A Dangerous Glamour Page 2

  “Or standing up in a hammock, honey,” said Peace Johnstone. “That’s been tried before but don’t ask me to name names. This room is far out. So, people really get it on in here?”

  Byron stood up and walked over to one of the mirrors. “That they do, my child. That they most certainly do. Everyone follow me. I want to show you something. Voila!”

  Their eyes followed his long finger as it moved over the mirror. “See the names scratched here? It’s a custom that began almost a hundred years ago. Rather than check into a hotel, some married men preferred to cheat on their wives in these little rooms, which offered privacy as well as excellent food. Naturally there was no guestbook nor were the girlfriends ever allowed to sign in. The gentleman’s reputation had to be protected.”

  Peace Johnstone snorted. “Tell me about it.”

  “One girlfriend had a mind of her own,” continued Byron. “She took a diamond ring and carved her name on the mirror. Other women imitated her and soon it became a tradition to leave your name on a mirror in one of these private little rooms. Karen?”

  Removing a blue sapphire, diamond, and gold ring from a pinky finger, he handed it to the model. Her eyes widened and she licked her lips and took the ring. Slowly, carefully, she scratched her full name on the glass. When she finished the other models cheered.

  Peace Johnstone took the ring from her. “Time for the Third World to be heard from, y’all.”

  Prince Saddem handed Byron a glass of champagne and a smiling Karen rushed over to throw her arms around him and kiss him on the cheek. It could have been Saddem’s hashish or the champagne or the fun of being in Paris. Whatever it was, Karen was becoming more relaxed, more affectionate as the evening wore on. Byron took that as a good sign; if he could talk to her she would be responsive to his offer to represent her. Each of the three models in the small room had looks and was a high earner. But Karen Dial was first among equals, the most beautiful and the highest earner and therefore the biggest prize. Byron drained his glass of Moet et Chandon in one gulp. Dom Perignon, the old monk who had invented champagne hundreds of years ago, called it “Stars in a Bottle.” All the stars in Heaven wouldn’t help Byron if Annie Laurie had managed to reach Karen Dial.

  Karen clung to him, her head on his shoulder as they watched Saddem hover over Jennifer, who was scratching her name on the mirror. Tonight the nineteen-year-old Oklahoman wore a lavender sari trimmed in gold and gold sandals with thongs laced up to her knees. She earned $750 a day, worked as often as she liked, and was having an affair with Saddem, who flew to wherever she was working in one of his eight private jets. Peace Johnstone, the highest-paid black in modeling, wore a white togalike gown belted at the waist by a thin silver cord. There was a wide gold bracelet on the bicep of each bare arm. Strongly sensual-looking, the six-foot-tall model earned over $200,000 a year, and so far neither Byron nor Annie had been able to talk her into leaving her present agent.

  Karen dressed sexier away from the cameras than she did in the all-American girl poses she used to sell cosmetics, cigarettes, and cameras. She wore a one-shoulder green dress by John Anthony with a slit up the middle revealing the inside of her thighs when she walked. Her flood of golden hair hung below her shoulders and rested on a see-through shawl of black gauze. Unlike most models, she had breasts and they pushed against the fabric, a soft yet insistent outline of a delicious promise. Despite her love of The Life she showed no sign of losing her looks or figure. In New York she shared a Sutton Place duplex with a handsome German photographer. They spent time together at a Santa-Monica beach house and a hundred-acre Florida farm, which she also owned. She was a shrewd businesswoman, a model who kept her money out of the hands of men who might exploit her. A love of partying and a happy-go-lucky attitude didn’t stop Karen Dial from doing what was financially best for her.

  She had affairs but she was always discreet, having them only on location and never in New York. When location time was over so was the temporary affair.

  Byron’s temporary affair with her began and ended a couple of years ago in Hollywood, when he had gone there for business meetings with the agency that handled his models on the West Coast. Paramount Pictures invited him to a huge party on the studio lot to celebrate the upcoming release of its four most important films of the year. In addition to actresses, starlets, rock stars, politicians, reporters, and members of Hollywood’s A and B lists, he ran into Karen Dial, whom he knew casually. Even now he wasn’t sure how it happened but the two of them talked, laughed, and then left the party to wander alone about the studio, finally coming to an empty Western set. In the darkness of a fake saloon they made love on blankets spread behind a bar. Afterward she found an empty six-gun holster, strapped it around her bare waist, and danced naked on the bar to the faint sounds of music coming from the party. An excited Byron made love to her again and that’s when she told him that for her the best sex happened unexpectedly in unexpected places. That’s why she enjoyed location shooting.

