Kitabı oku: «The A-List Collection»

For Toria

PROLOGUE

The Parthenon Hotel, Las Vegas, Summer 2011

The woman studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. To an onlooker she was flawless, but close, much closer, there was an uncertainty in her eyes that gave her away. Fear was a dangerous thing. However hard you pushed it down, it always found a way back.

Turning her head to one side, she attempted a practised smile and almost convinced herself. She was a professional–it was her job to make people believe.

In a white toga-style dress amid the stylised opulence of one of Vegas’s most renowned hotels, the woman resembled a Greek goddess. Tomorrow morning her image would appear in magazines all across the world. Fashion editors would appraise her gown. Reviewers would dissect her performance. Gossip columnists would speculate on the man she was with. Fame. Celebrity. Stardom. She had imagined this moment for a long time, and now she had arrived.

It’s one night, she told herself. Nobody knows.

The woman stood back. Blood rushed to her head and she struggled to focus. A hot wave of sickness washed over her.

It was karma. Everybody had to pay for the mistakes they made.

This is what you deserve.

She touched the palm of one hand flat against the marble wall. It felt cool.

‘Just not tonight,’ she begged, her lips cracked and dry. ‘Please, not tonight.’

‘Are you OK?’

The woman jumped, less at the shock of remembering he was out there as at the concern in his voice. But the second time he spoke it was with the familiar bitterness.

‘Limo’s here in five. Let’s move.’

She breathed deeply, smoothed down her dress for a final time and reached for the lock on the door. It was show time.

The Parthenon Tower Suite was vast. Four lavishly designed bedrooms backed on to a sprawling living area complete with champagne bar and wall-to-wall plasma television, a private games room and sumptuous spa. Floor-to-ceiling windows boasted a panorama of the glittering Vegas Strip, its pink and gold lights laid out below like a chain of jewels. On both sides multi-billion-dollar hotels stood shoulder to shoulder like giants, each one more impressive than the last. The Mirage, the Luxor, the Palazzo, the Desert Jewel. Fountains of fire and water set the night sky ablaze and billboards dazzled with news of the hottest show in town. In the casinos, players and hustlers vied for the big time. This was Sin City, the pounding heart of the desert. Everybody was working a game of chance.

And in the middle of it all, the man she was supposed to be in love with. He was standing at the panorama, adjusting his tie.

When he turned to her, his eyes were cold.

‘Is everything all right now?’ he asked quietly.

‘Everything’s fine.’ What was the point in telling the truth? They had gone way beyond honesty a long time ago.

The man took a step forward. For a crazy moment she thought he might kiss her.

‘Tonight matters,’ he said instead. ‘You understand why.’

She nodded. In a matter of minutes they would appear together at the Orient Hotel, host to tonight’s movie premiere. The world’s press would be gathered on the red carpet, everybody who was anybody in the business walking the runway, and they all wanted a super-couple at the top of their game. Paparazzi had camped out for days for their hundred-thousand-dollar shot. If they could expose what nobody else saw–the faltering smile, the glimmer of doubt in a moment of privacy–then they’d be looking at the big money. She imagined the flashing lights, the waiting crowd. For one night their performance had to be flawless; their kisses for real.

‘I’m ready,’ she told him.

‘Good. Don’t let me down.’

Unexpectedly her phone shrilled to life. Reaching to retrieve it from her clutch, she noticed a flash of unease pass across his face.

‘Who is it?’ he demanded.

It was a private number.

‘I’ll take it outside.’ She crossed to the sliding doors and stepped out on to the terrace. The fresh air was invigorating and she experienced a rush of hope.

It’s just one night. How much can go wrong?

She flipped it open. ‘Hello?’

At first, only silence. Then the voice began to speak. It was low and distinctive. She recognised it immediately.

Fighting a wave of panic, the woman gripped the balcony rail, her knuckles bleeding white in the darkness. Forty storeys below traffic throbbed down the Strip.

‘I know about you, sweetheart. Remember? I know everything. Get ready, baby–because now it’s payback time.’

PART ONE

Autumn One year earlier

1

Venice

‘Lana, over here! Lana, Cole! How’s the marriage?’

Lana Falcon adjusted her pose for the cameras, hand on hip, shoulders back, and delivered her trademark megawatt smile. She held it in place and counted the seconds, careful not to let it drop. Against the red carpet her midnight-blue gown trailed like dark water.

She took pity on the reporter, who was slightly overweight and sported a beard that looked like he had drawn it on himself.

‘You’re half of America’s most famous couple,’ he gasped, scarcely believing his luck as Lana came to the side. ‘How does it feel?’ The film festival was a hive of energy: paparazzi and TV crews lined the carpet in thick numbers; fans with arms outstretched reached helplessly for their heroes–catching these two together was the biggest coup of his career.

On cue Lana felt an arm slide round her waist, smooth as a snake. She turned to the man next to her, caught the familiar line of his profile and the gleam of his teeth, the charcoal-grey of his immaculate hair. Cole Steel. Her husband.

Cameras flashed and sparked in throbs of light. He didn’t blink.

‘It feels great,’ she told the reporter with a friendly smile. ‘We’re very happy.’

Paparazzi jostled for the best shot. ‘Cole! Lana, Cole, let’s see you together!’

‘Any plans to add to the family?’ The reporter was sweating now.

‘Watch this space,’ said Cole, with a startlingly white grin. He planted a dry kiss on Lana’s neck, just below her ear. The photographers went wild.

‘Let’s move on,’ he instructed, just loud enough for her to hear.

Lana obliged. The smell of Cole’s skin lingered–sweet, slightly minty. When he took her hand it was cold.

‘Tell us about your new movie!’ the reporter babbled, craning the mike after her, knowing he’d already lost them. ‘Tell us about Eastern Sky!’

Lana moved into her customary position on the carpet, a little in front of Cole, his hands at her waist, steering her forward. At twenty-seven she was Hollywood’s most desirable young actress. Regularly voted one of the world’s most beautiful women, she was, with her burnt-chestnut hair, wide green eyes and warm smile, a killer combination of sex siren and girl- next-door. Women wanted to be her friend. Boys wanted to take her home to their mothers. Men jacked off over her, torn between fantasies of white cotton panties and crimson-red lingerie–the fascination was that Lana Falcon could pull off either. And, boy, did they dream she did.

‘Cole, Lana, this way!’

Cole guided his wife into a series of poses, his hands moving round her body with the precision and grace of a dancer.

‘Beautiful!’ came the approving clamour.

Somebody shouted, ‘Could we get a kiss?’

Cole laughed with the press like chums. Lana observed as he shot at them with pretend pistols, firing from the first two fingers of each hand.

Lana followed direction. Tilting her chin to meet his, she saw her surroundings–the deep reds and pure, billowing whites; the rich, syrupy gold of the event’s majestic lions–taper sharply into her husband’s approaching features until her view was suffocated entirely by his face, and the sad rub of his lips.

Cole Steel. Hollywood’s highest grossing actor and a giant of the American film industry. Cole Steel. At the top of his game after nearly thirty years and tipped here to take a Volpi Cup. Cole Steel. The husband with whom Lana Falcon lived, attended parties, posed for photographs, but had never, had never …

All around, bulbs popped and flared. As Lana pulled away she searched her husband’s eyes. As a good actor he could fill them with every emotion a role required–he was at his most convincing when assuming a character. As a man, as himself, he was blank. Cole’s eyes were like a shark’s: flat and empty. When she looked into them, Lana saw nothing.

‘Let’s get on the line,’ said Katharine Elliot, Lana’s publicist, discreetly ushering her client forward. ‘They’re queuing for a word.’

‘We’re not done here yet,’ snapped Cole through gritted teeth. His smile didn’t move.

Katharine stepped back. Cole was a man she did not want to piss off.

Together he and Lana refreshed their poses, the jewel in the crown of megastars gracing the Venice carpet, floating like creatures from another world, delighting with a look or a smile.

‘Assholes,’ muttered Cole, clapping eyes on a young, handsome actor and his Mother Earth wife. Cole claimed not to like the man because he’d beaten him to a part last year, though Lana suspected it was more because the couple paraded a soccer team of children, a brood to which they were still adding. It was something she and Cole could never achieve.

Beyond the press pit Lana caught sight of a young female fan, her desperate face streaked with tears as she was pushed and shoved amid the throng of people trying to catch a glimpse of the action. Lana took care to catch her eye, smiling warmly and giving her a wave.

Toughen up she thought, remembering herself at that age. It’s the only way to survive. Trust me. She blinked against the memories. Too often they kept her awake at night.

‘It’s time,’ Cole told her, placing a small, pale hand on her back. The cameras followed every move. Together, husband and wife were the ultimate American love story. He, one of the greatest actors of his generation; she, the girl who had come from nothing, from tragedy, to having it all.

Linking her arm with his, Lana walked alongside, nodding and smiling her way into the Palazzo del Cinema. She glanced at her wedding ring, a great cluster of diamonds that weighed heavy on her hand. In the frenzy of snapping bulbs it winked back, as if they shared a terrible secret.

2

Las Vegas

Elisabeth Sabell, legs wrapped tight round her fiancé’S waist, examined with satisfaction the ten-carat antique engagement ring on her third finger.

‘Fuck me!’ she gasped, clasping his muscular shoulders. ‘Fuck me fuck me fuck me!’ The ring caught the light as they moved together, the sheets of their mammoth four-poster bed damp with sweat. As he pounded deeper, his rhythm quickening, the marvellous jewel came towards Elisabeth’s enraptured face in shuddering frames, a glorious, insistent reminder that she would, before long, be Mrs St Louis.

‘Tell me what you want, baby.’ The man grabbed her ass, pulling himself in further. ‘Tell me what you want.’

‘I want you to fuck me hard, Robert St Louis!’ she cried in abandon, raking livid-pink lines down his bronzed back, lifting her foot and trailing with her big toe the dip where his spine met his ass. ‘Fuck me like you’ve never fucked me before!’

In one deft movement he hooked an arm beneath her, flipping them round, holding on for the ride. Elisabeth, on top, ran her hands across his broad chest, wondering at the strength of his arms, the gentle slope of his biceps and the hard muscle of his stomach. Tightening her grip, she pinned him beneath her.

‘Strap in, baby,’ she told him, throwing her head back to gaze at the trompe l’oeil ceiling. ‘This is as close to heaven as it gets.’

Elisabeth began to rock, grabbing his hands, reaching higher, faster, like her life depended on it. Her golden mane fell in waves down her back, her pearl-white neck tilted to the ceiling. She could feel Robert’s hands on her tits, her waist, her thighs; on her throat, pressing those points beneath her ear lobes that made her knees go weak. She howled out, the pinnacle in sight.

With a final thrust they both climaxed, their bodies slick with release. Elisabeth rode the swelling tide, blinking back stars, her chest rising and falling, the pulse within her a steady, exquisite, delicious beat.

Robert St Louis moved on to his elbows and gave her a lopsided smile. He brought her face towards his and kissed her slowly, tasting her mouth.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he told her, planting a kiss on her chin, her nose, her forehead.

Elisabeth kissed him back. Together, she knew they made a staggering couple. Robert St Louis had been the most eligible bachelor in America. Now, two years on, he was hers.

Billionaire owner of two of the city’s most infamous hotels, the Orient and the Desert Jewel, he was the most handsome, and the most powerful, man in Vegas. With his dark hair, almost-black eyes, warm as melting bitter chocolate, and wicked, honest grin, he was the most devastating man she had ever laid eyes on.

‘I know,’ she told him, peeling herself off the bed and heading for their palatial en suite.

He watched her go. ‘Your father called,’ he said.

‘Do you have to tell me that right after we’ve had sex?’

He laughed. ‘Sorry.’

‘And?’

‘Says he’s got some news–I’m gonna want to hear it, apparently.’

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. She turned the shower on. ‘I’ll bet he has,’ she muttered.

As Elisabeth stepped under the pounding water, she reflected it was a good job she loved Robert like she did–as daughter of the legendary Vegas hotelier Frank Bernstein, Elisabeth had her future in the city cut out from the start. She was destined to marry a businessman, someone of her father’s choosing. It had always been that way–Bernstein made the decisions and there was no argument. Elisabeth was thirty-two now, she had a residency on the Strip and a loving, committed relationship, but still he had the power to make her feel like a bullied little girl.

Robert called something from the bedroom.

‘What?’ Elisabeth yelled over the rush of water. She ran a gloop of shampoo through her blonde hair.

The door slid open. ‘I said: Any ideas?’ He stepped in behind her. ‘Bernstein couldn’t keep a secret from you if he tried.’

‘None whatsoever,’ Elisabeth said primly. ‘It’s probably another attempt to hurry the wedding along. I wish he’d butt out. Just because he introduced us doesn’t give him carte blanche to interfere in every aspect of our lives.’

Robert knew not to press his fiancée on the sensitive subject of her father.

‘Come on,’ he said instead, helping her rinse her hair, ‘or we’ll be late.’

The Orient Hotel, Robert St Louis’s multi-billion-dollar baby and the heart of his hotel empire, was a breathtaking project. He and Elisabeth arrived an hour later in a blacked-out car, the main attractions at tonight’s charity gala event.

Two soaring towers, each peak like a closed flower, flanked a colossal central pagoda. Little square windows lit with gold travelled up as far as the eye could see, thousands of feet into the sky, until they became stars themselves. Dragons crouched at the entrance, fire screaming from their open mouths. Sparking fountains and flaming torches circled the majestic structure.

Robert’s doorman greeted them like royalty. ‘Good evening, boss.’ He dipped his head, always nervous when the top gun was in the house. ‘Ms Sabell.’

Elisabeth nodded.

‘Evening, Daniel.’ Robert knew every last one of the Orient’s staff–he had hired them all personally, from pit boss to restroom cleaner. ‘How many for the gala?’

‘Six hundred. They’re waiting for you both in the Lantern Suite.’

Robert checked his watch. ‘Frank Bernstein here yet?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘Make the most of it,’ Elisabeth muttered drily as they stepped into the foyer.

Robert chuckled. ‘Come on, he’s not so bad.’

Elisabeth loved the Orient. It was, in her opinion, the greatest hotel in the city. She’d grown up on the Strip, knew them all like the back of her hand, but the Orient was special, it was different. Huge china urns, big as cars, squatted in the five corners of the pentagonal lobby, overflowing with jade stalks and huge leaves sprayed in gold. Gilt-edged mirrors lined the walls beneath glowing red paper lamps. Below, the marble of the floor gleamed clear as water, like standing on the surface of a silver pool, so that your reflection made it difficult to tell which way was up and which was down. It thrilled Elisabeth to know that soon, once she and Robert were married, she would be its queen.

They swept past Reception to the waiting elevator. As they rose to the sixteenth floor, Robert took her hand.

‘I’m proud you’re on my arm,’ he told her.

‘You’re on mine, St Louis.’ She winked as they alighted.

At news of the couple’s arrival, a reverential hush fell over the assembled investors and Vegas notables. Jowly men with ruddy cheeks and fat wallets stood next to their glamorous wives, whose priceless gems dripped from their fragrant, powdered skin.

The women watched enviously as Elisabeth let the fur drop from her shoulders, revealing a glittering kingfisher-blue gown that matched her eyes. Every last one of them wanted Robert St Louis and, seeing Elisabeth now, understood why they never would.

Her fiancé took easily to the floor. ‘I’m pleased to see so many of you here,’ he said, clapping his hands together and approaching the waiting lectern. ‘It’s a special night. The Orient has been working closely with the causes here this evening …’

Elisabeth smiled, quietly greeting one of the wives with a brief air kiss.

As she watched Robert, she felt powerful. No longer was she merely Frank Bernstein’s daughter: she was part of a team that had nothing whatsoever to do with him, a team that would lay the foundations of a new Vegas dynasty. This was hers alone–she didn’t have to involve her father at all.

Nothing could come between her and Robert.

If ever it did, she would fight it to the death.

3

London

Chloe French held her expression as she reclined on the leopard-print chaise longue and followed the photographer’s instructions.

‘That’s gorgeous,’ he told her, clicking away. ‘Anyone ever told you you’ve got the face of an angel?’

They had, actually. At nineteen Chloe French was the sweetheart of London’s fashion circuit–a raw, unaffected beauty and a fledgling star on her way to the top. She was tall, nearly six feet, with a sheet of jet-black hair that fell to her waist and glittering slate-grey eyes.

A make-up girl wearing too-tight denim hot pants rushed over and reapplied pink lipgloss, fanning Chloe’s hair out around her and repositioning the vintage clutch.

‘Thanks,’ Chloe called when she scurried off.

‘Stop saying thanks,’ instructed the photographer, an Emo guy with thick Elvis-Costello-style glasses, ‘you’re disrupting the shot.’

‘Sorry,’ said Chloe, cringing. The camera popped as she pulled the face.

Chloe French had been spotted four years ago outside Topshop on Oxford Street, feeling rough amid a horrible winter cold and wearing an old hoody with a ketchup stain down the front. She’d been modelling ever since. Over that time she had worked with some of the biggest names in fashion, but she still couldn’t shake the little knots of self-consciousness that accompanied a shoot like this. There just seemed to be so much fuss.

Consulting his assistant on the stills, the photographer grinned. ‘That’s the one.’ Chloe’s slight awkwardness, so unlike the other models he was used to working with, came off brilliantly on camera as coy vulnerability.

‘Have you got what you need?’ she asked, sitting up. ‘I’m meeting Nate.’ She beamed at the mention of her rock-star boyfriend.

‘And all the world’s press?’ The photographer made a face, remembering the last time Nate Reid had come to the studio. He’d been trailed by a troop of devoted paparazzi, supposedly unintentionally, though nothing about Chloe’s boyfriend appeared to be without intention.

She laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Nate’s discreet.’

‘He is?’ The photographer raised an eyebrow. ‘I can’t open a London paper without seeing you two.’

Chloe shrugged. ‘For a musician.’

‘Yeah, the Pied fucking Piper,’ he muttered, remembering the cameras dancing at Nate’s heels.

On cue the studio door opened and a rakish figure appeared in the doorway, a wiry silhouette crowned with artfully tousled hair.

‘Nate!’ cried Chloe, jumping up and running over.

‘Great,’ the photographer said with a roll of his eyes, ‘just what we need.’

Nate Reid, frontman with The Hides, held out his arms to embrace her. Nate was the epitome of rock and roll–or at least he liked to think he was. As the hottest property in British music, he wasn’t conventionally good-looking, a little on the rangy side and quite short, but what he lacked in stature he made up for in charisma. With piercing green eyes, a fuck-you attitude and an anarchic reputation, he was, in Chloe’s eyes, everything that was wonderful in the world.

‘Hey, babe,’ said Nate, kissing her deeply. She tasted of cherries.

Chloe smiled down at him–she tried not to let the height difference bother her.

‘Are you done yet?’ he asked, a tad irritably. ‘I’ve been waiting.’

Chloe gave a hopeful expression to Emo-guy.

‘Yup, we’re done,’ he said, busy with the stills.

When she turned back she was just in time to catch Nate scoping out one of the other models, before his eyes slid swiftly back to her.

‘Let’s go,’ she said, linking his arm tightly.

Unsurprisingly, the press had caught wind of Nate’s arrival. As the couple emerged on to the street, a circus of shouting and flashing bulbs erupted. Nate held up a hand as they bustled through to the waiting car, as if the whole thing was a massive inconvenience. He parcelled Chloe away and turned to the paps, treating them to a couple of clean shots.

‘You heading out tonight, Nate?’ one of them asked. ‘Chloe going with you?’

‘Classified information, boys,’ said Nate, editing out the tip-off he’d fed through earlier. He turned to get in the car.

‘Is it true Chloe’s moving to LA?’

Nate gritted his teeth. ‘Not true.’

‘There’s talk that—’

He climbed in and slammed the door.

An army of lenses swooped in on the windows, clicking insistently, aimlessly, in the hope of catching a killer shot. The car moved off.

‘You’re so patient with them,’ Chloe said, tying her hair back. ‘I can never be arsed.’

‘’S no big deal.’

She kissed his cheek. ‘Come on, I’ve got the house to myself this afternoon.’

Nate brightened. He was a little worn out after a marathon bedroom session that morning, but he’d never been able to resist Chloe. ‘Sounds good, babe.’

Chloe gazed across at her boyfriend and felt her heart swell. Nate Reid was her hero–the night they’d met was proof of that.

So what if she caught him checking out other girls from time to time, it didn’t matter. It was her he was committed to and that was the important thing. Right? Relationships required work–she knew that from her own experience. You couldn’t just give up if you loved someone. And she loved Nate Reid. Nothing, and no one, was going to change that.

4

Los Angeles

The man on top of Lana Falcon let out a low groan as he slipped a hand between her legs. She could feel his growing hardness, hot and thick against her skin. At the sudden quickening of his breath, a rhythm she knew so well, she could tell he was desperate to be inside her. ‘I want you now,’ he whispered hoarsely, his hand diving under her ass and pulling her up to meet him. Only when his fingers found the gusset of her modesty underwear and he momentarily slipped himself in did she bite down hard on his bottom lip.

‘Ow!’ Parker Troy pulled back, a hurt expression on his face.

‘Cut!’ the director called, not noticing. ‘Lana, that was perfect. Real authentic. It’s a wrap, people.’

Lana raised her arm and the wardrobe girl came rushing over, covering her with a gown. The crew made a polite attempt not to notice her knock-out body as she shrugged on the thin material. She had requested a closed set–as she did with all topless scenes–but even so every last one of the guys was fighting down a raging hard-on.

‘That was excellent,’ said Sam Lucas, striding over. The director was a rotund, shiny-headed bald man in his late fifties with thin, very round glasses. ‘You’re bringing something exceptional to this role–that was a hard scene to get right.’

It was certainly hard, Lana thought. She tried not to notice that Sam’s eyes, disconcertingly enlarged behind the lenses of his glasses, kept darting to her breasts. Gritting her teeth, she decided to forgive the transgression–Sam was one of the industry’s die-hard movie elite and thousands of actresses would kill to be in her position. Eastern Sky, a historical romance set in 1920s China and Sam’s directorial comeback, could earn her an Award.

‘Thanks, Sam,’ she said, wanting to get dressed. ‘It means a lot to have your support.’ When he didn’t respond she asked, ‘How are the dailies?’

‘Good,’ said Sam, meeting her eyes momentarily before they slid back to the main attraction. ‘Real good.’

Lana folded her arms, mortified that her nipples were standing to attention. Couldn’t they make these gowns a bit more substantial? She couldn’t tell if it was because she was under scrutiny or whether she was still hot from Parker’s touch, but whatever it was, Sam Lucas was drinking it in. He might as well be licking his lips for all his discretion.

‘Well, I’ll, uh, be with you first thing,’ she said hurriedly, relieved to see the wardrobe girl returning with a clipboard and an efficient smile.

‘Yeah,’ said Sam, back to business. ‘Call-time nine o’clock.’ And he headed off in the direction of his assistant.

Ten years in this town and she still wasn’t used to it. Men who thought she owed them something, thought her body was a kind of recompense. She’d had enough of it to last a lifetime.

‘Can I get you anything, Ms Falcon?’ the girl asked, noticing Lana’s anxious expression.

‘Thanks, I’m OK.’ Lana gave a friendly smile as they made their way back to base camp. It saddened her to think the girl was too afraid to continue the conversation, as if Lana belonged now to a world in which people couldn’t converse without fear of tripping up. Her marriage to Cole Steel was lonely. She missed friendship, especially the easy intimacy that women shared. It was why she had embarked on the reckless affair with Parker Troy: she craved the warmth.

Lana stole a quick glance over her shoulder and caught her co-star chatting to crew, his dirty-blond hair falling over his eyes. He had a slightly pug nose and his jaw was chunky in a Matt Damon-type way. At twenty, he was younger than Lana and somewhat airheaded, but she wasn’t in it for the conversation. This was a mindless, red-hot, dangerous romance–barely a month old–and one she had to conceal from her husband at all costs. Parker had been foolish, getting carried away on set today: never mind that she was fucking him in her own time–when they were filming it had to be on her terms. All it took was one witness to bring the whole thing crashing down, and nobody would pay a higher price than her.

At her trailer Lana showered, changed into sweat pants and drank a litre of water. She checked her watch, wondering if Parker would call. Come on, baby, she thought, I’ve got pick-up in five. When her cell buzzed, she snatched it up.

It was Rita Clay, her agent. Rita was legendary in Hollywood, a tall, strikingly attractive black woman in her late thirties and one of LA’s top ball-breakers.

‘Hey, movie star, how was the shoot?’

Lana ran a hand through her hair. It was good to hear a friendly voice that told it like it was. On a sea of bullshit, Rita was one who managed to stay afloat. ‘Good. What’s up?’

‘Come to lunch.’

‘I’ll have to check my schedule—’

‘It’s done. Friday, twelve-thirty, Campanile.’

Lana laughed. ‘Fine.’ Rita talked as fast as she worked.

It had been the same when they’d first met. Lana had been seventeen when she’d walked into Rita Clay’s downtown office, had possessed the poise and determination of someone unafraid to lose. If the place she was running from couldn’t break her, neither could this big, bad industry. She didn’t talk about the past and Rita didn’t ask–it didn’t matter where she’d come from; it mattered where she was going.

