptly. "Are you joining us or not?"
"What's the salary?"
"Not enough," the woman replied brusquely.
"I need to make a decent salary. I have to get an apartment and afford
to eat."
"You can share an apartment and starve. Builds character. Let me know
when you make up your mind. You have exactly five minutes to think
about it. After that, my dear girl, this job opportunity is over."
eece Webster had her exactly where he wanted her-pinned beneath him,
waiting for the big moment, almost begging. He knew he gave her good
loving, the best she'd ever had, so he could afford to keep her
hanging.
He paused in mid-thrust. "What's your name, little lady?" he
demanded.
"Cyndra," she gasped.
He prolonged the moment. "Cyndra what?"
"Don't torture me, Reece."
"Cyndra what?"
"Cyndra Webster."
He laughed, and let her feel him move inside her. "Who owns you now?
She moaned, almost there. "You do."
"An' who's gonna love you till you drop?"
"You are.
Now he heated up the action. "And who am I?"
"You're. . . my. . . husband."
"Damn right, baby. Damn right!" He let rip and she came on cue.
What a stud! Nobody did it like he did.
Cyndra shuddered and rolled away from him, curling her beautiful body
into a tight ball. Some guys might be offended by her immediate
withdrawal, but not Reece Webster-he was a man, a real man, and he
could take it. In fact, it was a relief-women who wanted to cuddle and
talk after sex gave him that Let's get outta here feeling.
The good news was he'd finally had the smarts to shed his first wife, a
going-nowhere blonde, and two days later he'd turned around and married
his little darkie songbird. Now this was a girl destined to go places,
and he, Reece Webster, was going right along with her.
Cyndra Angelo was an investment. He'd married her to protect
himself.
Reece Webster was five feet ten inches tall, with sandy hair, a thin
blond mustache, slit eyes and a penchant for wearing flashy cowboy
clothes, even though he'd been born in Brooklyn. At thirty-eight he
was sixteen years older than Cyndra, but as far as he was concerned
this was a good thing. It meant she didn't know as much as he did.
He could mold her any way he wanted, and that's exactly what he was
doing.
They'd met in New York at a club where her boyfriend was working as a
bouncer. Joey hadn't stood a chance once Reece Webster moved in.
After introducing himself as a personal manager he'd asked her what she
did.
"I'm plannin' to be a professional singer," she'd said, very full of
herself.
"Then you just met the man who's gonna make you a star," he'd replied,
equally confident.
Corniest line in the world, but it worked every time.
At first his interest had been purely sexual. A quick lay and on to
the next. But she wasn't interested in accompanying him to his
apartment. She had no desire for a quickie-not even when he'd told her
he produced records and had something to do with the rise of John
Travolta's career. Both lies, of course-but who was listening?
Usually he didn't like them so young-but there was something special
about Cyndra, so he'd continued the pursuit, reeling her in
carefully.
He'd hired a studio for a couple of hours and paid for her to cut a
demo. She'd had no idea what she was doing-but there was a voice there
somewhere, and he'd decided that if he could bring it out they'd be
rolling in dollar bills.
"I'm going' back to Hollywood," he'd told her casually one day.
"Yeah . . . Hollywood's the place a girl like you could really
score.
"Well . . ." She'd hesitated. "One of these days Joey and I-"
"Forget about Joey. He's a loser. Hang out with him an' you'll end up
like him. On the other hand-come with me an' I'll do something' bout
that singin' career of yours.
And so it came to pass that she finally dumped Joey, and drove with
Reece cross country in his shocking pink 1969 Cadillac, consummating
their relationship in a Holiday Inn somewhere near Albuquerque.
Once they'd settled in L.A. Reece had arranged singing lessons for
her.
He wasn't disappointed, she was a natural.
Now, two years later, all his hard work and well-invested money was
hopefully beginning to pay dividends. He'd managed to interest a
couple of record companies in her-and they were both considering
meeting with her and maybe cutting a demo.
In the meantime he'd married her. Reece knew a life-time meal ticket
when it stared him in the face.
Curled up in a ball, knees hugging her chest, Cyndra couldn't figure
out why she didn't feel any different. She was married, for God's
sake. Married! And yet she still felt the same.
