"What's the best sex you've ever had?" Jamie Nova
asked her best friend, Madison Castelli. At twenty-nine
Jamie was heartbreakingly lovely. A cool, willowy
blonde with classic style and an impeccable pedigree,
she was a cross between a young Grace Kelly and
a contemporary Gwyneth Paltrow. "Huh?" Madison
said, glancing quickly at the adjoining table
in the packed Manhattan restaurant.
The couple sitting there were deep into their
own conversation and had failed to hear Jamie's
provocative question. "You know what I mean,"
Jamie said, brushing a lock of fine, blond hair
from her forehead. "Mind-blowing, earth-shaking
down and dirty sex. The kind where you never want
to see the guy again, but at the exact moment
you're doing it -- anything goes." A long wistful
sigh. "And I do mean anything."
"Well..." Madison said, wondering where Jamie,
her former college roommate, was going with this.
"Come on," Jamie said impatiently. "Answer me."
"Hmm," Madison thought for a moment, realizing
this was not a question Jamie was about to drop.
"Miami," she said at last. "Vacation with my father.
I was sixteen, and the guy was a forty-five-year-old
major playboy with all the toys. Penthouse, Porsche,
porno videos."
"Porno videos!" Jamie said, rolling her aquamarine
eyes in exaggerated horror. "Doesn't sound too
sexy to me." "I can assure you it was," Madison
retorted crisply. "He had this oversized water
bed covered in rose petals. A pitcher of champagne
with sliced peaches. Sexy European body oil. And"
-- she paused for full effect -- "an extraordinarily
talented tongue!" "Ah...the old talented-tongue
trick," Jamie retorted a touch bitterly. "Gets
'em every time."
Madison raised an eyebrow. "What's with you today?
Why all this sex talk? You're a married woman
and -- if what I hear is true -- once you're married,
sex is supposed to be nothing but a distant memory."
"Very funny," Jamie said glumly. "I was joking,"
Madison said, sensing trouble in the paradise
that Jamie inhabited. It was a fact that everyone
who knew Jamie and her Wall Street hotshot husband,
Peter, considered them the golden couple. They
seemed to have everything, and yet today Madison
sensed a lurking storm.
"So, what's up?" she asked, leaning across the
table. "Tell me everything." "Well," Jamie said,
biting on her lower lip. "Last night we were at
a dinner party and the question arose." "What
question?" "The best-sex-you've-ever-had question,"
Jamie said, toying with her salad. "And here's
the thing -- everyone was coming up with really
good answers." "Yes?" Madison said curiously.
"Naturally, when it came to me, I carried on about
it being the first time Peter and I made love.
I told a cute little story about it, and everyone
oohed and aahed. Then it was Peter's turn, and
he suddenly went very quiet, muttered that he
couldn't remember and abruptly changed the subject."
"Maybe he was embarrassed." "Peter?" Jamie shook
her head vigorously. "Not him." "Had he been drinking?"
"Not at all." "Then...what?" Madison asked, perplexed.
"I think he's having an affair," Jamie blurted.
"Come on!" Madison exclaimed. "You've only been
married three years. Give the guy a chance to
get bored." "Thanks a lot," Jamie said huffily.
"What makes you think he'd ever get bored?" True,
Madison thought, how could any man be bored with
a woman like Jamie by his side? She was perfect.
Everyone knew that. Besides, in a proper world,
no man would cheat on Jamie. But the world wasn't
proper, and most men were dogs, so maybe Jamie
was right, maybe Peter was exercising his precious
manhood in another neighborhood. "What makes you
suspect Peter might be screwing around?" she asked.
"Intuition," Jamie answered. "That and the fact
that we haven't made love in two weeks."
"Two weeks!" Madison exclaimed teasingly. "Jesus!
Send in the Marines!" "You don't understand,"
Jamie muttered, twisting her diamond wedding band
on an elegant French-manicured finger. "Peter
is a very sexual man. He likes sex every day."
A meaningful pause. "Sometimes more than once."
"Hmm..." Madison murmured, thinking that shehadn't
had sex in almost a year. Her choice, because
who needed to sleep with assholes? And unfortunately
that's all she'd come across in the last year
-- major assholes.
The truth was that ever since her live-in love
of two years, David the TV producer rat, had run
out on her, she'd been off men. Although there
was that very attractive photographer she'd met
in L.A. earlier in the year while on assignment
for Manhattan Style, the upscale magazine she
worked for. His name was Jake Sica, and they'd
had chemistry. Unfortunately he'd been involved
elsewhere. Too bad.
Then there was the one-night stand in Miami, where
she'd been interviewing The Donald. She'd met
a male model at one of the happening clubs in
South Beach. He was not very smart, but quite
beautiful, with a muscular body and an untamed
mane of sun-streaked hair. One long, passionate
night of unbridled lust accompanied by a condom
and later a feeling of "Why the hell did I do
that?" No. One-night stands were not for her.
"What do you think I should do?" Jamie wailed.
"I can't stand not knowing. It's driving me insane."
