Lovers and Liars Read online

  In Hollywood

  Where They Vied for Sex,

  Power, and Wealth

  They Were Safe

  Until They Fell in Love

  Belinda Glassman was the fabulous rich girl who used men to satisfy her passions, but kept her heart unattached … too hurt by her powerful father to risk falling in love.

  Jack Ford was the year’s fastest rising star, with a big-money film contract after a hit TV series … and not into a serious relationship with anybody but the lady called Success.

  Then fate brought them together on a movie set … and into the pitch-black heat of a Laguna Beach bedroom where the sex got so hot someone was bound to get burned.

  LOVERS AND LIARS

  Their passions felt like heaven on earth,

  but their hungers could damn them …

  straight to hell

  Also by Brenda Joyce

  THE CONQUEROR

  THE DARKEST HEART

  DARK FIRES

  Published by

  Dell Publishing

  a division of

  Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

  666 Fifth Avenue

  New York, New York 10103

  Copyright © 1989 by Brenda Joyce Dworman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-78948-8

  v3.1

  Each character in this novel

  is entirely fictional.

  No reference to any living person

  is intended or should be inferred.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One: Strangers

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part Two: Lovers

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Part Three: Liars

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Part Four: Lovers

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Chapter 128

  Chapter 129

  Chapter 130

  Chapter 131

  Chapter 132

  Chapter 133

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  February 1988

  Lies.

  All lies.

  The pain was still so raw. How many days had it been? Two, three, four? A week? God, she didn’t even know, She was drifting in a cloud of hurt, drifting, like the snowflakes outside …

  It was hard to focus on anything other than the betrayal. How had it happened? She, who had never needed anyone, not even her parents—not that they had been there for her—and certainly not a man. She, who had had more men in her life than she could count, who had played the singles game more callously than the worst playboy, had not just taken the plunge. It had been a freefall without the chute opening.

  God.

  Jack Ford.

  Hollywood’s Golden Boy. Sex symbol nonpareil. Hot. As in hot property. One of the hottest in town. And notorious. Oh, so notorious …

  The truth agonized.

  He had used her to avenge himself on her father.

  Dear God. If only she would wake up and find that all this was just a horrible dream.

  A knock sounded. She started. The dogs barked. She thought she must be imagining things—no one knew where she was, where she had escaped to, where she was hiding, in this cabin at Lake Tahoe. But there it was again.

  She got up, shoving aside strands of blond hair, squaring her broad shoulders, and opened the door. Outside, the wind howled, pine trees swayed, and the snow began falling more heavily.

  “Belinda Ford?”

  She was the daughter of Abe Glassman, whose multi-billion-dollar conglomerate spanned two continents, one of the most powerful men in America—and she recognized the press ID before she could make out the cardholder’s face, shadowed by the hood of his parka. Oh, no, she thought. Oh, no, not now.

  And the name he had used in addressing her. Ford. It was still unfamiliar. She wanted to deny it. She couldn’t. “Yes?”

  “I’m with the National Enquirer. Can I come in? It’s freezing out.”

  “No, I’m
sorry,” Belinda said, starting to shut the door.

  But he jammed his Gerry-clad shoulder into it. “When did you and Jack Ford get married, and why keep it secret?” he asked quickly. “And is the rumor true? There’s already trouble between the two of you—you’re estranged? Have you left him?”

  “No damn comment,” Belinda said, coldly furious.

  “You must have a comment to make on the article in the Star. Or is that why you left him? It must be a helluva shock to think you’ve married a movie star, only to find out he’s a porn star too.”

  Belinda was stunned. What was he talking about? Jack—porn? She recovered. “Please leave before I have to call the police.”

  “You didn’t know!” He was triumphant. “Then there had to be another reason you left Ford just days after the wedding. He’s infamous for his women. Is that it? Another woman? Or did you know—was it because of the porn? And what about all this publicity—your husband’s about to take a fall? His career is on the line, maybe finished—”

  “Get out!” she shouted. “Just get out!”

  “Ford was seen last night with Donna Mills. Do you have something to say about that?”

