The Bad Always Die Twice Read online

  The Bad Always Die Twice

  CHERYL CRANE

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Copyright Page

  For JLR.

  “Did you not know that you are my hero?”

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank the following people for their help, encouragement, and faith in me: Lennie Alickman, Evan Marshall, John Scognamiglio, Tom and Mike, Bill and Marc, and the other CC for all of the above and much, much more.

  Chapter 1

  Nikki Harper snagged a Norwegian salmon canapé from a silver tray as a server passed her. Checking her Girard-Perregaux wristwatch, which she rarely wore (how embarrassing was it to own a timepiece that cost as much as a three-bedroom bungalow in Boise?), she popped the delicacy into her mouth. She truly adored extravagant food; it was these extravagant parties she could do without. They were all about seeing and being seen, neither of which appealed to her. She’d spent her entire childhood in the limelight, which still left a sour taste in her mouth. Or would have, had the smoky, salty salmon not been so amazing.

  This party, like most she attended in Hollywood, was business, not pleasure. She came to these events because she had to, not because they were supposed to be fun.

  According to the superior Swiss timing on her wrist, if she included the time it took in line for the valet parking, she’d been here forty-seven minutes. Surely another thirteen minutes and she could bid her hostess good night and be on her way. If she was lucky, she might even be able to escape before the grand entrance of Victoria Bordeaux, the honored guest of the evening, who was already almost an hour late. The fifties screen goddess would have it no other way.

  “Are you staying?” Nikki glanced at her companion. A gaudy crystal chandelier overhead caught her attention, and she wondered how she had managed to sell this white elephant of a mansion in Outpost Estates in Hollywood for the ridiculous asking price. There were five additional, identical crystal monstrosities here in the salon where cocktails were being served.

  Golden-haired Jessica Martin, as beautiful as any old-Hollywood screen goddess, regarded Nikki with arched eyebrows. She was wearing a red silk sheath dress that had no doubt been purchased on Rodeo Drive that morning. She completed the ensemble with incredibly tanned, muscular bare legs and her favorite four-inch spike-heeled red Jimmy Choos.

  Nikki glanced down at her own attire, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She hoped she didn’t look frumpy in her vintage sleeveless sweater dress and sensible pumps.

  At five-foot-ten, she rarely wore high heels; they always made her feel too conspicuous, like she was towering over others. And no matter what she wore, she would never be as curvy as Jessica. She was willowy, according to her mother. Translation: skinny and shapeless. The one physical characteristic she had always liked about herself, though, was her red hair—her father’s red hair. Strawberry blond, she wore it just below her shoulders. And her eyes. She’d had a love–hate relationship with the blue eyes for years.

  “I doubt I’m staying. No one’s here.” Jessica wrinkled her pretty nose.

  “Are you kidding? Everyone is here. Mother’s colorist says Angelina’s looking for a new place. Heard she’s adopting more children. You should go talk to her.” Nikki lifted her chin in the direction of the brunette movie icon surrounded by her entourage at the far side of the room.

  Jessica sighed. “I’m not up for schmoozing. I think I’m going to go, if you don’t mind.”

  She pressed her fingertips to her board-flat abs, reminding Nikki of the avant-garde restaurant on the Sunset Strip where sushi was served on the naked bellies of well-toned waitresses. Jessica could definitely get a job there.

  “I’m starving,” Jessica declared.

  “Starving? Here?” Nikki eyed a tray of mushroom and lobster thingies going by, just out of reach. “You could feed a small African nation with the amount of food Edith is serving here tonight.”

  Edith March was Nikki and Jessica’s client and their hostess for the evening. Actually, technically, her husband Rex had been their client. He’d approached the realty company Nikki and Jessica worked for, eight months ago, about putting his tacky Old Spanish–style nine-bedroom home up for sale. The sixty-two-year-old actor had died tragically in a plane crash two months later, before the house had been sold.

  His body was never recovered from the single-engine plane he’d been flying solo when he crashed in the California desert. It was a tragedy, of course. Any death in a fiery plane crash was. What was even more tragic, though, was that Rex didn’t seem to be missed all that much. Edith, Rex’s widow, had begun dating only weeks after the memorial service.

  The tabloids had struggled to find anything nice to say about the man and his work, and the initial excitement over his untimely death had faded as fast as the luscious taste of lox on Nikki’s tongue. She scanned the room for the nearest red-vested server.

  Although Rex had played the occasional small role in films over the years, his one true claim to fame had been the lead in an early seventies family comedy set on a desert island; it wasn’t a great hit at the time, but it had become a residual blockbuster.

  Nikki hadn’t personally cared for Rex. He’d been a typical soggy Hollywood has-been who’d never had any talent to begin with nor enough sense to know it. He’d had entirely too large an ego and hands like an octopus.

  Edith March, on the other hand, Nikki genuinely adored. Edith was a classy lady who had remained loyal to her philandering husband to his death, and now she was making lemonade out of lemons. With the mansion sold, there was talk of buying a condo in Belize and a penthouse in New York City with her new, young boyfriend.

