"You gotta know that Bobby did nothing wrong," M.J. assured her. "This is a full-on setup. Somebody's out to get him."

"You're sure about that?"

"I was with him, Denver. I took him to the emergency room. He was drugged out. The doctor mentioned something about he could've died."

Denver felt her throat constrict. "Who was the girl?" she couldn't stop herself from asking.

"I'm gonna fill you in when you get here," M.J. said.

Denver attempted to remain calm; she had to hear all the facts before she jumped to conclusions. She was well aware that there were always two sides to every story, although obviously Bobby had known the murdered woman-he'd even gone to her hotel room. The thought of Bobby with another woman was driving her crazy, and even though she knew she was being irrational, she couldn't help herself.

So ... what was Bobby's side? That's what she was desperate to find out. And until she did, she couldn't rest easy.

A familiar face at last! Max experienced a surge of joy, even if the familiar face was that of Carlo, the photographer who'd felt it perfectly reasonable to spend a drunken night camped out in her bed after their photo session in London. According to Athena, he was totally into sleeping with his models.

"Ciao, bella!" Carlo greeted her, moving in for an intimate hug.

"Ciao right back atcha," she managed, pleased to see him, and forced to admit that there was something about him that she found wickedly hot. He was no Billy Melina, but he certainly had it going on in a low-down bad-boy kind of way. And who didn't like bad boys?

They were now in the Dolcezza photo studio, a state-of-the-art airy space at the top of the building. Earlier she'd perused the sample clothes room and come up with a skimpy white crop top and crotch-hugging blue-jean shorts. It was kind of a Miley Cyrus look. She'd added a studded low-slung belt, a cluster of bangles, a statement necklace, and a pair of insane leopard-print Prada heels. Oh yes, this was a far better look for her-no more stupid jumpsuit to get lost in. Athena would definitely approve.

Lorenzo was standing by, and so was Giulia, who'd been instructed to stick around.

The hair and makeup team from that morning were gathered on one side of the studio, glaring at her with aghast expressions on their faces. Who did she think she was? Changing everything they'd done. It was sacrilege.

They muttered among themselves until the makeup woman in her tightly belted zebra-print coat approached Carlo, who was busy instructing one of his assistants to set up the background for his first shot. There followed a fiery exchange in rapid Italian, with the woman shooting contemptuous looks and gestures toward Max, while Carlo casually shrugged and acted unconcerned.

Max loved him for that. Maybe he wasn't such an asshole. After all, it was because of him that she'd gotten this job, and he was obviously cool with the outfit she'd put together.

The zebra-print woman stalked back to her group and took out her cell phone with an angry flourish.

Unperturbed, Carlo motioned for Max to take her position in front of the camera. She did so, and the shoot began.

Gangsta rap blared from the speakers, so loud that Max could barely hear Carlo as he issued instructions about what he wanted her to do. First he required her to stare straight into the camera, hands tucked into the pockets of her shorts, head down, expression sexy. Next he requested that she lean against the plain backdrop, shoulders arched, one leg slightly bent, expression wistful.

They had a great working chemistry and they both felt it. Every so often Carlo would stop and check out the images he was capturing on a nearby computer screen. He muttered to himself, liking what he saw, winking at Max but not offering to show her anything. Then everything came to an abrupt halt with the entry of Natalia and Dante Dolcezza.

Zebra-print makeup woman raced toward them, relaying her annoyance. She was closely followed by the hair person and the clothes stylist, all of them waving their arms in the air and venting their frustration.

Carlo ordered one of his assistants to turn off the music, then he approached the twins. It was apparent to Max that they knew each other well, for Natalia was all over Carlo, smothering him with kisses, while Dante gave him an offhand nod.

"Who are they?" she asked Lorenzo.

"Natalia and Dante," Lorenzo replied. "The Dolcezza twins."

Max checked them out. She figured them to be in their late twenties. Natalia was tall and big-boned with dark skin, a strong face, and a longish nose. Not unattractive, she carried herself as if she were the most beautiful movie star on the planet. Dante was nothing like his sister. He was shorter and scarily thin, with a deathly pale complexion and small, hooded eyes. He wore a black studded leather jacket that Max immediately coveted.

Between Carlo, the twins, and the Italian glam squad, there was a definite cluster fuck of complaints going on. Obviously it was all about her refusal to look like someone she wasn't. Too bad, she thought. I've made a stand and I'm sticking to it.

As the arguing continued, she wondered if now was the time to call Lucky back. Then she decided no-too much going on. Later would be better.