  She succeeded in finally pushing him out the door and slamming it shut in his face. She was breathless. It couldn’t be true, could it? Jack and porn? And Donna Mills? God, he couldn’t possibly be in her bed, could he? Were there already others? And why—why did it have to hurt so much, and why did she have to even care?

  So many lies.

  Every second of every moment—another lie.

  She inhaled deeply. And faced the biggest questions of all.

  What was between her father, Abe Glassman, and her husband, Jack Ford?

  And why had Jack used her as the instrument of his revenge?

  PART ONE

  Strangers

  July 1987

  1

  Heads turned.

  Today she didn’t just look like a star, she felt like one. She was on top of the world—the world was at her feet. “Adam!”

  She made a stunning figure. She was not as tall as one thought, five feet six or so, taller now in high-heeled pumps, clad in a pencil-thin black skirt that showed off strong, muscular legs. Her shoulders were broad under an even broader neon-orange jacket, as straight as the skirt, and her golden hair fell in glorious, disheveled waves to her shoulders. Her face was model-perfect, with high cheekbones, straight nose, full, sensual lips, and a strong jaw.

  Adam Gordon rose as she made her way among the tables of the Bistro Garden. “Belinda, you’re dazzling today.”

  She grinned, allowing him to seat her, once again impressed by his old-world charm. She had forgotten it still existed. “Adam, we are celebrating. I want the best champagne in the house. My treat,” she added quickly. Normally she would never be so extravagant in a town where extravagance was the norm, for she could not afford it. But today she was three hundred and fifty thousand dollars richer—three hundred and fifty thousand dollars!

  Adam, tall, dark, and slim—and not her type—took her hand. She was still surprised that she had agreed to go out with him and told herself it was not because he and her father seemed to dislike each other so intensely. “Share the news,” he said. His look was warm.

  “My screenplay has sold! God! Finally! North-Star bought it. In fact, they’re picking it up as a vehicle for Jackson Ford. Do you know who Ford is?”

  This was Hollywood. And Adam was a lawyer in one of the largest firms in L.A. Among the firm’s numerous clients, both corporate and otherwise, were the likes of Charlton Heston and Joan Collins. It was his business to know everything about the entertainment business. “Of course. He’s on that television detective series—or was. The show’s been canceled and North-Star grabbed him. He’s a very hot property right now, maybe the hottest. Congratulations, Belinda,” Adam said, smiling, but he was wondering if this was going to interfere with his plans.

  “Oh, Adam, I’ve waited so long for this—so damn long!” She thought about the one screenplay she had sold two years ago, the one that had never even made it into production. But this time was different. This time North-Star was the producer, not some small independent; this time it was a vehicle for a super-hot property; this time it was going all the way. “I think I’ve finally made it, Adam. All those years of listening to ‘Why don’t you go and get a real job?’ ”

  Adam smiled. “You have made it.”

  “There’s more. They’re interested in another product of mine, so I’m crossing my fingers. We may be making another sale soon.”

  “Then this is definitely cause for celebration.”

  Belinda started to bite a long red nail, then promptly stopped. “I think Ford is hot,” she said tensely. “But can he act …”

  It was a rhetorical question, so Adam ordered a bottle of Cristal champagne.

  “I mean,” she mused, “he has been nominated for Best Actor in a Dramatic Series every year since he got the show, but so what, right? Has he won?” she demanded. “I mean, granted, he has the greatest ass and an even better smile, but …” She sighed. “I’m so nervous, Adam. I want everything to be perfect. I can’t help it—this is my ticket to success. If the box office is good for this, God, imagine if it was one of those weekend multi-million-dollar grossers! Damn! I wish Mel Gibson was doing the role. Everyone knows he can act.”

  “Ford will sell tickets,” Adam assured her. “He is very hot right now.” Belinda gave him a grateful smile, but her mind was light-years ahead.