‘You’ve got talent and you’re beautiful,’ Rita had said after their meeting, grinding out a cigarette and immediately lighting another. ‘Believe me, it’s rare. We’re going straight to the top, sweetheart.’ Her agent had gone on to secure a string of small but carefully selected TV deals, and a little over a year later Lana had landed her first break: a starring role in one of America’s most beloved sitcoms. Since then she’d gained precious credibility in a couple of cleverly positioned independent films, and in the months that followed LA’s casting agents were over her like a rash.

‘And don’t forget Kate diLaurentis’s dinner party next week,’ said Rita, dragging her back to the present. ‘I know it’s not easy with the Cole situation.’

‘Hmm.’ Lana felt a crunch of dread. Kate diLaurentis was a ruthless actress in her forties with balls of iron and a face full of Botox. She was also Cole Steel’s ex-wife.

‘My advice? Conserve your energies,’ Rita said matter-of-factly. ‘She’s invited press so you and Cole are gonna have to look the part.’

Lana closed her eyes, giving in to the alternate notes of exhaustion and fear that his name evoked.

‘You still there?’

‘I’m here.’ She checked the time and started to get her bag together. Cole’s driver would be turning up in minutes and she couldn’t be late for the car–anything extraordinary would arouse her husband’s attention.

‘I know it’s difficult,’ said Rita, blowing out smoke. ‘We never thought it would be easy. But you’re doing it, girl, and that’s what matters.’

The women said their goodbyes and Lana hung up. She’d do anything to be able to confide in Rita about the affair with Parker Troy, but she knew she couldn’t–there was too much at stake. No, if anyone knew the importance of keeping a secret, it was her.

When her pager beeped Lana scooped her bag on to her shoulder, pulled on a baseball cap and headed out of the trailer. Keeping her head down and ignoring one especially persistent paparazzo who had been trailing her for days, she made her way through to the car. Cole’s driver was waiting, a big Hispanic guy with arms folded across his broad chest.

Nodding an acknowledgement, she slipped into the Mercedes’ black leather interior.

When the door closed and darkness enveloped her, she knew she was going home.

5

Cole Steel stepped out on to his glass-bottomed terrace and squinted against the afternoon sun. Drawing a pair of shades from the top pocket of his crisp, white shirt, he ran a manicured thumb around each lens until it gleamed.

With the sheer expanse of his gated Beverly Hills mansion spread out below, his beautiful wife due home any moment and his role in a sure-fire action adventure tied up just this afternoon, Cole was a happy man. In the acting game since the eighties, he had realised pretty quickly that you had to work your balls off for this kind of life. And you had to know who to trust.

On cue a security camera to his left–one of thirty-six on the property–turned on its pivot, sensing motion. These cameras were like highly trained dogs: anything Cole needed to know about and they’d be hot on it. The bottom line was that these pieces of kit were loyal–they told him everything. People, on the other hand, did not.

He checked the time on his Tag watch and frowned a little, careful not to let the lines run too deep. Just last month he had been for his first Botox session and had decided never again. For days after his expression had been totally blank–thank God it had been rectified before Venice. He recalled spending an hour in front of the mirror, eyes staring wild from a frozen mask like something out of a horror movie. Not to mention the panic at one side of his mouth going slack as though he’d had a stroke. No, never again. All that filler shit, none of it was for him–he was a serious actor, for crissakes: his trophy room was testament to that.

He buzzed the intercom. The house was so big he needed a network of them to oil things efficiently. ‘Consuela, get me a fresh lemonade.’

The Spanish maid was with him in seconds. He took the drink without thanking her.

Where the hell was Lana? She was due back by now. Leaning on the balustrade, he narrowed his eyes at the view. In recent weeks he had been prey to a niggling feeling that his wife was hiding something. She was staying in her rooms a lot more these days and, he was sure, avoided looking at him directly. Whatever it was, he’d get to the bottom of it.

In the meantime, Lana needed to sort out her attitude and fast. It wouldn’t do for Cole Steel’s wife to be touring LA looking miserable–she was married to royalty!

Taking a slug of the cool drink, Cole felt something small and hard catch at the back of his throat. He gagged, gasping for air, the force of it dislodging his sunglasses.

Consuela came rushing out, nervously knotting her hands in her apron. ‘Mr Steel? Is everything all right?’

He spat on to the terrace and out flew a lemon pip. ‘No, it isn’t, as a matter of fact,’ he hissed, eyeing her fiercely over the shades that hung drunkenly off his immaculate face. ‘Can’t you squeeze a piece of fruit, you freaking idiot?’

The Spanish woman felt her cheeks flush. She nodded furiously.

‘Forgive me, sir. It was my mistake.’ She nodded to where the pip had landed on the terrace, embarrassed in its solitude. It was about half the size of a fingernail. ‘I will clean.’

Cole turned to go inside. He felt nauseated. ‘Make a thorough job of it,’ he said grimly. And then, for effect, ‘I want to see my face in this before the sun goes down.’ Yeah, that sounded great: maybe he should write it into one of his movies.

With a mild sense of panic Cole headed to the west bathroom to clean his teeth, realising this would throw off his five o’clock session. He brushed eight times a day at two-hourly intervals–they didn’t say he had the best smile in Hollywood for nothing. Now that dumb maid had compromised his routine, something he didn’t like. He’d fire her tomorrow.

Downstairs, he checked his schedule. Tomorrow’s go-green fundraiser, that launch in Chicago he’d promised his agent he’d attend at the weekend, Kate diLaurentis’s dinner party on Wednesday. He grimaced. The thought of spending an evening with his monstrous ex-wife and her can’t-keep-it-in-his-pants comedian husband left a sour taste in his mouth. If only it didn’t pay to keep her sweet.

Before taking Lana as his wife, Cole had been married to Kate diLaurentis for seven long years. These days she was barely recognisable as the fresh-faced actress he had once known: pumped to bursting with every filler going and practically comatose on prescription tranquillisers, she had wound up a sad, fading actress watching her career spin rapidly down the shitter. Prone to barking pithy digs after one bottle too many, Cole thanked Christ she had never found out about him, the reason why he couldn’t …

Fiercely he shook his head. No, that was something he had never told anyone. He’d take it to his grave.

Turning off the solid silver faucets, Cole appraised himself in the gilt-framed mirror and liked what he saw. Yes, he’d be set for the week. There was no one in Hollywood who came close to Cole Steel and, smirking knowingly at his reflection, he conceded it was hardly a surprise. Perfection was a difficult thing to achieve, but it was even harder to maintain. Cole had it nailed. Since his boyhood he had imagined being the man he now saw in front of him. Some days he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t dreamed himself up.

As the Mercedes slid through the black cast-iron gates and snaked up the winding driveway, Lana was stunned, as she was every time, by the magnitude of Cole’s mansion.

She tapped on the partition glass and the top of the driver’s head came into view. His black hair was plastered to a slightly perspiring forehead and his lips were fleshy and pink.

‘I’ll get out here,’ Lana said, testing him. They were only a hundred yards from the house, but to her it was a matter of principle.

‘Boss says different,’ the driver grunted, his flinty eyes meeting hers in the rear-view mirror. ‘I ain’t pissin’ him off.’ The partition slid back up as her husband’s black-bottomed infinity pool came into view. It winked in the sunlight.

Lana slumped in her seat. She thought briefly of Parker Troy and craved the heat of his body, remembering how good it had felt when he’d touched her; the thrill of it in front of the crew. Rebellion was what kept her going.

They rounded Cole’s stone water feature, a giant, staggered structure modelled on the Trevi Fountain, and pulled up next to his silver Bugatti. The car was the jewel in Cole’s crown. He’d spent a million dollars on it–to Lana, who had grown up in extreme circumstances and was still, even now, acclimatising to the extravagance of her lifestyle, it was a shocking amount of money. She could tell he was torn between housing it in the garage with his assortment of Bentleys and his much-loved tangerine Lotus Elise, or leaving it here for everyone to admire. In the end, as usual, vanity had triumphed.

Two sleek black Dobermans, still and silent as her husband, crouched like sentries on either side of the mansion door. The dogs panted when they saw her, recognising her scent, their tongues pale pink in the heat. One of them came too close and emitted a low growl, perhaps smelling another man on her skin. She hurried inside.

Silence. Lana dropped her bag and walked across the empty hall, her footsteps echoing round the vaulted ceiling. Paintings of Cole adorned the walls–his most cherished, an abstract piece entitled The Moment I Met Myself, was suspended above the main stairs.

‘Hello?’ she called out. Her own voice winged back at her.

It was the quiet she couldn’t stand–it made the loneliness that much more acute. She craved a visit to the staff quarters, where she could have a proper conversation with somebody, and it galled her to think that they must consider her a grade-A bitch. And why wouldn’t they? She was married to the most powerful man in Hollywood. She’d fallen for the fame and she’d chased the money, just like they all did.

Or at least that was how it looked.

Lana fixed herself a drink at the bar. She listened to the ice tinkle against the glass.

‘You’re home.’

Cole was at the foot of the stairs, watching her carefully. How did he approach her so quietly? It gave her the creeps.

‘Drinking in the afternoon?’ he demanded, unable to help himself. Cole didn’t like his wife enjoying alcohol, even in such small quantities.

Lana took a breath. Just because he drove his ex-wife to drink doesn’t mean he’ll do the same to you.

‘I’ll do what I like, when I like, Cole,’ she told him evenly.

Abruptly his handsome face broke into a winning smile. He took the stool next to hers.

‘You know I’m just teasing,’ he said in an artificially playful way that made her feel queasy. ‘I wanted to catch you while I could, I’m aware we haven’t spent much time together recently.’ He paused. ‘We’ve got a mutual appearance next week—’

‘Kate diLaurentis’s party.’ Lana nodded, keeping her eyes down. ‘It’s under control.’ She stopped herself saying ‘I know the drill’ and drained the last of her vodka.

Cole extended a white, moisturised hand and settled it self-consciously on his wife’s leg. She tried not to look at him–on camera he was a handsome man but in real life he was plastic on a good day and on a bad one plain bizarre. Lana knew he’d had a filler done recently and regretted it–as a result his skin had taken on an unnerving sort of sheen, like rubber. He looked sticky, like someone had taken him out of a box and polished him.

Trying to ignore the contact, which seemed uncalled-for given the circumstances, Lana ran a finger across the solid oak bar.

‘Do you ever get tired of it?’

His eyes were blank, unreadable. ‘What?’

Lana shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She hadn’t expected an answer. Cole Steel was as closed to her now as he’d been when she was growing up, watching his movies.

He placed his glass on the bar, using both hands to position it squarely. When he was satisfied, he turned and pinned his wife with a stare.

‘It’s our job,’ he said hollowly. ‘You’ll wear the green dress at Kate’s, the off-the-shoulder Gucci. Open-toe sandals and that diamond necklace I bought you. Make sure we show them your left side if that blemish hasn’t cleared up.’

Lana touched the soft skin under her eye, feeling the tiny scratch that had appeared there. She nodded. The conversation was over and, as always, Cole had ended it.

Armed with her instructions, she headed up the back staircase to her private quarters. The quiet was deafening. It was married life.

6

Las Vegas

‘What a voice!’ exclaimed Elisabeth’s stage manager, his jauntily positioned trilby almost slipping off with the excitement of it.

Elisabeth Sabell smiled as she swept into the wings, rapturous applause filling the Desert Jewel auditorium. Her heart was racing.

‘It was good?’ she breathed, fully aware it had been.

‘It was magnificent,’ he told her, kissing both cheeks. ‘We had a full house tonight.’

The crew rushed over, showering Elisabeth with compliments. Somebody trod on the skirt of her scarlet gown but she was too euphoric to care.

‘Thank you!’ she cried, graciously accepting armfuls of gifts: bouquets of sweet-smelling flowers; notes from well-wishers; and on top of that an assortment of soft toys, a couple of bug-eyed ones clutching felt hearts that she could have done without.

Her PA rushed forward. ‘Mr Bellini would like to see you, ma’am.’

Elisabeth bit her lip. I’ll bet he wants to see me. Alberto Bellini was General Manager at the Desert Jewel, the second of Robert St Louis’s epic hotels, and worked under her fiancé’S supervision. He was an Italian in his sixties, a born Lothario, drinker and gambler, and one of her father’s cronies.

‘Thank you,’ she said, offloading the gifts into her assistant’s arms. One of the toys squeaked in protest. ‘I’ll be there.’

As Elisabeth made her way to her dressing room, charming admirers along the way, she hoped Alberto Bellini wasn’t about to give her a lecture. Some crap about how she should quit singing–that it had been her mother’s thing, not hers–and get to grips with Bernstein’s hotel legacy. Over and over everyone tried to fit her into her father’s pocket. What about her own ambitions?

She’d earned her right to sing tonight. All through her twenties Elisabeth had worked long and hard to make a name for herself, and now she had she sure as hell wasn’t getting swallowed up by her father’s empire. Bernstein considered her whimsical, that music was just a phase born out of longing for her dead mother. But she’d proved him wrong. For years she’d performed in smoky bars on the Strip, hauling her way to the top, and now she’d made it she sure as hell wasn’t letting anyone bring her down.

Smiling to herself, she pulled open the door to her dressing room. As soon as she saw Alberto Bellini, she knew he hadn’t come to lecture her. On the contrary, in fact.

‘Bellissima,’ he crooned in a thick accent, standing to greet her. ‘You were sensational tonight.’ He presented her with the hugest bouquet of roses she had ever seen–whites, yellows, reds, pinks, all bound up with a violet ribbon.

‘Thank you,’ said Elisabeth, taking a seat at her dressing table. In the mirrors she could see the old Italian, now reclining in a red velvet chair with his legs crossed. He was tall and sinewy, with thick pure-white hair and a hook nose. The room stretched out behind him, fragments caught in diamond shapes like a kaleidoscope. He was watching her intently.

‘What’s this?’ she asked, reaching for a black velvet box with a little card from Robert tucked inside.

‘Never mind that,’ Alberto said, coming to her. He placed his dry hands on her bare shoulders and leaned down to whisper in her ear. ‘A star is born tonight.’

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. It was no great secret that Alberto harboured a schoolboy crush–it’d been that way for ages. She and Robert laughed about it.

‘Oh, give it up,’ she told him, applying a flush of rouge. ‘I don’t need to sleep with you to keep this gig. You work for my fiancé, remember?’

Alberto chuckled. ‘You are right, bellissima. When you do sleep with me, it will be of your own free will.’

Elisabeth turned round. ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ she told him. ‘You’re an old horse, Bellini, it’d probably kill you.’

‘You kill me a little every time.’ He held his arms up and made a face like a sad clown.

‘I’m sure,’ she said, narrowing her eyes. She’d known Alberto since she was a little girl–he’d always been around when she’d been growing up–but she could never tell if he was being serious or not.

‘When is the wedding?’ he asked now, turning away, his hands linked behind his back. His distinguished frame was at ease in the opulent den of her dressing room. Modelled on the Egyptian pyramids, its gold fabrics swept grandly from a sphinx gargoyle in the middle of the ceiling. Baskets of fruit, olives and nuts were clustered in one corner, and a small fountain of mineral water stood proud at its centre.

‘Robert and I are yet to set a date.’ Elisabeth picked up the velvet box, extracted the note from her fiancé and smiled. Inside was a diamond necklace, an exquisite chain of gems, each one in the shape of a heart.

Alberto did not turn to face her. ‘But you do want to marry him.’

Elisabeth frowned. ‘Of course I want to marry him.’

‘It is what your father wants.’

‘I’m sure it is.’ Her voice tightened. She fastened the necklace and sat back to admire it.

‘It is what the city wants.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘It is not what I want.’

Abruptly Elisabeth stood up. ‘I haven’t got time for this, Bellini. Is there anything else?’

He came to her, his expression wistful. ‘I fear I should not tell you this,’ Alberto licked his lips, ‘but I cannot help myself.’ He took her hands. ‘You are so like your mother, Elisabeth. So headstrong, so forthright, so … beautiful.’

Elisabeth was taken aback. Linda Sabell, one of the greatest singers of the seventies, had been killed in a plane crash when Elisabeth was only three. Her father never spoke her name; Bellini was the only one who seemed to recognise she’d gone.

‘Thank you,’ she said, tears threatening. She cleared her throat, cross with herself for showing weakness.

‘When I look at you.’ Alberto searched her eyes, looking for what she couldn’t tell. ‘My darling, your mother lives again.’

Elisabeth was transfixed a moment, before blinking and dropping his hands.

‘I am sorry. I have said too much.’

She wrapped her arms round herself, turning away. ‘Please, go.’

‘I did not mean to upset you.’ His voice was gentle.

Elisabeth shook her head, refusing to look at him. ‘I’m fine.’

A moment later she heard the door shut quietly. She closed her eyes, dragging herself together. Linda was so seldom mentioned that each time it hurt like the first. The mother she had never known, the woman whose legacy she felt it her duty to maintain. Oh, to have had a female in her life when she’d been growing up, someone to be close to. Instead she had been raised almost exclusively by men. Bernstein, Bellini, her grandfather before he’d died–it had made her tough, sure, but what she wouldn’t give for five minutes with the woman she couldn’t even remember.

Thank God for Robert St Louis. He cherished her independence, always said it was one of the things he loved best. Linda would have liked him.

Elisabeth turned back to the mirror. She gave her reflection a reassuring nod. Once they were married, a new future would begin; one her mother would be proud of.

7

London

Chloe French arrived home in Hampstead feeling tired and interrogated. She’d spent the afternoon at a photo shoot for a Sunday paper supplement–the sharp-featured woman interviewing her had insisted on asking all manner of difficult questions about her upbringing, rather than focusing on her modelling and her relationship with Nate Reid, either of which she would have preferred to talk about.

Thank God for PR, thought Chloe, tossing her bag down in the empty hall.

‘Dad?’ she called out. Silence.

She checked the time. Maybe he’d gone out.

Padding into the kitchen, Chloe tried to remember a time when it hadn’t been like this–a house so quiet and still that it seemed to be in mourning for times gone by. Before the divorce her parents had thrown a party nearly every week: Chloe recalled sitting at the top of the stairs when she was little and meant to be in bed, listening to the grown-ups’ conversations; the tinny ring of wine glasses and the distant, merry laughter.

The doorbell went. It was Nate.

‘Hey!’ she said, stepping out to kiss him. ‘How was the studio?’

Nate pushed through. ‘Get me in, I’ve got a pap on my tail.’

Chloe frowned, looking past him. ‘I can’t see anyone.’

‘Buggers don’t let up,’ he said, stalking past in his Jagger swagger.

She followed him into the kitchen. He had his head in the fridge and was picking at an open packet of Parma ham.

‘They were shitty at the Bystander.‘ She pulled out a chair and flopped down.

‘Did they ask about me?’

‘Nah, it was all Mum and Dad.’ She bit her thumbnail. ‘I’m tired of talking about it–it’s like everyone has to have a sob story or something. What’s the big deal?’

Nate snapped open a jar of pickles. ‘Our story’s better,’ he said insensitively, tossing in a gherkin. ‘You should have got them off the subject, started talking about me.’

Chloe smiled faintly. He was only trying to take her mind off it.

‘They’re all over us, babe,’ he went on, popping the jar on the shelf and closing the door. ‘They love all that shit.’

Nate was referring to the night he and Chloe had got together a couple of years before. Under any other circumstances, people might have baulked at the idea of them being an item–sweet, stunning Chloe French and a slightly grimy rock star with an alleged drug problem. But this was a modern-day fairy tale, or at least that was how the press saw it.

It had all happened at a wild party in Shoreditch. Chloe didn’t remember much, just knew she’d had way too much to drink come midnight. She’d fallen seriously ill, spewing up all over the place and blacking out–later it transpired she’d had her drink spiked. Thankfully Nate Reid, supposedly the wildest child of them all, had intervened, got his head together and taken her to the nearest A&E. The following morning iconic images were splashed across the London papers: bad-boy Nate carrying good-girl Chloe in his arms, folding her limp body into a car, waiting at the hospital, taking her home, holding her hand.

For Chloe, Nate was her knight in shining armour.

‘You should have told that to the woman who interviewed me.’ Chloe made a face. ‘She was so uptight, I think she was jumped up on something. I needed the loo halfway through and felt too uncomfortable to say anything.’

Nate snorted. ‘You’re weird, babe.’

‘Yeah, well.’

‘Your dad’s bird’s here,’ he stated, nodding out to the modest garden.

‘She is?’ Chloe should have known–the place was too tidy for her father to be alone, the washing-up had been done for a start. His girlfriend Janet had all but moved in these past few months.

Sure enough, at the far end of the lawn and enjoying the last of the late-summer sun, was Gordon. He and Janet were seated on a blanket, with a bottle of wine and a scattering of food. Her two young sons, frizzy-haired twins with slightly crossed eyes, mucked about nearby. Chloe watched them for a while with a strange mix of sadness and relief. She was happy her father had found someone, but couldn’t help feeling the outsider. The two of them had managed together when Audrey, her mother, had left, and when Chloe had started to make her own money she had decided to stay at the family home, not wanting her father to be alone.

Audrey had walked when Chloe was twelve. She’d met a poet through one of her evening workshops called Yarn–it was actually spelled Jan but for Chloe it remained as it had when she’d first heard it, that strange, foreign sound. Yarn had long hair, no money and a face the colour of the moon. Chloe had met him once, when Audrey had still been interested in maintaining contact. They had been for a strained coffee in Highgate and Chloe had noticed how her mother smelled different, sort of clammy and yeasty, not like she used to smell at all. Audrey had hung on to every word Yarn said, even though Chloe–in the first stage of adolescence but pretty much with the right idea–had thought it was all a lot of sweet-smelling bullshit. She’d known then that she had lost her mother, at least the one she had grown up with. There had been a handful of meetings since and the necessary birthday and Christmas cards, but that was it.

‘Let’s go upstairs,’ said Chloe, taking Nate’s hand. ‘I feel sad.’

Nate grabbed a bottle of beer. ‘Bet I know how to cheer you up.’

‘I know you do,’ smiled Chloe, relieved she had someone as committed to her as Nate. Growing up she’d thought her mum and dad would be together for ever–it had been horrible when they’d split. What happened to her parents wouldn’t happen to them.

They mounted the stairs, she going backwards, his face in her hands. She kissed him hard, unbuckling him as they came to the landing. He tasted kind of stale, like he hadn’t cleaned his teeth in a while. It wasn’t unpleasant.

Nate tripped at the top step and they fell back. A slosh of beer leaked into the carpet.

‘Shit!’ Chloe laughed as she landed on her bum.

Nate didn’t see the funny side. He began unbuttoning her shirt, feeding a hand through, roughly cupping her breast. ‘I’ve got to fuck you,’ he whispered.

‘Not here,’ she managed between kisses, feeling the scratch of the rug beneath her back.

Nate pierced her with a green stare, slowly running his fingers down to the waist of her jeans, sliding towards the heat of her knickers. ‘Here.’

‘No!’ she laughed, attempting to wriggle free.

‘Why not,’ he said flatly, pinning her down. He held her arms above her head with one hand, used the other to unclasp her bra.

‘Because someone might see,’ she said anxiously, aware from the bulge in Nate’s boxers that he could be right outside on the picnic blanket for all it mattered to him.

‘So?’

Chloe made a face. ‘Come on, Nate,’ she said, pushing him off.

Grudgingly he followed her into the bedroom, his erection leading the way. Chloe always played it so safe. It was why, just occasionally, he needed to get his kicks elsewhere.

When Chloe woke, her mobile was ringing. Disorientated, she grappled for it. Night had descended in a purple cloak, close against her window. Nate had gone.

Foggy-eyed, she checked the display. It was Melissa Darling, her agent at Scout.

‘Hello?’ She propped herself up on one elbow, stifling a yawn.

‘Chloe, it’s Melissa. Have you got a minute? It’s important.’

Chloe sat up. ‘Sure, what is it?’

‘You remember the LA proposition we discussed?’

Chloe nodded. The agency had been looking at moving her into acting for some time now and had been waiting for the right part to come along. ‘Yes?’ she said cautiously.

‘There’s a small role I’m looking at in America, a historical romance.’ Melissa took a breath. ‘I think it’s perfect for you. Exactly the right vehicle to launch you over there.’

‘Really?’ Chloe couldn’t contain the squeak in her voice. Melissa’s tone told her this was a big deal.

‘Really.’ Another pause. ‘It’s not in the bag yet, but I’m working on it. It’s a Sam Lucas production–you’d be filming your scene opposite Lana Falcon.’

‘Lana Falcon?’ She was wide awake now. Chloe practically bounced off the bed. ‘You’re kidding!’ She paced the room, scarcely believing the conversation was happening. Maybe she was still dreaming.

Melissa laughed. ‘I thought you’d be happy–and I hope they will be, too. There’s been a schedule collapse in LA: they’re after someone with the right UK profile and, I’m pleased to say, you fit the bill.’

Chloe caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were sparkling; her cheeks flushed red with excitement. ‘Melissa, I’m so thrilled,’ she said.

‘Don’t book any holidays for the next month, OK?’

‘OK.’

After the women hung up, Chloe sat at the end of her bed, her hands shaking. Sam Lucas. Lana Falcon. This was what every girl dreamed of; what she herself had dreamed of in this very room for the past ten years. And now it was coming true.

