Lethal Seduction Read Free Page B

few deep sobs.“Besides, I’ve met someone else, and I can’t have Dex getting in my way and ruining everything.”
    â€œNot another dumb actor, I hope,” Chas said, taking a second hearty swig of scotch.
    â€œNo, Daddy. This one’s got money. He’s a someone, not a nobody like Dex.” She narrowed her eyes. “I hate Dex.”
    â€œI’m gettin’ the picture,” Chas said, scratching his chin.
    Rosarita wriggled off his knee, which was good, because he wasn’t as young as he used to be, and last night he’d gone three rounds with a pneumatic blonde whose knockers alone must’ve weighed five pounds apiece.
    â€œLemme speak t’him,” Chas said. “He’ll listen t’me.”
    â€œTalking won’t do any good,” Rosarita wailed. “Killing him will.”
    â€œEnough of that crap,” Chas snapped, suddenly angry. “I ain’t in the killin’ business. I’m in construction, an’ don’t you forget it.”
    â€œHa!” Rosarita said.
    â€œHa, what?” Chas responded.
    Rosarita stared at her father, a malevolent expression on her sharp-pointed face. “Whatever happened to that foreman you didn’t like?” she said, knowingly. “You remember, the one who stole from you. And then there was Adam Rubicon—your ex-partner who mysteriously disappeared. And—”
    â€œShut your fuckin’ mouth,” Chas yelled, jumping up, red in the face. “I never wanna hear ya talk like that again. Ya hear me?”
    â€œThen do it,” Rosarita said, all cool and collected and sure of herself. “And do it soon.”
    â€¢
    Unaware of the ominous conversation taking place at his father-in-law’s house, Dexter Falcon left the midtown TV studio where they shot the daily soap Dark Days, a smile on his handsome face. His name wasn’t really Dexter Falcon, it was actually Dick Cockranger, a name too ridiculous to even contemplatekeeping, unless he planned on being a porno star, and when he’d first come to New York from a small town in the Midwest four years previously, that was not his plan at all. Oh no, Dexter Falcon had far grander aspirations.
    The name change was first on his agenda—Dexter, in honor of a good-looking character on his mother’s all-time favorite nighttime soap. And Falcon—because it was powerful and strong and sounded very masculine.
    And so Dexter Falcon was born. Again. It was a memorable day. He was twenty and ready for anything, and a few weeks after arriving in the big city he found “anything” in the person of Mortimer Marcel, a French-born designer whom he bumped into while jogging in Central Park.
    â€œYou a model?” Mortimer had asked.
    â€œActor,” Dexter replied. He’d never acted, never even thought of it. But acting sounded like a far more exciting profession than washing dishes in a deli on Lexington—which is what he was currently doing.
    â€œYou could be right for my new underwear line,” Mortimer said brusquely. “I’ll audition you tonight. My house. Seven o’clock.” And he’d fished in the pocket of his fashionable running shorts and handed Dexter an engraved card.
    Dexter had stood considering the possibilities while watching Mortimer jog out of sight. He was not naïve. He knew what went on—especially in a big city like New York. Mortimer Marcel was obviously gay. And Dexter was not.
    Mortimer Marcel was also obviously successful. And Dexter was not.
    Was there a choice about what he should do?
    Yes. He should not pursue it. But he’d been handed an opportunity, and it was his destiny to follow it through.
    Within six months he was the Mortimer Marcel boy on television, the Internet, in print ads—Marcel even took him to Paris and had him strut the runway wearing the latest line of Mortimer Marcel men’s leisure wear.
    And he didn’t have