Journey Home: The Redemptive Power of Love

By Robert Daines

Prostitute Alaina Wentworth finally has her life in perfect order: a wealthy sugar daddy; Beverly Hills penthouse condominium; loving friends; and all the luxury items she can put on a platinum credit card. What could possibly go wrong? In an Earth-shattering tragedy, Alaina discovers what it feels like to lose everything and not want to go on living; but sometimes we need to crack open to let the light inside. If you believe in—or just hope for—the redemptive power of love, then this is the story you’ve been waiting for. You’ll laugh...you’ll cry...but you’ll never be the same after reading Journey Home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Daines
• Release date: Mar 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9780964505575

Robert Daines

Nicole and Robert Daines are the co-authors of novels, mysteries and inspirational books. They live in Southern California and are the parents of three adult children and eight grandchildren. Their lectures have entertained and inspired audiences across the U.S. and Canada.

Book preview

JOURNEY HOME

A Novel by

NICOLE & ROBERT DAINES

H

EART TO HEART PUBLISHING

www.NicoleAndRobertDaines.com

Journey Home

Nicole Daines and Robert Daines

Published by Heart to Heart Publishing

P.O. Box 2606

Temecula, CA 92593

Smashwords Edition – 120227

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2012 by

Nicole Daines and Robert Daines

All rights reserved under International and

Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the authors.

Ebook ISBN 978-0-9645055-7-5

This is a work of fiction. While names of actual historical figures have been included to frame the narrative, all other characters and events are the product of the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real. Taos Pueblo Indians guard the secret meanings of their religious traditions from outsiders. Therefore, explanations of Taos ceremonials, rituals and traditions are the authors’ educated guesses, based upon their knowledge of other Native American Tribes.

Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful,

We must carry it with us, or we find it not.

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Contents

Cover

Title_Page

Chapter1

Chapter2

Chapter3

Chapter4

Chapter5

Chapter6

Chapter7

Chapter8

Chapter9

Chapter10

Chapter11

Chapter12

Chapter13

Chapter14

Chapter15

Chapter16

Chapter17

Chapter18

Chapter19

Chapter20

Chapter21

Chapter22

Chapter23

Chapter24

Chapter25

Chapter26

Chapter27

Chapter28

Chapter29

Chapter30

Chapter31

Chapter32

Chapter33

Chapter34

Chapter35

Chapter36

Chapter37

Chapter38

Chapter39

Chapter40

Chapter41

Chapter42

Chapter43

Chapter44

Chapter45

Chapter46

Chapter47

Chapter48

Chapter49

Chapter50

Chapter51

Chapter52

Chapter53

Chapter54

Chapter55

Chapter55

Chapter56

Chapter57

Chapter58

Chapter59

Chapter60

Chapter61

Bibliography

Chapter One

Beverly Hills, September, 1991

No one could tell—just by looking at her—that she had been to hell and back. At least not at first glance…but if you studied her closely, you would notice that her smile never made it up to her eyes.

Alaina Wentworth was a bit too perfect, like an air-brushed ad for something bright and shiny.

Like right now, for instance, as she was weaving her Mercedes convertible through Beverly Hills traffic, Alaina was on display in all her glory—a luminescent blond often mistaken for a movie star.

As usual, she was late for her UCLA art class. Beeping her horn at the slow traffic, she grumbled, Like trying to herd cats! Impatiently she tap-danced her manicured nails on the steering wheel—bright sunlight winking off of diamond rings and tennis bracelets. Alaina’s world glittered.

Stubborn lunchtime traffic soon stopped in gridlock. A man in the car next to her yelled, Hey, baby, anyone ever tell ya you look just like that chick in ‘9 ½ Weeks?’ Leering at her, he slowly snaked his tongue across his lips.

Her stomach clenched at his smarmy tone; she could feel his sweaty pheromones, smell his darkness. Alaina knew she should flip him off and refuse to let him intimidate her, but anxiety twitched her eyelids—fluttering moth wings betraying her emotions. She blushed, embarrassed. Do not let this asshole get to you!

Purposely ignoring him, she took a swig from her bottle of Perrier.

