Death of a Gigolo Read online

  “What made her come out of her shell?” I asked, still boggled at this downer version of Daisy.

  “A horrible accident.” Kate grimaced. “On her last trip to Tuscany, her companion was killed while hiking. Fell off a cliff on a mountain trail. Daisy told me that was a turning point in her life. It made her realize how fleeting life is, and how she was throwing hers away. So she came back to the States, determined to live life to the fullest. Moved to Los Angeles, started making friends and wearing a lot of turquoise.”

  What a story! If only I could think of something half as interesting for the book.

  After a few minutes staring outside at the pool and wishing I were lying on one of the chaises, sipping margaritas with Dickie, I forced myself to return to the task at hand.

  By the time the maid arrived to summon us to lunch, you’ll be proud to learn I did manage to write something down:

  Note to self: Buy margarita mix.

  Chapter 2

  By now the morning fog had burned off and, what with the sun shining its little heart out, lunch was being served at the pool.

  “Daisy always invites me to join her for meals,” Kate said as we made our way outside. “Like I told you, she’s a doll to work for. And wait till you taste Raymond’s chow. Yum!”

  Out on the patio, Daisy sat at a glass-topped wrought iron table with matching wrought iron chairs—cushioned in turquoise, of course.

  Seated at her side was a silver-haired gent somewhere in his sixties, dressed in tennis whites, his pot belly not quite concealed under his polo, skinny legs popping out from white shorts.

  “That’s Clayton,” Kate whispered as we approached the table. “Lives down the street. Daisy’s gentleman caller. He’s gaga over her.”

  Indeed, he seemed to be gazing at Daisy with the ardor of a geriatric Romeo.

  “It was quite a match,” he was saying. “I beat him all three sets. And he calls himself a tennis pro.”

  “Hello, girls!” Daisy said, catching sight of us. “Jaine, come meet my dear friend, Clayton Manning.”

  Clayton jumped up to take my hand, his face a deep (possibly carcinogenic) tan, etched with wrinkles, watery blue eyes startling against his leathery skin.

  “A pleasure to meet you, my dear.”

  “Clayton was just telling me about his exploits on the tennis court,” Daisy said as Kate and I took our seats. “He’s such a good player.”

  “I’m always trying to get Daisy to hit a few balls, but I can’t seem to talk her into it.”

  “It’s a disgrace,” Daisy said ruefully. “Here I’ve got a perfectly lovely tennis court”—she gestured to the court beyond the pool—“and I never use it. I much prefer my morning walks.”

  “That’s how we met,” Clayton said, beaming at the memory. “Daisy was out for her morning constitutional and I was getting my mail. I took one look at her and forgot all about the one million dollars I may or may not have won from Publishers Clearing House.”

  He shot Daisy another look of love, which she rewarded with a weak smile.

  Somehow I got the impression that Daisy wasn’t quite ready to play Juliet to Clayton’s Romeo.

  “Clayton, dear,” she said, eager to steer the conversation away from love among the Aarpsters. “Jaine is helping me write my romance novel.”

  Helping her? What the what? I was writing the darn thing. That is, I would’ve been writing it if I could think of a plot.

  “So how are you coming along?” Daisy asked eagerly.

  “Great,” I lied.

  “Wonderful! I’ll stop by at the end of the day and see what you’ve got so far.”

  Oh, hell. I was going to have to come up with something by the end of the day.

  I was quickly distracted from the image of my blank computer screen, however, when Daisy’s beautiful blond maid showed up, elegant in her white uniform, wheeling a trolley with our lunches.

  “Solange, honey,” Daisy said. “I forgot to ask. How did your audition go?” Then, turning to me, she added, “Solange is an aspiring actress.”

  So that explained what this stunner was doing wheeling food trolleys.

  “Ms. Kincaid is so kind,” Solange said. “She lets me take time off to go to auditions.”

  “Did you get the part?” Daisy asked.

  Solange shook her head wistfully.