"What are they saying?" she whispered to Lorenzo.

"Complaining about you," he said with a casual shrug.

"It might be polite for them to come over and say hello," she grumbled. "It's like they're kind of ignoring me."

"Better to keep a distance," Lorenzo warned. "Natalia is very jealous."

"Of me?"

"Of any girl Carlo photographs."

"How come?"

"They are engaged."

"Engaged?" Max exclaimed, caught off guard. "Are you serious?"

"For two years now. When it comes to making plans for a wedding, Carlo drags his feet. It does not please Natalia."

"Wow!" Max exclaimed, thinking back to the night Carlo spent in her bed. That wouldn't go down well with Natalia.

"Be careful," Lorenzo said, lowering his voice. "The prince of darkness approaches."

And suddenly Dante was standing directly in front of her, hooded eyes staring right through her. Creepy eyes. Creepy smile. Yellow teeth.

"Buon giorno," he said quite pleasantly before changing his tone. "Now, may I suggest that you get yourself into the makeup chair and stop believing you can do whatever you want," he added sharply. "Dolcezza tells you what you can or cannot do. I suggest that you read your contract, and start behaving like a professional. Am I making myself clear?"

Oh yes, he was making himself abundantly clear.

Max took a step back. Perhaps this was not going to be as easy as she'd thought.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

Married or not, men were all the same. Blow jobs ruled their world, especially the kind of blow jobs Willow had perfected. Ah yes ... although most men said there was no such thing as a bad blow job, Willow knew better. She'd been instructed by the best, a bisexual drag queen who'd taught her all the intricacies of doing it just right. She'd been fourteen at the time and working on a movie about a young runaway (her) who finds herself befriended by the drag queen. They'd become quite close on and off the screen, and she'd been happy to learn a trick or two. Tricks that had certainly enhanced her reputation among the male power players in Hollywood, plus a female executive or two.

Eddie Falcon was no exception. He might be married. His wife might be pregnant. But who was he to say no to a freebie? And since getting hitched to his Hollywood princess, Eddie had discovered that blow jobs were not high up on Annabelle's list of things to do. The truth was that they seemed to have fallen off the menu altogether. So when Willow called and said she wanted to see him, he'd thought, Why not? What's a quick blow job between an agent and his former client? And when he'd run into her at the Polo Lounge, she'd been looking hot in a Hollywood slut kind of way. So naturally, he'd remembered all the wild times they'd once shared, and what was the harm in wanting more?

Of course, if Annabelle ever found out, she wouldn't be a happy camper. But Eddie was confident that there was no way she could find out, for rather than be seen in public with Willow, he'd instructed her to come to his office at six P.M. and to use his private elevator-which would bring her right into his spacious office with a mind-blowing view of Century City. That way she wouldn't have to pass by anyone because he'd given her the direct access code.

Ah ... he could expect a world-class blow job in his future, and Eddie got off on anticipating.

Meanwhile, Willow had a puppy to deal with, and while it was cute enough, she was so not used to caring for animals-especially an untrained puppy.

True to his promise, Sam had dropped off his precious script, and after scanning it quickly, she'd decided it was definitely not the movie Alejandro or she would want to make. No sex. No violence. Mucho conversations between a man and his inner self. Boring and so uncommercial. It was hardly a surprise that no studio had picked it up. The script was Sam's inflated ego trip, the movie he wanted to make, and nobody else would give a shit.

Damn it! What was a girl to do?

Blow Eddie Falcon and ask his advice, for if anyone knew the ins and outs of Hollywood, it was Eddie.

After shutting the cute little puppy in her bedroom, she left to meet with Eddie.

Arriving at his office, she was dressed for action in slinky satin wide-legged pants-sans underwear-and a sheer top, nipples on alert. With her new earrings and exceptionally high heels, her look was complete. Sexy with a touch of class.

Stepping out of Eddie's private elevator into his well-appointed office, she was greeted by the man himself in nothing more than his underwear and a crisp white shirt, his hard-on standing at full attention poking hopefully through his shorts.

This did not surprise Willow; she was used to the sexual predilections of powerful and famous men. One studio head she'd serviced had worn a lacy ladies' thong and a plunging bra under his severe business suit. A top industry lawyer had insisted that she draw a smiley face on his penis with a felt-tip pen. And a very well-loved family star had made her trample all over his back wearing spiked hiking boots and nothing else.

Who was she to judge? She was merely a girl-an actress-trying to keep her name above the title.

"Hey, sexy tits," Eddie said with a smile as he released what he referred to as the big ride.