"Well...uh...find out, I guess," Madison offered.
"Very helpful," Jamie snapped. "You're supposed
to be the smart one with an answer for everything."
Madison sighed. What a label to be stuck with.
Unfortunately, it was true.
In college she and Jamie were known as "The Beauty"
(Jamie) and "The Brain" (Madison). And a third
friend, Natalie De Barge, a pretty black girl,
was nicknamed "The Sexpot." The three of them
had been inseparable. College had ended seven
years ago, and in those seven years they'd all
made their mark. Apart from marrying Peter and
leading a hectic social life, Jamie had her own
successful interior-design firm in Manhattan.
It helped that her rich daddy had put up the money
and partnered her with Anton Couch -- a gay genius
with connections up the kazoo. Natalie, with nobody
to back her, had carved out a career on television.
She was currently living in L.A. and cohosting
Celebrity News, an E.T.-type entertainment show.
And Madison had an interesting, challenging job
and quite a reputation. Her profiles of the rich,
powerful and infamous were an important part of
Manhattan Style's outstanding success as the magazine
of the moment -- regularly outselling Vanity Fair
and Esquire. In fact, the piece she'd written
on Hollywood call girls earlier in the year had
caused quite a stir -- she'd even sold the film
rights, although she doubted if the movie would
ever get made.
"Okay, here's the plan," she said, deciding that
Jamie needed help. "Yes?" Jamie said, placing
her elbows on the table, wide aqua eyes eager
for an answer to her problem. "Have him followed."
"Followed!" Jamie exclaimed, causing the couple
at the next table to finally take notice. "I can't
do that, it's so...so...cheap." "Expensive, actually,"
Madison corrected. "But worth it I'm sure." "How
can that be?" "Peace of mind. If he's cheating,
you'll find out. And if he's not...hey, it'll
have cost you a few bucks and normal life resumes."
"Maybe..."
Jamie murmured hesitantly, followed by a much
firmer, "Okay, I'll do it!" "Let me check into
our options," Madison said briskly, "find out
who's the best." "And the most discreet," Jamie
added quickly. "There's no way this can get out."
"I understand," Madison said, sure that her editor,
Victor Simons, would be able to come up with exactly
who they should hire.
Victor knew everything and everybody. Maybe he
even knew if Peter was hound-dogging after some
sexy nymphet. Then again, maybe not. Victor and
Peter did not travel in the same social circles.
"I'm certain you're wrong," Madison said reassuringly.
"But at least this way you'll know." "Right,"
Jamie agreed, and felt sick at the thought of
catching Peter with another woman.
After saying good-bye outside the restaurant,
Madison strode along Park Avenue, heading for
the offices of Manhattan Style. Heads turned,
but she didn't notice, she was too busy thinking
about Jamie and her suspicions.
Madison was a striking-looking woman, tall and
slender, with full breasts, dancer's legs and
a cloud of long black curly hair that she usually
wore pulled back. She tried to play her good looks
down, but nothing could disguise her green almond-shaped
eyes, sharply defined cheekbones and full, seductive
lips. She was a beauty, although she did not consider
herself one -- her idea of beauty was her mother,
Stella, a statuesque honey blonde whose quivering
lips and dreamy eyes reminded most people of Marilyn
Monroe.
Lookswise Madison took after her father, Michael.
Dark and handsome, Michael Castelli was the best-looking
fifty-eight-year-old in Connecticut. He also possessed
a beguiling charm and steely determination --
two qualities Madison had definitely inherited,
which had not hindered her rise to success as
a well-respected writer of revealing and insightful
profiles of the notorious and powerful.
Madison loved what she did -- going for the right
angle, discovering the secrets of people in the
public eye. Politicians and superrich business
tycoons were her favorites. Movie stars, sports
personalities and Hollywood moguls were low on
her list.
She didn't regard herself as a killer, although
she wrote with searing honesty, sometimes upsetting
her subjects, who were usually sheltered in an
all-enveloping cocoon of protective PR. Too bad
if they didn't like it, she was merely reporting
the truth. She'd worked under the watchful eye
of Victor Simons for five years.
They had an excellent relationship, although sometimes
Victor could be a total pain, especially when
he wanted her to interview a subject she had absolutely
zero interest in. Usually they compromised, and
she'd reluctantly agree to interview some dingbat
movie star sex symbol in exchange for a crack
at a nuclear scientist or a computer genius. Victor
had discovered her fresh out of college. She'd
written a provocative piece on the still-rampant
double standard between men and women, and it
had been published in Esquire. He'd taken her
to lunch, told her to get more experience, then
two years later hired her to write short question-and-answer
pieces for his magazine.
A year later she'd graduated to brief interviews,
then suddenly she'd come up with her signature
work: "Madison Castelli -- Profiles in Power."
Her first subject was Henry Kissinger. She'd captured
the essence of the aging politician with a sharp,
wry wit. After that it was easy. One interview
a month, which gave her plenty of free time to
work on her novel -- a book about relationships,
which was making slow progress while she got over
her anger at David for walking out.