At twenty-three, she yearned to be a normal adult, but the frightened child within often peeked through, uninvited. Sad eyes announced vulnerability, belying her edgy, brash exterior.

The traffic bottleneck unjammed, and she slipped through a red light, leaving behind the man who had upset her.

Practicing her therapist’s mantras, she took a slow, deep breath. I am in charge of how I react to life… I am at peace…I focus on happy things….

Alaina smiled, acknowledging the beautiful sunny day, captivated by where she lived. The air seemed perfumed with the scent of money. When she had first driven around her new hometown—its streets lined with world-famous exclusive shops and trendy restaurants—she had felt it was the promised land. Alaina’s addiction to beauty was well-satisfied by this jewel of a city; her relentless search for personal fulfillment fit into its lifestyle seamlessly.

She believed life owed her the very best. She had paid her dues in terms of suffering and victimization…now it was payback time—living well was definitely the best revenge. But a question always haunted her, lurking in the corners of her life—is the painful horror of the past indelibly written on the life of its victim?

After parking her car, Alaina checked her reflection in the rearview mirror and fluffed out her long golden hair. The man who had yelled at her was accurate—she looked just like a young Kim Basinger—the softly-erotic face, full lips, and Georgia peach complexion. Grabbing her books and Hermes handbag, Alaina began jogging to her class in the Dickson Art Center.

As she ran, she concentrated on avoiding the slower-moving students and not stumbling on the uneven sidewalk. She didn’t notice the man quickly running up to her side, reaching out wildly to catch a flying Frisbee. He slammed into her, causing them both to tumble to the ground. To Alaina, the impact and falling down seemed like it was happening in slow motion. The man instinctively put his arm around her to break her fall. Because of his quick maneuvering, she landed on top of him—unhurt, but dazed. Lying together, without moving, they stared at each other for a few heart-stopping moments before he spoke.

Are you O.K.? He softly brushed a lock of hair away from her cheek. I’m sorry if I hurt you.

Stunned by his beauty, Alaina was speechless. Dazed. One of those moments. She wanted to answer and let him know she wasn’t hurt, but the speech center of her brain was short-circuited by the look in his eyes. His intense gaze mesmerized her. The musty-sweet scent of his skin made her aware of the closeness of their bodies…she was a goner.

In a spindly voice she replied, I’m fine…I think. She sank into the wonderful feeling of his body under hers.

And then vulnerability kicked its skittish feet, urging her to run away, far away from her intense yearning. Alaina tried to cover up her feelings—to act aloof. In a haughty voice she said, Since you knocked me down, can you at least help me get up? I feel a little…wobbly.

He smiled, amused. Well, sure…I’d like to help you up, but you’re on top of me. Here’s a plan…first, you roll off, and then I’ll get up and help you to your feet.

When he pulled her up, she felt dwarfed by his imposing presence. Her body responded to his athletic build—his powerful, 6’4’’ physique made her legs weak. His features exemplified Alaina’s ideal of masculine beauty—her artist’s eye entranced by his physical perfection. Deeply-tanned skin, perfect, white teeth, a sensual smile evoking desert oases, lush with dates and fragrant flowers. Was he a Middle-Eastern sheik? A Spanish nobleman? An Italian aristocrat? In the midst of her wildly improbable imaginings, Alaina tried to pin-point his nationality—he looked deliciously exotic to her. His long, raven-black hair was pulled back behind his muscular neck into a casual ponytail. Thick eyelashes framed warm brown eyes. His well-defined cheekbones and a Michelangelo-sculpted nose perfectly balanced-out a firm, determined jaw line.

He remained very close to her—steadying her with his strong hands encircling her waist; she was aware of their warmth penetrating through her clothing, and hoped her legs would stop trembling.

I should introduce myself, he said. My name’s Manuel Barukh.

He gazed at her intently, boldly leaving both hands on her waist. He cocked his head to the side; Are you sure you’re O.K.? There was a teasing-smile in his voice. You still look a little shaken.

Alaina did feel quite shaken, but knew it wasn’t because of colliding into Manuel and falling down. Her whole body was pulsating. She felt overwhelmed by her emotions and overloaded by her senses—his commanding presence captivated her. She felt dazed. Men were despicable, definitely the enemy…so what the hell was going on?