It was not big, it was average-but Willow always oohed and aahed as though it were the most exciting piece of real estate she'd ever seen.

"Somebody's pleased to see me," she purred. "And since you're a married man now, I guess the wife is not putting out."

Eddie's smile vanished. His hard-on didn't. "No mention of the wife," he said sternly. "She's off-limits."

"Fine with me," Willow murmured. Cheating husbands never wanted to talk about their wives, unless it was to complain about what a bitch they were. Annabelle Falcon was a bitch, according to Frankie Romano, Alejandro's drinking buddy who'd recently gotten himself arrested for drug trafficking. And Frankie should know-he was Annabelle's ex-boyfriend.

"Enough with the small talk," Eddie said, gesturing toward his crotch. "Whyn't you take a look at how much I've missed you."

"Aren't you going to offer me a drink first?" she asked coyly, attempting to ignore his erection, which was still pointing directly at her.

"C'mon, sexy tits," Eddie said with an agonized groan. "Let's get this show started."

"Okay, okay," she said, realizing that this meeting was going nowhere until she'd given him what he was begging for. "But after we're finished, we talk. Right?"

"You got it."

Willow fell to her knees on the plush carpet. If I wasn't so ambitious, I would've made a fantastic hooker, she thought as he jammed himself into her mouth.

Then it was on.

Willow took great pride in being the best little cocksucker in town.

Rafael spent a restless day going over how he was supposed to handle this new circumstance that had arisen. He was being blackmailed, pure and simple. Blackmailed by the idiot Alejandro, who now fancied himself a movie producer. What a moron Alejandro was. Did he honestly believe that money could buy him anything he desired? And how was he, Rafael, supposed to persuade Pablo Fernandez Diego that making a movie was a legitimate venture for the Diegos to become involved in?

Rafael was sickened by it all. He'd been had. Plied with liquor and God knew what kind of drugs to make him think he was making love to his precious Elizabetta. How could he have allowed this to take place?

Perhaps it was punishment for the girl in Chicago. Rafael had thought he'd hired a professional who knew what he was being paid to do, but the man had killed the girl instead of beating her up. It was not the result Rafael had wanted, although according to his informant in the DA's office, it had gotten Denver Jones out of town, running to her boyfriend's side.

He still had a bad feeling about what had taken place, and now he was paying for it. Not that he was a religious man, but his mother was, and she'd instilled a certain amount of guilt in him, guilt he'd learned to brush aside because he was in the drug business. He was involved in importing all kinds of drugs into America and consequently ruining people's lives. It was not a profession he'd chosen, it was simply his lot in life.

These were the facts he usually chose to ignore. Only today was different-today he was being punished for his bad deeds. He felt it in his bones.

Alejandro was his problem, and there was nothing he could do about it, for if any harm came to Alejandro, Pablo would surely have Rafael killed. Rafael knew that for a fact.

He swallowed hard as he paced around his small office at Club Luna. There had to be an answer, and yet he was at a loss to know what that answer might be.

"Hey," a fully satisfied Eddie Falcon said, tucking his dick back into his pants. "You haven't lost your touch, babe. You always were the best."

Willow emerged from his private bathroom, dabbing her lips with a tissue. "Thank you, kind sir," she responded with a sly smile. "Positive reviews are always welcome."

"We should get together more often," Eddie noted with a pleased smirk. "Gotta say I missed your magic skills."

At least he appreciates me, Willow thought. Now he can listen to me.

"Eddie," she said, dropping into an ultramodern steel-and-chrome chair. "I have a proposition you're gonna love."

Eddie did not sit. Eddie was too busy getting dressed.

"Make it fast, babe," he said, shrugging on his Armani jacket. "I got a dinner to go to."

"I'll make it fast, all right," Willow responded, fumbling in her purse for a cigarette. "How does a million bucks cash-straight into your pocket-sound?"

And so Eddie listened.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT.

"As soon as Lennie gets back from lunch with the boys, tell him I had to go out," Lucky informed Danny, who was already hard at work making arrangements for the funeral service and the party that would follow.

"Should I come with you?" Danny asked, anxious to take a break since he was snowed under with everything he had to organize. "Or should I get one of the guards to accompany you?"

"Not necessary," Lucky replied briskly. She had things to take care of, things that did not involve anyone except herself, and she certainly didn't want security or Danny tagging along.

Danny was longing to ask where she was off to, even though he was well aware that his boss did not appreciate being questioned. "Will we be going back to Palm Springs later?" he inquired, wondering if he could bring Buff, his significant other.