  “Don’t give up,” Daisy said, patting her arm. “I just know one day I’m going to see you up on the big screen, and I’ll be able to say, ‘She used to make my bed!’ ”

  Solange grinned and, turning to the trolley, announced:

  “Salmon en croûte.”

  At first, I was disappointed. I’m not much of a fish fan. But this salmon, I saw, as Solange placed my plate in front of me, was wrapped in a flaky pastry shell. And as far as I’m concerned, anything with the word “pastry” can’t be all bad.

  I took a bite, and suddenly I was in fish heaven. The stuff was dee-lish.

  Kate hadn’t been exaggerating when she raved about Daisy’s chef.

  I was busy inhaling my salmon, Clayton in the middle of a highly dubious story about beating Andre Agassi in a charity tennis match, when a regal gal with salt-and-pepper hair came sweeping out onto the patio in billowy palazzo pants and a chiffon blouse. In her hand, she held a newspaper.

  “That’s Esme Larkin,” Kate whispered to me. “Daisy’s BFF.”

  Clayton, ever the gentleman, jumped up and pulled out a nearby chair for our new guest.

  “Daisy, darling!” Esme said, bending down to air-kiss her buddy. “So wonderful to see you. And you, too, Clayton!”

  Clearly not as egalitarian as Daisy, she lobbed a brisk nod at Kate and a questioning glance at me.

  “Esme,” Daisy said, leaping into the breach, “this is Jaine Austen.”

  Esme’s stone-gray eyes swept over me, suddenly intrigued.

  “Any relation to the world-renowned author?” she asked.

  “Afraid not.”

  “Pity,” she said, instantly dismissing me as an object of interest.

  “Jaine’s helping me write my book,” Daisy explained

  “Fifty Shades of Turquoise!” Esme gushed. “Such a fabulous title. Absolutely delicious.”

  That last bit uttered while looking longingly at the salmon on our plates.

  “Esme, hon,” Daisy said, following her gaze, “have you eaten lunch?”

  “Actually, no. I’ve had such a hectic morning.”

  “Let me get you some salmon.”

  “If it’s not a bother.”

  “No bother at all.”

  Daisy pressed a button on an intercom at the table.

  “One more salmon, please, Solange.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” Solange’s voice, laced with static, came out from the machine.

  “I’m not really all that hungry,” Esme said, “but I suppose I can force down a few bites. Meanwhile, darling, I’ve got wonderful news!”

  With that, she waved the newspaper she’d been carrying, the Bel Air Society News, a glossy, tabloid-sized paper filled with pictures of rich people showing off their facelifts at charity galas.

  “Here you are on the front page!” Esme squealed. “In an article about our benefit for the Animal Welfare League.”

  She held out the paper so we could all see it.

  The headline read:

  Daisy Kincaid Hosts Charity Fundraiser at La Belle Vie

  And indeed, there was a picture of Daisy holding a champagne glass.

  A frown marred Daisy’s face.

  “Oh, dear. You know how I hate publicity. It’s so showy. My father always believed in giving anonymously. He disapproved of people who gave only to see their names in print. You promised you wouldn’t have any photographers at the event.”

  “But I didn’t, darling. I shot this photo myself on my iPhone and couldn’t resist sending it to the paper. You’re not miffed at me, are you?”

  She arranged her chiseled features into a look of remor
se.

  “Of course not, hon,” Daisy said, her smile back in action. “I could never be miffed at you.

  “Esme is chairman of the Bel Air Animal Welfare League,” Daisy explained to me, “and is a positive saint to all those poor abandoned cats and dogs.”

  Somehow it was hard to picture this granite-faced gal as a saint.

  “We couldn’t do our work without you, Daisy,” Esme said. “We’d be positively lost without your generous donations.”

  In the middle of this mutual admiration praisefest, Solange showed up with Esme’s salmon.

  She had no sooner put it down on the table than Esme swan dived into it. For someone who wasn’t very hungry, she sure was packing it away.

  Can’t say as I blame her. I was practically licking my plate.

  And dessert—a creamy chocolate mousse—was equally fabu-licious.