Feeling out of control—of both herself and the situation—Alaina fought to regain her equilibrium. Usually she had no trouble gaining the upper-hand when meeting men. Teasing and tantalizing were her trademark—"you can look, but you cannot touch." However, this was a new experience…and even though it unnerved her, she welcomed Manuel’s hands on her waist.

Ever since having cosmetic surgery, Alaina’s beauty and sex-appeal had given her the power advantage with men. But this man was clearly quite different. Not once, in their brief exchange of words, had Manuel acted or talked in an overtly-sexual way. His eyes stayed riveted on her own—not straying downward to her body. She was accustomed to men’s sexual stares—lustfully ogling up and down her body, undressing her with their gaze. Why wasn’t she having this familiar effect on him? Quickly dismissing the thought that he might be gay, she decided to entice a sexual response from him.

"I guess I am a little shaken-up, she said. Here…feel my heart beating." Alaina took Manuel’s hand and put it over her heart, holding it gently against her silk blouse and the softness of her breasts. Suggestively, she looked up into his eyes, flirtatiously waiting for the expected male response.

But instead, Manuel innocently held her gaze, returning her seductive stare with a friendly, decidedly non-sexual look. Alaina lowered her eyes, trying to hide her disappointment. She felt rejected—he definitely did not seem turned-on by her.

Alaina was mystified by her unfamiliar reaction. What-the-hell difference does it make if he isn’t attracted to me? And what kind of name is Manuel Barukh, anyway? He should feel honored to be talking to someone like me. Chuckling at her own grandiosity, she remembered her Grandma’s frequent admonition: Remember, Alaina: ‘Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit goeth before a fall. Her family’s proverbs frequently intruded into her thoughts, going off like annoying time-release capsules. Alaina had found it much easier to change her outer appearance than it was to change the clingy residue of her family’s belief system.

Manuel was picking up her scattered books and asking a question, which Alaina had missed because of her tangential thoughts.

What did you say? she asked. Sorry, guess I wasn’t listening…it’s a bad habit of mine. People tell me I’m usually off in my own little world.

I said, would you let me walk you to your class? It’s the least I can do after knocking you down.

She nodded her head, glad for the opportunity to extend their time together. He waved good-bye to his friends, ignoring their winks and suggestive hand gestures.

As Alaina and Manuel walked to her class, she introduced herself and they talked effortlessly—eventually exchanging information about why they were at U.C.L.A. Alaina explained she was taking the art classes she hadn’t had time for when working toward her BA in Sociology. "Now that I’ve graduated, I can finally take the courses I really love. When I look back on it, I realize I majored in Sociology just to prove to myself I was intelligent. My family always put me down for wanting to be an artist…said it was too ‘fluffy,’ not worthy of a college degree."

Manuel shook his head in mock disapproval. "But life’s so short! I would never waste my time taking classes I wasn’t passionate about. You know, Alaina, money isn’t our most priceless commodity…time is. How each of us spends our time is precious."

The sound of his voice made her mouth water—his words were delicious…ripe and succulent. And we ultimately have to live our own lives…not let our parents—no matter how well-meaning—make our decisions for us. Well, anyway, at least you’re making up for it now, by taking subjects you really enjoy.

Alaina was trying to figure out how someone who was obviously near her own age could sound so wise and profound…and yet not irritate the hell out of her. People who gave unsolicited advice usually annoyed her, but Manuel’s advice was given with such genuine caring and warmth, he made her feel as though he was actually concerned about how she spent her time.

She smiled flirtatiously, "So, oh Wise One—since you’re so clever about how you spend your precious time, what classes are you taking? What’s your major?"

"Well, I’m not a student here, but you’re correct in guessing that I am a student in the larger sense of the word…I guess you could say I go to the School of Life, and I’m majoring in knowing who I really am."

Alaina frowned. What does that mean, exactly?

Well, to adequately answer your question would take a long time. I guess the abbreviated version is that I’ve lived a lot of places and learned about many cultures from the inside out. I’m really grateful for my experiences…I feel truly blessed for all the wonderful teachers I’ve had in my life.