She looked around at the shadows of her childhood; a dolls’ house she couldn’t bear to part with; a book she’d been read every night before bed. It was the past. Her father didn’t need her any more. The time had come to move on.

Wait till she told Nate, he’d be so made up. It was all going to be perfect.

8

Las Vegas

‘Let’s go, sweet-cheeks. I ain’t got all day, ya know.’

The woman at the craps table was a tired-looking specimen with thin fair hair and too much red lipstick. She volleyed a strike of insults at Robert’s dealer. The poor guy knew the boss was observing and his shoulders tensed.

Robert caught the boxman’s eye and nodded. The woman was wearing diamonds, real ones, but her clothes told a different story. She’d been hustling the tables all week. He gave an imperceptible signal to one of the overhead cameras–the eyes in the sky would pick her up.

It was a daily schedule: each afternoon Robert St Louis walked the labyrinth of his casinos, touched base with his managers for word on the take and warmly greeted the high rollers. Blackjack, roulette, baccarat, this was where the big money spun. The Orient’s chief casino was a grid of mazes, no natural light, no clocks; no indication of time passing.

Robert’s job was to get the players in and keep them there. Nobody did it better.

The St Louis name had been a commanding force in Vegas since Robert’s father founded the Desert Jewel in the early nineties. Vincent St Louis, real name Vince Lewis, a hotelier from Belleville, Ohio, had made his fortune through dedication and hard toil. Robert had joined him in his early twenties, shadowing his father and studying the business: everything he knew about hotels he’d learned from those eighteen months at the Desert Jewel. When Vincent had died, Robert had assumed his place at the helm. In that year alone takings had trebled–Vinny’s son had the killer knack, everybody said it; it was instinctive. Word got around and investors started to listen. That summer Robert began working up plans for his own baby, the Orient: the most extravagant, opulent hotel in the world.

Robert paused at the east slots. Even in all his years of gaming, these were the people he was most fascinated by. Players who stayed in the same place all day and all night, scooping tokens from a metal tray only to put the same straight back into the machine.

That was Vegas all over, he reflected as he summoned the elevator: a machine. You took money out of it; the money went back in. They were spinning. That was all they were doing.

On the thirtieth floor, his last appointment of the day was waiting: Elisabeth’s father. Frank Bernstein, proprietor of the Parthenon Hotel and Casino, was a cut-throat member of the Vegas power elite. He was short and stocky, just on the right side of fat, with a bush of grey hair and sharp, watchful eyes. You couldn’t get a thing past Bernstein–he had the eyes of a hawk.

‘St Louis, you an’ me have got some talkin’ to do.’ He slapped Robert on the back.

‘So I understand.’ Robert opened the door to his office. ‘Come on through.’

Robert’s office at the Orient was an imposing room, decked out in mahogany panelling and leather furniture. Contemporary art adorned the walls, bold, clean shapes and precise lines. A photograph of a smiling Elisabeth sat proud on his desk, next to a wooden box of Havana cigars. The magnificent Strip rolled out behind.

‘I got news for ya, kid,’ said Bernstein, helping himself to a smoke. That was Bernstein all over: what was Robert’s was also his. It took some getting used to.

Robert shrugged off his suit jacket, loosened his tie and took a seat. He was wary of Bernstein: the older man had been in the business thirty years, had known Vegas when it had been run by the mob. Even though the Chicago Outfit had long since been driven out of town, it was a badly kept secret that Bernstein still had connections. Back in the eighties he had acted as lawyer to some of the boys and as a result of that was a trusted asset, whether he liked it or not. And Bernstein did like it, even if Robert tried not to dwell on the implications.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

Bernstein lit the cigar and drew on it deeply, making a pa-pa-pa sound with his lips. ‘Take a look at this.’ He threw down a copy of People magazine.

Robert raised an eyebrow and picked it up.

It was her.

The face he knew so well; those green eyes, that smile. He had seen her before, of course, countless times–she was everywhere, on the front covers of magazines, on the TV, on billboards right across the country. He ought to be used to it by now, hated that he wasn’t; hated that still, even after all these years, she could make him feel this way.

Lana Falcon.

‘Pretty little thing, ain’t she?’ Bernstein rubbed his hands together in an excited way.

Robert did his best to look disinterested, though his heart stung. Belleville was a lifetime ago–he’d refused to think about it, battled it to the ground and buried it deep, and for a while he’d thought the memory was fading. But whenever he saw her.

‘What’s this about?’ he asked eventually.

Holding the cigar between his lips and taking a seat opposite his protégé, Bernstein gave a satisfied grin that exposed a wall of gleaming teeth.

‘Sam Lucas has got a movie in production–Eastern Sky. It’s gonna be big.’

‘And?’ Robert tried to control the snap in his voice. ‘What’s it got to do with Lana Falcon?’

Bernstein guffawed. ‘Are you kidding? She’s the freakin’ star of the movie—’

‘I don’t need a who’s who of Hollywood,’ said Robert abruptly. ‘Get to the point, Bernstein.’

‘OK, OK, don’t tie your balls in a knot. I got some money behind it, ya know, gotta keep the wheels turning.’

Robert nodded. He knew Bernstein was a keen investor in anything set to make money: he had eyes and ears in every city, including LA. If this movie was tipped to be hot property, it went without saying that Bernstein would somehow be involved.

The older man took a moment, savoured it before delivering the news. ‘It’s coming here, pal. Next summer. The Eastern Sky premiere’s coming straight to the Orient.’

Robert didn’t think he’d heard correctly. ‘You’re kidding.’

Bernstein grinned. ‘Nice little deal, huh? I knew you’d jump at it.’

There was a brief silence. ‘How? I mean—’

‘Me an’ Sam go back,’ Bernstein said, puffing away and looking satisfied with himself. ‘I got a vested interest in him; he’s got a vested interest in me. Y’know how it is.’

Robert stood, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, as the implications began to sink in, a grin broke across his face. ‘This is a major coup, Bernstein.’

‘Damn right it is.’ Bernstein ground out his cigar in a Lalique ashtray–he had an expensive habit of only ever smoking the very top. ‘I woulda taken it for the Parthenon but, ya know, the movie’s got a theme, ain’t it. Chinese an’ all that. The producers wanted the Orient.’ He shrugged. ‘What the hell–I did, too.’

Robert held his hands up. ‘What can I say? I’m grateful. Thank you.’

As the men shook hands, it crossed Robert’s mind that Bernstein had an ulterior motive–Bernstein always did. He wasn’t getting any younger, wanted his daughter married and fast. He wanted, Robert suspected, to bring him and Elisabeth in on whatever deal he had going with Chicago. Securing his future son-in-law the Sam Lucas premiere was a bold statement, and in doing so Bernstein was applying that necessary bit of pressure.

‘You just bring the money in, kid. An’ you can fix me a drink while you’re at it.’

Robert poured them both one–Scotch on the rocks with a twist of lemon. Thoughts of Lana Falcon threatened to surface, but he forced them down. If he kept focused on the business, he wouldn’t have to think about seeing her again.

Damn! They’d be reunited after ten years apart. He hadn’t seen her or heard from her in all that time. It was too much of a risk for them to know each other any more. Not after what they’d done.

‘So when you gonna make an honest woman of my daughter?’ Bernstein took a hefty swig, served up with a lethal crocodile grin.

Robert let her go. Lana Falcon was nothing but trouble.

‘In my own good time, Bernstein.’

‘It’s the way forward, kid.’ He reached for another Cuban and lit it with a flourish. ‘Elisabeth’s a beautiful girl—’

‘You don’t need to tell me that.’

‘And she ain’t gettin’ any younger neither.’

Robert laughed. ‘She’s thirty-two, Bernstein.’

‘In my day a broad woulda been divorced twice already by now.’ He sat back.

Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s a good job times have changed, then, huh?’ He drained his glass and winced as the alcohol blazed a trail down his throat.

Bernstein pointed a fat finger in Robert’s direction and gave him a wink. ‘An’ they’re gonna change again.’ He ground the cigar out in a twist of smoke. ‘Talk to me once you’re married–I’ve got plans for you, St Louis.’

9

Los Angeles

The Bel Air mansion shared by Kate diLaurentis and Jimmy Hart was a magnificent cream Spanish-style villa lined with bottle-green palms. An enormous, sweeping driveway led up to the circular front, where Kate surveyed all arrivals, including her ex-husband’s, from a huge rounded window that stretched from one side to the other, as big as one of her Egyptian cotton bed sheets.

Lana and Cole’s limousine pulled up alongside a dam of waiting paparazzi. Their shouts filtered through the dark windows, camera lenses pushing against the glass.

‘I like how you look tonight,’ commented Cole, taking his wife’s hand. It wasn’t genuine affection; it was preparation for their performance, like warming up for a well-practised routine.

‘Thank you,’ she said, not looking at him. She would deliver, but not until she had to.

The car door opened to a rage of noise. Lana stepped out carefully, security shielding her from the more persistent photographers who came right up close and snapped and grabbed at her like a piece of meat. The onslaught made her panicked; it brought back too much of the past.

Cole was with her in a flash and, with head up, back straight and eyes ahead, they smiled and charmed their way through to the party.

‘I told you I wanted Beluga caviar on these blinis, Tina,’ said Kate diLaurentis in a scarcely controlled voice, brandishing the tray beneath her caterer’s nose. ‘Would you mind telling me what the hell this is?’

Tina, a harried-looking woman who appeared older than her thirty years, swallowed hard. ‘Ms diLaurentis, I, uh, I must have misunderstood—’

‘Do I pay you tens of thousands of dollars to misunderstand.?’ Kate felt her temper ignite and struggled to retain composure. Her guests were milling outside on the terrace, the hum of conversation drifting into the catering kitchen–it wouldn’t do to blow her load before the canapés had even been served.

Where the hell was her husband? Jimmy had been AWOL since she’d glimpsed him this morning, and even then they had barely uttered a hello.

He had better show up soon, she thought bitterly. Too many stories of Jimmy Hart’s exploits had been leaking in recent weeks. She knew he fucked around, she wasn’t an idiot, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t show the rest of the world a united front; a stable marriage that defied the Hollywood cliché. Didn’t he realise how crucial tonight was?

Kate laid down the tray of smoked salmon, closed her eyes and smoothed her Armani white linen trouser suit. She realised her fingers were trembling. Why could you never rely on anyone else to do a proper job?

‘Tina,’ she hissed, opening her eyes–she was much taller than the other woman and her height added to the general air of intimidation–’this is the last time I hire your company for one of my events. If you do not achieve perfection in every other aspect of this dinner party I will slam your business into the ground. Do you understand me?’

As Tina hurried to prepare the soba noodle starter, she pretended not to notice Kate pulling open a cupboard and grabbing her trusty Xanax. She popped a couple, swallowed them with water, poured herself a large glass of Sancerre and headed out to mingle with her guests.

The terrace looked magical, a Mediterranean-style space with overhead grape vines, sweet-smelling lemon trees and fairy-lights strung up against the purple sky like stars. Kate, all smiles, weaved between her guests, stopping occasionally to chat and enquire after somebody’s husband/children/latest movie with a practised, easy charm.

Yes, thought Kate, satisfied as she looked around at the assembled company sipping on Krug and enjoying her practically homemade (she had chosen it from the menu) green olive tapenade, my parties matter. I matter.

‘Darling, you look divine.’ A fashion editor wearing sharply tailored Valentino drifted over, air-kissing Kate on both cheeks. ‘You’ve had a peel, I can tell.’

When Kate raised a hand to her face in a moment of self-consciousness, the fashionista crowed, ‘Don’t be embarrassed!’ and inadvertently exposed a stain of red lipstick on one of her front teeth. She leaned in closer. ‘We do all we can, Kate.’

Kate made a polite noise about needing to check on the table and moved away. Secretly she was mortified that a woman in her fifties–however glamorous she might be–had lumped her in the same camp. Kate was forty-three. Forty-three! It was hardly old–didn’t everyone go on about it being the new twenty? Somebody ought to tell the casting agents she’d had look down their noses at her in recent weeks. Despite having a wealth of experience to her name, the work had steadily trickled off: as soon as they sniffed out the F word it was game over. Nobody wanted to see a sad pair of tits.

Avoiding the fashion editor’s eye, Kate spotted her ex-husband and gave him a polite wave. Cole Steel. Charming, handsome, dripping with success. It was a different story for men, wasn’t it? If anything, Cole had become more promotable with each year that passed. And of course it was acceptable for him to take a wife twenty years his junior, no one batted an eyelid at that–though she knew from experience that Lana Falcon wouldn’t be getting any. An Eskimo had warmer balls than Cole Steel. Seven years with him had almost broken her, but she had survived to tell the tale. Or not, as the case may be.

Kate approached them with her tight smile firmly in place. Hollywood’s number one A-list couple. A power set-up she had once been part of.

Cole was wearing sunglasses on his head, even though it was nine o’clock at night. She grudgingly admitted that Lana Falcon looked good in a dark green that set off her eyes to staggering effect.

Cole placed a palm on the small of his wife’s back in a show of solidarity. Kate recognised it as the show of possession it was.

‘Hello, Cole,’ said Kate coolly, leaning in to kiss him on both cheeks.

‘Good to see you, Kate.’ Then he asked, ‘How are the kids?’ Kate and Jimmy had two children aged three and five, though they were raised almost exclusively by their nanny.

Kate seemed surprised by the question. ‘Very well, thank you.’ She patted her hair. ‘And, Lana, my darling, don’t you look …’ The compliment caught. ‘Charming,’ she finished.

Lana smiled warmly. ‘I love this space,’ she said, looking around. ‘Did you design it yourself?’

What a sickly sweet bitch, thought Kate, hating how lovely the other woman looked. Just the sort of thing that got her bastard husband going.

‘As a matter of fact I did,’ said Kate. She’d picked out the colours, which was basically the same thing. ‘Please excuse me while I go and check on the food.’ Then she added in a quite hysterical way, ‘You know how these caterers can be!’

Turning back to the house, Kate quickly scanned the crowd for Jimmy. He was still nowhere to be seen.

Her husband might be a comedian but he wasn’t making a joke of her. If he was sticking it up some tart she didn’t know what she would do.

Jimmy Hart rolled the girl over on to her front and parted her legs.

‘Watch out, baby,’ he breathed, ‘Daddy’s coming to town.’

The girl, an aspiring actress-slash-model, gasped as his cock slid into her, driving back and forth. Fuck, this was a monster. She still couldn’t believe she’d got him into bed–and so easily, too! Jimmy Hart was a movie star, a comedy genius–just this afternoon she had served him coffee downtown and in minutes he had invited himself back to her apartment. They’d already been at it for hours and he showed no signs of letting up.

‘Fuck me, big boy!’ the girl moaned, throwing her head from side to side, raising her hips to allow him deeper access.

As Jimmy thrust on, his cock burning hot, he grabbed a handful of white-blonde hair. It was cropped short–he remembered how it had framed the girl’s face in the coffee shop, her eyes big and blue. ‘How old are you?’ he rasped now. ‘Tell me again how old you are!’

‘Eighteen.’ She eased off and turned round, wrapping her legs around his neck and guiding him back in. Actually she was twenty-one but she looked young, and she guessed it was what he wanted to hear. ‘Take me straight to heaven and back, baby.’

Jimmy resumed the task with renewed vigour, plunging into her, grabbing for her tits as he reached the summit. She wasn’t a virgin but he couldn’t afford to be picky–she had the face of an angel and skin like a peach: it was good enough for him.

He climaxed loudly and rolled off her.

‘That was amazing,’ the girl murmured, leaning over to run a pink tongue over his nipple. He was too thin and tall for her usual taste, but he was famous, so whatever.

Jimmy knew she hadn’t come and thought he should probably offer to go down on her, but time was running away. He caught sight of the alarm clock on the side table. Shit! He was late. Kate would be furious. She’d been going on about this goddamn soiree for weeks.

The thought of his wife had an instant effect and his hard-on shrank back like a frightened animal.

‘I’m taking a shower,’ he told the girl, knowing he wouldn’t see her again.

The girl pulled the crisp white sheet up to cover her breasts. ‘Hey, Jimmy?’ She opened her eyes wide as he hauled himself up and the scale of him came into full view. ‘Do you think I could be in one of your movies?’

As the guests took their seats for dinner, Lana searched the table for a friendly face. She thought she had seen Katherine Heigl at the drinks but could have been mistaken. Instead it was the usual array of get-aheads, with Lana positioned between Cole and a singer with a drug addiction.

Kate surveyed all regally from the top of the table, not a platinum-blonde hair out of place. She was quaffing wine and wore a slightly worried look, though it was difficult to be sure since she’d obviously gone for another lift, so taut was the skin around her eyes. Lana felt like a bitch for noticing.

‘And so I turned to this guy, never directed a movie in his life, and I just said, “So make me!"’ Cole was cruising through the evening, enchanting the company with anecdotes from his extensive on-set back catalogue. He sat back and roared with laughter at his own joke, and naturally everybody else followed suit. Lana had to admit he was good. The best.

The starter came and went, with Cole still holding fort. Felix Bentley, a cocky London music producer with an affected trans-Atlantic accent, kept trying to interject, but it was a losing battle. Lana tried to make conversation with the singer next to her but the girl kept leaving to visit the bathroom. Though she couldn’t be sure, Lana suspected she was throwing up.

‘Cole, tell us again how you and Lana met,’ said Harriet Foley, editor of fashion giant In. She was a formidable woman with a severe black bob and tortoiseshell glasses.

Cole savoured the moment. ‘I gotta tell you, Harriet,’ he said, looking adoringly at his wife, ‘it was love at first—’

The dining-room door slammed open. A tall, lanky figure bustled through, somewhat dishevelled in a dark suit. His hair was messy and his tie skewed.

Jimmy Hart. Lana thought he looked like a child’s drawing.

‘Apologies, everyone,’ he said with an easy grin. ‘Kate redecorates so often I can forget which part of the house I’m in!’

It was a pathetic excuse. Nevertheless everyone laughed politely, the reason for his lateness quietly dissolved. Kate looked flustered as she allowed herself to be chastely kissed then quickly motioned her husband to sit down. Lana noticed the stony glare that followed his back as he came to take a seat opposite her.

‘So I was saying …’ resumed Cole, who didn’t like to be disturbed.

Jimmy pulled back his chair with a shriek. Lana felt, rather than saw, Cole grit his teeth.

‘Sorry, mate,’ said Jimmy, sloshing wine into his glass.

Lana hid a smile. Despite his shameless behaviour, she liked Jimmy. There was something so brazen about him, a kind of unapologetic mischief. Though she had never told Cole, just last year they had been at a similar gathering during which Jimmy had tried to get her to touch his hard-on under the table, while maintaining a conversation with his wife about the versatility of cannellini beans. Lana had been shocked–not just at the advance but at how suddenly Jimmy’s cock had swollen to frankly unreal proportions. She was surprised he hadn’t pulled the tablecloth off with it.

‘Excuse me,’ she said quietly, pushing back her seat.

Cole broke off, drawing unnecessary attention. ‘What is it?’ he said, a slight snap to his voice. Nobody else would notice, just her.

‘Excuse me while I visit the bathroom,’ she clarified.

Relieved to get away, Lana made her way through the hall.

After washing her hands and re-applying some lipstick, she stood for a while at the mirror, trying to recognise the person looking back.

She wanted to spend the weekend by the ocean. No cameras, no contracts, no obligations–just the ocean … and the man she loved.

But that man wasn’t Cole Steel, her husband. And it wasn’t Parker Troy, her lover. It was Robbie Lewis, the boy from her childhood, now a multi-billionaire and the most handsome man in the world. The man who had saved her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to blot out the memory of the trailer park in Belleville, of the childhood that had been stolen from her. That awful night. The raging fire. The escape. And the beautiful boy she had left behind.

Robbie Lewis, my Robbie …

Shaking her head, trying to clear it, Lana took a deep breath. She had to stop thinking about the past, playing it over and over. It was gone, dead, buried. Robbie Lewis was gone from her life and he wasn’t ever coming back. Why would he? She had ruined him. Her marriage to Cole might feel like a prison, but it was nothing compared with the real thing.

Forget him, Lana. He doesn’t exist any more. He’s in Vegas, baby. Get over it.

On the way back to the table Kate passed her in the corridor, careening on her heels. She stumbled into the wall, her full glass of wine slopping over the rim.

‘Lana Falcon,’ she slurred, adjusting her hair as it attempted escape from a tightly wound chignon. ‘America’s sweetheart.’

Lana forced herself to engage with the present. ‘Kate, I think—’

‘Don’t tell me what you think. Why would I want to know that? Get back to your fucking husband.’ Then she leaned in close so Lana could smell the alcohol on her breath. ‘But not to fucking your husband, isn’t that right?’ She laughed cruelly. ‘I know the score, and don’t you forget it. I’ve been there before you. Things aren’t quite as perfect as they seem, now, are they?’

Lana didn’t know what to say.

‘Tell me something, darling,’ Kate spat. ‘I’m dying to know. Can he get it up for you?’

Lowering her gaze, Lana tried to skim past her host before she could embarrass herself further. Kate would never know that Cole was the last man on her mind right now–for nothing and no one could chase the memories of Robbie away.

10

Belleville, Ohio, 1992

In the back of the station wagon, Laura Fallon sat quietly with her small hands held together in her lap. She looked out the window at the driving rain and tried not to be sad. Next week was her ninth birthday and she knew she should feel like a special little girl, just like Arlene, her foster mom, had told her. But instead she felt frightened.

‘Are we nearly there?’ she asked. The woman driving was wearing a brown skirt and jacket and had greasy hair. Earlier, when she had collected Laura from her foster family, she had ticked off lots of boxes on a piece of paper. Arlene had been trying not to cry, which didn’t make sense because Arlene had told her there was nothing to be sad about.

When they stopped at a red light the woman turned round and smiled. Laura saw that a tooth at the back of her grin was missing, a grotesque detail she hadn’t noticed before.

‘You’ve been waitin’ long enough, huh, cupcake. We’re finally takin’ you home.’

Home. That was the word Arlene had used as well. But she had already known two homes and now both of them had been taken away–what would make this one any different?

The first had been with her parents, before the accident. She squeezed her eyes tight shut when she thought of it. The policemen with their kind eyes and their smart uniforms, who had come to get her out of bed in the middle of the night and had sat her down and held her hand. One–he had a shiny head and a thick brown moustache that drooped at the edges–had told her in a quiet, gentle voice that her mommy and daddy had died. A truck had gone into their car as it waited to turn on to the freeway. He’d looked so sad.

Grown-ups didn’t get sad; they sorted things out, which was just what her big brother Lester would do. Lester was fifteen and brave and strong, the tallest boy in his class. He always promised that he would look after her, his best little sister. She idolised him.

But some time that night, in the darkest hours, the Lester she knew and loved had disappeared. For months he cried like he was filling up an ocean, and at night when Laura slept fitfully she dreamed she was swimming in its black waters, reaching for him, trying to keep hold of his hand. When she woke up she was bathed in sweat.

For the first few months with their foster family, Lester stayed in his bedroom. Sometimes he didn’t come out for days and days, and when he did, it was only after dark. He’d disappear until the next morning, when he’d slip into the house unnoticed and lock himself away.

One day Laura woke up and he was gone, just like that. Arlene explained that he was so sad it had made him sick, and he’d been taken to a special hospital to get better. She could still go see him any time she liked. But Laura didn’t want to see him. He scared her. He was a different Lester now, not the happy boy she used to know.

‘Please take me home,’ she said now. ‘I want to go back to Arlene.’

‘Sorry, kid,’ said the woman. She was chewing gum loudly–Arlene would have told her off for that. ‘Blame the system, not me. ‘

They had told her he was well again. And he was eighteen now, could look after her. They should be together, a family–brother and sister reunited, that was how it was meant to be.

He was living in a trailer park outside a town called Belleville. It was somewhere with a school where Laura would make new friends and finally be able to settle. That was why they shuffled their pieces of paper, why they smiled at Arlene and shook her hand and said that everything had worked out for the best. That was what they said, but Laura knew it wouldn’t be like that. She hadn’t seen her brother in two years. As far as she was concerned, Lester Fallon was a stranger.

The car turned off the freeway and the woman driver wound down the window, holding the steering wheel steady with her knee while she lit a cigarette. When she flicked the ash some of it blew into the back seat.

‘Almost there, honey,’ she said, scanning Laura in the rear-view mirror. Poor freakin’ kid. Those huge green eyes were enough to break your heart.

Soon after they came to a cluster of houses. Some were tall, with shuttered windows and pretty white fences, the kind Laura dreamed about living in. Two boys, a little older than she was, played out front with their bikes. One of them had messy brown hair and as he looked up, he caught her eye. He had very dark eyes. She smiled at him.

Laura knew her brother lived in a trailer but so long as it was near this town she thought she might not mind too much. But the car kept going and soon they were winding through a series of rundown, shabby-looking buildings with boarded-up windows. Beyond that a grassy space opened up, but the grass was yellowish instead of green, with bald patches here and there like scars.

She squinted, looking ahead through the windshield, and recognised her brother straight away. He was standing outside one of the trailers and was wearing a grey shirt. He hadn’t changed, she could tell, even though he was dressed better and had a tidy haircut. It was still the same Lester, the one who had run out on her.