  Production was scheduled to start in December. Thinking about it made her stomach twist into knots. This was her first sale (the other not counting), and Outrage was her baby. She was determined to ride this ticket all the way down the pike. She wanted to be in on all the rewrites. If she managed to stay in—and she’d been in this town long enough to know how rare that was, for writers were changed as easily as a pair of pants and discarded with less thought than pantyhose—there would be a lot of ass-kissing and compromising. She wanted desperately to stay in. She wanted this film, Outrage, to be better than good, to be fantastic.

  She could not concentrate on Adam or lunch. She wanted to be back at home, at her IBM PC, polishing up the climax of her third screenplay—just in case.

  Home was a weathered gray beach house in Laguna Beach, a good hour’s drive south of L.A. and Hollywood. The house literally hung over the beach, on stilts. It was small and traditional on the outside, eclectic on the inside, with breathtaking views of Catalina and the surf. The floors were faded pine, the ceilings high and beamed, with an enormous skylight over the living room. There was barely any furniture, just the basics—a couch, a few chairs, a pine chest serving as a cocktail table. An oversized painting that was a birthday present from her grandparents dominated the room, taking up all of one wall. Done almost in a Fauvist style, with vivid colors and contrasts, it was a scene of a yacht and a navy destroyer in the New York harbor during the bicentennial celebration. Belinda had fallen in love with the painting in a San Francisco gallery. She had never dreamed she would own it. Next to her IBM PC, it was her most cherished possession.

  A big black Lab greeted her at the door as she walked in, and she bent to scratch his head, then began to shed her shoes and hose in the middle of the living room. She thought about her parents. Shouldn’t she call them?

  Her father didn’t give a damn.

  Not that she cared. Maybe once, a long time ago, but not anymore.

  Still … The biggest moment of her life, and she really had to face it, she had no one to share it with except some casual date. That or Vince.

  If she looked too hard at that fact, she’d have to face some inescapable conclusions, so Belinda quickly paced to the huge glass doors that slid open onto a deck, bare except for plants and a waist-level glass windscreen. She stared out at the calm blue water, the surfers, and the boats with their white-and-blue sails flapping in the breeze.

  After just a few minutes she turned and looked at
the phone. So what if her father didn’t care? Didn’t she have some kind of inalienable right to share the biggest moment of her life with him? She crossed to the phone with long, aggressive strides.

  The receptionist put her right through. The next phone rang four times before it was answered by one of the dozen secretaries working for Glassman. As usual, a tone of harassment seeped through the veneer of professional courtesy.

  “Mr. Glassman, please,” Belinda said, wondering if her own voice sounded tense. For some reason the phone had gotten a bit clammy in her hand.

  “Whom may I—”

  “Belinda. Glassman. His daughter.”

  That got the secretary off balance. She heard the indrawn breath. She never called her father, ever, not at work, not outside work, and she hadn’t been to his office since she was fifteen. But now, after a three-minute pause, the secretary informed her that she would have to call back later. Mr. Glassman was in a meeting and could not take the call. “Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Forget it,” she said quickly. She hung up. Just as well. It was a bad idea.

  Should she call her mother?

  She started to think about the night ahead. She wanted to celebrate. Too bad today wasn’t Friday, because there was that North-Star party she had been invited to and had no intention of missing. But today wasn’t Friday, and she had always been a loner, even as a child, and it never bothered her—except at times like these.

  She suddenly had a nostalgic longing for Dana—her best friend as a teenager. They had drifted apart when Dana had gotten married, and now she was a mother three times over. Belinda guessed that marriage and motherhood suited Dana, but she couldn’t imagine herself ever in that role. It wasn’t because she was such a loner and just couldn’t get close to people; it was rather because she knew men too well and had long ago given up her childish dreams of finding some kind of Prince Charming to share her life with. Most men wanted one thing, and Belinda knew exactly what that was. But that was okay. Belinda wanted it too. It was the lies that she could live without—and she intended to do just that.

  Still, this moment cried out to be shared with someone special.

  But there was no one, so Belinda shrugged the need away. Of course it would have to be a man. Her mind formed an image of massive male pectorals, thickly matted with black hair. Sometimes there was nothing interesting at all out and about. Other times they all came out of the woodwork.