It wasn't easy writing about relationships while
she was still so hurt. Why had David left? That
was the question. Was it something she'd done
to turn him off? No. Deep down she knew the answer.
David hadn't been able to accept the fact that
she made as much money as he did. It was as simple
as that. He was searching for a woman who stayed
home and did what he wanted, not an independent
free spirit with ambitions.
Two years of great sex did not make a lasting
relationship, because after the passion settled
down, what was left? In their case, apparently
nothing. A few weeks after David's abrupt departure,
she'd heard that he'd married his childhood sweetheart,
a vapid blonde with fake boobs and an annoying
overbite. So much for good taste.
Victor was crouched on the floor in his spacious
office, playing with his precious model train
set, which wound its way across the room and back
again. Victor was a big, cuddly man in his late
forties with a mop of frizzy brown hair that appeared
to stand on end, matching eyebrows, several chins
and puppy-dog eyes.
"Maddy!" he exclaimed in a loud, booming voice.
"I wasn't expecting to see you today. Come in."
"Hi, Victor," she said, carefully stepping over
a chugging red engine. "Working hard as usual,
I see." "Of course," he said with a hearty chuckle.
"Keeps the old heart pumping. Besides, Evelyn
won't let me do this at home."
"I wonder why," Madison murmured, thinking of
his pristine skinny-as-a-stick wife with her permanently
uptight expression and designer wardrobe. "Wouldn't
do to mess up her living room," Victor responded,
hauling himself up. Madison perched on the edge
of his desk. "I need a favor," she announced,
picking up a heavy glass paperweight and examining
it. "Good," Victor boomed, sitting down in his
leather chair. "There's nothing I like better
than people owing me favors." "I'm not people,"
Madison pointed out, irritated that he should
regard her as such. "And it's not exactly a favor,
more a request for information."
"What kind of information?" Victor asked suspiciously.
"Nothing earth-shattering," she said, putting
the paperweight down. "I simply require the name
of the best private investigator in New York."
Victor tapped his index finger on the desk. "And
what makes you think I'd have that?" "Because
you know everything. And besides," she added quickly,
"didn't you use someone to follow your first wife
before you divorced her?" His bushy eyebrows shot
up. "Who told you that?" "Office folklore." "I
hate gossip," he snapped. "You thrive on it,"
she responded. "Why do you need this?" "For a
friend." "What friend?" "None of your business."
"Bitch!" "Slave driver!"
They exchanged smiles. Madison was extremely fond
of Victor, even though he sometimes drove her
crazy with his loud voice and often overbearing
attitude. And Victor adored Madison, whom he considered
his own personal discovery. Placing the train
remote on his desk, Victor buzzed Lynda, his personal
assistant who had worked for him for twelve years
and, with her lank brown hair and lackluster smile,
closely resembled a cross-eyed basset hound.
Lynda materialized immediately, unrequited love
oozing from her every pore. "Yes, Mr. S?" she
asked anxiously. "It's confidential," Victor boomed.
Lynda threw Madison a dirty look as if to say,
"Then what's she doing here?" "Get me the name
and number of the uh...person who trailed Rebecca,"
Victor said. "Do it now." Lynda snapped to attention.
"Yes, Mr. S." And she was gone. "So..." Victor
said, turning to Madison. "You don't care to tell
me what this is about?"
"Hey," she answered, purposely keeping it vague.
"It's not about me, that should be enough." "Well,
it isn't," he grumbled. "Don't sweat it, Victor,"
she said casually. "You wouldn't be interested
anyway." "You need a man," Victor said, his favorite
comment whenever she pissed him off. "How long
is it since David walked?" "Stay out of my private
life," she warned. "You're twenty-nine and you
have no private life," he reminded her. God! How
she hated it when Victor tried to get into her
business.
"Fuck you!" she said vehemently. "Any time you're
ready." She burst out laughing. There was no way
she could stay mad at Victor; after all, he meant
well, even though he was forever trying to fix
her up with any single man that came his way.
He didn't care how old they were or what they
looked like, as long as they had a reasonable
bank account and a working cock he was determined
she should give them a try.
She'd given up accepting invitations to dinner
at his home. The last one she'd attended she'd
found herself seated between an extremely ancient
astronaut and a twenty-one-year-old computer nerd.
Both interesting men -- but dating material? --
no way.
I don't mind being alone, she told herself. Yes,
you do, an annoying little voice that lived in
the back of her head replied. NO! I don't! Ten
minutes later, armed with the name K. Florian
and a phone number, she left the office, cutting
down Sixty-seventh Street toward her apartment
on Lexington. Now that she had the number she
decided she'd better check with Jamie before using
it.
That evening they were both attending a dinner
party at Anton Couch's penthouse apartment, so
she'd be able to find out exactly what Jamie wanted
her to do. Yes, and she'd also be able to check
out Peter, see what he was up to. Her people skills
were excellent. If Peter was screwing around on
Jamie, Madison'd know it. No doubt of that.
Copyright © 2000 by Chances, Inc. |