He was waving now, and as the station wagon pulled up he said in a childish voice, like she was simple, ‘Hi, Laura! Hey, little sis!’

Laura was wary. The woman came round and let her out of the car, smiling as she brandished her papers and clipboard. Lester tried for a hug and she felt the hard lines of his ribs as he folded over her, but she stayed closed. She didn’t say anything.

‘It’s the shock, is all,’ said the woman, sympathetic and efficient at the same time. ‘Let’s go inside.’

The trailer was small, the kitchen just a plastic counter with a square refrigerator tucked underneath and two chairs with broken backs. Laura’s bedroom was tiny, a single mattress and feeble-looking closet, next to which hung a cracked oval mirror. The door didn’t close properly.

At the rear was a bathroom, but while the woman and Lester went to inspect it, Laura stayed where she was. She didn’t like it. The flowers were fake and when she lifted a framed photograph of her mom and dad from the side, she saw the board wasn’t on properly, like he’d done it in a hurry. He had drawn the curtains back with a rubber band.

When the woman returned she was furiously ticking her boxes again.

‘Perfect,’ she said, glad to have tied up this particular loose end. The kid would soon get used to it and realise this was as much of a happy ending as anyone could hope for. A family, such as it was, together again.

The woman went to leave, but even though Laura didn’t particularly like her, she didn’t want her to go. She didn’t want to be left alone with Lester. The darkness was still there. She could see it in his eyes and she didn’t even have to look that hard.

The door slammed and they were alone.

Lester watched her. ‘Looks like it’s just you and me now, kid.’

11

Las Vegas

Elisabeth Sabell watched as a dripping piece of steak disappeared into her father’s mouth. She heard him chew on it noisily. They were dining in a private booth at the Desert Jewel’s Oasis restaurant, a dreamscape of golden sands and lush palms.

‘She causin’ you trouble yet, Bellini?’ Bernstein chased the meat down with a hunk of bread. He signalled the waiter for another bottle of champagne.

‘Of course not,’ said Alberto Bellini smoothly, not taking his eyes from Elisabeth’s face.

‘She’s wasted playin’ goddamn beauty pageants.’ Bernstein gave Robert a look. ‘Soon as she’s married there’ll be more important things to think about.’

Elisabeth picked at her walnut salad. ‘I’m not having this conversation again.’

‘No need, puss,’ Bernstein said through a mouthful, ‘me and St Louis got plans—’

‘We have?’ Robert caught his fiancée’s eye across the table and briefly shook his head, dispelling her fears. ‘News to me, Bernstein.’

His authority brought out the wild side in her. Elisabeth extended a long, honey-coloured leg, found her lover and grazed a toe up towards his groin. In seconds he was hard.

‘All’s I’m sayin’ is you two got opportunities,’ said Bernstein, oblivious. He lowered his voice. ‘Chicago needs someone they can trust, not some all-singin’, all-dancin’ fairy fuckin’ cabaret act.’ Next to him his girlfriend, a voluptuous twenty-something showgirl named Christie Carmen, shot him a dirty look.

‘Charming,’ she hissed, adjusting her generously proportioned bust.

Elisabeth began trailing over Robert’s erection, slowly, teasing, in the way she knew he liked it. Miraculously his face was giving nothing away.

‘Why’d she have to get all the fucking attention?’ Jessica Bernstein pouted, a nasal whine creeping into her voice. She turned to her father with an accusing expression.

‘Be quiet, Jessica,’ said Elisabeth, wishing her younger sister could grow up a bit. Half-sister, she kept reminding herself. They couldn’t be less alike if they tried: where Elisabeth was sensible, stable and set on her own destiny, Jessica was impulsive, hedonistic and spoiled.

‘Fuck you,’ Jessica retorted.

‘Now, now,’ Bernstein interjected, giving the table a mock-exasperated look. His younger daughter, only twenty, was a firecracker, just like her mother had been. Sleeping with renowned casino hustler Trixie duChamp had been one of his bigger mistakes. The year Jessica had turned eleven Trixie had rolled up dead of a drug overdose. They’d found her naked in bed at the Parthenon with a silk scarf tied round her neck and a pair of dice up her ass.

‘Why’n’t you tell everyone about my little gift to the both of you?’ Bernstein said, steering the conversation back to Robert and Elisabeth. He drained his glass of Rémy and immediately poured another. ‘Call it a wedding present.’

Elisabeth frowned. ‘What gift?’ She applied a little more pressure to Robert, surprised that he felt different to normal … thinner. Alberto Bellini, seated next to her fiancé, raised a beautifully shaped eyebrow and made a gruff sound in his throat, adjusting himself. Mortified, she pulled away, her cheeks flushed.

‘Your father’s bringing Sam Lucas’s premiere to the Orient,’ Robert explained, carefully taking a drink. He put the glass down slowly and cleared his throat. ‘Next summer.’

‘He is?’ Elisabeth gritted her teeth. In her book gifts were given freely.

Jessica was examining her nails. ‘I know it, the one with Lana Falcon.’

Elisabeth noticed Robert tense. She threw him a questioning expression. He met her eye briefly then looked away.

‘It’s going to be magnificent,’ said Robert automatically. Still he didn’t look at her.

‘Damn right,’ said Bernstein. ‘An’ you two are gonna be headin’ up the whole thing.’

Elisabeth spluttered. ‘What about you? I’m sure you’ll be involved. Isn’t that what daddies are for?’

‘We all will,’ he said, loosening the neck on his shirt.

‘Ha!’ Jessica barked. ‘Don’t make me laugh. You wouldn’t want me getting in the way and messing things up.’ She hiccupped. ‘Because that’s all I’m good for, isn’t it?’

‘Now, now, Jessica,’ said Bernstein.

‘It’s true!’ she moaned. ‘It’s always Elisabeth this, Elisabeth that, the story of my fucking life. What’s so special about her?’

Jessica pouted and pushed back her brown hair. She was pretty in a pretend kind of way, but her nose was a fraction too long, her skin two shades too orange and, she was convinced, her hair too thin. Her stylist called it ‘fine’ but Jessica was appalled by the idea she could be bald by thirty. She didn’t have the natural beauty Elisabeth possessed and she knew it–nor did she have the attentions of their father. Jealousy defined her behaviour.

‘Fuck all of you,’ she said, taking a slug of her drink. ‘You’re all assholes.’

‘Could you pass the bread rolls, please?’ asked Alberto. The basket was right beside Jessica but she made no attempt to pick it up. Robert leaned across and obliged.

‘Honey, I gotta go to the little girls’ room,’ Christie Carmen whined, bobbing up and down in her seat. They would have forgotten she was there if it weren’t for her trussed-up breasts spilling into the soup starter.

‘Go on, then, baby,’ grumbled Bernstein. Then he imagined the blow job he’d be receiving later and instantly felt better. After two marriages, young and dumb was order of the day.

Christie Carmen was a hot broad with big tits and a nice tight pussy–it was everything he required from his women these days.

‘Get that ass back here quick.’ Bernstein winked as he patted his girlfriend’s retreating behind. She tottered off in a silver mini-skirt and four-inch heels, drunkenly weaving into an oncoming dessert trolley. Maybe he’d get lucky and she’d come back without her knickers.

How depressing, Elisabeth thought, observing her father’s latest accessory stagger off in her imitation Jimmy Choos. She glanced at Robert, who had gone uncharacteristically quiet. He was folding his napkin into exact squares. His dark eyes were unsettled.

She could sense Alberto Bellini watching her from across the table, the tip of his tongue just visible between his lips.

The photograph was face down, its edges mottled and stiffened by time.

Alberto drew it from the oak chest of drawers, clasping it to his chest. He closed his eyes, his breath escaping in a hoarse, thin stream, like air seeping from a punctured tyre. It reminded him that he was old.

Supper tonight had exhausted him. He didn’t know how much longer he could bear it–loving Elisabeth entirely and yet knowing she belonged to another man.

He scanned the picture one more time, before slipping it back and closing the cabinet. The sound reverberated through the rooms of his expansive Italian-castle-themed mansion.

Linda Sabell.

She was gone. She had never been his in the first place. He had to forget her.

Yet how could he, when every time he clapped eyes on Elisabeth it was like walking straight back into the past? Frank Bernstein would murder him if he ever found out. Or get someone else to do it for him. Though Bernstein never admitted as much, it was clear to all of them that precious Elisabeth was his favourite daughter. If only he, Alberto, could have shared a child with Linda.

Alberto grimaced. He poured himself a brandy and chucked it back. He was getting tired of this game, he wanted out. Too many years he’d spent drinking and gambling, chasing women in an attempt to forget the only one he had ever loved …

Linda.

She was dead, and yet he saw her every day, every time he watched the show at the Desert Jewel, every time he caught her mirror image laughing with Robert St Louis.

Linda had loved him, he knew that much, and he had made her happy where Frank Bernstein could not. Elisabeth was the gift she had left behind.

Alberto had wanted Linda’s daughter for years, way before Robert St Louis had come on the scene. Only now, with her wedding fast approaching, the time had come to take action.

Elisabeth belonged to him.

As far as he was concerned, resistance was futile.

12

‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Elisabeth, peering over the top of her D&G shades. ‘I’ll sing at the premiere.’

At the opposite end of their Olympic-sized pool, Robert shook out his muscles. She watched as he plunged into the crystal water, his impressive body gliding down its length, a bronzed Adonis shimmering in the blue.

He emerged, shook his dark hair and used two strong arms to pull himself out. Droplets of water glistened on his skin.

‘Whatever you like,’ he said, taking a seat on the lounger next to hers.

It was the following morning and the couple were relaxing on their poolside patio. The terrace was just one feature of their immense Vegas home, a near-two-acre estate modelled on a European palace Robert had spoken at several years ago.

‘I think it’ll send a very clear message,’ she said, adjusting her gold bikini.

Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘Come on, you’re above all that.’

‘Am I?’ she snapped. ‘I’ve got to stand up for myself, Robert. Show my father I’m serious about this.’

‘He knows you are,’ said Robert, flipping open a copy of the Vegas Business Reporter. ‘He just doesn’t want to admit it.’

‘Why the hell not?’

Robert laid the paper across his chest. The edges turned grey as they absorbed the water from his body. ‘Do you want to know what I really think?’

‘Of course.’

‘I think Bernstein’s scared you’ll go the same way as your mother.’

Elisabeth chewed her lip. ‘What, he thinks he’s going to lose me in some freak plane crash? Don’t make me laugh.’

Robert shrugged. ‘You know what I mean. Lose you some other way, perhaps.’

Elisabeth was quiet a moment. ‘Are you happy about hosting this premiere?’

‘Of course.’ He resumed reading. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘You just seem a bit … on edge about it.’

‘I’m never on edge.’

Elisabeth smiled, entwining her fingers with his. She adored Robert’s hands–they were strong and capable, the hands of an artist. ‘I know. That’s why I love you.’

He didn’t say it back. She pretended not to notice.

Picking up her celebrity magazine, Elisabeth flipped past a piece on Kate diLaurentis and her goofy–though strangely attractive–comedian husband. Kate had been pulled over for speeding in a white sports car and she had been photographed in conversation with a policeman, a borderline manic look on her face. Two miserable kids stared out from the back of the vehicle.

‘Ugh, welcome to Hollywood,’ she muttered. ‘Vegas is in for a treat.’

Over the page she caught sight of A-list movie star Lana Falcon and her husband Cole Steel. Cole was remarkably handsome but Elisabeth thought Lana had a slightly weak look about her. These days they called it the ‘girl-next-door’ appeal, but surely that was just a euphemism for ‘rather plain’.

‘Ah, the main attraction,’ she said, waving the magazine in front of Robert’s face. She read out the article headline: ‘CoLa–I can’t bear it when they do that–more in love now than ever?‘ She chuckled. ‘Not sure I believe it.’

Robert glanced up, caught sight of the page and instantly averted his gaze.

She’s a different woman, he told himself. Not the girl you knew.

‘Lana Falcon,’ he said flatly. Her alias died on his tongue. ‘I guess so.’

Elisabeth squinted. ‘Do you think they’re happy?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Who?’

‘These two. Lana and Cole.’

‘God knows. Who cares.’

She looked at him sideways. ‘You obviously do.’

Robert’s head snapped up. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? ‘

Elisabeth laughed. ‘Do you know her?’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘It’s only a question.’

‘It’s a stupid one.’ He resumed looking at the page, though the words were little more than a blur. ‘I’ve never met Lana Falcon before in my life.’

It wasn’t a complete lie.

Elisabeth stared at him. She’d never seen Robert lose his cool over anything, not even her father’s constant interfering. ‘There’s no need to get aggressive,’ she told him.

A muscle went in Robert’s jaw.

She decided to change the subject. ‘Her husband clearly adores her.’

Robert stood up. He could bear it no longer. There were many things he wanted to tell Elisabeth, but none of them he could: how once upon a time he had adored Lana; he’d carried her, helped her, saved her damn life. Not this Cole Steel jackass, whoever he was.

‘I’m going for a swim,’ he announced. He dived cleanly into the water.

When he emerged, Elisabeth had joined him. Her blonde hair was secured in a knot and she had removed her bikini top. A pair of golden breasts bobbed invitingly on the surface.

‘Let’s not fight,’ she said, reaching for him.

Robert swam up and put his arms around her. ‘Do you fancy a trip?’

‘OK,’ she laughed, pleased he was no longer cross. She kissed him, feeling his growing hardness. ‘You always take me where I want to go.’

He smiled. ‘No, I mean, like a vacation.’ He kissed her back. ‘I’m meeting investors in the South of France. We leave at the weekend.’

She put a finger over his mouth and wrapped her legs around his waist. ‘St Tropez?’

Robert put his hands on her ass, pulling her close. Deftly she freed him from his shorts.

‘It sure is,’ he managed, the words catching as she pulled aside her bikini bottoms.

‘In that case, yes,’ she said, lowering herself on to him. ‘Yes yes yes!’

13

London

Chloe French stepped out of the car into the cold September evening, cursing her decision to wear such a flimsy dress. She wanted to look special for Nate, especially as she couldn’t wait to tell him her big news.

There was some commotion at the entrance to the club, a renowned hotspot in Mayfair and venue for tonight’s gig. She punched a number into her phone. It rang a few times before he picked up.

‘What?’ Nate said snappily. ‘We’re testing, I can’t talk.’

‘Can you come let me in?’

The line crackled. ‘Why?’

‘There’s more people out front than I thought.’ Silence. ‘It’s more discreet?’

‘For fuck’s sake.’ There was a pause while Nate mumbled something to the band. She heard them laughing in the background. ‘All right,’ he grumbled. ‘Come round the side in three, I don’t want to get mobbed.’

He made her wait at least five. Just as she was contemplating calling him again, the door sprang open and Nate stuck his head through.

‘Come on,’ he said twitchily, scanning for groupies, ‘I’m on in ten.’ He briefly put his tongue in her mouth by way of hello and gave her tit a quick squeeze, which seemed distinctly unromantic. She decided to forget it.

Chloe trailed him through the dark corridor, the low thump of music bleeding in from the lounge. The club was famed for its unusual decor–glinting chandeliers dripped from the ceiling while tired old sofas crouched down below, their stuffing bursting free at the seams. It was a fusion of the sophisticated and the shabby that was perfect for young, rich clientele who couldn’t decide which camp to affiliate themselves with.

She knew Nate didn’t like to be distracted before a gig, but couldn’t wait to spill her LA news as soon as the time was right.

‘What’re you doing after?’ she asked his back. She noticed his jeans were hanging so low he had to wear two belts to keep them up. Maybe that was the point.

‘Dunno, babe.’

‘I’ve got something to tell you, it’d be good if we could …’

When they got backstage Nate turned round in front of his band mates. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

Chloe was embarrassed. ‘No, don’t be silly.’

‘Hey, man,’ said Chris, the band’s drummer, ‘for luck.’ He produced a bag of white powder from his pocket and threw it at Nate, who caught it with his left hand. Then, turning to Chloe, ‘All right?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ said Chloe. ‘Break a leg.’ There was something about Chris that Chloe didn’t trust: the way he and Nate talked together about women, and how they sometimes shared private glances when they thought she wasn’t looking. He was a bad influence on her boyfriend. Plus he had greasy hair that went down way past his shoulders–yuck.

Twenty minutes later The Hides were on stage. Watching them in action was a kick, and when they broke into their top ten single ‘Red Rock Road’ the crowd went wild.

Chloe was up front in the swarming mass of devotees next to a pretty weekend TV presenter called Erica Lang and a balding socialite in tragic slacks, apparently a friend of Prince Harry. Her hair kept getting pulled and someone trod on her foot, which hurt. This is a million miles from Hollywood, she thought excitedly, just as a man in a sweaty black T-shirt with living legend across the front sloshed beer down her back.

Nate looked gorgeous and she got a thrill when she remembered he was hers. Every girl in the room wanted a piece of the sexiest frontman in London, but it was only her he wanted. She remembered the first time she’d seen him–a photo in one of the papers of him stumbling out of a Kensington hotel room with whippet-faced heiress Jessica Bernstein, daughter of Frank Bernstein, the Las Vegas hotel magnate and all-round powerhouse. She’d felt a stab of attraction, unable to forget his come-to-bed green eyes and wiry leather-clad body. When they’d turned up at the same party a couple of months later, Chloe couldn’t believe her luck. The rest was history.

The Hides moved into a slow song, one of Chloe’s favourites. Nate lit a cigarette in a minor act of rebellion. The song was about a girl who was just so beautiful that it was impossible to capture her in words, and Chloe liked to imagine that she was the inspiration, even though it had been written way before she and Nate had met–and actually not by him, but by his lead guitarist, Spencer. But Nate was crooning into the mike and every so often he looked over and she knew he was singing it for her.

Melissa, her agent, hadn’t been enamoured with the partnership at the time. Chloe was the sweetheart of the fashion world and could be jeopardising future contracts by associating herself with his lifestyle–but the press had gone crazy for the romance. And the irony was, of course, that in reality Nate Reid–full name Nathaniel Buckley-Reid–was a lot posher than either of them: in fact he was aristocracy. His own father, Lord Fergus Buckley-Reid, and mother Penelope lived in a great country pile in Wiltshire and were friends of the royals. Naturally this was all kept under very tight wraps and Nate was unremittingly sensitive about it: his whole working-class-boy-done-good persona was, as it turned out, fake.

The band was getting pumped up now as they launched into the single that had made them famous. Nate strutted across the stage like a prehistoric bird.

‘He’s amazing!’ squealed Erica Lang, so close to Chloe’s ear it was painful. ‘You’re so lucky!’

Chloe smiled to herself. She was. With Nate Reid in her life, she was a very lucky girl indeed.

Later a gang of them fell into two black cabs and there was a brief quarrel about where they should go to continue the party. The paps were having a field day.

Somebody suggested a flat in Kentish Town, which to Chloe, who just wanted to get Nate into bed, sounded quite squalid. But before she could object they were on their way. Nate liked to shun the extravagances he could well afford, and while he didn’t quite stretch to the night bus, a cab would do well before a private car.

Chloe placed a hand on Nate’s leg and gradually moved it higher until she heard his breath catch. In the darkness of the taxi, everybody squeezed in tight, she was able to attend to the rapidly expanding bulge in his jeans without anyone much noticing.

Erica Lang, opposite Nate, was staring. Chloe had caught her eyeing up her boyfriend several times and was shocked by her inability, or reluctance, to conceal it.

When they arrived everyone piled out into the cold. Nate put an arm round Chloe’s shoulders and she caught Erica giving her a bitchy look.

There was a problem getting into the building and it soon transpired that none of them actually lived there–it belonged to some mate of a mate. After several failed drunken phone calls they found a back way in and trailed through a dark, damp-smelling corridor. A couple of spongy mattresses and a telly in one corner suggested they had come to the living room.

‘What is this?’ Chloe whispered.

‘Just a place to crash,’ Nate said casually, sparking up a joint. This was part of his image, she thought, this whole mock-poverty thing. The hypocrisy of it bugged her–but everyone had their niggly things, didn’t they? When he saw her anxious expression he said, ‘Chill out, babe,’ and flopped down on to a misshapen couch.

A man wearing skinny white jeans and pointy cowboy boots the colour of English mustard put some music on. Bottles of beer and badly rolled joints were passed round but Chloe refused both: she didn’t drink much anyway because it was bad for her skin, and she wasn’t in the mood to get stoned. But as the atmosphere changed and everyone started laughing about things and she couldn’t understand why they were funny, she began to feel bored. Erica Lang had appeared on the other side of Nate and was listening with rapture to everything he said, which sounded like a deeply serious monologue about music transcending class boundaries.

Chloe sighed and sat back, disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to deliver her news in quite the style she’d imagined. Oh well, maybe it could wait–it might be safer for Melissa to confirm the part was hers anyway before she told anyone. In the meantime, she could hold the promise close to her chest and savour its possibility.

The guy in skinny jeans passed her a soggy joint and Chloe held it between her fingers a moment before thinking, What the hell. She drew the smoke into her lungs and coughed embarrassingly. Nate finally forgot about Erica and turned to his girlfriend, delighted.

She dragged on it a few more times before passing it on.

In seconds another came round and she toked on that as well. A few minutes later she was starting to feel quite spacey, but it was a nice, warm feeling. A short fat girl told a joke and it was the wittiest thing Chloe had ever heard. Clever, too. God, actually it was completely profound.

By the time another smoke was passed over she felt buzzy and completely happy to sit and listen to all the wonderful, intelligent things people were saying. She became aware that Nate was kissing her, and that other people on the floor were kissing each other as well. Nate’s hand roamed over her breast and it was the most erotic thing she had ever experienced. She thought if he touched her nipple she would just come straight away.

‘Can we find a room?’ she found herself saying. Somehow Nate had managed to manoeuvre her legs around his waist and was reclining her on the sofa in front of everyone.

‘No one’s looking,’ he said throatily, kissing her neck. ‘They’re doing their own thing.’ He was fumbling with the buckle on his belt. Vaguely she recalled he was wearing two belts–how hilarious!–nd she burst out laughing.

‘Shh,’ he murmured, sticking a tongue in her ear. It felt huge and thick like a slug.

‘I don’t want to do it here,’ she protested with some effort. Turning her head, she saw that Mister Cowboy Boots and Short Fat Girl were having it off and one of Short Fat Girl’s boobs was hanging out. This was the craziest night ever!

‘Take me to bed, Nate,’ she purred, disentangling herself.

Desperate to get into his girlfriend’s pants, Nate stood up and extended his hand. Hitching down her dress, Chloe followed him into the room next door. It was completely empty apart from some piled-up cardboard boxes. There were no curtains on the window.

Before she knew what was happening, Nate had her on the floor, his hands unbuttoning her and sneaking underneath her bra. It felt so good she didn’t even care about the splintery wood beneath her back. She ran her fingers through his hair and said something about how amazing he was and how she wanted his big cock inside her right now, all the stuff men wanted to hear. With deft hands he unclipped her bra and peeled down her top half, exposing her breasts.

Chloe’s head was swimming. Everything felt amazing. The world was amazing. Nate Reid was amazing. She was completely, totally, madly in love.

Gradually Chloe was aware of the door opening. A pale shaft of moonlight illuminated the thin figure waiting there. It was Erica Lang.

‘Room for one more?’ she asked, pulling off her high-necked shirt to reveal virtually non-existent tits with alarmingly dark, extended nipples.

Nate made a guttural sound in his throat as she came closer. ‘Can we, babe?’ he asked Chloe, his hand finding its way past the elastic of her knickers.

Chloe was floating. She wanted the pleasure to go on and on and never end. As Erica knelt to join the party she closed her eyes and gave herself up.

LA, just you wait, she was able to think before ecstasy took over. You won’t know what hit you.

14

Los Angeles

Cole Steel stepped off his state-of-the-art treadmill and wiped his brow. Not that there was much perspiration there–Cole was a man who did not break sweat.

‘Are we done yet?’ his agent Marty King gasped in desperation, taking a breather at the rowing machine. He was a squat man in his fifties with jowls, ginger spray-on hair and a face like a fat Gene Wilder. His eyes were shifty and a touch watery with age, and when he exerted himself his skin broke out in a patchy pink rash. He was also the canniest agent in Hollywood, with a catalogue of A-list clients and major deals to his name.

‘Not yet,’ said Cole, polishing off a two-litre bottle of mineral water. ‘I didn’t get that martial arts equipment installed for nothing.’

Marty King sighed and wiped his own, copiously sweating, face. They were in the bespoke home gym at Cole’s Beverly Hills mansion, complete with its own indoor pool, hot tub, sauna and steam; and of course all this goddamn kit–Marty died a little bit every time, he swore it. But Cole was a man who liked to work out, and even more so when he was talking business.

‘Put this on,’ said Cole, slamming a body protector at his agent.

Marty grimaced but did as he was told. When Cole started pumping iron he was like a maniac and you just had to strap in for the ride. It was the same mind-space he adopted when acting: complete immersion and total focus. Marty himself was grossly unfit–was partial to his steak, his women and his cigars–and had spent the last half-hour with the rowing machine on its lowest possible setting, still managing to wear himself out. And now the sparring. Jeez, it was enough to kill a man.

