Lovers & Players (2 page)

‘W
hat’s your name, dear?’ the bald man, with an abundance of hair sprouting from his ears, inquired.

‘Liberty,’ the young waitress replied.

‘What’s that?’ he said, peering at her.

‘Liberty,’ she repeated.
It’s written on my name-tag, asshole. Can’t you see it
?

‘What kind of name—’

Oh, puleeze! You got any idea how many times I’ve had to go through this conversation? Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin named their baby Apple. Courteney Cox and David Arquette, Coco. What’s so unusual about Liberty?

Ignoring him, she refilled the bald man’s coffee cup and walked away.
Moron!
she thought.
Like, who does he think he is commenting on my name? It’s none of his freakin’ business. When I’m a famous singer-songwriter I won’t question people’s names. I’ll be understanding and polite. I’ll get it.

She hurried behind the counter, still steaming. ‘I’m
so
not down with this waitressin’ crap,’ she complained to her cousin, Cindi, who’d gotten her the job in the Madison Avenue coffee shop and, like her, was an aspiring singer.

‘Never forget it pays the bills, girl,’ said Cindi, a buxom twenty-three-year-old originally from Atlanta, with gleaming black skin, thick ankles, an ample ass, huge breasts, and a wide, inviting smile.

‘
Singin
’ should pay the bills,’ Liberty said forcefully. ‘That’s what we do.’

‘When we score a gig
that’
s what we do,’ Cindi pointed out. ‘So while we’re waitin’…’

‘I know, I know,’ Liberty said, frowning. ‘Gotta make a living. Gotta pay the rent.’

The furrowing of her brow did not affect her startling beauty. Bi-racial, the product of a black mother and what she assumed was a mixed father–a man her mother refused to talk about, let alone reveal his identity–she was milk-chocolate-skinned with lustrous long black hair, elongated green eyes, thick brows, impossibly long lashes, cut-glass cheekbones, full lips, a pointed chin and a straight nose. Cindi was always carrying on about how she looked like Halle Berry, which kind of irritated Liberty because she considered herself an original and did not care to be compared to anyone–however gorgeous and successful they might be.

She was nineteen. She had plenty of time.

Or did she?

Sometimes she awoke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, her heart thumping. What if she never got discovered? What if nobody listened to her songs or heard her sing? What if she ended up like her mom, a failed singer cleaning other people’s mess all day?

Man, she was almost twenty, she’d been out of school four years, and
nothing
big had happened for her. Oh, sure, she’d made an amateur demo tape, scored a few gigs as a back-up singer, but not as many as she’d like. And no producer had stepped forward and said, ‘Honey, you’re
it
! I’m signing you to a contract here and now. You’ll be the next Alicia Keys or Norah Jones, all you gotta do is name it.’

Where the
hell
were Clive Davis or P. Diddy when she needed them?

‘Miss!’ A sharp female voice brought her back to reality as an irate female customer attempted to attract her attention.

She sauntered over. At least she had attitude–nobody could take that away from her. ‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Do you
know
how long I’ve been waiting?’ the woman demanded in a high-pitched voice. ‘Where are my eggs?’ Sharp-featured, the woman was wearing a knock-off Armani suit and clutching a fake Vuitton bag on her lap.

No style
, Liberty thought.
If you can’t afford the real thing, then you may as well forget it
.

The man with her had nothing to say. Apparently his eggs were not such an urgent matter.

‘I’m sorry,’ Liberty said in an I-couldn’t-give-a-rat’s-ass voice. ‘I’m not your table person.’ She refused to say waitress, she found it to be demeaning, especially to this cow.

‘Well,
get
me my “table person”,’ the woman, sneered. ‘I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes.’

‘Sure,’ Liberty drawled.

For a moment their eyes met. The woman hated her because she was beautiful. It happened all the time. They wouldn’t hate her if she was Beyoncé Knowles or Janet Jackson, they’d be fawning all over her the way people did with stars.

Once Mariah Carey had come into the coffee shop with full entourage in attendance and two massive black bodyguards who’d never left her side. People had
freaked
. Paparazzi had gathered outside, and within ten minutes a huge crowd had formed–almost breaking the plate-glass window.