Not getting a response from her, he continued, I’ve had a really interesting life. I was born in Israel. When I was still an infant, my parents died in a bombing, but—miraculously—I survived. A Jewish woman bystander rescued me, and when she couldn’t locate anyone who knew who I was, she took me in. She and her husband eventually moved to New York. Unfortunately, my step-father never really accepted me…he never could decide whether I was Jewish or Palestinian. And when I was a teenager, we argued a lot, and he kicked me out of the house. To make a very long story short—I really didn’t, quote, ‘come home’ to my true family until I lived with the Taos Indians in New Mexico.

Alaina’s attention was obviously drifting, so he got back to answering her question. "In a nutshell, I don’t like sitting in classrooms, getting a sore tuchus listening to boring lectures, so I get my knowledge from studying and examining people—and I’m a voracious reader. Also, it’s amazing how much you can learn from observing the real world, as opposed to being sequestered in the Ivory Towers of academia."

Even though it was difficult for her to follow the convoluted story of Manuel’s past—while at the same time sorting out the difference between voracious and vociferous—she was very impressed by his poise and self-assurance. Blah, blah, and more blah. When is he gonna ask me for my number?

They arrived at her classroom, and Alaina turned to him, somewhat confused. Well, if you don’t like academia, then what are you doing here—on campus?

I’m working here. I’m on a work crew digging ditches for a renovated sewer system. Wryly adding, "I’m a manual laborer…no pun intended."

Alaina tried to hide her disgust. Oh, my God! No college degree and a friggin’ ditch-digger! Not exactly my knight in shining armor. Must get out of this!

She responded curtly, her words frost-covered, Well, I’m really late for class, so I have to go. Abruptly grabbing her books from him, she opened the classroom door, then closed it quickly behind her.

As happened so often, Alaina’s knee-jerk reaction caused her to bolt…one more closed door, a lifetime of running away from intimacy.

Manuel sadly walked away, feeling rejection’s heavy weight and thinking to himself, Good bye, little zivug. How sad you didn’t recognize me.

Chapter Two

It was 1:30 in the morning, and insomnia tormented Alaina. She was finding it impossible to put Manuel Barukh out of her mind; she couldn’t stop thinking about him and the intensely strong, unfamiliar feelings he had awakened in her.

What IS the deal with me? Why the hell did I have to be so rude? I pushed him away before even giving him a chance. My friends are right—I need to think before I open my big fat mouth…I’m too damn impetuous.

To help her sleep, she took a sleeping pill and put on her favorite looped tape: Bridge Over Troubled Water. When sleep finally came, erotic dreams of Manuel Barukh undulated through her mind.

The next morning Alaina woke up aroused and moist-loined with an overwhelming feeling of desire and longing to be with him again.

She tried to distract herself from thinking about him. After a breakfast of fresh fruit and low-fat cottage cheese, she followed her daily ritual of taking her cup of espresso out onto the penthouse terrace to survey her kingdom.

When she had moved to Tinsel Town, she was aware of being drawn by years of watching movies and reading tabloid magazines. Upon her arrival, she was overcome with déjà vu, as if she had been here before…and indeed she had. The movies and TV shows she had grown up with were more real to her than the nightmarish reality in which she had lived. Alaina responded to the creative buzzing energy of the film capital…enticed by the fantasy, the illusion, the glamour.

She walked to the edge of the large terrace, leaned her elbows on the wide ledge of the marble balustrade and gazed down at Wilshire Blvd., twenty-five floors below. The Corridor, as it is known, is lined with the priciest high-rise condos in greater Los Angeles. Alaina’s penthouse was ideally located between Rodeo Drive shopping and her UCLA art classes.

The unusually drab September morning was gloomy-gray and overcast. Los Angeles was experiencing a marine layer, which would predictably burn-off by the afternoon. Alaina always took it personally when L.A.’s weather was less than perfect. She was intolerant of anything other than warm, sunny days—considering it a personal affront whenever it rained.

Glancing briefly at the other luxury high-rises, her eyes were drawn to the mist-shrouded Pacific Ocean beyond. Observing the world from this high vantage point made Alaina feel secure and important. Being above everything—protected and safe behind the strict security of her building—comforted her. But this particular morning, she felt a strong longing and melancholic emptiness which proved impervious to the panorama.