  Their affair lasted seventy-two hours. At night she came to his suite at the Bel Air Hotel and exhausted him with a passion he never suspected. In the morning she left him to go to her shoot. On the day the shoot ended Karen flew back to her German photographer in Manhattan without saying good-bye to Byron, who accepted a situation he knew only too well. There was no reason to telephone her in New York and he didn’t. When their paths crossed, they chatted as if California had never happened, and only when she became worth $800,000 to him did he pick up the phone.

  In the Salon des Amours a black-tied waiter finished taking the orders, bowed, and left. Kicking off her shoes, Peace massaged her feet then picked up a glass of champagne and walked over to the mirror to stare at her name again. Prince Saddem and Jennifer held hands and whispered on the red velvet sofa, while Byron and Karen stood near the door eying a pair of mischievous-looking cherubs.

  Karen pointed to the one on the left. “That fat little rascal reminds me of my brother. Ken was always a Peeping Tom. He’s only twenty-five and I think he’s already a dirty old man.”

  “Dirty old men need love, too.”

  “Speaking of love, you’ve been in these rooms before, haven’t you. How was it? And I don’t mean for the soufflé.”

  He reached out to touch one of the cherubs. “Did you know that Lapérouse used to be one of the best restaurants in Paris? Unfortunately, it’s seen its best days; all three stars have been taken away. When a chef dies a restaurant automatically loses one star. That was the beginning of the end here, as far as food was concerned. In France losing a star is practically the same as losing an eye. Food is a serious matter in this country.”

  “That’s not answering my question. Have you made love in these rooms?”

  “The Blue Room down the hall is exquisite. Colette scratched her name on the mirror there.”

  His hand was still on the mural when she reached out and covered his hand with hers. “I’d really like to see some of the other rooms, Byron. The empty ones, I mean.”

  “Empty?”

  “It would be better if the room was empty, don’t you think?”

  He squeezed her hand. “Tradition calls for it and who am I to deny you tradition?”

  “Right now, that’s the last thing I want you to do.”

  He raised his voice. “Saddem?”

  “Yes?” said the Arab.

  “It’s almost six o’clock in New York. If I’m going to call my office I should do it now before everyone leaves for the day. It’ll be twenty minutes or more before the food arrives, perhaps longer. You know how picky the French are about their cuisine. I’m going downstairs to use the phone. Karen’s coming with me. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  In the hall they pressed their lips together to keep from laughing. Arms around each other, they went from one closed door to another, hands over their mouths to hold the laughter in. When they finally saw an open door they raced for it like children, rushed inside, then closed the door behind them and howl
ed.

  He found the light switch. The room was paneled in more dark oak with murals of short, hairy satyrs frolicking in green woods beside pools of pale green water.

  Karen pointed to the murals. “Green—” and she burst out laughing. So did he. Green seemed the funniest word they’d ever heard.

  And then they stopped laughing and she was kissing him, her tongue attacking his. “Tradition,” she whispered. “Absolutely not to be missed.”

  “Absolutely.” His hands squeezed her buttocks until his fingertips disappeared into the flesh.

  “I hate to be the one to bring it up,” he said, “but this room’s probably reserved and some couple is walking down the hall this very minute to claim it.”

  Unzipping her dress at the side, she slipped it off her shoulder and let it fall to the floor. She was braless, her figure as perfect as any he had ever seen. Cupping her breasts with her hands, she pushed them up and together, dropping her head to lick the nipples. He couldn’t remember when he had last witnessed anything as erotic; it left his throat dry.

  Shaking her head to clear the hair from her face, she said, “My daddy is just a country sheriff in Florida, but he tells me that possession is nine points of the law. We’ve got the room and the doorknob. That couple, whoever they are, will be standing in the hall without a doorknob.”

