Prologue

 

The girl didn't like it. But she had promised, and so she followed along obediently, just behind the man with the synthetic snakeskin boots. His nylon jacket was frayed at the cuff; the threads fluttering in the wind. And the backside of his dark jeans were greasy, like he had sat in something, something slimy. He smelled stale, all sweat and boozy. She wrinkled her nose and placed a wobbly foot on the first step up to the double doors and wondered momentarily, if her ankle might fail her, under the weight of her bony frame.

This was all her sister's fault; a year older and kinda boy-crazy. To be expected, she guessed, of a lamebrain teen. Only he wasn't a boy, and her sister should have known a hell of a lot better. The man drove them out to his beach house in a raunchy red Camaro with the top down. He laughed too easily, and too much, and sipped Jack Daniels from a mickey as he drove one handed, his other arm draped casually across her sister's shoulder.

No. She didn't like this. Not one bit- being all the way out here. Alone. Cut off. And all that sand with the ocean off somewhere, heaping, heaving; reaching and receding- sounding like a living thing, an entity from one of her old nursery rhymes come to life: A double-headed serpent with forked tongues that she was sure would swoop down and, grabbing her by the head, swallow her whole.

Her senses balked and reluctantly she allowed herself to be led along, up the sand-blasted boards, across the sun-bleached deck to where the guy was pushing back the main doors.

Her sister stood, eyes circled in awe. The vaulted ceiling, the sunken living room and the view of the ocean through floor to ceiling glass; neither of them had ever seen anything like it, except in one of their mother's magazines, maybe. They turned to each other and her sister smothered her giggles in a cupped hand.

But abruptly, things turned very adult.

As soon as the door was locked, the younger girl watched as the guy made his move, throwing an arm about her sister's neck. Without regard, he casually ran a hand over the front of the girl's shirt, handling each puddin' breast in turn. The older girl gawked; a look of surprise, quickly followed by shock. Color flooded her cheeks but she did nothing except turn her face away. It was a very grownup thing, she understood, to let a man touch you there. And, unlike her kid sister, she was a grownup, and she wanted her sister to know it too. So she stood, flat-footed, rooted, and let the man run his hands over her body.

And then the fat man with the funny voice came out of the kitchen with the drinks. He handed each girl a glass. It tasted like lemons but the fumes filled the younger girl's nose. It's liquor, she knew. She'd never had liquor before, except for the small glass of wine her father allowed at Christmastime. But there was something more. Her lips and gums were strangely numb and she felt queer inside her head.

"What'dyah want to do to 'em?" the guy asked.

The fat man turned, looked at her, then at her sister, like he was deciding between peanuts and popcorn. "I'm gonna fuck the one with the tits," he poked his chin toward the older girl, "and push the head of the little one between my legs; make her watch as I wrench her sister. Make her sister bleed... That should scare the bejesus outta her," he laughed. "After, you can do what you want."

His friend's jaw hardened. "You're an insidious bastard, aren't you?"

"Hey. It pays the taxes on this friggin' barn and keeps you in boots, booze and gasoline. Now keep trained on the kid's face, would yah? I want that look of horror etched in her eyes."

"I guess..." The man shrugged submissively. "Let me grab a handheld and you can start in on 'em."

Chapter One

 

The turbofans spooled back and the blue and white seven-four-seven swooped, reluctantly easing its grip on the sky, the air buffeting its hull. The aircraft shuddered briefly as wheels-met-earth and rolled smoothly along the tarmac.

Inside the busy LAX terminal a PA speaker crackled: Arriving, from Munich and New York. Lufthansa Flight 345. Gate forty-seven.

As the ramp extended to meet the plane, sweaty men in cheap polyester suits and slack ties, hustled to extract briefcases from the overhead bins. But when she stood, there was an audible hush in first class: The undeniable elegance of her movements stilled the men.

And then her stature- she towered triumphantly over them.

After twelve hours in-flight, she remained unruffled. Dressed in black, her slim dress could have been cut from spandex. She wore black gloves, nylons and heels. Her straight dark hair hung between sculptured shoulder blades, almost to her waist, and softly swayed like a mantle. A stylish hat was sloped forward with a severe veil that partially obscured dark makeup and the intense look about her eyes. Her lips were the color of blood against skin as white as icing sugar. She carried no luggage.

The men parted as she took languid strides toward the exit and no man could resist a second glance, to re-assess as she stepped past.

She strode up the ramp on four-inch heels. She considered her prodigious height a disadvantage; it attracted attention. But she couldn't resist the sense of superiority it afforded. And she lauded it shamelessly over all men.

At Immigration she produced a diplomatic passport with an assumed name and was processed immediately. A red light blinked and she looked up. Security camera. She hesitated and wondered if the veil would be sufficient. But then shrugged. Once she had accomplished her task, she would be gone before anyone had a chance to review security tapes.