  And Edith knew how to throw a party. Everyone was here: the film actors and actresses of the old Hollywood days as well as current box office draws. She was even kind enough to invite a few TV stars. Edith was saying good-bye to the mansion she had never liked, good-bye to her previous life, and maybe a final good-bye to Rex, whose larger-than-life-size portrait was painted as a mural on the wall of the salon.

  “I can’t eat here.” Jessica looked at Nikki as if she’d just grown a horn in the middle of her head. Or maybe worn Manolo Blahniks to the gym. “Not in this dress. I haven’t eaten for two days and I still had to lie down on the bed to get it zipped up.” She drew her hand over the red silk and her amazingly fit torso. “Besides. You know me. I don’t eat raw fish eggs. Give me a well-done burger with special sauce any day.”

  Nikki chuckled. She and Jessica didn’t see eye to eye on fashion any better than Nikki and her mother did. Nikki was into comfort, old styles, and recycling perfectly good garments from her favorite vintage used clothing stores on Santa Monica in Beverly Hills. Jessica liked her designers big and her heels high. But Jessica was what she was, and Nikki liked her because of it. Sometimes i
n spite of it. One of Jessica’s most endearing qualities was that she wasn’t any more impressed by celebrities than Nikki was. Their only difference was that Nikki had grown up with them and Jessica slept with them. The combination of their personalities made them a great team at work.

  Take this sale, for instance. Jessica had brought the client in; she had catered to him, cooed and batted her lashes at him. Nikki had hit the pavement in search of prospective buyers. In the end, they had both wound up with phat commissions.

  “Hey, check that out. Ten o’clock.” Jessica eyed the host of a new late-night talk show. She liked her men mature. Preferably rich and mature. Sadly, also married. “Know him?”

  “Met him.” Nikki glanced at the bar. She wanted a glass of champagne before she was on her way, but there was a casting executive there whom she wanted to avoid.

  “Mother’s?” Jessica questioned dryly.

  “Where else?”

  “Nikki! Darling! How good of you to come.” Their hostess squeezed through her crowd of guests and enveloped Nikki in plump arms and yards of buttercup yellow chiffon. Hugging the breath out of her, Edith March still managed to keep the champagne glass in her hand from tipping and spilling its contents on the floor, or worse, on Jessica’s red silk number. “Really, you should be the guest of honor. None of this would have been possible without you.”

  Nikki air-kissed Edith’s cheek and extracted herself from the sea of nose-tickling fabric. “That’s kind of you, but we were just doing our jobs, Edith. You remember my partner, Jessica Martin,” she said, knowing full well that Edith remembered her.

  There had been some unexplained friction between the two women from day one; during the process of selling the estate, Nikki had kept them apart as much as possible. Nikki knew from experience that that happened with Jessica sometimes with their older female clients; just part of the territory when working with a drop-dead gorgeous partner.

  Nikki smiled at Edith. “We’re just pleased we were able to work out a deal that was acceptable to both you and the buyers.”

  “Acceptable? It was more than acceptable. Wasn’t it, dear?” Sipping from the glass, Edith opened and closed long red talons, beckoning to a good-looking thirty-something model/actor in a white dinner jacket.

  Nikki had heard that Thompson Christopher was in the running for a role in a new romantic comedy. Word was, the part could make him a household name if Kate Hudson signed on.

  “Thompson, tell Nikki how thrilled we are with the deal,” Edith insisted, finishing off her champagne.

  Thompson slipped his arm around Edith’s thick waist. “I’m pleased if Edie’s pleased.” His smile seemed genuine, something Nikki didn’t see all that often in these circles.

  “Jessica and I are just happy we were able to make this process as painless as possible.” Nikki glanced at Jessica, who had resumed eyeing the late-night TV guy, and gave her a little nudge. “Aren’t we, Jess?”

  “Absolutely,” Jessica gushed, offering a good half of her attention.

  “And I know you said you’re not ready to buy yet, Edith,” Nikki continued, “but—”

  “Should we decide to buy in L.A., you’ll be the first person I talk to.” Edith handed Thompson her glass and took both of Nikki’s hands in hers. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. You were such a blessing when Rex passed. God rest his soul.” She glanced in the direction of her husband’s slightly creepy grinning face looming over the room from the far wall.

  “God rest his soul,” Thompson echoed good-naturedly.

  Nikki couldn’t help but look at Rex’s portrait, wondering how he felt, gazing down from wherever he was, watching his wife play house with a man young enough to be his son. A man who didn’t seem to understand the difference between a first name and a last.

  “If I’d left the sale to that damned lawyer of Rex’s, I’d be packing my bags for a homeless shelter.”

  “Edie,” Thompson admonished gently.

  “A wolf in Armani wool.” She drew her finger beneath her beau’s chin. “You haven’t been in Hollywood long enough to recognize them yet, but you will. There are packs of them. He was supposed to be here, you know.” She scanned the sea of celebrity cocktail dresses and suits with a trained eye. “What makes me think he’ll be a no-show? It’s just like Alex to insult me like this.”

  “Well.” Nikki clasped her hands, ready to make her escape. She’d eaten her weight in seafood and spoken to her hostess. If she hurried, she could be home in her PJs with her TiVo in an hour. “Just let me know if there’s anything else we can do to make the transition easier.”