  Taking off a pair of thin, red panties, she held them out as if offering them to him, then dropped them at her feet. Her vagina was hairless, shaved clean. He found himself staring at it with a sexual curiosity he hadn’t felt in a long time; it was almost enough to make him forget about the eight hundred thousand. The possibility of being interrupted was turning on not only Karen, but Byron as well.

  He dropped his jacket to the floor, threw his tie after it, and unbuckled his pants. Before he could do more she was on her knees in front of him, licking his balls and nibbling gently at the base of his cock. Then she took his cock in her mouth as deeply as she could; when she moaned the vibrations sent threads of pleasure racing through his scrotum. He leaned back against the door, hands lost in her thick, dark-blond hair, and when he almost came he pushed her head away, stripped quickly, and went to the floor, holding her to him with all his strength, one hand squeezing her breast as tightly as he could.

  “Harder!” Her mouth was against his ear and then her teeth caught the earlobe, sending pain up the side of his head. He squeezed more.

  “Oh yes, yes.” Suddenly she couldn’t wait any longer. Pulling him on top of her, she guided his penis into her and clung to him, grinding her hips savagely in her own rhythm. She came quickly. Seconds before it happened she threw her mouth on his, using him to muffle the sound of her moaning, digging long, silver-painted nails into his back. A nail broke and he felt the sharper pain as the jagged edge sliced his skin. And then his own pleasure erupted and he dug his toes into the rug, one hand squeezing her shoulder, the other pushing hard against the floor near her head.

  Breathing deeply, they lay on their sides facing one another.

  “Karen?”

  She kissed his eyes.

  “This is the only time I have to talk business. I wish it wasn’t but I have no choice. I want to represent you.”

  “I know.” Her tongue made wet circles in the hollow of his throat.

  “I’ve got something to offer. A million dollars a year for four years.”

  “Oh?”

  “Listen. Something big is going to break soon. It’ll be the fattest contract ever offered a model. No one knows about it yet, but I’ve got someone inside who’s feeding me information. Karl Rothman is planning to introduce a new line of cosmetics.”

  “He is Mr. Cosmetics.”

  “A prick, but a rich prick. He’s Hitler without the charm, but when it comes to cosmetics the man has a sixth sense about what women will buy. He’s calling his new line Touchstone and he wants a model to use in all his print ads, television commercials, counter displays, the works. He’ll only use her ninety days a year, meaning you’re free to do other products providing they don’t conflict. The money is unbelievable. Rothman will pay five hundred thousand a year for four years and that’s guaranteed. No options. No model’s ever been offered a better deal. Two million dollars, Karen.”

  “How did you find out about it?”

  “Karl, Jr. He’s Daddy’s number-two man in Rothman cosmetics and my inside man as well. He’ll have something to say about the model who’s finally chosen. He likes you, Karen. He swears he’ll go all out for you.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  He frowned. “Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Two million dollars and Karl Rothman, Jr.”

  “You make it sound like two million oatmeal cookies and Captain Kangaroo.”

  She rubbed his nipple with a thumb and forefinger. “I’m listening, I’m listening.”

  “Karen, two million dollars is just the beginning. I’ve already started work on two different film deals for you. I’ve spoken to a producer at Paramount about writing a part for you in his next film. Nothing you couldn’t handle. Plus I’ve met an Iranian who managed to get almost a hundred million dollars out of Teheran. He’s living in Beverly Hills and wants to get in the movie business in the worst way. He’s seen your photographs and, to put it mildly, the man is besotted with you. He’s willing to base a film around you, providing he can come up with the right script.

  “Karen, listen. Modeling doesn’t last forever. But acting can last as long as you want, with a little luck. You can work as an actress until you’re eighty. Touchstone will be promoted heavily, and if you get it, you’ll also get a promotion job that will make you so huge Hollywood will come to you. I know the people out there. They’re tough, and every time you sit down with them you end up counting your fingers. I can deal for you better than anyone in modeling and it’s about time we get together to prove it. Between Touchstone and movies I figure, conservatively, four million dollars in the next four years. With the right management. That’s the key. The right management.”