Two men in dark suits awaited her arrival.

She was ushered toward the rear of a Mercedes limousine where a red flag fluttered from the fender. It was embossed with the gold, double-headed Imperial Eagle. She would have preferred the old Hammer & Sickle. She had been born a Communist and clung stodgily to her beliefs. She had considered carefully as many of her comrades turned to moderation but to her, that was a show of great weakness and she staunchly toed the old Party's hard line. Some things were beyond her control; she understood that. But still, she had her ambition.

One of the men opened the door and she slipped into the car. The attendant cocked his head slightly, in acknowledgment of her superior rank and also to afford a glimpse of flexed calf muscle, while his empty hand ached at the thought of reaching out and cupping her behind. But that would be a career-ending indiscretion, and worse, might land him in a prison cell. For the rest of his life.

The car pulled away from the curb, went out through the gate and rolled down West Century Boulevard toward Highway 1. The woman watched with interest through the side glass. She had never been to LA; never been to the States. But she was here now, under express orders. She was to force her father to return to Moscow. Or kill him.

She smiled.

Whatever worked best for her.

 

Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk.

Monica Selleck, seated on the bed, tossed a tennis ball. It hit the carpet, bounced against the far wall and rebounded. Ka-thunk.

She plucked it out of the air with her left hand and sent it back across the room. This time she caught it with her right hand. Right to left. Left to right. She had amazing hand to eye coordination.

Monica glanced down. "You ever shoot a dirty movie with that thing?"

Katie sat cross-legged on the floor where she cradled a Canon G21 digital video camcorder in her lap and was busy with a wad of tissue, cleaning the lens. "A dirty movie? Like porn?"

Monica tossed the ball again. "Not porn, you idiot. You know- something artistic."

Katie added a drop of lens cleaner to the tissue. "The camera belongs to the school. Something artistic wouldn't help my grades any. How come you ask?"

"How come?"

"Yeah," Katie said, all pugged. "I mean, why would you want to know?"

"It's this guy I'm seeing. His friggin' birthday is coming up and I need to get him something. Crap. The guy already has everything a guy could want in the whole friggin' wide world. But I want to give him something- well you know- something kinda special."

"I see..." Katie went back to cleaning the lens. She had never shared her roommate's dilemma when it came to men, but she could grasp the problem easily enough. With her head of big blond hair and her dazzling green eyes, Monica was the type of girl who made young men ask themselves what would it take, and older men, how 'much' would it take? And Monica was definitely a how much kinda girl.

Katie knew that Monica judged a man by how good the two of them would look together at the social functions she favored, then his ability to keep her in shoes and, last of all, his key ring. Monica's current boyfriend had a key to a Lamborghini.

"So you plan to give him a video." It was by no means a great stretch of the imagination to deduce what Monica wanted. "And you want me to shoot it," Kate concluded.

"Well I was just thinking, is all."

Katie paused a moment. Worked it through. The dopey idea from her dopey roommate might be something different. Certainly more interesting than filming a fake newscast presented by one of the air-headed journalism students. "So what did you have in mind?"

Monica's brows knitted and the tennis ball swept past her fingertips for once. "You mean it? You'll do it?"

Katie set the camera aside. "No. I didn't say that. I want to know what you have in mind?"

Monica leaned back against the wall and looked toward the window. She hadn't thought things through and was at a loss. "I guess I could lay across the bed, here. Pretend to be friggin' myself."

Katie snorted. "I know you'll find this hard to believe but me watching you give your clitoris a workout is not a burning ambition of mine. And doing yourself on the bedspread is so-o pedestrian. Sorry. You'll have to come up with something better than that."

The color rose in Monica's neck. "Pedestrian?"

"Yeah. As in bor-ing."

Monica looked around for the tennis ball. "Well, top-of-the-class cinematography student, what do you suggest?"

Katie thought a moment. "You're on an athletic scholarship, right?"

"Yeah. You know that. Tennis. Been playing ever since I could lace up a pair of trainers."

"You ever play tennis in the buff?"

Monica's eyes widened. "Naked? You've got to be kidding..."

Katie picked up her camcorder and trained it on Monica. "Not in the least. Might be kinda fun, don't you think?"

Monica wasn't so sure. "But who would I play?"

"Does it matter?"

Monica took a moment to consider that. "Biff."

"Biff?"

Monica smiled a kitty-in-the-cream smile. "Yeah. Biff Lancaster. He's the tennis pro at my club." She ran a pointy tongue along her upper lip. "He has the hots for me."

Katie dropped the camera back into her lap. "Do tell."