Cole strapped on his strike pads and took a couple of early punches. Each one practically winded Marty and he was relieved when, five minutes later, it was over. Cole moved on to a kick spinner, lifting his leg high into the air, karate-style, and pounded the shit out of the bags. Marty was grateful to sit out.

‘How was Chicago?’ he asked. How the hell did this guy manage it? His client was barely out of breath.

‘Good,’ said Cole.

‘And Lana?’

He kicked the bag especially hard. ‘Fine.’

‘Cute piece on you both in LA Star,’ observed Marty, taking a drink of water. ‘Very domestic. More in love than ever, or something?’

‘You got that right.’

Marty sat back. ‘And the movie?’ Cole was shooting a family drama about an alcoholic father trying to make contact with his estranged son. ‘Everything OK?’

Cole did an impressive rotating kick and the bag nearly flew off its spring. ‘Everything’s fine, Marty.’

Marty was quiet a moment, sensing trouble. The men had been working together for over twenty years and he could tell when something was on his client’s mind. But Cole Steel was, even after all this time, a closed book. If he didn’t want to talk, nothing would make him.

‘I heard Lana’s movie is premiering in Vegas,’ Cole said, unstrapping his pads.

Christ, thought Marty, he really did have eyes and ears all over this town. He doubted even Lana or the rest of the cast knew yet.

‘I heard that, too,’ said Marty carefully. ‘Frank Bernstein’s got money behind the production.’

Cole’s eyes narrowed. ‘Vegas is vulgar. Eastern Sky is a sophisticated piece of work, it deserves better. I’m not happy about it.’ His jaw clenched. ‘And I don’t like the look of that Robert St Louis or whatever his fancy name is–the guy’s got ideas, I can tell.’

‘Not a lot I can do,’ said Marty, holding out his arms.

Cole grabbed a towel and pressed it to his face. His hands were pink and hairless, like a little boy’s, or a mouse’s.

He took a seat next to his agent, opened his mouth to say something then closed it again. Then, after a moment: ‘Lana’s not happy, Marty.’

Marty shrugged. ‘Not relevant. The point is what the public sees, end of story.’

‘Even so,’ mused Cole. ‘She’s evasive about her past, always has been—’

‘Who isn’t?’ interjected Marty. ‘I’ve sure as shit done things I’d sooner forget.’

‘But there’s something … something I can’t put my finger on.’

‘You’re paranoid,’ diagnosed Marty, starting to think about lunch. ‘Forget it, Lana’s a sweet kid. Remember what Clay told us? Her whole freakin’ family’s dead. How much d’you think she wants to talk about that?’

Cole stood. ‘Let’s eat.’

Upstairs they dined on Cole’s private terrace beneath the shade of a palm tree. Cole picked disinterestedly at his lobster spaghetti while Marty devoured his.

‘You don’t eat much,’ he observed, wondering if he could tuck into Cole’s plate once his was done. ‘What’s the matter, work-out didn’t get you an appetite?’ His client better not be worrying about his weight like some lollipop starlet–if anything, he could do with gaining a few pounds.

Cole made a face. ‘Just got things on my mind.’

‘Well, get over it.’ Marty chewed enthusiastically before washing down his mouthful with a slug of iced tea. ‘We got everything we wanted, right? You got yourself a beautiful wife and no one’s any the wiser. You’re clean, you’re makin’ good movies. Lana’s about to break through to the big time—’

‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ said Cole, dabbing his mouth with a pristine white napkin.

‘What?’

Cole took a deep breath. ‘I gave Lana this opportunity, so her success, in effect, belongs to me. Now I’m hearing good things, excellent things, about her performance. She’ll almost certainly get an Award nomination, if not win the damn thing.’

‘Wasn’t that the point?’ asked Marty, shovelling in some more spaghetti. Tomato sauce clung to the corners of his mouth. ‘It was in the terms of the contract. There’s got to be something in it for her, too, Cole.’ At his client’s stormy expression, he clarified, ‘Apart from marriage to the most famous man in the world, of course.’

‘I accept that,’ Cole said generously. ‘But the feedback I’m getting exceeds even my initial expectations. Lana’s going to be big, Marty. And the point is that her career’s set to go stellar just as our marriage ends. How is that going to make me look?’

Marty waved away his concern. ‘We went through this right at the start. Irreconcilable differences, OK? You’ll stay friends, secretly she’ll still love you, blah-blah-blah. Then it’s on to the next.’

Cole locked his fingers together on the table. ‘I want to keep this one,’ he said.

Marty took some time to digest this. He finished his mouthful, drained his glass and put his cutlery together before saying easily, ‘So we’ll renew the contract with Lana. Whatever you want, Cole.’

‘It’s not that easy, though, is it?’ Cole hissed. A drop of spittle flew from his mouth and landed on Marty’s knuckle. ‘She’s unhappy. I know it. She can’t wait to get out.’

‘You treat her good, don’t you?’ asked Marty, surreptitiously wiping his hand under the table, knowing they were skirting the issue.

‘Of course I do,’ said Cole. ‘I’m kind to her, I look after her; I give her everything she wants. Except …’

Marty made a gruff sound in his throat. ‘Well, that’s another problem,’ he said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew they were a big mistake.

‘Problem?’ Cole leapt on it like a lion on its prey. ‘Is that what you call it? A problem?’ His agent could never know the true root of his impotence, why he was forever this way–to him it was an affliction, a sickness, a disease.

‘Of course not,’ said Marty calmly. ‘It’s just—’

‘Just what? You think it’s my fault I can’t get it up?’

‘Shh!’ Marty looked panicked. ‘You don’t know who’s listening.’

‘No one’s fucking listening. All ears here belong to me–that’s how powerful Cole Steel is. Tell me, Marty: who needs a hard cock when you’ve got that kind of respect?’

Marty tried not to look alarmed. Cole had gone completely red in the face.

After a moment Cole slumped back in his seat, suddenly defeated. ‘And if Lana leaves me, that’ll be two failed marriages.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s only a matter of time before some smartass reporter traces it back to the bedroom.’

‘That won’t happen,’ said Marty, as kindly as he could. ‘At most it’ll be idle rumour–no one’s gonna seriously believe that Cole Steel can’t–you know, won’t–you know—’

‘You’re right.’ Cole pointed a finger at his agent. ‘Nobody touches me, you got it?’

Marty nodded. He felt sorry for Cole. The very idea of impotence filled him with a cold dread, and seeing the cost of it paid in full by his client was the stuff of nightmares. They’d tried Viagra, the works, but nothing had made a difference–Cole’s prick was about as responsive as a fish out of water. Nothing turned Cole Steel on these days apart from his own glory.

‘As long as that Kate diLaurentis bitch keeps her big mouth shut,’ Cole growled.

Marty laughed hollowly. ‘We paid her enough goddamn money, she won’t say a word.’

Cole rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The kitchen staff came to clear their plates and he waited until they’d hurried off before continuing.

‘Apparently she’s losing it,’ he said, looping a finger up next to his head. ‘Loco.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ sighed Marty, ‘everyone likes to say that about Kate. Thing is they don’t realise she’s a sharp little cookie. She’d never reveal anything, wouldn’t dare. Besides, she’s got her own failing reputation to think about.’

‘You think I’ve got a failing reputation?’

‘No,’ said Marty firmly, ‘I don’t. Because it’s my job to manage that and I don’t lose. I never lose.’

Cole nodded. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘I like that. But the fact still remains I want to hold on to my wife, and you’re going to make sure that I do.’ He pushed his chair back from the table. It screamed on the tiles.

Marty made a helpless gesture.

‘You never lose, right?’ Cole raised a cleanly plucked eyebrow. ‘Find a way to make it happen. Whatever it takes.’

15

‘She said what?’ Rita Clay put down her Americano and looked at Lana in disbelief.

‘Yup.’ Lana nodded. ‘Kate asked if Cole could get it up for me. Can you imagine? It was a miracle the other guests didn’t hear. She’s a liability.’

It was a beautiful day and Lana and her agent were having coffee at the Beverly Wilshire. Lana wore a baseball cap and sunglasses to deter paparazzi but had been photographed twice on the way in.

Rita emptied a sachet of sugar into the steaming liquid. She was arrestingly beautiful–tall, with dark, smooth skin and a cap of cropped, dyed blonde hair.

‘Kate’s afraid, that’s all,’ she said. ‘Her career’s in freefall, her husband’s a cheating goddamn sex addict and her children barely know who she is.’ She checked her reflection in a silver compact and applied a slick of plum lipstick.

‘So?’ Lana sipped her drink. ‘Doesn’t that give her more reason to spill?’

‘She’d never risk it, Lana. This is the last ten years of Kate’s career we’re talking about, her heyday. Do you think she’d want the world to know that was as much of a sham as her life is now?’ Rita shook her head. ‘No way. She’s a livewire but she’s certainly not stupid.’

Lana nodded while she digested this. Rita had a point.

‘How are things?’ her agent asked quietly, knowing how tough the arrangement was. It was a move they had discussed at length when Cole’s people had approached.

Lana’s first instinct had been to turn the offer down–she was adamant about making her own way forward and told Rita in no uncertain terms that she did not want marriage. But the counter-argument was strong: Lana, who’d been twenty-four at the time, would not see an opportunity like this again. It was a sensible, logical step for the advancement of her career. Knowing this, Cole had scouted a number of suitable young actresses and settled on one for whom the contract would be difficult to ignore: Lana could spend a lifetime chasing success like that and even then would only catch a sniff of it. Hadn’t she arrived in LA determined to forge a new identity; hadn’t she told Rita when they’d first met that she wanted to change her name, forget the past, become a new person? This was her one-way ticket.

‘It’s not the easiest,’ she admitted, ‘but I can hardly complain. The house is beautiful, I have a job I love … Cole doesn’t beat up on me, he doesn’t treat me badly. Countless women have it a hell of a lot worse.’

‘Are you happy?’ asked Rita.

Lana took a moment to consider this, before saying without a hint of bitterness, ‘I don’t know if that has anything to do with it.’

It was a five-year marriage contract–that was all. Before signing on the dotted line she’d remembered the hellish years she’d spent growing up in Ohio. Marrying a man she didn’t love was nothing compared with that. It had been goodbye, poor little Laura and hello, blockbusting movie star Lana Falcon. Cole was king of this town: as his queen she would be untouchable.

So what if she didn’t love him? Since when did that matter? She had given her heart only once before, given everything, and look where that had got her.

‘Lana?’ Rita looked concerned and reached out to touch her friend’s arm. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Sure.’ She frowned. ‘I didn’t sleep great last night. I’m just tired.’

Rita winced. ‘Talking of the whole sleeping thing …’ Her expression was sympathetic.

The women’s eyes met and after a moment they both burst out laughing.

‘Don’t,’ cried Lana, ‘it’s not funny!’

‘Sorry,’ Rita managed, wiping her eyes, ‘I can’t help it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I know it’s not funny, I know it’s not.’

‘It’s a small price to pay,’ Lana nodded.

‘I expect it is,’ agreed Rita, and they fell about again.

Lana suspected some kind of impotence was at the root of the no-sex clause, but it was impossible to be sure. Cole expressed no sexual desire whatsoever, about anything–she guessed he was just programmed that way. When she had first moved into his mansion she had expected him to visit her rooms at night–she wasn’t stupid enough to think that a couple of lines in a contract would get in the way of a red-blooded male. But Cole had been steadfast to his word. Her first thought was that he must be getting it somewhere else–as long as he was discreet, she would turn a blind eye; after all they were nothing to each other–but that didn’t seem to be the case. For some time she had assumed he was gay, but men didn’t appear to do it for him either.

‘You must be so …’ Rita searched for the word, before whispering it. ‘Frustrated.’

Lana shifted in her seat. If only she could tell her friend about Parker Troy, but there was no way. It was an appalling breach of her contract and as her agent Rita would be outraged.

‘It’s worth it,’ she said, dodging the question. And it was: Lana’s abstinence was reflected handsomely in the financial terms of the contract.

Rita narrowed her eyes. ‘Hmm,’ she said, tapping a long red fingernail on the table.

‘I suppose it’s more that I sometimes feel … I don’t know, caged,’ said Lana quickly, trying to move the subject on.

‘Well,’ said her agent, sipping her drink, ‘that’s because you are. For another two years.’

‘But Cole keeps tabs on everything. I’m forever having to lie about filming running on.’

‘Lie?’

Lana met her gaze. ‘You know, if I need more time on set.’ She bristled. ‘We’re all entitled to a little freedom, aren’t we?’

Rita’s face broke into a smile. ‘Sure, sure.’ She pulled out her purse. ‘I’m just saying, Cole has eyes all over Hollywood. I just don’t think you can hide anything from him.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ said Lana evenly. ‘It’s precisely my point.’ Did Rita know something? No way–she couldn’t.

But Cole’s controlling ways were becoming more extreme with each day that passed. Just two weeks back she hadn’t been able to sleep and so had ventured out into the mansion’s grounds to have a walk and clear her head–and to think, to her shame, about Robert St Louis.

The night had been dark and quiet, with just the sparkle of the Hills glittering in the distance. Then, stepping beyond the perimeter, the security lamps had surged to life and flooded her in white light. The dogs had sprung up from their stations, barking furiously, their chains rattling. She had felt like a fugitive about to be arrested, especially when she had looked up to see Cole silhouetted against a window in his dressing gown, arms folded, looking down at her with an unreadable expression.

‘How’s the movie?’ asked Rita briskly, signing off the check.

Lana forced herself back to the real world. ‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘It’s great to have a role I can really sink my teeth into. It’s a fabulous part–so much depth.’ She knew she had been lucky securing the Eastern Sky gig, and that, too, was down to Cole and the arrangement. Within weeks of entering the contract she and Rita had been approached by Sam Lucas. At the time Cole had informed her in a meaningful way that the right performance could gain her an Award nomination.

‘That’s excellent,’ said Rita, meaning it. ‘Oh, that reminds me: they’re bringing in new blood for the part of Sophie, the English girl.’

Lana nodded.

‘They’ve already found someone they want.’ Rita pulled on her jacket. ‘She’s a model in London, apparently, wants to get into acting.’

‘Poor girl,’ said Lana wryly.

‘Well, Sam Lucas thinks she’s the soul of virtue. I heard he took one look at her shot and knew’–Rita raised her hands in a grand gesture–‘"It’s Sophie."’

‘Ah, the immortal accolade every actress wants to hear.’

‘She’ll be over in a few weeks. Bet she can’t wait to meet you.’

As Lana grabbed her things she remembered when she’d first started out herself. Ten years she’d been in LA. Ten years since she’d last seen Robbie Lewis. Ten years trying to forget.

She’d kept it brief when Rita had asked about Belleville: she was from a broken family; she didn’t wish to discuss it but she was happy to agree to the right story for press purposes. They had settled on a smart bio, a family tragedy not far from the truth, and Rita sent out clear messages to the industry that Lana Falcon did not like to talk about her upbringing as an orphan–who would? Even Cole hadn’t been so unkind as to ask her too many questions when the contract was finalised. If anything it made her more promotable–in an industry where reality TV exposed an individual’s every private sanctum, Lana Falcon was that rare thing: an enigma.

‘New York, right?’ asked Rita as the women made their way out to the car.

One of Cole’s drivers was waiting.

‘Hmm?’ Lana asked as he opened the door.

‘Whoa, you really are a million miles away today, huh?’ said Rita, exasperated. ‘You’re going with Cole to NYC?’

‘Oh, yes, yes, of course,’ said Lana, distracted, as she rummaged in her purse. She checked her cell and had a missed call from Parker. Shit. He’d have to wait till she got back. Cole was filming scenes on location and a press opportunity had been lined up.

‘I’ll call you in the week,’ said Rita, giving her a hug. ‘Be in touch if you need anything.’

Lana smiled. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ She squeezed Rita’s hand before slipping into the back seat of the car. ‘And thanks for everything.’

Rita watched as her friend vanished behind the tinted glass. Something about Lana today hadn’t been right. Marriage to Cole Steel wasn’t for the faint-hearted, but instinct told her it was more than that.

Lana Falcon had always been a mystery. And she was determined to find out why.

16

Belleville, Ohio, 1992

The first few weeks were bearable.

Lester had a job in the local garage and at the start he made an effort to put food on the table, clean up after himself, make sure she was OK. But slowly, gradually, the mask slipped. Laura had known it would happen. At first, the drinking. Then, the violence. At night, the animal noises that kept Laura awake when he brought home a girl and did things to her.

Laura counted the days till she could start school. Until then she would be responsible for what Lester called ‘a sister’s special jobs’: washing the dishes; mopping the floors; and making sure his meal was prepared every night when he got home. If her brother wasn’t happy with what she had done, he would hit her across her cheek and leave her red skin stinging.

Before bed she undressed carefully in the bathroom, locking the door and stuffing the keyhole with toilet paper. She didn’t know why she did that, but it made her feel safer. Lester was a man, no longer a boy, and she was frightened of what that meant.

On Monday Laura got up early and made herself breakfast. Lester was still asleep, would be late for work: she hadn’t seen him the night before and when he’d staggered in at four in the morning he had fallen over the couch, sending a smash of beer bottles to the floor. She cleaned the mess, knowing what would happen if she didn’t. Then she surveyed the options. The only food in the trailer was stale bread with little buds of green mould flowering on their crusts, so she cut these off and made toast. She found a soft banana and stuffed it in her bag.

At school Laura registered quickly and was shown to her class. The other kids looked much smarter than her and had proper uniforms. Everyone looked at her funny.

‘Hi, I’m Marcie.’ The girl sitting with her in homeroom had fair hair and lots of freckles.

Laura liked her right away. ‘I’m Laura. ‘

Unfortunately the others weren’t so friendly. At recess a group of bigger boys came over and started calling them names. The boys were laughing at Marcie and the biggest one said something mean about her.

‘Get lost,’ Laura told him, hands on hips, scowling.

‘An attitude,’ he nodded approvingly, ‘not bad for a kid with no mommy or daddy.’ Then he grabbed her roughly and suddenly the other boys were pulling her hair and pushing her between them. Marcie started crying, begging them to stop.

‘Quit messing around, Greg,’ came a voice, and the crowd instantly dispersed.

The boy who had spoken stepped forward, squaring up to the biggest in the gang. Laura recognised him as the same boy she had seen when she first arrived in town, the one with the bike. He couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen.

‘Pick on someone your own size,’ he said calmly, in a voice that sounded like it belonged to someone much older.

‘What’s it to you?’ snarled Greg, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

The other boy waited. ‘You heard what I said.’

‘Is that a threat, Lewis?’ said Greg, shoving the boy’s chest, hard.

The rest of the gang retreated, their confidence slipped.

Laura waited to see what the boy would do. He didn’t fight back. He just kept staring at Greg, his eyes so dark they were nearly black.

‘Come on, shithead,’ crowed Greg, moving to shove him again. This time the boy caught Greg’s wrist and twisted him round, forcing him to his knees.

‘Ow! Let me go!’ yelled Greg, struggling to free his arm. He fought to right himself but the dark-haired boy had him pinned.

‘Say you’re sorry.’

‘You’re gonna pay for this, Lewis!’

The boy pushed against him harder.

‘OK, OK!’ Greg howled, his face contorted. ‘Sorry, OK? I’m fucking sorry.’

Released, he slumped on to the dusty ground and clutched his arm to his chest, whimpering. Laura wanted to do something, but she no longer knew who the good guy was.

At last Greg stumbled to his feet, dusted himself off and looked at his crowd. He was trying to appear defiant but you could tell where the power was. The rest of them respected this boy more than they respected Greg, and Greg, for all his stupidity, knew it.

‘Let’s split.’ He glowered, signalling the gang and sauntering off. ‘Stinks of crap around here anyway.’

When they were gone the stranger turned to Laura. Everything about him was so dark: his eyes and his hair were one shade off black. He wore a very serious expression. She felt a little bit afraid of him.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’

‘You new?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Forget those guys–they’re creeps.’

Marcie wiped her eyes and looked shyly at the boy. She nudged Laura with her elbow, prompting her to speak.

‘Thanks,’ she said eventually. ‘He won’t come after you, will he?’

The boy shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Nah.’

There was a short silence.

‘Cool.’ He kicked the ground with his feet before starting to walk away. ‘Guess I’ll see you around.’

Before Laura could stop herself she blurted out, ‘What’s your name?’ Then felt like an idiot.

He stopped and turned round.

‘Robbie,’ he said, and for the first time he smiled. It was in a surprised sort of way, like his name was a brilliant idea he’d just thought of. She noticed he had a dimple in his chin. ‘Robbie Lewis.’

Then just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he was gone, his sneakers kicking up dust as he ran back across the yard.

17

St Tropez

Robert St Louis’s luxury super-yacht cut through the sparkling Mediterranean, a white diamond on a sea of blue.

‘Which do you want?’ asked Jessica Bernstein, strolling out on to the sun deck with a cocktail in each hand. ‘Mojito or daiquiri?’

The women were relaxing on Robert’s private, fully staffed ninety-foot vessel. He kept it moored in Europe year-long for business trips and for weekend breaks in France, Greece and his favourite country of all, Italy. He and Bernstein were spending the day in talks with a slot-machine manufacturer in Monaco who was stumping up cash for an expansion they had in mind.

Elisabeth looked up from under her wide-brimmed hat. ‘The green one.’

‘I’m having that.’ Jessica flopped down on to a towel and handed her sister the other glass. ‘God, I’m so bored,’ she moaned. ‘Daddy practically begged me to come and now he’s just left me rotting out here in the ocean.’

Elisabeth stayed quiet. It wasn’t Bernstein who had begged but the other way round. No wonder he had given in-there was only so much of Jessica’s bitching a person could tolerate. Most days she found it reasonably amusing but knew her father did not.

‘Hello?’ griped Jessica, fumbling with her iPod. ‘Are you even fucking listening to me?’

‘You’re ungrateful, Jessica–and your mouth’s awful. Quit cursing for five minutes.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Charming.’

After a moment Elisabeth got up and pulled her lounger into the shade of a parasol.

‘Yes, better,’ said Jessica. ‘It’s age, you know. Old skin can’t handle the sun.’

‘Oh, go flick your bitch switch.’ Elisabeth arranged her towel, watching as her sister extracted a bottle of fuchsia nail varnish from a Gucci beach tote and unscrewed it.

Elisabeth lay back and tried to distance herself from the petty bickering. She and Jessica were born sparring partners–despite their age gap it had defined their relationship since Jessica had hit her teens. Elisabeth supposed she ought to rise above it, but part of her enjoyed the familiar territory of the banter. Her sister was the only person in the world with whom she could violently fall out with one day, only for it all to be forgotten about the next.

‘There isn’t anything to do on this boat,’ Jessica lamented, yanking out one of her earphones.

‘There’s a pool, a bar, table tennis—’

‘And I’m supposed to play that with you, am I?’ Jessica threw a glance at Elisabeth’s nails. ‘Won’t you chip a claw?’

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. ‘Stick it up your ass.’

‘Stick it up yours.’

‘No, thanks. And besides, I know very well what’s on this yacht.’ She played her trump card: Jessica couldn’t hold on to a man for more than five minutes. ‘It’s my fiancé’S, remember?’

‘Yeah, and he’s been looking real happy about that.’

There was a moment’s pause before Elisabeth stood up. Jessica had gone too far–she knew Robert was strictly out of bounds.

‘You haven’t a clue about how relationships like ours work.’

‘Relationships like yours?’ Jessica squawked gleefully as she stalked off. ‘What are you, the King and Queen of England?’

Elisabeth reached the bow and looked over. Glittering blue water sliced apart below her; above a matching sky and the rugged hills of the Azure coastline. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, feeling the wind whip through her Thomas Wylde silk kaftan.

But Jessica was right. Robert had been acting funny, and it was ever since that damn film premiere had been announced. Despite his assurances he still got defensive whenever she mentioned it, and even more so when she brought up Lana Falcon. What was going on?

And why hadn’t they settled on a date for the wedding?

They’d been engaged for months now. She hoped he wasn’t getting cold feet.

‘Get over it!’ shouted Jessica. ‘Desperation is so unattractive, you’re probably putting him off.’

Elisabeth turned, unable to bite back her catty response. ‘Put some more sun cream on, Jessica–you’re looking horribly pink.’ She reminded herself that Jessica was only bitter–she’d give anything for a man like Robert.

Resuming her seat under the parasol, she watched her sister apply yet more Sun Perfect to an already perfectly bronzed, and not at all burned, body.

‘He’s just got a lot on his mind at the moment,’ she said with a decisive nod.

‘Sure.’

‘Don’t be jealous,’ she mimicked, ‘it’s so unattractive.’

Jessica made a face. ‘Hardly.’ She rubbed the cream into her feet. ‘Well, if Robert doesn’t make sure he gets you down that aisle soon, Daddy will.’

Elisabeth closed her eyes, suddenly tired. ‘He can do all he wants, it’s Robert’s and my day and it’s our decision.’

‘Why is he so set on getting you two married?’

She opened her eyes a crack. The question sounded genuine.

‘Beats me.’

‘Robert thinks it’s to do with Chicago.’

‘Yeah, might be. Bernstein’s living in a dream world if he thinks either one of us wants in on that.’

‘I think it’s something else,’ Jessica said, adopting the tone she used when gossiping with her girlfriends. ‘Something Daddy’s not telling us.’