  She scratched her nose. “Four million, huh?” She could have been talking about a pair of running shoes.

  He sat up, his back to her so that she couldn’t see the anger in his face. “Martin’s going in for his second bypass operation.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “He’s your agent and if he’s in the hospital he can’t be representing you.”

  “There’s other people in his office.”

  He looked at her. “Did anyone mention Touchstone to you before today?”

  “No. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “You know there’s some trouble between Annie Laurie and me.”

  She smiled. “The whole world knows. Newspapers, magazines, everybody knows about the ‘model wars’ or whatever they’re calling it this week. The battle over fabulous beauties, that sort of thing. Her agency’s really on the move.”

  He watched her carefully. “She’s doing her best to turn me into a chalk outline on the floor.”

  She hugged his knee and gave him her brightest smile. “Come on, now, it’s not that bad. Just a little disagreement, is all. It’ll work itself out.”

  Before he could answer her there was a sharp knock on the door. “Madame? Monsieur?”

  “Oh Jesus,” Karen scrambled to her feet. “Where’s my underwear? What’s he saying?”

  “He says he’s got a couple outside who’ve booked this room. He wants to know our names.”

  “It’s a good thing models learn to dress and undress quickly. How’s my hair?” She combed it with her fingers, then patted it into place.

  “Fine.” He was dressing as fast as he could, but he still made a try at her. “Karen, together we could—”

  “What about Jennifer? Have you mentioned Touchstone to her?”

  “No. She photographs too young and she doesn’t have your elegance. Rothman wants The Look—blond, blue-eyed, all-American, which also lets out Peace.”
br />   “God, that Frenchman out in the hall is going crazy. I think we’d better leave before he calls a cop. I thought they ignored closed doors around here.”

  “Unless the room’s reserved for someone else.”

  She smoothed the front of her dress and said casually, too casually, “Let’s talk about this later, okay, Byron? I can’t concentrate now. Too much going on. Besides, I’m starving.”

  “You go on ahead. I’ll square things with the waiter and the couple in the hall.”

  She kissed his cheek. “You’re sweet. And thanks for showing me the room. I enjoyed being a part of the ‘tradition.’ I mean you come this far so why not go all the way, right?”

  Outside, he made his apologies to the waiter, gave him a few francs, and watched the man’s belligerence miraculously disappear. The other couple, who had obviously been in Lapérouse before, disappeared inside, leaving Byron and the waiter to watch Karen hurry down the hall and knock on the door of the Salon des Amours.

  “Magnifique,” whispered the waiter, staring at the model.

  “Oui.” In English, Byron added, “A magnificent liar, too.”

  “Monsieur?”

  “Rien.” It doesn’t matter. The door to the salon opened and Karen disappeared inside.

  When the waiter joined the couple in the room, Byron pulled out the telegram. It read: DINNER CONFIRMED FRIDAY NIGHT WHEN YOU RETURN. NO COMMITMENT BUT ROTHMAN DEFINITELY INTERESTED. I THINK TOUCHSTONE WOULD BE LUCKY TO HAVE YOU, BUT WE’LL SEE. LET’S MAKE HISTORY TOGETHER. ANNIE LAURIE.

  Carefully ripping the telegram to bits, Byron let the pieces fall from his hand. Rage and fear hit him simultaneously and his legs felt shaky. He would telephone New York but not his office. He was going to call Bergman to check on a fire.

  Chapter Two

  THE AEGEAN WAS A luxury apartment building that had replaced a Fifth Avenue department store. Its cheapest flat was a first-floor studio priced at half a million dollars. Security for its wealthy European, Arab, and American tenants was handled by a staff of ex-FBI men and Green Berets directed by a former CIA official whom the staff feared and none of the tenants had ever seen. The Aegean’s doormen wore designer uniforms and the building furnished butlers, baby-sitters, twenty-four-hour valet service, and gourmet room service from a private kitchen on the premises. The lobby ceiling, covered by reproductions of Michelangelo’s paintings for Rome’s Sistine Chapel, was so magnificent that the New York City Board of Education requested a tour for schoolchildren. Bowing to the wishes of its tenants for privacy and also fearing possible vandalism, the Aegean’s management refused.