The owner of the shop, Manny Goldberg, had begun to panic, until his wife, Golda, decided it would be prudent to escort Miss Carey and her group into the kitchen where the star graciously sipped a cup of green tea, signed autographs and chatted amicably with the two Hispanic chefs.

Liberty had thought about approaching her, but in the end she’d chickened out. Cindi hadn’t. Cindi had gotten the diva’s signature on a paper napkin, which she’d stashed in her underwear drawer along with various packets of condoms in all colours and sizes. Cindi was into being prepared.

‘Rude little bitch!’ Liberty heard the woman mutter to her male companion as she walked away from the table. ‘Who does she think she is?’

Liberty was not bothered, she’d been called worse.

She was just about to go into the back when she spotted Mr Hip-Hop himself walking in.

She held her breath for a few seconds. This was the third time he’d been in this week. He always sat at one of her tables and left a massive tip, although he never spoke to her other than to give her his order.

Today he was with another man, a white man who seemed to be all business. They were talking animatedly, with a lot of arm-waving going on.

She knew who he was. Damon P. Donnell, hip-hop mogul supreme, head of Donnell Records. His new offices were less than a block away, and he’d obviously picked the coffee shop as his breakfast stop-off.

She knew other things about him. He was thirty-six, dark-skinned with cropped hair and a killer smile. He usually wore tinted designer shades, a diamond stud earring, Nike running shoes and a cool suit with a silk T-shirt underneath. He was known for encouraging new talent although almost all of his label consisted of male rap artists. He’d once been a performer himself, but had given it up except for the occasional charity event. He was married.
Damn!
No chance of getting him
that
way, because Liberty drew the line at playing with married men. His wife was an Indian princess from Bombay, and a consummate consumer. The two of them lived in a sixty-sixth-floor sprawling Westside penthouse with panoramic views of the city and, according to
Vibe
, his wife had converted three bedrooms into her own personal closet. They’d been married two years and had no children.

The first time Liberty had seen him she’d had no idea who he was. ‘I think I’m in lust!’ she’d muttered to Cindi. ‘That dude is the
bomb
!’

Cindi, who was up on everything showbiz, soon filled her in. Cindi devoured
Essence, Rolling Stone, People, Us, The Star
and the
Enquirer
. She watched
Access, E.T., Extra
and
E!
every single day. ‘That dude is famous, married, rich, an’
way
outta your reach,’ Cindi had informed her. ‘Forget it, girl, ’cause this big boy ain’t lookin’.’

Sometimes Cindi got on her case a little too much. Her payback was an attempt never to mention him again, not an easy task.

Just as she was about to go over to his table, Cindi materialized and gave her a knowing nudge. ‘Mr Wonderman’s back–
again
. Mebbe I was kickin’ it wrong, little cous’, could be you
do
have a shot. If I was you, I’d go for it.’

‘The knock-off queen at table four is screaming for her eggs,’ Liberty said, ignoring any mention of Damon. ‘You’d better get over there before the cow throws a shit-fit.’

‘I’m on it,’ Cindi said, totally unconcerned. ‘Think I forgot to order ’em. Ain’t
that
a shame?’

Liberty approached Damon’s table.

He didn’t look up. ‘Coffee,’ he said, studying the menu as if he’d never seen it before. ‘Large OJ. Egg-white omelette, bacon on the side.’

‘I’ll have the same,’ said his friend or business associate or whoever the other man was.

She hesitated a moment, willing Damon at least to give her a quick glance. He didn’t, but the other guy was sure giving her a thorough going-over with his beady little eyes.

‘Certainly, Mr Donnell,’ she said, making him aware that she knew who he was. ‘Coffee and OJ on the way. Omelette and bacon to follow. Crispy, right?’

Finally he looked up, taking her in, his eyes–visible through his tinted shades–resting on the handwritten nametag above her right breast. But still he didn’t say a word, merely gave her an almost imperceptible nod.

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.

J
ett 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 lesbian 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.