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actors to march around stark naked.”
    “Nicely put, Alex. I’ll call you later.”
    Freddie got in his Bentley and took off.
    Alex stood beside his black Porsche, still fuming at Lucky’s request. Didn’t she realize women were not turned on by male nudity? It was a well-known fact.
    He got in his car and drove to his production offices, located on Pico. He’d called his production company Woodsan Productions—because it sounded peaceful and still incorporated his name. He owned the building—one of his better business investments.
    He had two assistants, Lili, a softly pretty Chinese woman in her forties without whom he claimed he could not function. And France, an exquisite Vietnamese twenty-five-year-old who’d once been a bar girl in Saigon before he’d chivalrously rescued her and brought her to America. He’d slept with both of them, but that was in the past and now they were nothing more than loyal assistants.
    “How was your meeting?” Lili asked anxiously.
    He slumped in a worn leather chair behind his enormous littered desk. “Good,” he said. “ Gangsters has a new home.”
    Lili clapped her hands together. “I knew it!”
    France brought him a mug of hot black tea, stood behind him, and began massaging his shoulders with relaxing, kneading movements. “Very tense,” she scolded. “Not good.”
    He could feel the pressure of her small, firm breasts against the back of his neck while her surprisingly strong hands dug deep. It was comforting. Asian women were the best.
    “Let me ask you a question,” he said, still uptight about Lucky’s request.
    “Yes?” both women chorused.
    “Do you get off looking at naked guys?”
    Lili’s expression was impassive as she tried to figure out the answer Alex wanted. France burst out in giggles.
    “Well?” Alex demanded, none too pleased by their hesitation.
    “ What naked men?” Lili asked, stalling for time.
    “On the screen,” Alex said shortly. “Actors.”
    “Mel Gibson? Johnny Romano?” France said hopefully.
    “Jesus!” Alex exclaimed, fast losing patience. “It doesn’t matter who they are.”
    “Oh, yes it does!” France retorted, abruptly stopping his massage. “Anthony Hopkins —no ! Richard Gere, yes !”
    “Or Liam Neeson,” Lili added, a faraway look in her eyes.
    “I’m not talking about just their upper torso,” Alex said ominously. “I’m talking about everything—the whole caboodle.”
    Lili figured out the answer he required, and even though she didn’t mean it, she knew how to keep her boss happy. “Oh, no,” she said quickly. “We don’t want to see that.”
    “Exactly,” Alex exclaimed triumphantly. “Women don’t want to see it.”
    “I do,” France murmured, low enough for him not to hear.
    “Why are you asking?” Lili inquired.
    “’Cause Lucky Santangelo is a crazy bitch who’s under the false impression women want to act like men.”
    “Crazy bitch,” parroted France, thinking to herself that Lucky Santangelo must be a really interesting woman whom she couldn’t wait to meet.
    “I don’t get it,” Alex muttered, deciding that the next time he saw Lucky Santangelo he’d definitely set her straight. She had to learn a thing or two—and who better to teach her than the master himself.

4
    VENUS MARIA WAS IN SPECTACULAR SHAPE. SHE worked at it diligently, rising at six every morning to run up and down the Hollywood Hills with Sven, her personal trainer, before returning to her house for a punishing hour of aerobics and light weights.
    Jesus! Staying in spectacular shape took some doing. Her routine was a major pain in the ass, but she never slacked off, because slacking off meant she would no longer have the best body in Hollywood. And fuck ’em—one thing they couldn’t bitch about was her glorious bod.
    Virginia Venus Maria Sierra had first come to Hollywood in her early twenties with her best friend, Ron Machio—a gay would-be choreographer. They’d hitchhiked their way from