  At the end of the meal, Daisy’s chef, a lithe ponytailed guy, came out onto the patio in his white chef’s jacket.

  “Was everything to your liking, ma’am?” he asked Daisy.

  “Oh, Raymond. It was divine, as usual. You are, without doubt, an absolute genius in the kitchen.”

  He glowed under her praise.

  And I had to agree.

  With meals like this, maybe writing Fifty Shades of Turquoise wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

  FIFTY SHADES OF TURQUOISE

  Outline

  Clarissa Weatherly, a raven-haired beauty with mesmerizing emerald eyes, is a spoiled socialite, living the high life in New York, dabbling at her job in an art gallery, engaged to be married to a dashing English nobleman. Then suddenly her world falls apart when she gets the tragic news that her father has died. Even more tragic, he’s gambled away nearly all his fortune, leaving her penniless.

  Clarissa is devastated, especially at the thought of losing Weatherly Manor, the fifty-room mansion where she grew up in Colorado. The home that stores so many precious memories is now in foreclosure. The only thing that remains of her father’s estate is his turquoise mine, which is on the brink of shutting down.

  More devastation is headed Clarissa’s way when she tells her British nobleman fiancé that she is now penniless and he breaks off their engagement.

  Blinded by tears, yet determined to save her childhood home, she returns to Colorado to take over the reins of the turquoise mine and turn it into a profit-making venture.

  Back home at the mine, she discovers a crooked foreman, who has been robbing her father blind. She fires him on the spot. Knowing nothing about mining, she must rely on MAX LAREDO, a burly miner with abs of steel, to help her save her business. Accustomed to being treated like a princess all her life, Clarissa is furious when Max bosses her around and barks orders at her. She absolutely hates this swaggering idiot! At least that’s what she tells herself. Underneath his swagger, she senses a good man with a kind heart. Not to mention those abs of steel. As they work together, side by side, overcoming one obstacle after another, she finds herself growing more and more attracted to this rough-hewn rock of a man. Together, they continue to work tirelessly, and at last, they do it! They make enough money to buy back Clarissa’s childhood mansion! Weatherly Manor is saved!

  Not only that, the mine is soon making money hand over fist.

  And before Clarissa knows it, Algernon, her former fiancé, shows up, begging her to take him back.

  For a minute, she’s tempted, but then she takes a good look at him and sees him for the moneygrubbing cad he is. She realizes at that moment that her true love is Max, the burly miner.

  She finds him at the mine, and there among the turquoise stones, they fall into each other’s arms. The first of many nights of bliss to come.

  Clarissa marries Max and, after buying back her fifty-room mansion, she has each room painted a different shade of turquoise—and proceeds to make love in every one of them with her studly new hubby.

  Okay, that’s the bilge I dreamed up for Daisy.

  I gave it to her to read at the end of the day and headed home, praying she’d like it.

  Chapter 3

  Unlike Clarissa Weatherly’s, my life was not a raging sex-a-thon.

  Determined to play it safe and not rush into things, I’d put off having dipsy doodle with Dickie. Sure, we’d fooled around, but as yet, we hadn’t gone the distance.

  But tonight, I’d decided, was the night.

  I’d invited Dickie over for a home cooked dinner (well, home cooked by my neighborhood Italian restaurant) of lasagna, antipasto salad, and tiramisu for dessert. Bolstered by a glass of Chianti or two, I planned on letting my reformed ex sweep me off to the bedroom to consummate our newly rekindled love.

  After handing in my magnum opus to Daisy, I headed home to shower and dress—with a pit stop to pick up my Italian dinner.

  Back at my apartment, I found Prozac sprawled on the sofa, luxuriating in her umpteenth nap of the day.

  “Hi, sweetpea,” I said, scratching her behind her ears.

  She gazed up at me with a loving expression that could mean only one thing:

  I smell lasagna. When do we eat?

  I’d cut my pampered princess the tiniest sliver of lasagna and was just putting the rest in the oven to keep warm when my neighbor Lance came banging at my front door.

  Lance and I share a modest duplex on the fringes of Beverly Hills, light years away from the megamansions north of Wilshire.