Continuing her morning ritual, she worked-out to the tempo of up-beat Disco music…first stretching, then free-weights, followed by the stair-step machine. After a refreshing shower, she caressed her body with expensive lotion, powdered her crevices, and finished-off with several hopeful spritzes of Joy perfume.

She had talked herself into a revised opinion of Manuel. Was it not a woman’s prerogative to change her mind? So what if he’s only a manual laborer? After all, as the song says, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun! I need to lighten up. It’s not as if I’m picking a freakin’ husband!

Alaina’s usual wall of protection had been breached; the shock of being crashed into—of unexpectedly lying on top of an attractive, sexy man and suddenly experiencing his body under hers had left her babbling, "So this is what people mean when they say ‘He’s rocked my world!’" Alaina’s body had reacted spontaneously, and she had responded normally to a desirable man—for the first time in her life.

Even though this wasn’t a scheduled class day, Alaina decided to go to U.C.L.A to find Manuel and apologize to him for her rude behavior.

By the time she reached the campus, it was almost noon, and the sun had burned-off the offending early-morning fog layer. Before getting out of her car, she checked her appearance in the rear view mirror, admiring her translucent skin, tinged with the soft pink of youth. Cosmetic surgery and intense physical training had paid off. Every reflective surface was Alaina’s mirror, affirming her beauty was real, and not just a secret longing of her heart.

As she sensually strolled across campus, Alaina was aware of the longing looks she was receiving. She never took these admiring stares for granted—still remembering what it had been like before she had recreated herself as beautiful and sexy—recalling all too clearly memories of being invisible.

Alaina smiled; relishing the attention, knowing she looked desirable in her skin-tight white designer jeans and plum-colored silk blouse, cinched with a Chanel belt around her tiny waist. She snidely judged the way college girls in the Class of ’91 typically dressed—the grungy, faded denim jeans with their obligatory frayed holes: the nondescript, baggy flannel shirts, and makeup-less faces, framed by low-maintenance hairstyles. Alaina stood out in both her stunning beauty and her stylish clothing; she knew if Manuel didn’t respond to her sex-appeal today, there was something seriously wrong with him.

As she came to the area where their collision had occurred, she began scanning the noonday crowd for him. Her heart pounding with anticipation, she leaned back seductively against the trunk of jacaranda tree, trying to look nonchalant—yet still watching for him. She was annoyed by the fact that just waiting for him aroused such a total-body response in her.

After a fruitless hour of waiting, Alaina decided to roam around the campus, seeing if she could locate where the sewer ditches were being dug. She eventually found an area of recently-excavated earth—a long, dirt-covered scar in the grassy landscape bordering the Murphy Sculpture Garden. Damn! Looks like the project is completed.

Alaina spent the rest of the afternoon checking with several administrative offices, trying in vain to find out the status of U.C.L.A.’s sewer project. All of her inquiries led nowhere, and she became increasingly frustrated. At five o’clock the offices closed for the day, leaving her thwarted and angry.

And then, feeling chagrined, she remembered her appointment with her best friend, Danny Fitzpatrick, who would now be waiting for her at the Polo Lounge for their weekly tête-à-tête.

Alaina was thirty minutes late by the time she stood in the Polo Lounge’s mahogany doorway, tossing-back her beautifully-coiffed hair and pausing to receive the familiar approving male stares. From the dark corner booth, she could just barely make out Danny’s handsome face. Handsome and annoyed.

Alaina waved sheepishly; Danny was always irritatingly punctual.

Except for Danny’s red hair, he and Alaina looked enough alike to be related, but underneath they were a study in contrasts…a contrapuntal song of two very different melodies. Danny was a person who lived intensely in the moment; his alert eyes contrasting with Alaina’s distracted and unfocused look—as if her mind were perpetually elsewhere. Danny was an extrovert who Lived Large, while Alaina was formal and reserved. Danny was fearless and exuberant…Alaina distrustful and suspicious. (If one couldn’t trust one’s own parents—then who?) Opening his arms wide and devouring life’s pleasures, Danny said YES! to hedonism, while Alaina was shy—aloofly observing life from a safe distance, having learned as a child that the world was a scary, unsafe place. Danny lived for love and was semi-committed to his gay partner of twelve years, Taku Yamamoto.