Elisabeth stretched out her toes. ‘Whatever.’

‘Aren’t you curious?’

‘Not really.’ She yawned. ‘As far as I’m concerned he’s an interfering old man. He just wants a grandson or some such crap. It doesn’t take a genius to work that out.’

Jessica rolled her eyes. ‘Think what you like. My money’s on something way juicier.’

‘Like what?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

‘You’re just bored. It comes from sitting around all day doing nothing.’

Jessica shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I’ll try not to say “I told you so".’

‘Fine. Shut up about it now.’

‘Why should I?’ Jessica raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m your sister, it’s my job.’

‘I’m tuning out.’ Elisabeth slid on a huge pair of sunglasses and lay back. ‘Save your gossip for someone who actually cares.’

Hours later, laden with bags, the two sisters collapsed into a café on the lively market square. St Tropez was boutique heaven.

Jessica ordered two champagne cocktails to celebrate.

‘I don’t want to get drunk,’ said Elisabeth.

‘I don’t want to get bored.’ But they ordered two bottles of La Croix all the same.

‘Delicious!’ Jessica clapped her hands together like a seal as the drinks arrived. Taking a sip, she extracted a pair of pink Rondini sandals from a huge paper bag and held them out. It was amazing how seriously she took the pursuit of shopping–of spending money in any capacity, really. Elisabeth had spent, too–mostly on her weakness, jewellery, in Gas Bijoux–but nowhere in the same league as her sister. For Jessica retail therapy was a full-time occupation: clearly it filled a gap where something else was missing.

Elisabeth checked her cell. Still nothing from Robert. She suspected they’d be leaving Monaco on Bernstein’s boat by now. Why hadn’t he been in touch? She had to stop worrying–there was nothing wrong with her fiancé; everything would be just fine.

‘I love France,’ Jessica mused, sitting back and running a hand through her hair. She gazed round at the architecture. ‘There’s so much American influence here.’

Elisabeth snorted.

‘Maybe I’ll move to Europe one day,’ her sister went on. ‘Marry a count.’

‘As if.’

‘Oh, I’m very well practised in the European ways. And by “European ways", of course I mean “European men".’

Elisabeth couldn’t help but laugh. It had been ages since she and Jessica had enjoyed each other’s company–much as her sister got under her skin, Elisabeth had to admit she was fun. Plus Jessica’s bravado on the subject of men, she knew, only concealed her desire for a meaningful relationship. The more insecure Jessica was definitely easier to love.

‘You’ve never had a French guy, admit it.’

Jessica shrugged. ‘I’ve had an English.’

‘Not the same thing.’

‘A sexy English.’

Elisabeth looked disgusted. ‘Not that hideous London one with the long hair. Wasn’t he in a rock band? Not that I’ve heard of them.’

‘Nate Reid,’ Jessica nodded, ‘is an incredibly hot guy. Seriously. I can get myself off just thinking about him.’

‘Jessica!’

Then she added, ‘I’ve got a feeling he’ll be big. I know that already, but musically speaking.’

Elisabeth raised an eyebrow. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘And anyway,’ Jessica fiddled with her earlobe, ‘he practically is a count. Or something. His family’s major-rich. I think we’re well-suited.’

‘Good for you.’ She stirred the sugar at the bottom of the cocktail.

‘It’s the Italians who really know what they’re doing …’

‘Not if Alberto Bellini’s anything to go by,’ muttered Elisabeth, wondering why the old man had sprung to mind. It must be the champagne.

‘What do you mean?’ Jessica leaned forward, keeping her voice hushed. ‘Has he tried it on with you?’

Champagne bubbles fizzed down Elisabeth’s throat. ‘He’s forever trying it on, you must know that.’ She added without a trace of arrogance, ‘It’s no secret he’s in love with me.’

‘But I mean, has he ever tried it on … physically?’

‘God, no!’ Elisabeth giggled. ‘He’s ancient.’

‘The old ones are the worst,’ Jessica said sagely.

‘Maybe.’

Elisabeth looked out at the bustling square. Against her will she felt a stir at the mention of Alberto; the memory of what he’d said about her dear mother; his unconcealed adoration such a far cry from Robert’s recent behaviour. It was the cocktails, that was all.

‘Let’s get another,’ she said on impulse. Jessica beamed. ‘I’m feeling reckless.’

18

London

‘Just hold steady, that’s it, eyes wide … Perfect!’

Chloe had been in hair and make-up for what seemed like for ever. The catwalk show was a star-studded fundraiser for a children’s hospital, a cause she felt passionate about–she was desperate to hit the runway, if for nothing else than to stretch her legs.

Jared, her make-up guy, was a paunchy artiste with a shiny black Mohawk and shockingly dark, sculpted eyebrows. He stood back.

‘Voila. My work here is done.’

In the spotlit mirror, Chloe absorbed her reflection–her hair, normally worn long and loose, was secured in an elaborate cascade of curls; her eyes a smoky grey. The other models, with many of whom she had worked but none she had become great friends, watched her from gaunt, pale faces, eaten up with envy. Chloe was naturally lovely–she didn’t have to try.

‘Thanks, Jared.’ She smiled. She could hardly wait for Nate, in the front row in the audience, to see her tonight.

The show went off brilliantly. Chloe was the main attraction and first out on the walk, donning a striking collection of silver high-necked, short-length dresses from a debut designer. The heels they put her in made her about six-five and she had visions of toppling over and landing with her face buried in Anna Wintour’s lap. A row of slim, neatly crossed legs lined the length of the runway, sharp suits and straight backs, as famed spectators knew they were as much on show as the models.

Afterwards Melissa Darling met her backstage. It was like a mannequin production line, with long, slender limbs in various states of undress.

‘Melissa!’ Chloe greeted her, giving her a kiss on both cheeks. She was half-naked and struggling into a pair of jeans–Melissa didn’t seem to notice.

‘You were fabulous,’ said Melissa. She was in her twenties, with light brown hair that was pulled into a thick, swinging ponytail. Always managing to strike a balance between glamour and ‘What, this old thing?’, she wore leggings with chunky boots and a cashmere wrap.

‘Thanks! Did you see Nate?’ Chloe let her hair down, tried to get a brush through it before it got well and truly stuck, and laughed.

Melissa shook her head. ‘No, but listen, if I could just grab a word—’

‘Somebody said my name?’ a cocky voice interrupted. A pair of hands covered Chloe’s eyes from behind.

‘Nate!’ Chloe broke free and turned to kiss him. He wore a white shirt, tight tweedy waistcoat and skinny jeans. His hair was styled to within an inch of its life and Chloe thought he must have spent longer getting ready than she had.

‘What did you think of the show?’ she asked.

‘Not bad, babe,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. ‘You were the best thing in it.’ He leaned in to kiss her again.

Melissa cleared her throat. ‘Chloe?’

She pulled away. ‘God, sorry! You were saying?’

‘Can we have a chat?’ Her agent’s eyes flew to Nate.

‘Oh,’ said Chloe, waving her hand, ‘anything that concerns me concerns him, too.’

They took a seat. A blonde model with glittering blue eyes and an upturned nose flitted past, catching Nate’s attention and batting her lashes.

‘Do you know her?’ asked Chloe.

Nate shrugged. ‘Never seen her before in my life, babe.’

‘OK,’ said Melissa, ‘it’s about LA.’

Chloe’s hands flew to her face. Nate frowned.

‘The part’s yours, if you want it.’

‘Oh, Melissa!’ Chloe jumped up and embraced her agent, who was caught off guard and took in a mouthful of black hair. ‘I’m ecstatic, truly. Thank you thank you thank you.’

‘What?’ said Nate, looking from one to the other.

Ignoring him, Melissa went on. ‘You’ll need to meet with the director, but it’s just a formality. As soon as the producers saw your photo, they knew you were it. You’ve got the right image, the right reputation’–she threw a glance at Nate–’and the right profile. Congratulations.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ he interrupted. ‘What’s all this about?’

Chloe was unable to contain her smile. ‘I wanted to wait till it was confirmed before I told you. The right part finally came along, Nate.’

‘It did?’

She nodded happily. ‘And I’m filming with Lana Falcon.’

Nate was taken aback. ‘Lana bloody Falcon?’

‘That’s right!’

Nate’s mouth fell open.

‘I know–unbelievable, isn’t it?’ Chloe took his hand. ‘But I don’t want you to worry about us, you know, the long distance thing. I’m totally committed to—’

Melissa stood up. ‘Chloe, I’ve got to dash. I’ll send the script over tomorrow and you can review your part.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve looked at it myself and it’s a gem of a role.’

‘I’m so made up, Melissa. A million thank-yous.’

‘Don’t thank me–it’s on your own merit.’ She winked, gave her client a final hug goodbye and was gone.

Chloe sat back down. Nate’s mouth was still hanging open.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

Nate found his tongue. ‘Just a bit of a shock, that’s all,’ he said, refusing to meet her eye.

There was a brief pause. ‘Aren’t you glad for me?’ she asked quietly.

‘Of course I am,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s just that Hollywood’s kind of a fucked-up place. Maybe you’d be better off staying here.’

Chloe reached for him. ‘You’re so sweet to always think about me first. But I promise you, it is the right thing for me.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘It’s something I have to do, Nate.’

After a moment Nate seemed to find his feet. ‘As it goes, we might not be so long distance as you thought.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Seems I’ve got some news of my own.’ Nate shrugged, smoothly reclaiming the limelight. ‘We’ve been signed up to work with this shit-hot producer on the new album. In LA, as it goes. Everyone thinks with a bit of hard work we might break the US market.’

Chloe was thrilled. ‘No way!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, that’s so awesome-we’ll be out there together!’

Nate gave a weak smile. ‘Hmm.’

‘I’m serious!’ She kissed him. ‘I can’t wait. I’m so glad you’re coming with me.’

Nate laughed and stroked her hair. ‘Or you’re coming with me.’

Chloe frowned. ‘Whichever.’

Jared dashed over, frantically waving his arms. ‘Car’s here, let’s go!’

They were hitting Movida, where the couple were scheduled to make an appearance. The paparazzi would be out in full force. Chloe and Nate were definitely the people to arrive with.

19

Los Angeles

‘I’ve got to fuck you. Now.’

Stark naked, Parker Troy lay back, already hard to bursting. He feasted his eyes on Lana’s magnificent figure. Those perfect breasts; that nipped-in waist and beautiful ass, her creamy skin that always smelled clean, like lemons. She was a hundred per cent real.

‘Shh,’ said Lana, taking his hands and straddling him, ‘don’t speak.’ Deftly she slid on protection. There was no time for foreplay, never had been. And this wasn’t about tenderness–it wasn’t about the other person at all. For both Lana and Parker it was a selfish act of make-believe: a high-risk, utterly irresistible ride right into the heart of the storm.

They raced to the climax quickly, urgency running thick in their blood. For Lana, who was starved of sex and craved it like air, it was a necessity. For Parker, as it was every time, the experience was one of ecstasy and just a pinch of disbelief, as he looked up at the woman he and his frat buddies had jerked off over at college.

‘That was incredible,’ he gasped, a rash of pink spreading across his chest. ‘I’m addicted to you.’

Lana dressed quickly. ‘Don’t say that. We’re not going there.’

They were at Parker’s Malibu penthouse overlooking the ocean. Lana had requested she run through a pivotal scene with Parker before shooting the following week–Cole’s driver had dropped her twenty minutes ago and was currently waiting outside. She’d greeted Parker cordially at the door for appearances’ sake, but once inside they hadn’t spoken. This was anything but a professional engagement.

Parker sat up. ‘Do you have to go?’ Behind him the beach stretched out, a spread of golden sand running down to sparkling water. He sat back on the pillows and gazed at it dreamily, like something out of a romance novel. ‘We could take a walk.’

Lana fastened her bra. ‘Not in this lifetime.’

‘In that case,’ he reached for her, ‘come back to bed.’

She resisted. ‘Forget it, Parker. Cole’s waiting.’

The colour drained from Parker’s boyish face at the mention of Lana’s husband. Cole’s name was taboo.

‘You freakin’ brought him here?’ he squealed.

Lana gave him a look. ‘Of course not. One of his goons.’

He threw his arms up in the air. ‘Christ! Don’t do that to me again.’

‘I’m careful, Parker, we both are.’ She grabbed the script, tucked it under her arm. ‘Long as it stays that way, we’ve got nothing to worry about.’

A noise interrupted them. The sound of the door going.

They looked at each other.

‘Get the hell out!’ Parker hissed, throwing himself off the bed. The sheets got tangled in his legs and he tripped on to the floor. ‘Shit!’

Lana hauled open the window, clambering out on to the balcony. ‘Who is it?’

He shook his head, bundling her purse out after her. ‘It’s Ashlee, she’s home early. Holy freakin’ shit!’

‘I thought you’d broken up!’

‘We’re on and off.’ A clumsy kiss on the lips. ‘Make like we sat on the terrace, I don’t know. If Cole finds out, I’m a dead man.’

‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ she said wryly. He slammed the window shut.

Staying low, Lana skirted round the side of the building. A murmur of voices could be heard from inside the apartment–she hoped Parker could handle himself: the last thing they needed was his girlfriend running to the papers.

Before she emerged she dusted off any dishevelment and pulled her cap down hard over her ears. The whole encounter had taken less than half an hour.

Cole’s car was waiting on the opposite side of the road. Its driver had his head buried in a paper.

This is getting dangerous, she told herself. You’re pushing it too hard.

But she couldn’t help it. These days it was the only thing that made her feel alive.

‘Poor baby, let me get you something to drink.’

Parker Troy made a pathetic face and lay back, half closing his eyes. He watched through the cracks as his girlfriend fussed around–he’d had to feign illness when she’d found him semi-naked amid a knot of bed sheets.

With Ashlee gone, he checked his cell. He could only assume Lana had got out OK. Parker was playing with fire and he knew it–this was Cole Steel’s freakin’ wife. Every man in Hollywood knew it was as good as putting a loaded gun to your balls, but that only made it more of a drug.

How in the hell he’d managed to bed Lana Falcon he simply did not know. Parker himself was a part-time celebrity, had been in several poorly produced teen films that had raised his status to that of the kind of minor heart-throb girls poster up on their walls but don’t exactly know the name of. His part in Eastern Sky as Lana’s brief fling–how life imitated art-was a major break. When she’d made her intentions clear in the first week of shooting, he couldn’t believe his luck. It was a risk, but Parker was a man who thrived on adrenalin. Life was for living in the moment–he’d think about the consequences later.

Ashlee came back in with a glass of water and some drugs. She sat down next to him, put a hand to his forehead.

‘You’re working too hard,’ she told him, kissing his fevered lips. ‘It’s exhaustion, that’s all.’ She held out the pills.

Obediently Parker swallowed them, the chalky powder sticking in his throat.

20

‘Go on, honey, go play with Su-Su.’ Kate diLaurentis gestured frantically to the Puerto Rican nanny, who came hurrying over to take her daughter.

‘Why don’t you play with her, Kate?’ asked Jimmy Hart, fixing himself a drink from the granite-topped bar.

‘Fuck off, Jimmy,’ Kate snarled. ‘It’s hardly like you’re father of the year.’

The nanny gathered up both children and ushered them out of the room, trying to cover their ears as best she could.

Kate sauntered out to the pool in their expansive Bel Air mansion. She needed some downtime–kids were so exhausting.

‘That’s right,’ muttered Jimmy, ‘another day, another sun-tan.’

Kate chose not to rise to it. Arranging herself on a lounger by their infinity pool, she closed her eyes and tried to block out her husband’s moaning. A moment later she heard him pad out on to the terrace.

If only he wasn’t such a goddamn bastard.

‘As a matter of fact,’ she told him, sitting up and sipping a Perrier, ‘I went for a casting this morning.’

‘What for?’ he asked in a bored way.

Already thinking about your next little conquest, are you? Kate thought angrily. ‘It’s Carl Rico’s new venture.’

‘Carl bloody Rico?’ Jimmy was outraged. ‘Make you get your tits out, did he?’ Carl Rico was a director with a reputation for targeting ageing actresses looking to get back into work. ‘Bit desperate, Kate.’

Kate whipped off her sunglasses. ‘You try being an actress in your forties and then tell me I should be picky!’ she blazed.

Jimmy shook his head in exasperation and wandered back into the house. He couldn’t talk to his wife when she was like this. Where had the old Kate diLaurentis gone, the woman he had fallen in love with? She’d been gorgeous, funny, smart, an actress with wisdom and ambition. He knew these days she felt like she was way past her best, but all the surgery coupled with a sharp whiff of panic wasn’t helping one bit.

With shame he admitted he was making it ten times worse by shagging around. But what was a man supposed to do? A diagnosed sex addict, at that? Over the past year his wife had barely allowed him under her nightgown–a nightgown? What were they living in, the nineteenth century?–and every time he tried to cop a feel she froze up like a rabbit in headlights. He wasn’t ready to join a monastery just yet.

Kate followed him in, her Louis Vuitton wedges pounding the floor.

‘Don’t you walk away from me,’ she fumed.

‘What are you going to do, Kate?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Batter me to death with one of your shoes?’

On cue she pulled off one of her wedges and threw it at his head. It narrowly missed and went crashing into a Ming-style vase.

‘Oh, nice,’ said Jimmy. ‘Real fucking nice.’

‘I hate you!’ she screamed, turning on one heel and storming lopsided back to the pool.

‘And just what is it that I’m supposed to have done?’ Jimmy was calling her bluff. He winced in anticipation of her response.

Kate refused to look at him. She swallowed back her tears. If only she knew how to deal with all this … frustration. She hadn’t been sleeping. She was depressed, anxious, jealous. She needed her pills–they were the only things that calmed her. But that would only give her husband something else to grumble on at her about.

Slumping on to a lounger, she put her head in her hands, waiting for him to come and comfort her. It wasn’t the first time she had hurled something at him.

Moments later she felt him sit down next to her and, sure enough, a gangly arm came to rest across her shoulders. ‘What is it?’ he asked gently.

Oh, how she was tempted to tell him all she knew. Just the other day she had found proof he was at it again. Tucked down the back of the bed was a pair of lilac panties she could have flossed her teeth with.

‘Jimmy, I …’ She shook her head, it was no use. Despite his extra-marital activities she couldn’t tolerate the thought of losing him–she absolutely refused to suffer the humiliation of becoming a divorcee twice over. And then there were the children to think about …

Jimmy patted her back as he might a friend’s and said swiftly, ‘Forget it, it’s no big deal.’ He stood up. Phew, that was a lucky escape.

Kate nodded and gazed up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Had she been so naive as to imagine she deserved her own love affair? After the arranged marriage to Cole Steel, the dreadful enforced celibacy, she had hoped for a second partnership based on trust, respect, but most of all passion. Hadn’t she earned it? The trouble was she just didn’t feel sexy any more: she felt old and ugly and stupid.

As if reading her mind, he held out a hand. ‘Come inside,’ he said throatily.

Weakly she got to her feet, took off the one remaining wedge and trailed after him. Maybe it would be better this time, she thought grimly, as they mounted the grand staircase.

In the bedroom, Jimmy pulled the blinds and tried not to think about the blonde actress-slash-model he’d been shagging. Long gone were the days when Kate would arrange herself into those ambitious positions.

Kate sat down on the edge of the bed and removed her bikini top. She crossed her arms over her breasts to cover them and lay back, rigid, looking blankly up at the ceiling.

‘Talk about the undead!’ As soon as the words escaped he knew it was the worst possible thing he could have said. Still, once upon a time she would have found it funny and teased him about being a terrible comedian.

Instead she gasped and sat up. ‘Fine, forget it, then.’ She reached for her bikini.

But he was on her in an instant, leaning her back against the pillows, finding her lips with his. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, ‘that was a grave mistake.’ And thought he saw the trace of a smile.

Trying to relax, Kate arched her back as Jimmy planted kisses on her neck, then lower, past her collarbone, and finally he reached her nipples. Though she’d had an augmentation and a lift she still felt crinkly and unattractive. Instinctively she tensed.

‘Jimmy, I …’

‘Just take it easy,’ he soothed, his hand moving ever lower until it arrived at the band of her bikini briefs. As he sneaked a finger in and felt the brush of hair there, she pulled away.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, rolling on to her side and pulling a sheet up to cover herself. ‘I just don’t want to.’

There was a brief silence, and before Kate could stop herself she spilled, launching into a monologue about how she thought the problem was that he didn’t make her feel wanted, loved, all those things that mattered. She talked about how she felt old and washed-up and how she knew he preferred a younger model and how was she supposed to compete? Still she couldn’t bring herself to raise the issue of his affairs, but it was the next best thing to air what was on her mind. They said the bedroom was the place for intimacy, and right now this was exactly the kind of intimacy she needed.

Minutes later she wound to a halt, feeling exhausted but definitely lighter.

‘Well?’ she said softly. ‘Does that make sense to you?’

A moment passed before he began to snore.

‘Jimmy?’ She turned over to see his prostrate form, mouth hanging slack, a rivulet of drool escaping down one side.

‘Oh, fuck it!’ she fumed, swinging her legs off the bed. Was this what her marriage had come to? It was almost as much of a joke as the years she’d spent with Cole. At least that hadn’t involved any … expectation.

Wrapping a towel around her, she slipped from the room, closing the door quietly. She would use a guest bedroom to bring herself the pleasure she knew, deep down, she deserved. These days it was the only way.

21

St Tropez

Elisabeth Sabell stood from the table and tucked in her chair. She and Robert were dining with investors at La Parisienne, an exclusive harbourside restaurant favoured by the rich and famous.

‘Everything OK, puss?’ asked Bernstein, firing Robert an accusing look.

‘Fine,’ said Elisabeth, ‘if you’ll just excuse me.’ She made her way through the tables and into the cool marble of the bathroom. She felt queasy. Pushing open an empty cubicle, she closed the door and leaned back, breathing deeply.

The trip had been extended. Stupidly she hadn’t brought next month’s Pill. She’d been ready to tell Robert that they’d need to use other precautions, before thinking at the weekend, Why should we? They both wanted kids, they’d discussed it before. Since arriving in France conversation had been so scant that sex was the only real communication they were sharing. Perhaps a baby would help get things back on track.

Now her period was late.

She extracted the test from her purse.

For the first time since she and Robert had got engaged, she wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted it to say.

Robert St Louis was trying to ignore the fact that one of his investors’ wives, a sharp-featured English woman with a tightly drawn chignon, had been giving him the come-on all night. Earlier, on the way to the restroom, she had pushed herself up against him and promised in a husky upper-class voice, ‘Later.’ Somehow he knew that later would never come.

The waiter came to take their order. It was a big table: as well as Robert, Bernstein and his two daughters, they were dining with three key financiers and their immaculately groomed wives. But what was taking Elisabeth so long?

‘Here she comes,’ droned Jessica, stirring her martini.

Elisabeth, her cheeks flushed, resumed her seat. She took the menu. ‘Are we ready?’ she asked in a strained voice.

While the others ordered food, Robert caught his fiancée’s eye and she gave him a wobbly smile. She looked radiant tonight in a bronze figure-skimming dress, her blonde hair piled high on her head. He smiled back, made a face that enquired if everything was OK. She nodded briefly.

‘So I say to them, it’s all about the vision.’ Bernstein tore off a hunk of ciabatta, dunked it in oil and threw it into this mouth. ‘Time an’ again we’ve proved it, it’s not all about the casinos, the gaming enterprises–I’m talkin’ development of conference space, shopping facilities—’

‘Time spent in our hotels,’ interjected Robert. ‘We know what people want before they know it themselves. It has to be about our guests. Everything in this business is.’

Bernstein pointed a chunk of bread at him. ‘Exactly.’

‘And growth into Europe,’ noted Jerry Gollancz, an elderly man with pink-tipped ears and watery eyes.

‘In time,’ said Robert. ‘We’re considering all routes carefully. You’ll see my plans in the spring.’

As the food came, talk turned to leverage and dividends, capital pools and portfolios, and Robert noticed that Elisabeth’s attention was elsewhere. How could Bernstein imagine she was really interested in getting into this business?

But there was more to it. She was on edge tonight: she seemed anxious and jumpy, kept shooting nervous smiles in his direction. He had hoped this trip would bring them closer together, force him to stop thinking about Lana Falcon. Instead it seemed to be having the reverse effect.

‘I assume you’re working towards Asian expansion?’ Jerry Gollancz enquired.

Robert tuned back in. ‘Wynn Resorts has done it,’ he answered smoothly, ‘I don’t see why we can’t. Macau is incredibly fertile casino territory.’

Bernstein refilled his elder daughter’s glass. ‘Elisabeth knows all about that, doncha, doll? She’s been to Macau.’

Jessica snorted loudly. ‘Yeah, on vacation. What does she know?’ She drained her martini and instantly ordered another, without asking anyone else if they wanted anything.

Elisabeth took a moment to tune back in. ‘Sorry?’ she asked, a bit dazed.

‘Are you OK?’ asked Robert.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Elisabeth, a little snappily. The table plunged into silence.

Jessica, blissfully unaware, broke it. ‘What is this?’ she demanded loudly, holding up her fork, upon the end of which hung a sad-looking anchovy. ‘It’s hairy!’