Well, she'd only been married one day, she reasoned. Maybe she'd feel
different tomorrow.
She thought about Aretha Mae and wondered what she'd have to say about
this. For the first time since leaving Bosewell, she almost considered
going home. Just for a visit, of course-a very short visit.
She'd ride up in Reece's big old Cadillac and Harlan would come running
to greet them. God, he must be a big boy now-sixteen.
Aretha Mae would cook up some of her special fried chicken and greasy
fries. What a treat!
The only problem was she'd never told Reece about her poor
beginnings.
He thought she came from a nice middle-class family. As far as he
knew, her mother was a housewife and her father made his living as a
car salesman. She didn't have the nerve to tell him the truth. The
fact was she was ashamed of where she came from.
Reece Webster had entered her life at exactly the right time-just when
she and Joey were beginning to fight nonstop. New York was tough,
she'd had seven different jobs and it was getting her down. If she'd
had to serve one more plate of beans and hash she knew she'd go nuts.
When Reece Webster first came on to her she'd thought he was just
another on-the-make hustler. "You haven't even heard me sing," she'd
said scornfully, when he announced he'd make her a star.
"I don't have to," he'd replied. "With your looks all you gotta do is
open your mouth an' every guy in the place will do the fandango. Get
it?"
Yes, she got it. He didn't have to tell her about men and their
reaction to her.
Joey had been furious when she informed him she was leaving.
"What do you know about this guy?" he'd said.
"Enough," she'd replied.
"You're making a big mistake."
Maybe she was and maybe she wasn't, but she had to take the chance. It
was time to leave, so she'd packed up and taken off in spite of Joey's
objections.
In Los Angeles Reece had set her up in what she considered total
luxury. A nice apartment on Fountain Avenue, no roaches or rats, and a
palm tree outside her window. A palm tree! She thought she was in
heaven.
Reece vacillated between staying with her and spending time with his
wife, who lived in Tarzana. For two years he'd promised to get a
divorce, now he'd done it, and they'd jumped in his Cadillac, driven to
Vegas and gotten married.
"Just you wait," Reece had said. "When you're rich an' famous we'll do
it again. An' this time the world will come. You'll see, honey.
You'll see.
The first thing that hit Nick when he stepped off the plane in Los
Angeles was the sunshine-dazzling, blinding sunshine. And his next
impression was one of a laid-back casual friendliness, the like of
which was not evident on the streets of Chicago.
Out on the sidewalk with the sun beating down he hailed a cab and gave
the driver Cyndra's address.
On the ride in he took in the scenery Wide streets, tall dusty palm
trees and a proliferation of gas stations, fast-food chains and
used-car lots. Pedestrians were sparse on the street, but cars were
everywhere.
As they got closer to town the greenery overwhelmed him. Every garden
seemed to be filled with exotic plants and every street lined with
trees.
He couldn't help feeling excited. After all, this was the real thing,
he was in Los Angeles for crissake. Hollywood. Land of the movies.
Jeer! If he was lucky he might even bump into Dustin Hoffman or Al
Pacino walking down the fucking street!
The cab pulled up in front of Cyndra's apartment house-a threestory
pink stucco building. He jumped out and checked the row of buzzers by
the main door. Sure enough, one of them was marked with her name. He
pressed it and waited.
Five minutes later when she still hadn't replied he realized he should
have called.
A well-preserved woman in tennis whites and running shoes walked up to
the door, balancing two bags of groceries. "Hi," he said.
"Hi," she replied, groping for her key.
He went to help her with the grocery bags. "Can I give you a hand?"
She flashed a row of perfect white teeth. "Why not?"
Hmm . . . in Chicago she'd have told him to get lost. People were
obviously more trusting in L.A. He balanced her grocery bags in one
arm, picked up his bag with the other and followed her in as she opened
the gate.
The first thing he saw was a swimming pool. Holy shit! Cyndra must be
rolling in it.
Around the swimming pool there were several apartments.
"You wouldn't happen to know where Cyndra Angelo lives?" he asked.
"Are you a friend of hers?"
"I'm her brother."
"Apartment three, across the other side."
He handed her groceries over. "Thanks."
She smiled again. "You're welcome. Have a nice day."
"I plan to, but thanks anyway.