The things that Alaina and Danny had in common bonded them: shopping, gossiping and sharing their secrets. However, it was their differences that made them intriguing to each other; perhaps—if they could somehow pool their contrasting experiences—they just might be able to decode the elusive Mystery of Life.

They brusquely exchanged perfunctory Hollywood air kisses.

Bout time ya got here, Diva! I’m already half-way through my second Chardonnay, and so starved I almost ate the flowers!

I have a perfectly reasonable explana—

You always do! Let’s just skip the excuses and get to the nitty gritty. While I’ve been waiting for you, I’ve been working myself into a lather about you and Sol—when the hell are you gonna dump that asshole and break free? He’s fuckin’ older than dirt and has a vice-grip on your life.

Alaina slumped her shoulders. "You are like a freakin’ broken record! Look me in the eyes! Leaving Sol is NOT gonna happen, okay? Do I look like an idiot? I’ve got the ideal, perfect set-up for me, and I’m not gonna rock the boat just because you don’t approve. But forget Sol—I’ve got some really big news, and I need you to listen."

Danny crossed his hands hammock-like under his chin and stared sarcastically at Alaina with wide eyes, exaggerating his focused attention. Spill it!

Alaina suddenly became embarrassed. How was she going to adequately describe the most gorgeous man she had ever seen? And—worse, yet—that she was attracted to him in a new and disconcerting way.

Alaina! You’re blushing! Oh, my God, girl! What is it? Now you’ve actually got me interested. Anything that can turn your cheeks red has just gotta be good! Go! Get on with it; I’m dying of curiosity!

Alaina bit her lower lip, then took a deep breath. I’ve met someone…he’s the most beautiful, handsome, attractive, gorgeous guy I’ve ever, ever seen. Ever!

Danny interrupted, Except for me, right?

She winked. Of course, darlin’! What the hell was I thinking?

The waiter interrupted, asking Alaina for her drink order. After ordering her usual glass of Chardonnay, Alaina continued to debrief Danny.

I literally ran into this guy—the second most handsome man in the universe. And I’m thinking the crash must’ve caused a sorta brain concussion or something, because I can’t get him out of my mind. I’m pretty obsessed with thinking about him…night and day…all the time…pretty much 24/7…round the clock…please, Danny—just jump in here somewhere and stop me!

Danny’s jaw dropped. "Get outta town! Not YOU! Not ‘Miss All Guys Are Definitely Pieces of Shit!’ You’ve got to tell me all about him…and let’s order some Champagne, and toast to the complete surprise of you finally becoming a normal human being!"

Later that evening, relaxing in her hot tub, Alaina reflected upon how grateful she was to have a wonderful friend in her life like Danny Fitzpatrick. Danny was the only one of her friends who Alaina had told about her arrangement.

Of course, the rest of the group had already surmised how Alaina could afford her luxury condo, but they went along with the pretense that Alaina had inherited a fortune from a long-lost relative. And why not? Fantasy was so much more interesting than reality.

Alaina led two lives, and none of her friends felt the need to prick her bubble and expose the ugliness of her secret one. One life consisted of the group of creative people who were in her social circle—the Artsie-Phartsies, as they called themselves. And then there was her other secret life...the life of Mondays and Wednesdays. Alaina pretended that Mondays and Wednesdays didn’t exist…that her real life only happened on the other days of the week.

But not even Danny was privy to Alaina’s darkest secrets. And the very darkest secret of all was kept even from her psychiatrist, locked away deeply within her.

Chapter Three

Alaina hated what was going to happen to her in the next hour. She had made a pact with the devil, and only drugs and alcohol would get her through it.

Standing in front of her three-way mirror, she carefully inspected her reflection.

Her face showed no evidence of what she had endured. Alaina Wentworth was a survivor, but not like so many others…those who were out on the streets, hooking for money and drugs, gaunt-faced and sunken-eyed, measuring out their lives in grams and coke spoons. She was proud of her business acumen, having leveraged a good return on investment—trading sex for the good life…a luxurious penthouse, diamond jewelry, designer clothes and handbags.