"Well he does," Monica bristled. "His tongue practically drags when he sees me play. But he's such a duffer. His name isn't Biff neither. That's something he came up with. I found out from the club secretary: His real name is Cecil. Oh god, can you imagine?" Monica covered her mouth with a hand. "A tennis pro named Cecil- and well, besides. I've got my own coach. A real one."

"So this Biff-Cecil character will do it? Okay. One night at the club; after hours. What do you think?"

Monica was warming to the idea. "Yeah, he'll do it. Things close down after ten but I'll ask him to stay late and leave the lights on. He'll drop a load in his shorts."

Katie had to laugh. "Strip tennis."

"Strip tennis?"

"I don't know squat about tennis, but the game is divided up into sets, right?"

Monica was catching on. "That's it. Two outta three wins the match."

"Perfect. So you don't wear a bra."

"Beg your pardon?"

Kate tried to stifle her smile. Monica might be tops at tennis but she was slow on the uptake. Especially math. "You wear your tennis outfit and a pair of pants under it. Two articles of clothing, got it? Lose two sets and you're naked."

Monica smiled her pussycat smile again. "Yeah. Perfect."

 

Monica set it up for Thursday evening.

At the end of school-day, Kate backed the Honda Civic her mother had let her borrow around to the loading gate. She signed out two Canon XF400 camcorders with tripods and a Canon G21 handheld.

"Heavy shoot," the guy with the clipboard noted as he hauled across two photo floods.

"Yeah," Kate agreed. "And bring me a couple of extension cords. Fifty-footers. I'm shooting Monica Selleck's game at the tennis club tonight."

The guy smirked. "I'd love to get a load of that."

Most guys would, Katie thought. "A look at the video will cost you a dinner and a bottle of good wine," Katie retorted, knowing the guy didn't have any coin.

The guy blew out a breath and extended the clipboard. "Sign."

 

Katie arrived at the tennis club at ten-thirty and parked by the main entrance next to Monica's red MGB convertible. As soon as the car lights were off, a heavy-shouldered guy in tennis whites pulled the doors back and locked them open.

He shot Katie his all-the-girls-love-me smile showing off caps as white as his shorts. "Here. Let me give you a hand with that." He struggled a camera case from the hatchback. "Names Biff, Biff Lancaster. I'm the Pro here at the Club," he said without much modesty. "You're Katie?"

Kate handed him another case. "That's right. Monica's already here?"

"She's on the court, warming up."

Katie shouldered the third camera bag. "Lead the way. It will take a few minutes to set up."

Monica was batting the ball against a wall. She wasn't tall, something she'd probably lost sleep over. In fact, Monica was little, but undeniably as cute as hell. She looked absolutely precious in a shorty, lavender tunic. And with her hair pulled back in a cocky ponytail, she could have been mistaken for a fourteen-year-old.

Biff went back to the car for the photo floods.

"You tell him yet?" Katie set the camera case on the ground.

Monica watched Kate replace the SM memory card in the camera with one of her own. "Uh-uh. I thought I'd wait for you; to help explain."

"Me?"

"Well it was your idea."

Kate opened the other cases. "You gonna chicken out? -crap, I just knew it."

"I can't chicken out." Monica swung her racket without enthusiasm. "We'll tell him together, okay?"

Katie blew hair out of her eyes and replaced another memory card. "Geez."

Kate mounted the two stationary cameras on tripods, one located at the end of the net, the other on the opposite side of the court, toward the back. With the fill lights set and Monica positioned behind the serve line, Kate trained the lenses and adjusted the zoom on both cameras. Then she picked up the handheld.

"I'm ready," she announced. "How 'bout you?"

Monica looked up reluctantly to where Biff was bouncing a tennis ball with his racket. "Yeah- I guess. Let's get it over with."

"Biff?" Katie called out. "Monica and I want to explain something to you."

Biff ambled to his side of the net. "Shoot."

"Two outta three sets," Monica started, then hesitated.

Biff nodded. "Uh-huh..."

Kate took a breath. "Look Biff. Monica wants to play in the nude. I'm going to get her on film."

The color drained from his face. "I... I didn't get that right." He swayed on his feet like a tree about to topple.

"You heard right, Biff," Katie pressed on. "Look, you like her. And she's got a great little body. You don't mind do you?"

Biff looked from Kate to Monica and back again. "You're kidding me, right? This is a joke. You're trying to put one over on me."

"It's not a joke." Monica shot back, a touch of indignation rising in her voice. "Christ, you're always staring at me."

Kate stepped in. "It'll be like the old poker game, Biff. Each time one of you loses a set, you remove an article of clothing. It's simple."

Biff bit his lip; still not convinced he wasn't being made out to be a goat's ass. But Kate was right. Monica did have a nice body and the chance of having a look at her naked was worth being made out to be a goat.

"Toss for service," Monica said.

"I'll start the cameras."