Danielle Steel - Malice

“Feeling better?” he asked sarcastically.

“That was a lousy thing to do,” she said simply. “I got really sick from whatever you gave me.”

“Sorry. All it was was a few Valiums and some magic dust for chrissake. I figured you needed some help loosening up.”

She wanted to ask him just how loose she'd gotten, but instead she said, “You didn't need to do that.”

“So I noticed. It was a wasted effort. Thanks a lot for stringing me along for the past five weeks. I really enjoyed it.”

“I wasn't stringing you along.” She sounded hurt. “It's hard for me. It's difficult to explain, but …”

“Don't bother, Grace. I get it. I don't know what your story is, but it obviously doesn't include guys, or at least not guys like me. I get it.”

“No, you don't,” she said, getting angry. How the hell could he know?

“Well, maybe I don't want to. Nobody needs this shit. I thought you'd knock my head off when I laid a hand on you.” She didn't remember that at all, but it was certainly possible. Obviously, she'd panicked. “What you need is a good shrink, not a boyfriend.”

“Thanks for the advice. And the other thing I need are the negatives of the pictures you took. I want them back on Monday.”

“Really now? And who says I took any pictures?”

“Let's not play that game,” she said quietly. “You took plenty of pictures while I was awake, and I heard the camera clicking and flashing while I was woozy. I want the negatives, Marcus.”

“I'll have to see if I can find them,” he said coolly, “I have an awful lot of stuff here.”

“Listen, I can call the police and say you raped me.”

“The hell I did. I don't think anyone's been in that concrete box of yours in years, if ever, so you're going to have a hell of a time selling that one. I didn't do shit to you except kiss you a few times and take my own clothes off. Big fucking deal, Miss Virginal-don't-lay-a-hand-on-me. You can't go to jail for taking your clothes off in your own apartment. You never even had your pants off.” She wasn't sure why, but she believed him, and she was relieved to hear it.

“And what about the pictures?”

“What about them? All they are is a bunch of pictures of you in a man's shirt with your eyes closed. Big fucking deal. You weren't naked for chrissake. You never even opened the shirt. And half the time you were snoring.”

“I have asthma,” she said primly. “And I don't give a damn how chaste the pictures are. I want them. You can't do anything with them without a release anyway, so they're no good to you.” She was grateful for Marjorie's advice as she attacked him.

“What makes you think you didn't sign one?” he teased her as her heart sank. “Besides, maybe I want them for my scrapbook.”

“You have no right to them. And are you telling me I signed a release while I was drugged?” She was beginning to panic.

“I'm not telling you a damn thing. And for all the hoops you put me through, I have a right to anything I want. You're nothing but a prick tease, you little bitch. And you keep your hands off my fucking pictures. I don't owe you anything. Get lost, you got that?” He already had a date that night with one of the other girls from the agency, and Grace heard all about it on Monday morning.

Cheryl asked her how the shoot with Marcus had gone on Saturday and Grace was vague and said she'd had the flu and couldn't do it.

But on her birthday a few weeks after that, when she turned twenty-two, Bob Swanson took her to lunch to celebrate. Cheryl was in New York on business for the agency, and Bob had taken her to Nick's Fishmarket. He had just poured her a glass of champagne, when he turned to her with a smile and an appreciative look. Grace had always appealed to him, and he agreed with his wife, she was a godsend.

“I saw Marcus Anders the other day, by the way.” She tried to look unconcerned and sip her champagne while he chatted. It was Dom Pérignon and the first alcohol she had touched since Marcus had drugged her. And even now, the excellent French champagne made her feel faindy queasy.

Bob lowered his voice and looked at her, as he slipped a hand over hers and squeezed it. “He showed me some pretty sensational pictures of you, Grace. You've been hiding from us … I think you've got a real future. They were the hottest shots I've seen in years … there aren't a lot of models who can heat it up like that. You're going to have guys panting.” She felt sick as she looked at him, and tried to pretend she didn't know what he meant. But it was useless. What a bastard Marcus was to have shown him. He had never sent her either the photographs or the negatives, and he wouldn't return her calls now. He had never really answered her either about the release, but she was sure she had never signed one. She had been in no state to sign anything, and she didn't remember anything like that. He was just trying to scare her.

“I don't know what you mean, Bob,” she said icily, sipping her champagne, and trying not to look embarrassed or worried. “We only took a few, and then I got sick. I had the flu that day.”

“If that's how you look with the flu, you should get sick more often.”

And then she couldn't stand it any longer, and looked her boss squarely in the eye. It was like facing a hungry lion. He was a big man, and he had a big appetite, she knew from a number of the models.

“What exactly did he show you?”

“I'm sure you remember the shots he took. Looked like you were wearing a man's shirt, it was open all the way down, and your head was thrown back … looked pretty passionate to me, like you'd just had sex with him, or were about to.”

“I was dressed, wasn't I?”

“Yeah, pretty much. You had the shirt on anyway, for what that was worth. You couldn't see anything you shouldn't have, but that look on your face told the whole story.” At least Marcus hadn't taken her shirt off. She was grateful for small favors.

“I was probably asleep. He drugged me.”

“You didn't look drugged to me. You looked sensual as hell. Grace, I mean it. You really should be modeling, or in movies.”

“Pornos maybe?” she said angrily.

“Sure,” he said happily, “if that turns you on. You like pornos?” he said with interest. “You know, Gracie, I have an idea.” In fact, he had had the idea well before lunch. He had called to rent a suite upstairs in the hotel before they arrived, and it was waiting for them with more champagne at that very moment. Marcus had pretty much let him know that she looked prim, but she was easy. Bob lowered his voice when he talked to her, and squeezed her hand again. “I've got a suite waiting for us upstairs, the biggest one in the place. I even requested satin sheets … and they've got a video channel that offers every porno movie you could ever want to see. Maybe you should see a few before you go into the business.” She wanted to throw up listening to him, and she felt tears rise in her throat as she restrained a desire to slap him.

“I'm not going upstairs with you, Bob. Now or ever. And if that means you're going to fire me, then I quit. But I'm not a hooker, or a porno queen, or a piece of ass on the menu for you to grab like an hors d'oeuvre any time you want to.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” He looked annoyed. “Marcus said you were the hottest babe in town, and I thought maybe you'd like to have some fun … I saw those pictures,” he looked at her angrily. “You looked like you were about to come all over his lens, so what's the Virgin Mary routine? You afraid of Cheryl? She'll never know. She never does.” No, but everyone else in town did. She wanted to scream looking at him, and what a rotten thing for Marcus to tell him.

“I like Cheryl. I like you. I'm not going to sleep with you, and I never slept with Marcus. I don't know why he told you that, except maybe to get even with me. And I told you, he drugged me. I was asleep when he took most of those pictures.”