Ellen Fontaine, the woman who had propositioned Robert earlier, leaned over to explain. She regarded Jessica with some distaste, before turning her gaze to Robert and suggestively feeding a stick of grissini into her mouth.

‘Eat up and go to bed, cookie,’ Bernstein told his younger daughter. ‘It’s no fun for you.’

‘Like hell I will,’ said Jessica, fishing for the olive in her fresh vermouth.

‘Frank tells me you’ve got Sam Lucas’s premiere coming to the Orient next year,’ said Glenn Fontaine, steering the conversation on to safer ground.

‘Yes,’ said Robert, relaxing. ‘It’s a bold move.’

‘I’d love to be there,’ enthused Ellen, touching a hand to her white throat, where a grape-sized diamond clung to her skin. ‘We met Lana Falcon at something or other last year, didn’t we, darling? And that rather wonderful husband of hers.’

‘How was she?’ Robert jumped in, without thinking. Elisabeth’s eyes darted to his.

The question threw Ellen, but before Robert could begin to unpick it, she answered, ‘Well, we didn’t speak to them for long. I remember thinking how charming she was.’ Then, to be polite, she asked, ‘Do you know her?’

The quiet felt longer than it actually was.

‘No, I don’t,’ said Robert. ‘I don’t know her at all.’

‘What is it about goddamn Lana Falcon?’ stormed Elisabeth. ‘Every time I bring up her name you go all weird on me. Look at you now, it’s like you’ve seen a ghost!’

They reached the jetty, where a boat was waiting to take them back to the moored yacht. The others had gone ahead.

Robert stared straight ahead. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘You can tell me it’s nothing all you like,’ she said tearfully. ‘I wish you could be honest with me. Is that too much to ask?’

Robert watched her beautiful, expectant face and felt suddenly sorry. How could he possibly explain to her the history he and Lana shared? Elisabeth, so upstanding, so respectable; and he hiding a terrible secret, a monstrous crime that would bury them both. No, she didn’t know what he was capable of–and she didn’t want to.

‘It’s not too much,’ he said. He wanted to say more but the words didn’t come. It was hopelessly inadequate.

Instead he guided her on to the boat, slipping an arm round her bare shoulders as they took a seat on the padded leather bench. ‘You look wonderful,’ he murmured.

She nodded, not looking at him.

The dark water below glinted in the moonlight. As they moved off the smell of salt filled the night air.

Elisabeth feared that if she spoke she would burst into tears. She watched the open water and the bobbing, distant red lights of vessels on the horizon.

Back on the yacht they had fumbling, drunk sex before Elisabeth fell asleep.

Robert lay awake for a while, the gentle rock of water beneath him, before giving up and going out on deck. The still-warm air filled his lungs and he looked out across the black sea, stars twinkling above like air-holes punched in the sky. And that was what they were, for he could breathe better at night. He could be alone and remember the evenings he had spent all those years ago in Belleville, before the tragedy. When they had been young and innocent and free and in love.

He wondered what she was doing now. Was she thinking about him? For all his money and success he didn’t have the one person he would give it all up for in a heartbeat. She couldn’t be happy with Cole Steel, could she? Not the same kind of happiness they had shared.

It couldn’t go on. He had to tell Elisabeth the truth, and if it was out in the open he could decide if they still had a future. And yet it was a risk. He hated himself for still caring this way, couldn’t understand why he did, but, damn it, he had to protect Lana.

But, then, it wasn’t Lana who had done that awful thing back in Belleville, was it?

It was him.

22

Belleville, Ohio, 1997

‘D’you need some help with those?’

Laura turned round at the school gates, her arms laden with books. She regarded him with wide, serious eyes.

‘No, thanks.’ She kept going.

Undeterred, he followed. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you home.’ He went to take the books off her and she flinched as though she’d been stung.

‘I said I can manage.’ Her green gaze stared at the ground, too afraid to look at him. But there was a catch to her voice that belied her assurance.

He shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I’m going this way anyway.’

She seemed to hesitate a moment. Then from nowhere a stampede of boys rushed past, knocking into her and sending her armful thumping to the ground. She stooped to gather the books, humiliation burning. The boys’ shouts faded into the distance.

Robbie knelt to help. ‘Jerks,’ he said.

He picked up one of the heavy tomes and flipped it over, scanning the spine. ‘You can’t be reading all these,’ he teased. When he passed them over he pretended not to notice the cut on her lip. Or the mottled grey bruise that wrapped itself round her delicate white wrist, visible when her sleeve pulled back.

The ghost of a smile. ‘I like stories,’ she said, brushing a lock of copper hair from her eyes. Getting to her feet, she gripped the books to her like armour.

They walked together for a while.

‘You don’t talk much,’ he observed.

She opened her mouth to think of an answer and he smoothly lifted the stack from her. Without it she looked defenceless, and folded and unfolded her arms as if she didn’t know what to do with them.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked, meeting his eye for the first time.

‘Doing what? ‘

‘Being nice to me.’ She couldn’t understand it. At seventeen Robbie Lewis was nearly three years older than her, clever and popular and handsome. His friends must have put him up to it–let the poor little orphan imagine for a second that she had a chance.

His expression was difficult to read. ‘What do you mean?’

Laura wasn’t stupid. Boys were only after one thing. She’d learned that from her own brother. Sometimes he brought a girl home after she’d gone to bed: she’d lie down in the darkness, listening to the filthy scrabble of rats and mice, and among them, below them, the weird frantic sounds coming from Lester’s room.

But if he didn’t go out it was worse. It meant he would stay with her, watching her sideways, and if he got drunk enough he would do that terrible thing and make her undress for bed in front of him. Just sitting there, not daring to touch, his lizard eyes soaking up every inch of her body. She, racked with shame, would stand shivering, with each shaky breath fighting the instinct to cover herself. But she knew she could not: one time she had put a hand on that part between her legs and Lester had hit her across the face, so hard she couldn’t hear properly for a week. And recently he had developed a taste for that.

‘There’s nothing wrong with being nice,’ said Robbie.

Tears sprang to Laura’s eyes and she turned her head so he couldn’t see.

Robbie kept pace as she quickened her step. ‘Wait up a second, what’s the big hurry?’

‘Just leave me alone.’

‘Hey, hang on—’

Abruptly she stopped.

‘I’m not interested,’ she said primly, sticking her chin in the air. ‘In what?’

‘You know.’

Robbie frowned. ‘Not really.’

Laura was so unlike all the other girls at school, those catty girls he’d heard gossiping in the corridor, saying mean things about her old clothes and her messy hair. She was a thousand times more lovely than they’d ever be. And yet his urge was to protect her, to look after her. He’d seen her walking with her head bowed; rigid, like with each step she defied collapse. He’d seen the sadness in her eyes.

And he knew why. He knew her brother was a drunk, a bully. A month back his father had returned from a business trip and Lester Fallon had started a brawl in the local bar–Vince had got caught up in it and come home with a black eye and a mouthful of blood. God only knew what he was doing to his little sister.

‘Well, anyway,’ she said. ‘You can forget it.’

Her defiance made him smile. Seeing this, she laughed a little. It was a clean, honest sound, he thought, straight as water.

He kept trying to glimpse her as they walked. Her hair was the colour of autumn, a fire at the corners of his vision. Her eyes were green, but darker in recent months, and there was something resilient about her stare, a belief that refused to be crushed.

When they reached the trailer park she stopped. He didn’t want to let her go, not back to that trailer and whatever was waiting for her there. But he didn’t know what to say to stop her. This was bigger than he was.

‘Thanks,’ she said, lifting the books from him.

He fumbled for words, knowing that whatever came out would be laced in pity. ‘You live here?’ he said at last.

Her gaze hardened. ‘Why? Not everyone can afford to live in a house like yours. ‘

Chastened, he went to apologise. Laura got there first.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘It’s not.’

A beat. ‘Yes, it is.’

She bent her head to the books and grazed the lip of one with hers. ‘I should go.’

‘Sure.’

There was a moment’s pause, before she gave him a brief, brave smile. It squeezed his heart. ‘See you at school.’

He watched her for a long while, picking her way across the scratched-out land towards her brother’s trailer.

Eventually she disappeared from sight.

‘If he touches her again,’ Robbie Lewis vowed, ‘God help me, I’ll kill him.’

PART TWO

Winter

23

Los Angeles

Chloe French touched down at LAX looking like she’d just stepped out on to a catwalk, not like she’d just spent seven hours on a plane. Her trademark hair hung dark and loose, and she wore a black blazer-style jacket, grey leggings and thigh-high boots teamed with chunky gold jewellery.

She was greeted by a swarming crowd of British paparazzi.

‘Chloe, how does it feel to be in LA?’

‘Is it true you’re shooting a film out here? Can you tell us anything about that?’

Giving a series of succinct answers, having been briefed in militant detail by Melissa, she anxiously scanned Arrivals for her name. When she spotted it she was excited to see the man holding her card was a blond, blue-eyed beefcake with the kind of caramel skin you only found in California. It was too cute.

‘Hi!’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I’m Chloe.’

‘Gawd, sorry!’ he drawled. ‘I didn’t recognise you. Have you changed your hair?’

Chloe patted it self-consciously. ‘Um … not in about six years.’

‘Anyway, whatever, sweetie, we found each other. I’m Brock Wilde for LA Scout–Melissa must’ve told you about me.’ His face split into a grin and his teeth were so dazzling she thought about putting her Ray-Bans back on. How did he get them so straight?

They exited the airport and stepped out into the November sunshine. Wow, it was hot. Heading for his parked Ford Mustang, Chloe saw that on the back window was a sticker that read watch the rear.

It turned out Brock’s teeth were the only straight thing about him.

‘Let’s get down to business,’ he announced, brushing a stray lock of corn-coloured hair from his eyes and waggling a finger at her. ‘Your road to superstardom starts right here, honey, and I’m the one that’s going to make it happen. In a year’s time you’ll remember it was me who got you started in this town and you are never gonna forget it.’ He pulled open the driver’s side. ‘But this morning I got a taste in my mouth like a dog took a crap in there and I’m working a schedule the size of my ass. That means no hanging around. Got it?’ He slammed the door.

Chloe stood, half expecting him to drive off. Then she heaved her suitcase into the boot and slipped in next to him, trying to keep up. ‘Got it,’ she said with as assured a smile as she could muster.

They headed out on to the freeway towards Venice. Brock drove like a maniac, undertaking and yapping insults whenever anyone picked him up on it.

‘You met Sam Lucas before?’ he asked, wildly dodging a yellow Lamborghini, a marvellously handsome black man at the wheel. ‘Hello,’ whistled Brock as he caught sight of him.

Chloe shook her head and gripped the seatbelt. ‘No, actually, I—’

‘You will,’ he cut in. Then he laughed knowingly. ‘You will.’

‘What does that mean?’ she asked, worried. She’d heard horror stories from actresses starting out in Hollywood, but that didn’t mean Sam Lucas expected more from her than the job he’d hired her for … did he?

‘Well,’ said Brock, giving her a sideways look, ‘he was very particular about you.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘He saw Sophie in me, right?’

‘Chuh! And the rest.’ He smacked the radio and the Pussycat Dolls filled the car. ‘Don’t get me wrong, darling, Sam Lucas is a genius. He is also a sexy man; a powerful man. If I had tits he’d be over me like a rash, and let’s put it this way, I wouldn’t be complaining. Hope your boyfriend’s not the jealous type.’

Chloe smiled as she thought of Nate. There’d never been need for jealousy between them.

Brock was singing along in an impressive falsetto.

‘Well,’ she said with a confidence she didn’t feel, ‘he’ll not be getting his rash on anywhere near me.’ She flipped down the sunshield and checked her reflection. On Melissa’s advice she had gone natural, just a slick of nude lipstick, gloss and mascara.

‘I need to pick up some stuff from the office,’ said Brock, ‘then we’ll head to Sam’s.’

‘Sam’s?’

‘You want to meet him, don’t you?’

A rush of nerves. ‘Of course.’

They turned on to Sunset and Chloe’s mouth dropped open. ‘Wow,’ she said. She knew she sounded green but she couldn’t help it. It was just as it had been in her dreams. Better.

The Boulevard was wide and lined with majestic palms. Overhead the cloudless blue sky, bold as a lick of paint, bathed everything in golden light. Billboards, cafés and shop fronts rocketed past as Brock cut through the traffic at startling speed. The people were so … perfect. The women had flawless California tans and sported barely-there cut-off denims and bikini tops; every bloke she clapped eyes on looked like a model, or an actor.

The car pulled into a side road opposite the agency, a low-lying glass building with a white portico.

‘ Voila, Brock said, killing the ignition. ‘Leave your bags in the trunk–we’ll hit Malibu after, I’ll show you the villa.’

Chloe couldn’t wait for that. What would the apartment be like? Would she have a pool? A gym? Oh, it was too exciting for words! She was so looking forward to hooking up with Nate and telling him everything–he’d been out here a week already and she missed him like crazy.

A guy with a metal bolt through his eyebrow greeted them at Reception with a bored ‘Hey’.

Brock nodded a hello but didn’t introduce Chloe. ‘Temp,’ he said by way of explanation once they were in the lift.

LA Scout was unbelievably smart–much grander than the London branch. They got out at the top floor and Brock led her into a massive office that boasted stunning views of Hollywood. It always happened that things in real life just weren’t as good as they’d been in the imagination, but this was different. This was amazing.

‘Do you want a drink?’ asked Brock, grinning as she took in her new surroundings.

‘Sure, have you—?’

‘Well, well, well,’ came a booming voice from behind. ‘There she is.’

Chloe turned, startled. Sam Lucas himself was standing in the doorway, wearing a dark blazer suit, a raspberry handkerchief blooming from his top pocket. He was shorter than she’d expected.

Brock looked just as alarmed. He extended his hand and stepped forward. ‘Sam, hello. We were expecting to come to you, if you’d called—’

‘I was passing,’ he said crisply, keeping his eyes fixed on Chloe. ‘Fiona told me you’d be stopping by–I hope you don’t mind, I couldn’t wait to see her.’ A crocodile smile split his face.

‘Hello, Mr Lucas,’ she said graciously.

‘She’s perfect,’ he announced, as though Chloe were a rare antique he’d had shipped over from foreign parts. He approached and kissed her on both cheeks. She misjudged the second one and to her intense mortification their lips brushed clumsily together.

Chloe flushed tomato-red. If he’d had any doubt that an upcoming starlet would drop her knickers for him in a second, it was long gone.

Great, now he thinks I fancy him.

Brock was conducting a brisk telephone conversation then moments later another woman entered the room. Sharply dressed and very beautiful, she introduced herself as Fiona Catalan, head of LA Scout.

‘Let’s get to business, shall we?’ she said, gesturing for them all to sit down.

God, this was happening fast, and not at all in the way Chloe had expected. But she was determined to remain unflustered and do whatever it was she needed to. She remembered her father’s advice, the glisten in his eye when she’d told him she was leaving.

‘Be good, darling,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll always be here for you.’

It was what she had needed to hear–she didn’t want her dad to feel that she was abandoning him. Her fears were irrational, of course, but they were there all the same.

Brock pulled out some paperwork and removed the cap from a pen with a proficient flourish. Chloe was amazed at the transformation from party-boy-slash-hazardous-motorist to über–professional-but, then, he was sitting next to Fiona. She was impressed. She was a little less impressed by Sam Lucas’s insistence on calling her Sophie–her character’s name–throughout the meeting. Fiona and Brock corrected him several times, but after that they just let him get on with it.

There was a silence. Chloe’s mobile sprang to life and she fumbled in her bag, hot-faced, to switch it off.

Sam sat back and a smile played across his lips. He watched his muse for a long time before passing her several sheets of paper.

‘Read this,’ he instructed. ‘Dazzle me.’

It was her scene. Sam–or some unfortunate lackey–had scrawled messy red circles round her lines, which actually made them harder to spot, not easier. But Chloe had gone through them enough times in her bedroom back at home. She took a deep breath. She could do this.

Chloe read tentatively at first, but as the character took shape and she warmed to the role, a quiet, controlled passion entered her voice and breathed life into the words. There wasn’t much material there, but from what there was she squeezed every last drop. She loved the feeling of assuming a character, a different girl in a foreign time and a distant country.

When she finished nobody spoke. Then Sam Lucas said simply, ‘It’s yours.’

She looked up at the director and in his eyes was barely concealed desire. The scene had rendered her bare and now Sam Lucas’s gaze was prowling across her young body like a wolf’s. She felt a shudder race up her spine.

‘We’ve got ourselves a deal, then,’ Fiona said. It wasn’t a question.

Still Sam didn’t take his eyes off Chloe. ‘Damn right you’ve got yourself a deal,’ he said, rubbing his hands on his trousers. ‘She’s the one.’

24

Round the corner on Santa Monica, The Hides were deep in session at the Blue Water recording studios. Nate had arrived in LA the previous week armed with enough material for five albums and, with the mutual focus that a new project brought, everything was coming together. The band was in sync and it felt good.

When Nate got a thumbs-up from the control room he called a band meeting and they all went outside for a cigarette.

‘I’ve got a suggestion,’ he said, flicking the top off a can of Pepsi.

Spencer, their lead guitarist, offered fags around. ‘Yeah? Let’s hear it.’

‘I want to change the name of the band.’

‘What?’ Chris spluttered, a Marlboro hanging limply from his mouth. ‘Why?’

‘Let me finish,’ Nate told his drummer. God, he was burning up in this leather jacket–but he had to keep it on, at least outside, in case the paps took any interest. ‘It’s a slight change, nothing really. You’ll barely notice.’

‘What is it?’ Spencer turned to Paul. Their bassist’s blank expression indicated he was way out of it. ‘Do you know?’

Paul wasn’t vocal at the best of times and shrugged disinterestedly. He was stoned. ‘Whatever. I don’t give a shit, man.’

Nate was exasperated. ‘You’re meant to give a shit,’ he said crossly. He was the only one who really cared about this band. Hence the name change.

‘Nate Reid and The Hides,’ he declared. Before anyone could butt in he went on, ‘I’ve been giving it a lot of thought and—’

‘What’s that?’ Felix Bentley, their producer, opened the studio door just in time to catch Nate’s suggestion. He wore a concerned expression.

Nate felt embarrassed–he’d wanted to sound the guys out first before getting Felix involved. ‘Nothing,’ he mumbled, hoping they’d just forget it.

But Spencer wasn’t letting go. ‘No way, man, no way. Every one of us is on a level–we said that from the start.’

‘And it’s not like …’ Chris shook his head. ‘I mean, you’re not, like … established, man. Isn’t that what people do when they’re … I dunno …’ He searched for the word before finishing, ‘Established?’

Nate made a face. ‘I am established.’

‘Yeah,’ Chris muttered, ‘as Chloe’s other half—’

‘What?’ Nate roared, a pellet of spit firing from his mouth.

‘Come on, guys, stick with it.’ Felix lit up. ‘We’re on the right track. No name changes.’

Felix Bentley was one of the most dynamic and innovative music producers in town. He was London-born and had moved to LA in his twenties. Always fond of going back to the big smoke, he had spotted The Hides at a private gig in Camden last year and had immediately got into talks with the guys’ record label. Felix was determined that the band would succeed in the US–their music was world-class, even if their lead singer was a bit of an acquired taste.

‘That’s kind of what I think,’ said Spencer.

‘Sure,’ said Nate, as casually as he could, ‘it was just an idea.’

‘You guys sounded good in there,’ said Felix, ‘seriously good. As far as I’m concerned we can expect big things from this album, with a little bit of work. So let’s focus, not get distracted.’

‘And now let’s get a beer,’ said Nate, deciding to call it a day. The others agreed, and after Felix had wrapped things up in the studio they caught a cab down to Venice.

On the way Nate’s thoughts turned to Chloe, who’d have landed this morning. How dare Chris imply she was more famous than him? It was a fucking outrage. And it sure as shit wasn’t why he’d got together with her in the first place.

In truth he was pretty pissed off at his girlfriend coming to LA, had been looking forward to a bit of freedom. Recently it had become increasingly difficult–the press in London were way too on it. It was weird to be in a place where the names Nate Reid and Chloe French didn’t mean anything, at least not yet. It was liberating. He’d heard Californian chicks were wild and, damn it, he wanted to claim his share.

He supposed he ought to call her. After a few rings the line went dead. Ah, well, at least he’d made the effort.

Felix recommended a bar called Pellys that did the best draught lager he’d found. They got the drinks in and settled into a booth out back. After a while the conversation turned to Hollywood.

‘Actresses are the bollocks,’ supplied Paul, slumped in a corner. ‘Plus American chicks dig the accent, right?’

‘Apparently,’ said Chris, yawning. ‘Nate knows all about that.’

Nate gave his drummer the finger. Chris was referring to the disastrous night he had spent last year in the company of Jessica Bernstein, that snotty heiress from Vegas. She’d been a little raver in the sack but that could work both ways, as Nate had painfully learned when afterwards he hadn’t been able to walk properly for a week.

‘Oh, yeah?’ Felix turned to Nate.

‘Forget it,’ he sulked, still feeling a bit put out. ‘D’you know Chloe’s out here, trying to break into the industry? Like the rest of the world,’ he added cruelly.

Spencer looked confused. ‘She’s in LA?’

‘Yup.’

Chris whistled through his teeth. ‘You’re on a tight leash, my friend.’

‘Hardly,’ said Nate cockily. As if to prove a point, he delivered a wink to a buxom blonde standing at the bar.

‘Is she filming anything?’ asked Felix politely. He’d bumped into Chloe on a video shoot a few years back and remembered how friendly she was.

Nate shrugged. ‘Not sure,’ he said, but he buried the last bit in his beer.

Three hours and countless drinks later, Nate and Chris stumbled out of Pellys.

‘Let’s carry on the party at our place,’ said one of the girls. They had managed to pull two red-headed identical twins, one of whom was slightly more attractive than the other. Nate knew if it came to it then he’d get dibs on her–but who knew what kind of twisted shit twins liked to get up to.

‘Lead the way, ladies,’ said Chris, as the four of them piled into a cab.

The twins’ apartment in Westwood was sprawling and filled with girly possessions, most of which were strewn carelessly about the place. Nate decided they must be extremely rich. It was definitely a single ladies’ pad–skimpy bikini tops hung from the backs of chairs, floor-to-ceiling mirrors covered the walls, sun creams and perfume bottles lay open on their sides and an array of pastel knickers littered the floor. He smirked, imagining they must spend a lot of time walking around naked.

Within two minutes of entering the apartment, Slightly-Less-Attractive Twin dragged Nate down on to a sofa and pinned him with her elbows. ‘You’re so sexy!’ she snarled, attacking his mouth with hers, which was sticky with lip gloss.

Out the corner of his eye Nate saw that the same thing was happening to Chris, only Chris had managed to pull the prettier one. It was a funny thing, like his one’s features were exactly the same only a little bit … off centre. He needed to steer this thing back on track.

‘Whoa, whoa,’ he said, gently pushing her away. In response she peeled off her top and buoyantly sprang free. No bra needed there, then.

She looked across at her twin and the other girl did the same. They were giggling and touching themselves up at the same time, which was a weird combination.

Chris looked like a little boy in a sweet shop.

‘Let’s just cool it a minute,’ said Nate, producing some smoking paraphernalia from the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Smoke a little, chill a little.’

Slightly-Less-Attractive Twin pouted and reached for her top.

‘No need to do that,’ clarified Nate quickly.

‘Let’s all get totally naked!’ squealed the other one. Yes, she was definitely much prettier. Nate would have her later–if he quickly swopped them round he doubted Chris would know the difference anyway.

Chris, scarcely believing his luck, stood to unzip his jeans.

Nate paused in rolling the joint and made a ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ gesture. His friend immediately sat back down.

God, Chris needed some serious tuition in the art of getting girls into bed–the trick was in keeping your cool, not giving away too much too soon. Deciding the same didn’t apply to the twins, he instructed them to remove the rest of their clothes.

It was pretty crazy, this seeing double malarkey. Both girls had identical bodies–there was no doubt their chests were surgically enhanced but the rest seemed real enough–apart from one having a mole to the left of her tummy button. Nate was pleased to see the cuffs matched the collar, which was definitely a turn-on. Yup, it was red-head all the way.

Chris was slack-jawed. It struck Nate that he didn’t get laid all too often.

After smoking a couple of joints one of the girls disappeared into the bedroom and emerged with a bag of coke. Things were looking up.

Several lines and lethal rum cocktails later, everyone was naked. Nate didn’t know any more which twin he was getting off with–at one point he might have been getting off with Chris-and he didn’t much care. His dick felt amazing: it was huge, a tower, the centre of the universe as the twins lapped at it and its length disappeared into one of their mouths, both, everyone’s. The rest of his body became a mere appendage to the pursuit of his cock, and the thought occurred that the rest of him might be shrinking as it grew and swelled, until he was nothing but a great big cock and that great big cock was set to take over the world.

Vaguely he was aware of Chris going down on one of the girls. Then the other one, or maybe it was the same one, was slipping a condom on, but it felt like it only covered the very top. Nothing was big enough to contain him. And, as he slid into heaven, he closed his eyes and gave himself up.

He was in America. He had arrived. And what Chloe French didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.

25

‘I got news for you, kiddo,’ said Rita Clay. ‘Your premiere’s going to the Orient.’