She winked at herself, forcing a smile. So what?….If women are really honest with themselves, most of them pay for their lives on their backs…might as well get paid really well for it.

Then her smile slowly wilted. She sighed…then sighed, again. With each passing second, reality was closing in.

She wondered if it had all been worth it. Looking at her reflection almost convinced her it was. The new, improved Alaina bore little resemblance to the person she would have been if DNA, alone, had determined her appearance. Refusing to be victimized by homeliness, she had snipped heredity in the bud, changing her exterior—and her circumstances. Even in appearance-obsessed Beverly Hills, Alaina’s beauty was an exclamation point.

Tossing back her hair, she straightened up. Slowly she lowered her black satin robe, exposing first one tanned shoulder and then the other. The robe slid gently over her naked breasts, then dropped down past her slender waist, briefly caressing her hips before falling to the floor…settling like a Botticelli seashell beneath her. Alaina was, indeed, a present-day Venus.

But appearances can be deceiving. Even though she had created a new life for herself, she remained imprisoned in the agony of her past—a trapped insect in the amber of her memories.

Alaina’s preening was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. She took a deep breath before answering. Gathering her thoughts, she focused on the role she was about to play. It was eleven a.m., and the call would be from Sugar Daddy Sol. She needed to sound seductive—performing her usual role in their predictable game of phone sex—so that by the time he arrived for their noon appointment, he would be in the right frame of mind. At seventy-three, Solomon Roth needed all of the motivation Alaina could provide.

Solomon Roth lusted after beautiful things, obtaining objects of art whether they were for sale or not. Sol ruthlessly pursued what he wanted out of life, and when he had met Alaina, he had gone after her with pickaxe-determination. It wasn’t long before she had become the most treasured jewel in his collection.

Sol controlled Alaina through what she thought of as a reign of terror. The contract she had signed was iron-clad: she was to be sexually exclusive with Sol Roth and Sol Roth, alone. She could have male friends, but no male lovers. Pay attention, Lainie, ‘cause if I ever catch you fuckin’ someone else, you are out on your ass. Period. Got that?

As she picked up the phone, Alaina stretched out on the satin chaise-lounge. Her sensual voice underscored the salacious words. Graphically, she described what she was doing to her body, followed by what she was going to do to Sol when he arrived for their hour of what she referred to as The Play.

Alaina knew her lines by heart; bored by the script, she looked around her huge, elegant bathroom—admiring its beauty. She adored her magnificent condo, and this was her favorite room—gleaming white and black marble floors reflected the sparkling crystal prisms of chandeliers and wall sconces. Three mirrored walls multiplied the fourth wall of windows—splashing the room with cheerful sunlight. Especially delightful to Alaina were the prismed rainbow-reflections dancing across the room…a sight often enhanced by her use of pot or magic shrooms.

Sol’s voice sounded sweaty, Tell me, again, what’s going to be waiting for me?

The usual, baby: the Dom Perignon and Beluga caviar are being chilled. Black satin sheets are on the bed; your Dave Brubeck album is cued-up and ready to go…

And you, Lainie…are you cued-up and ready to go?

A shiver of revulsion rippled through her. Of course, honey. No one gets me as hot as you do. Feeling nauseous, she yearned to hang up.

Sol’s voice was husky. "And don’t forget to put on plenty of Ecstasy perfume, Lainie—you know how that stuff turns me on."

How could she forget? After each of their appointments, she would furiously wash herself—scrubbing with Lady Macbeth intensity—trying to cleanse away the cloying scent of the perfume, and her sad, sad life.

After she and Sol completed their steamy conversation, Alaina began putting on the all-black outfit: lace garter belt, nylons, stiletto-heeled shoes, French bra, and satin robe. With resignation, she raised a goblet to her reflection. Here’s to a great performance, sweetie. You’re quite an actress.

The cold, bubbly champagne helped smooth the way for a tranquilizer, and she gratefully swallowed several long, soothing gulps. Alaina wanted to be comfortably numb by the time Sol arrived and put his gnarled groping hands on her.

Sighing wearily, she turned on the bathroom tape player; the latest in 1991 technology. The haunting, pulsating electric guitar music of Pink Floyd ushered her into a safe unfocused haze, behind the protective wall she