  “Hey, hon,” he said, sailing into my apartment in cutoffs and T-shirt, his tight blond curls moussed to perfection. “Want to grab dinner and a movie?”

  “Not tonight, Lance. I’m seeing Dickie.”

  A look of disapproval flitted across his face.

  “Again?”

  “Yes, again. I’ve been seeing Dickie for the past six weeks, three days, and twenty-two and a half hours, give or take a second or two. And I’m not about to stop now.”

  He shook his head, tsking in disapproval.

  “Jaine, honey, I don’t want to rain on your parade, but have you forgotten all the misery that guy put you through when you were married? The forgotten birthdays? The chronic unemployment? And what about the time he gave you those used flowers for your anniversary?”

  It’s true. On our fourth—and final—anniversary, Dickie had given me a bouquet he’d picked from the neighbor’s trash without even bothering to remove the accompanying card. (Happy Bat Mitzvah, Kimberly!)

  That, in fact, had been the last straw, the final indignity that sent me scuttling off to see a divorce attorney.

  But that was a long time ago. Things were different now.

  “Dickie’s changed,” I insisted. “He’s not the man he used to be.”

  “Nobody really changes, Jaine. Honestly,” he said, taking my hands in his. “I think you’re making a big mistake. I only want what’s best for you.”

  But did he really? I wondered.

  Sure, on the surface, Lance believed he was looking out for my best interests. But underneath his concern, I detected a mother lode of jealousy.

  For years Lance and I had been wading together through a swamp of losers, searching for Mr. Right. Now I’d found my true love while he was still stuck kissing frogs.

  So far, I hadn’t confronted him with my suspicions. And I wasn’t about to do it then. I had to get ready for my all-important date with Dickie.

  “I know you care about me, Lance, but I promise I’ll be fine. Now you’ve got to scoot so I can take a shower and get dressed.”

  “Okay,” he said. “If you’re sure you know what you’re doing . . .”

  “Trust me, Lance. I know what I’m doing.”

  A skeptical meow from Prozac.

  She knows what she’s doing like I know advanced calculus.

  After gently shoving Lance out the door, I set the table (with actual cloth napkins instead of my usual stash of paper napkins from KFC) and raced off to prep for my night of passion.

  In the shower, I loofahed my skin to a rosy glow. Thoroughly exfoliated,
I slipped into a pair of skinny jeans; slouchy, pink V-neck sweater; and strappy leather sandals.

  Then I slapped on some makeup and sprayed myself with some divine Jo Malone White Jasmine perfume I’d splurged on at Nordstrom. It had been worth the splurge. Dickie loved it and was always telling me how good I smelled.

  Back in the living room, I twirled in front of Pro.

  “How do I look?”

  She gazed up at me through slitted eyes.

  Like a woman about to cheat on her cat.

  Was there no one in my life who supported me on this Dickie thing?

  But I didn’t have time to mope about my lack of moral support, because just then Dickie showed up on my doorstep, tall and lanky in tight jeans and a denim work shirt, highlights glistening in his sun-bleached hair, his soulful brown eyes burning with what I hoped was lust.

  From her perch on the sofa, Prozac lobbed him a genial hiss.

  “Hey there,” he said, running his finger along my cheek. “You smell great.”

  Thank you, Jo Malone!

  Then he pulled me into his arms for a steamroller of a kiss.

  “Nice to see you, too,” I managed to croak when we finally came up for air, my nether regions melting into a puddle of goo.

  “I brought something for Prozac,” he said.

  Having been temporarily blinded by his tight jeans, I now realized he was carrying a squeaky toy mouse.

  “Look what I got you, Prozac!” he said, tossing it to her.

  She gazed at it disdainfully, then batted it away with the expertise of a World Series champ.

  “Prozac!” I admonished her. “How could you?”

  “No worries,” Dickie said. “She’ll get used to me in time.”

  An angry thump of Pro’s tail.

  Wanna bet?

  After a few more steamy smooches, Dickie and I finally wrenched ourselves away from each other and settled down to dinner.