  “You’ve already done so much, dear.” Someone caught Edith’s eye. “Oh, heavens, is that Portia Raleigh? I thought she’d gone to Palm Springs to recover from another facelift. I do hope she was more cautious this time about her choice of plastic surgeons. I must say hello.” She fluttered off, leaving Thompson holding her empty champagne flute.

  He watched her go and then returned his attention to Nikki. “I really do appreciate what you’ve done for Edie,” he said.

  “You’ve been helpful and you’ve been kind. And having Victoria Bordeaux here tonight as Edie’s guest”—he opened his arms—“I know that was you, too. It’s such an honor and a dream come true for Edie.”

  Nikki hesitated; comments like that always made her uncomfortable. Thankfully, Jessica always knew when to throw her a lifeline.

  Jessica moved gracefully to the forefront, pumping Thompson’s hand. “We’re just pleased that Rex March’s widow is pleased, Mr. Christopher.”

  “Well, thank you again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies.” He bowed slightly, which made him appear very old Hollywood, especially in his classic white dinner jacket and black trousers. Nikki liked him better by the second. “I’d better get Edie some more champagne and rescue Ms. Raleigh.” He flashed a handsome grin and pushed through the crowd.

  Nikki waited until Thompson was out of earshot before she touched Jessica’s arm. “What’s with the cold shoulder to Edith? She was nice enough to you.”

  “No cold shoulder.” Jessica shrugged her golden sculpted shoulders. No matter how hard Nikki worked out at the gym, she’d never have those fabulous shoulders.

  “But did you see her nails?” Jessica murmured, leaning closer, cupping her hand to her mouth with her own manicured fingers.

  “I know.” Nikki eyed another tray of hors d’oeuvres. Was that beluga caviar? “A little long for a woman her age not working as a cashier in the dollar store.”

  “It’s not the length I’m talking about,” Jessica whispered. “Chipped.”

  “Chipped?” It wasn’t likely Edith was serving chipped beef. Nikki was still hung up on the hors d’oeuvres.

  “Her nail polish. It was chipped. Unacceptable. She needs to fire her manicurist. Well, I’m off.” Jessica kissed the air beside Nikki’s cheek. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Biking in Malibu Canyon. Wanna come?”

  “Who’re you going with?”

  “Marshall and Rob.”

  Jessica frowned. “Taken.”

  Nikki chuckled. “So, see you Monday?”

  “Tuesday. Monday I’ve got a seminar downtown. Downy wanted office representation and he’s footing the bill. But I swear, if it’s Zig Ziglar again, I’ll commit hari-kari right in the conference hall.” She gave a wave. “See you.”

  Nikki stood in the sea of beautiful people, watching Jessica make her way to the front foyer. She debated whether or not to track down the beluga, but decided against it, and headed in the same general direction as Jessica. The door. If she was lucky, she’d be out of here before—

  Nikki had barely reached the foyer when she heard the familiar whirr and snap of dozens of cameras as the double front doors were thrown open. In this age of digital cameras, the paparazzi no longer flashed and popped. Instead, they sounded like a swarm of clicking insects.

  Holy crapoli, she thought. She would never grow used to it, not as long as she
lived. She glanced over her shoulder; there was no way to escape gracefully. The spaces behind her were quickly filling. Even celebrities liked to get a look at a goddess.

  A smile immediately lit Nikki’s face. It was the smile her mother had pressed upon her since birth, very possibly in utero. It was a well-practiced smile, intended to conceal any emotion the bearer might be experiencing. In Hollywood, feelings were better suited to psychiatrists’ couches and intimate dinner conversation. One never shared with the public.

  Through the crowd, she spotted a familiar face. The driver, dressed immaculately in a black suit and old-school chauffeur’s cap, threw open the rear door of the white Bentley and offered his hand. Slender, gloved fingers slid into his and suddenly the dark night lit up with the sheer effervescence of the incomparable Victoria Bordeaux.

  For a moment, Nikki felt trapped. Like a tiny mouse trying to escape a horde of hungry cats. Maybe not a tiny rodent, more like a tall, lanky one. But the crowd moved back, leaving her alone at the door.

  Dressed in a gorgeous gold cocktail dress, matching kitten heels and an amazing faux-ermine shrug, Victoria Bordeaux alighted from the Bentley and strode toward her. The screen star may have been in the twilight of her life, but thanks to good genes and sturdy undergarments, she was as beautiful as she had been in her early twenties. Petite and a natural blond, she still had that sweater-girl curvaceous figure that had shot her from a soda fountain stool to stardom all those years ago.

  And, still, after all this time, Victoria’s beauty, her poise, took Nikki’s breath away.

  The star offered her gloved hand and Nikki took it, leaning down to kiss her very close to her cheek, but not so close as to muss her face powder.

  “Really, Nicolette,” Victoria admonished under her breath. “A sweater dress to a cocktail party?”

  Nikki couldn’t resist a smile of amusement as she stood to her full height, towering over the older woman. Some things never changed. “Oh, for sweet heaven’s sake, Mother. It’s vintage Chanel!”