He went over to Cyndra's apartment, knocking just to make sure, and
when nobody answered, placed his bag against the door and tried to
decide what to do. Since this was his first day in L.A. and there was
nobody out by the pool he decided to take a swim. Stripping down to
his shorts he leaped in, splashing around like a fish. Goddamn it!
This was luxury!
He spent the afternoon on a lounger catching some rays and waiting for
his sister. By six o'clock it was obvious she was going to be late.
Other people were arriving home from work and entering their
apartments. A couple of them gave him strange looks.
He knew he'd better make a move before someone became suspicious. With
a few deft strokes he used his credit card to spring her lock. Nobody
was around to notice as he slipped inside. Mental note -make sure
Cyndra got herself a decent lock.
He looked around. Little sis was living pretty good. He opened the
refrigerator and uncovered a dish of cold spaghetti. It looked
inviting, so he ate it, then he drank from a carton of milk and began
roaming around the small apartment. He didn't mean to be nosy, but he
couldn't help checking out the bathroom cabinets and opening up the
closet. There was definitely a man in residence-some asshole who
favored cowboy boots and ten-gallon hats.
On top of the Sony stereo in the living room was a framed picture of
Cyndra with an older guy. He picked it up and studied it.
So this was the notorious Reece Webster. The man looked old enough to
be her father-skinny and blondish with a thin mouth, droopy mustache
and shifty eyes. Cyndra looked sensational in a sexy tank top and
shorts. Little Cyndra was all grown up.
He lit a cigarette and settled in front of the television. After a few
minutes he dozed off.
When he awoke it was way past midnight and the cigarette had burned a
hole in the arm of the couch. There was still no sign of Cyndra, so he
grabbed a blanket from the bedroom, curled up on the couch and went
back to sleep.
Cyndra didn't want to go home. She'd fallen in love with Las Vegas.
"This place is the best," she told a dumbfounded Reece.
"This place is a pisshole, honey," he replied, amazed that anyone could
actually like Vegas.
"Then why did you bring me here?"
"Because this damn pisshole is gonna make us a whole lotta money.
"How?"
"You're gonna be a star here, baby. I can feel it."
She wanted to believe him. She basked in his enthusiasm. "I am?"
"Sure you are. I set up appointments tomorrow for you to meet the
talent scouts from a couple of the big hotels. You're gonna impress
the custom-made pants off em."
"How'll I do that?"
"By lookin' sexy an' singin' for em, sugar.
"Why? When we've got those record companies waiting to cut demos with
me back in L.A.?"
"Good business," Reece said, very sure of himself. "Never put it all
in one place. When we go in an' see these guys you listen-don't
talk."
That night he took her around all the best hotels. The Sands. The
Desert Inn. The Tropicana. Cyndra was thrilled, she'd never seen
anything like the lavish hotels with their multi-colored fountains,
oversize sculptures and enormous colorful casinos filled with middle
America losing their hard-earned money.
"Consider this little tour an educational trip," Reece said as he
swaggered from hotel to hotel masquerading as a Texas millionaire in
his cowboy boots and ten-gallon hat. He jerked his thumb at a singer
in the lounge at The Golden Nugget. "You see her? She can't sing for
shit, but she sure puts in a pretty appearance.
"Why are you telling me?" Cyndra asked.
"Cause, Mrs. Webster, not only do you look good, but you can sing
too.
An' we're gonna use everything we got to make you bigger and better
than anyone else."
Reece made her feel she could achieve anything. "Can we stay a couple
of extra days?" she begged, "Can we? Please. After all, it is our
honeymoon."
He tilted his hat. "What'll you give me if I say yes?"
She smiled. "I'll make it simple. Anything you want, Reece. Anything
at all."
Nick awoke in the morning uncomfortable and hot. There was no Cyndra
around, she must have taken off somewhere. He should've called to let
her know he was coming. Shit! Too late now.
He helped himself to a banana, made a cup of instant coffee and then
sauntered outside to the pool.
An athletic-looking girl in a one-piece swimsuit swam laps, her brown
arms and legs flashing through the inviting blue water.
"Hey," he called out. "Any chance you know where Cyndra Angelo is?"
The girl took no notice of him as she pounded the water, hardly coming