Lana sat down on the bed. She pressed the phone so hard against her ear that it hurt.

‘The Orient Las Vegas?’

Rita sounded confused. ‘Where else? We’re not catching a plane to China.’

Lana felt the ground go out from under her. Next summer came at her with gathering, terrible speed, like a train hurtling towards a gap in the line.

I’m going to see Robbie again.

Except he wasn’t Robbie any more: he was a world-famous billionaire. And he hated her.

She managed a small, ‘Why?’

‘Is something the matter?’ Rita asked. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

Lana squeezed her eyes shut. So she’d be meeting Robbie again–so what? It had to happen sooner or later and she’d just have to deal with it. She didn’t have to talk to him; she didn’t even have to look at him. Except when she thought of the pictures she’d tried to avoid seeing but ultimately couldn’t resist–pictures showing his smile, his chin, his kind eyes, his arms–she didn’t know how she would manage. She wanted him so much it stopped her heart.

Rita interrupted her chain of thought. ‘I’m serious, Lana, what is it? ‘

‘Nothing,’ she told her agent. ‘Shooting’s almost over and it’s been an exhausting few weeks.’

‘OK. You know I don’t believe you.’

Lana ran a hand over her crisp white bed linen–Cole’s staff were perfectionists in every task and never risked a thing. Her fingers were shaking.

‘I used to know the guy behind it,’ she found herself saying. She closed her eyes. ‘A long time ago.’

‘What guy?’

‘Robert St Louis.’ It was good to finally speak his name, though it trembled in her throat. ‘He owns the Orient.’

‘A ha!’ exclaimed Rita, missing her friend’s tone. ‘There’s a history there, I knew it. No wonder you’re acting so shook up. Was he good?’

Yes, he was good. He was so, so good.

Lana harnessed her emotion. ‘It was nothing, really,’ she lied. ‘Just a fling.’ Forget the rest of it. Forget that she had been deeply in love with him. Forget that he had saved her life. He might take the blame for it, but she knew better. The decision she had made that terrible night had been the truly unspeakable one.

‘He’s a little bit to die for,’ said Rita, a smile in her voice. ‘You are one hell of a lucky lady, Ms Falcon.’

Lana stood up and went to the window. She looked out at her world, the perimeter of Cole’s mansion as solid and unyielding as it had ever been. She would not think about Robbie today, she would not let herself. Later, lying in bed, her thoughts would turn to him as they had for the past ten years, only this time with a sense of inevitable collision, like two cars running head-on in the night.

Next summer. Seven months.

After the women hung up, Lana lay down on her bed. She stared up at the blank ceiling for what felt like hours, listening to the quiet.

26

Belleville, Ohio, 1997

Every day for the next two months, Robbie turned up at the trailer park, wanting to talk to her. The first few times she walked straight past him, but after he followed her one afternoon and discovered exactly where she lived, he became harder to ignore.

It was a Friday and she had finished late at school. She knew Lester would be angry. No matter that it was her fifteenth birthday today, a secret she hadn’t told anyone.

She saw Robbie straight away, leaning against the side of the trailer, his dark hair falling over his eyes. He wore old blue jeans and a grey T-shirt, his strong arms bronzed by the sun.

‘What do you want? ‘

‘Finally she talks to me.’ He grinned. For the fifteen-millionth time she noticed the dimple in his chin.

Laura couldn’t tear her eyes from his. She had become accustomed to his handsomeness but still she couldn’t get used to the way it made her feel, like there were a thousand stars exploding in her blood.

Just then the door to the trailer burst open and Lester loomed into view, a bottle of beer in one hand and a smoke in the other. Her brother hadn’t washed or shaved in days, his skin and hair, now worn in a straggly long ponytail that lapped over his right shoulder, were grey with dirt and there were sunken purple shadows under both his eyes. His chest was bare and alarmingly thin, the ribs jutting out like a prehistoric thing.

‘Get in here, bitch,’ he ordered, ‘there’s things t’do.’ He took a swig from the bottle.

Laura’s eyes switched to Robbie, just in time to see his shocked expression. Lester’s gaze travelled sluggishly to the other man.

‘Who the fuck’s this?’ he snarled.

Robbie took control. ‘Robert Lewis,’ he said, holding out his hand.

‘You fucking my baby sister?’

It was an appalling question. Laura pushed past her brother and into the trailer, desperate to get away. How dare Lester say such a thing? She felt horrified when she thought of sweet, handsome Robbie and the dirt and grime of her own life. He would never want to see her again, that much was for sure.

‘How could you?’ she stormed, after Lester had slammed the door shut.

‘Lookin’ out for you, is all,’ he growled, wiping his hand across his mouth and slumping into a chair, its stuffing escaping at the seams. ‘There’s things a boy like that wants t’do, things you gotta look out for.’

He eyed her greedily. She was aware of how her body had changed over the past years–the growing fullness of her breasts and the pinch of her waist. Her chestnut hair had grown longer and thicker, her green eyes wide. Men stared at her when she went into town.

Laura was afraid: her brother liked to see her naked and he liked to hit her. Soon he would want to touch her. She knew what he did with those people he brought back in the middle of the night, severe things, painful things. Soon he would want to do them to her. The thought made bile swim in her throat.

Realising she could not go against him–that she did not want to risk the punishment–she fixed him his dinner and kept quiet. She could not eat a thing herself, could not stop thinking of Robbie Lewis and how whatever friendship they might have had would now be over. Why could nothing good ever last? It was her. She ruined everything.

A little over an hour later, when Lester had escaped to his nearest drinking hole, she stepped outside to clear her head. The trailer park was silent and dark, a warm wind rustling through the trees. She closed her eyes and thought of Arlene.

Happy birthday, Laura, she told herself. This year, you’re going to change your life.

A sound distracted her. It was a whisper, a crackle of leaves. Then a face was before her, bathed in the silver light of the moon, its features hidden. Robbie Lewis.

‘What are you doing?’ She panicked, looking about her, afraid someone would see. The community knew that Lester was a drunk and they probably thought as much of his sister, especially if she was caught sneaking around with a boy.

‘Did he do anything to you?’ Robbie asked urgently. ‘I tried to find a way in—’

She pulled him into the shadows. ‘You must never, ever do that,’ she commanded. She put a hand to her head. ‘My brother’s dangerous.’

Robbie’s eyes searched hers. ‘Then why are you living with him?’

She looked at him helplessly. ‘It’s a long story,’ she said eventually.

His hands were on her shoulders now, his touch as hot as the sun. ‘So tell me.’

Laura searched for a place to start, thinking how strange it was, this boy who she hardly knew but who had always been kind to her, wanting to listen and understand. He was so gentle, so patient, and he’d waited for her every night because, because … Because what? He wanted to be her friend, her saviour, something more?

Suddenly he was kissing her. She had never kissed anyone before and she had time to think, If I never kiss anyone ever again in my life, this will be enough. It started off gently, his lips soft on hers, unsure if she would respond. Then it became deeper and she felt his tongue slip around hers and it was the most exquisite, fragile thing she had known. Instinctively she put her arms around his neck and pulled him close, drawing in his delicious scent, feeling the skin on his arms. Only when that male part of him became hard did she pull away.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said throatily. ‘You’re just … you’re so goddamn beautiful. I’ll wait, you know I’ll wait.’

Lana caught her breath. She felt herself spinning.

‘It’s my birthday,’ she blurted, a propos of nothing.

‘Happy birthday,’ he said simply.

They laughed, uncertain of this new territory but wanting to explore it. He took her hand and led her to where a tree had been felled. They sat together on its rough bark.

‘I wanted to know you,’ he confessed. ‘As soon as we met I wanted that. What’s gone on all this time? Why didn’t you let me?’

Her eyes met his. She couldn’t hide any more.

She began with the story of her parents dying, how she and Lester had been sent to live with Arlene. Then how her brother had fallen apart with grief, turning to drugs and drink to the point where he had to be taken away. How they said he had got better and made her come live with him when he came of age. How things had been all right at first, except for the way he drank, and how, one time, he had been so out of it that he’d soiled the bed and she had been forced to clean him up. How recently she could tell he wanted other things from her, things that were wrong between a brother and sister. How he had hit her.

She felt Robbie tense. When she looked, there was passion in his eyes.

‘Laura,’ he said, ‘you know what you’ve got to do. And I’m going to help you.’

27

Las Vegas

Elisabeth Sabell fastened the clasp on her diamond necklace and took her position in the wings. Swathes of red curtain plunged all around like velvet waterfalls. She could hear the crowd taking their seats, the buzz of anticipation in the air. The spotlight awaited.

Lowering a hand to her stomach, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would have been like to be carrying Robert’s child. She would be eight weeks gone by now, they would be preparing to reveal their news to the world. But it hadn’t been. She was surprised by how deeply it had affected her–she never had herself down as the maternal type.

While she told herself it didn’t matter, that there had been nothing there in the first place to lose, it somehow felt portentous. Since they had returned from the South of France, an impossible distance had opened up between them.

Alberto Bellini was at her side.

‘You look ravishing.’ His voice was soft, dripping with intent.

Elisabeth ignored him, waiting for the director’s cue. She didn’t want to see Alberto right now–the performance demanded her full concentration.

‘What is it?’ she asked, refusing to meet his eye. ‘I only want to wish you luck.’ When he came closer she could smell his spicy cologne. ‘You know I care for you, Elisabeth.’

She lifted her chin. ‘I know.’

His eyes raked over her body, so like her mother’s. Clad in a sapphire shoulderless Dolce & Gabbana gown, she wore her golden hair loose. A string of jewels glinting at her throat was the only adornment. It could almost be thirty years before. It could almost be Linda.

His voice caught. ‘You are more exquisite by the day.’ ‘Thank you,’ she said tightly.

‘Will you meet me later? I wish to speak with you. It is important.’

Elisabeth received her thirty-second intro. ‘I don’t think that’s appropriate.’ Alberto’s response was smooth. ‘I will be at the Oasis.’ He came so close that his lips grazed her ear. Elisabeth felt a hot chill. ‘I know you will change your mind.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ And she swept out to greet her adoring crowd.

Robert was as deep in conversation as he was in paperwork. Budgets, plans, details of sponsors and businesses littered his desk at the Orient. The Eastern Sky premiere, he promised Frank Bernstein, would be a superior show the likes of which had never been seen before.

Earlier that day he had met with organisers for an on-site consultation. They’d had big ideas; he had bigger. From high-impact lighting and set design, through a stunning red carpet backdrop to movie-themed hors d’oeuvres and customised menus, together they had it covered. In a city of gamblers, Robert was leaving nothing to chance.

‘What’s this crap about Elisabeth doin’ a show?’ asked Bernstein, reaching for his third consecutive cigar.

‘It’s under control.’

‘She oughtta be helpin’ you, not dancin’ around makin’ work for everyone.’

‘I’ve got it covered, Bernstein.’

Robert hoped the old man would leave it at that. He didn’t want to talk about his fiancée–his head was in business and he couldn’t indulge the disruption, even if it was related. He loved Elisabeth. It was just that it wasn’t the true, lasting, fundamental love he knew for a fact existed.

Bernstein puffed away thoughtfully. ‘You really want her?’ He raised his bristly eyebrows and Robert knew it was a loaded question.

‘Of course.’

‘Horseshit. You don’t think she’s that good.’

‘Yes, I do.’ Lie number one. Elisabeth was talented, but in his view her voice was average. It was her looks that made the performance special.

‘Well, between you an’ me, son, I don’t.’ Bernstein sat back in a leather recliner chair and put his feet on the desk. He knocked over an empty coffee cup, which Robert caught with one hand. ‘She’s better off takin’ over from me, runnin’ this town like it needs t’be run. Forget this parading heap of crap. And that goes for both of you.’ He gave Robert a meaningful look. ‘You see what I’m talkin’ about here?’

Robert saw only too well. Christ! Why couldn’t Bernstein take a goddamn step back? Ever since he’d introduced the two of them he’d been on at them about marriage, been set on tidying Elisabeth away for whatever reasons he was hiding. He was a bully, a tyrant, a dictator. Sometimes it was hard to believe he was Elisabeth’s father.

‘You gotta get a ring on her, St Louis. I’ve seen the kind of attention she gets. A thousand other guys would take her in a second.’

Robert slammed a palm down on the table. It hit the surface with such force it sent a flurry of papers to the floor. Bernstein didn’t flinch.

He spoke slowly. ‘Elisabeth’s and my relationship is ours alone. We will make our own decisions and nothing you say will interfere with or influence that. Tell me I’ve made myself clear.’

Bernstein chuckled infuriatingly. ‘You’re just like your father, kid. Too goddamn emotional.’ He blew out a ribbon of smoke.

Pushing his chair back, Robert paced over to the window. The lights on the Strip blinked and danced, all day, all night, always. He linked his hands behind his head. Bernstein spoke the truth–it was the right thing to do, for Elisabeth, for Bernstein and for Vegas. And, yes, even for him. Marriage would lay the past to rest, put an end to the time he had spent regretting a fact he could not change. He’d wasted enough of his life stalling, and in the hope of what? That she’d walk back into his life, say it had been a mistake? She wouldn’t dare.

Often he wished he had never met Lana Falcon, never bothered with any of it. Maybe if he’d stayed clear then none of the rest would have happened. Here he was now, prince of Sin City with a beautiful woman on his arm and all the money he could wish for. He clearly meant nothing to Lana. For her he’d given up everything and she’d dropped him like a stone.

The phone rang. It was his concierge. The distributors had arrived.

‘Send them up.’

Robert turned to Bernstein. ‘You want in?’ he asked. ‘We’re approaching the final decisions.’

Bernstein eyed him. ‘Ain’t that the truth, son.’

28

Alberto Bellini was already there, sprawled in a crimson booth on the Oasis’s private deck.

He wore a black, finely tailored suit and his crisp shirt was just open at the neck, revealing a crinkly triangle of skin the colour of burnt sugar. A piano tinkled in the background and the moody, low-level light reflected off his pure-white hair.

Elisabeth, resplendent in a sleek Zac Posen dress, approached the table.

‘You came,’ he said, his voice silken as he stood to greet her.

‘I had nothing better to do.’

‘I knew you would change your mind.’

Elisabeth felt a stab of frustration. ‘I didn’t, until about ten minutes ago.’ She slipped in next to him.

After her performance she had returned to her dressing room, showered and called Robert. Unsurprisingly he hadn’t picked up. She remembered he was in meetings till late, was too busy to talk. It was a familiar scenario. Alberto’s invitation had come back to her.

She surveyed the drinks menu, even though she knew it off by heart. Just as she was opening her mouth to speak, Alberto barked his order at a hovering waiter, who scribbled it down with a flourish. Elisabeth was cross, even though a tiny part of her rather liked it.

‘I have requested a very special cocktail,’ said Alberto, ‘of my own invention.’ His eyes scanned her body, taking in every inch of her long legs, exposed at the thigh in her slip of a gown. It occurred to Elisabeth that she should have kept her distance and settled opposite him, but she’d done it now.

‘Very well,’ she said tartly. She noticed that he was partway through a bottle of Chianti, its bottom squat in a basket of cork, and made a mental note to drink slowly. Whatever was in Alberto’s creation was likely to be far more intoxicating than wine.

The drink arrived–a garish concoction of pinks and oranges in a tall, thin-stemmed martini glass. A glacé cherry hung suspended in the syrup, impaled on the end of a fizzing sparkler. It was gloriously nineties.

Sensing he was waiting for her response, Elisabeth made a face. ‘It’s stunning.’ Which wasn’t entirely a lie.

But it did taste good. Several cocktails later and Elisabeth was starting to feel decidedly woozy. This was accompanied by a blooming sense of recklessness as she basked in the glow of Alberto’s adulation.

‘There is something I hoped to speak with you about,’ he said, taking her hand.

Elisabeth flinched at the contact, but she didn’t move away. ‘What is it?’

‘It is about your mother. About us. You see, we—’

‘Bellini, please …’

‘Listen to me. I have thought very carefully about this, and I must—’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t. I just want to forget about everything tonight. I need to. Let me. I don’t want to talk about her.’

Alberto searched her eyes. ‘What is the matter?’

A pause. ‘Honestly?’ She met his gaze. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Talk to me. You know you can tell me anything.’

Elisabeth smiled. ‘Of course I know. You’ve always been like part of the family.’

He looked sad. ‘Indeed.’

‘Robert and I, we’ve got standing in this city. People look up to us.’ She was talking fuzzily now. Another cocktail arrived and she hiccupped. ‘Sorry, that sounds awful.’

Alberto shook his head. ‘Nothing you say ever could.’

‘I’m losing him.’ She wrung her hands. ‘I can’t explain why, but I am. It’s ever since my father brought him in on this premiere, I just know there’s something he’s keeping from me.’

Alberto waited for her to go on.

‘It’s Bernstein.’ Her gaze hardened. ‘He’s pushing so far he’s just driving Robert away. It’s all his fault.’

‘Your father has always done what is best for you.’ Alberto leaned closer. ‘He wanted to try and make up for what happened–I know that, I was witness to it. Maybe he has gone too far, it is possible. After your mother died, we all—’ ‘Do you think he still loves me?’ she asked.

‘St Louis?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am not best placed to judge it,’ said Alberto honestly. ‘You know how I feel.’

Elisabeth swigged her drink. She looked at him kindly, like she was seeing him for the first time. ‘Funny how you’re the only person who understands,’ she said. ‘You’ve always been there. I’ve never said so before, but I appreciate it.’

His voice was a whisper. ‘I had to be.’

‘No, you didn’t. You always cared for my mom, that’s why you care for me. She’d like that.’

‘Perhaps.’

A pause. ‘I don’t know what to do. He doesn’t talk to me any more, not properly, not like before. I’ve never seen Robert like it. He was always so there, you know; so with you. Now it’s like he’s on a different planet most of the time.’

‘St Louis does love you.’ It pained him to say it.

Her voice cracked. ‘So what’s changed?’

Alberto didn’t say anything.

Her eyes switched to his. ‘Do you think he’s having an affair?’

Leaning in close, Alberto placed a hand on her knee. On each he wore several chunky gold signet rings, one which cloistered an almond-sized emerald jewel. Elisabeth shivered inwardly when she imagined what those hands might be capable of–Alberto had been in Vegas when the mob ruled town.

‘I cannot answer that.’

‘I wish I could.’

He kept his hand where it was. ‘What I do know is this: St Louis is crazy. You are beautiful, Elisabeth. You are strong and you fight and you are good.’

Elisabeth’s heart swelled. She met Alberto’s eyes and fell into their rich dark pools. Suddenly she felt faint. The potency of his ardour was dizzying.

She pushed him away. ‘Bellini, you mustn’t.’ But she had to force the words out. ‘There are people here who will talk.’

‘Let them.’

His eyes held hers for what felt like an eternity.

‘Perhaps we should go somewhere more private.’ The words were out before she could stop them. She almost retracted it–she might have had he given her any opportunity.

‘You go,’ he said hoarsely. She thought she saw his hands shaking. ‘I will follow.’

Fifty storeys up in his private suite, Alberto was like a man possessed. Pushing Elisabeth hard against the wall, he ripped open the front of her gown with his bare hands, sucking at her neck, her earlobe, mauling her skin with his huge paws. It was the single most erotic thing that had ever happened to her in her whole entire life.

Shrouded in a cloak of darkness, his lips dived to her breasts, sucking hard on their peaks. She fumbled to turn on the light, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, but he restrained her arms behind her back. He felt different from Robert: his tongue drier and more abrasive, like a cat’s.

‘Elisabeth, my sweet Elisabeth,’ he moaned, his voice smothered by the task. He muttered something in Italian then he was kissing her on the mouth. He took his time exploring, grinding against her, forcing a knee between her legs to bring her apart.

She tore off the rest of her dress and sent it flying across the room, a white ribbon in the pitch. Instantly he was on his knees, a shock of hair gleaming in the moonlight, bright as a swan. Using both thumbs to open her up, his tongue darted to find her wetness. Elisabeth hooked a leg over his shoulder and pulled him further in, little sounds escaping her mouth as he feasted with growing enthusiasm. As the pleasure mounted, she reached down and took his face in her hands.

‘Wait,’ she breathed, all of her crying out for more, ‘not yet.’

With shaking fingers she released the catch on her diamond necklace, the one Robert had given her. She held the gems up a moment, their bright lights winking in the darkness. Then she dropped them to the floor.

Alberto took her hands and led her to the bed, laying her down and kissing her over and over. She heard him undress, the buckle of his trousers; the shiver of material as he shrugged off his shirt. Silently he mounted her. She groped for his hardness, a quick flash of disappointment that he had none of Robert’s size, and slowly began to stroke, guiding him in. It was as if she were looking down at herself from above, as if none of this was actually happening. This is Alberto Bellini. A man older than your father. But her heart was racing and her head was swimming and her body was all aflame.

When he entered her she screamed out loud. Her nails raked lines down his back. As he moved on top, beginning the climb, she tightened her legs around his waist and surrendered herself to the inevitable. Tonight she belonged to another man. And there was nothing Robert St Louis could do about it.

29

Santa Barbara

The happy couple were married on a rugged bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Press swarmed across the coastline like ants, not just to catch Danielle and George Roman but the host of stars they had invited to celebrate their day.

‘I’m delighted you could both come,’ said Danielle after the ceremony, kissing Lana and Cole on both cheeks. The fashion designer was resplendent in her ivory fishtail wedding gown, a great satin meringue studded with rhinestone and crystal.

Lana smiled. ‘It was really beautiful,’ she said. The bluff gave on to the wide azure water that glittered in the late-November sunshine. It was the perfect spot.

‘It reminds me of our wedding day,’ observed Cole, slickly hooking an arm round his wife’s waist.

Lana didn’t see why: their wedding three years before had been an extravagant affair held at a sixteenth-century castle in Europe. This had a much simpler charm about it.

However, the observation pleased Danielle, who clasped her hands together with glee.

Lana plucked a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. ‘I think it’s quite different,’ she said. Cole shot her a look.

‘It’s where George proposed,’ trilled Danielle, ‘a year ago today.’ On cue her much older husband joined her. He had a caddish forties look about him, a handsome, clean-cut movie producer with the Midas touch. George had been married when they’d met and he’d left his first wife, one of the most esteemed actresses of her generation, in a hive of controversy.

‘Darling,’ he crooned, ‘we’re needed for photographs.’

You could say that, thought Lana, looking across at the gathered press. It was bizarre to invite so many strangers to such a private day–but then she’d done it, hadn’t she? And why not? Her wedding to Cole had been a work engagement, there had been no intimacy to compromise.

A photographer swooped in and snapped the four of them together.

‘Please excuse us,’ said Danielle graciously, taking her husband’s hand. ‘Oh, look, there’s Kate!’

‘Darling …’ George gave Cole a ‘What are women like?’ look and trailed after her. Cole gave a weird sort of salute to indicate he knew exactly what women were like and laughed too loudly.

‘Kate looks well,’ observed Lana, watching Danielle drift over to greet Kate diLaurentis and her husband. The women were working together on a new fashion collection.

Cole stiffened next to her. ‘Why must you disagree with me in public?’ he hissed.

Lana turned to him in surprise. ‘What?’

‘We won’t talk about this now,’ said Cole, a pulse going in his neck. ‘You must never disagree with me in public again.’ He wasn’t looking at her.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Lana, feeling her fists clench by her sides.

‘Especially where it concerns our wedding.’

‘Am I not permitted to have an opinion?’

Cole’s face broke into a professional smile as he spotted an actor friend and his wife. A lot of back-slapping ensued as they greeted each other, before Cole brought Lana forward.

Thank God this marriage will soon be over, thought Lana. It was all she could think as she engaged in a conversation with the woman she barely knew. Thank God it will soon be over.

The reception took place in a five-star luxury resort on the coast. Hundreds of guests arrived for the celebrations in limos and private helicopters.

Chloe and Nate entered the hotel accompanied by Brock Wilde. ‘This is a number-one photo opportunity,’ he’d advised her days before. ‘Get photographed here, honey, and you’re on your way.’

‘I can’t believe this place,’ whispered Chloe, squeezing Nate’s hand. The lobby was huge, a glass ceiling gleaming hundreds of feet above and pillars soaring high into the vaults. It was like Daddy Warbucks’s house in Annie.

‘Keep it cool, babe,’ said Nate, grabbing a glass of champagne and downing it. He didn’t want to appear all simpering and tragic, even if he was a bit nervous. Just a bit. Chloe getting them invited to this gig was a major coup–he certainly hadn’t secured this kind of company yet.

The ballroom was packed with celebrity guests. Everywhere Chloe turned she saw faces she recognised, faces from magazines and films, faces she couldn’t remember the names of but had seen countless times–faces that were as much a part of her history as her own family.

‘This is freaking me out,’ she confessed. Brock thrust a cocktail into her hand and told her to drink it.

‘Not too fast, babe,’ chipped in Nate, swigging his own drink. ‘Don’t want you getting drunk and embarrassing us.’

Brock frowned.

‘There’s Lana!’ said Chloe happily, waving across the room. They had been introduced on-set a week before and had got on well.

Nate straightened his tie, depositing his glass on a passing tray.

‘And look!’ She turned to him, eyes wide. ‘There’s Cole Steel.’

Cole spotted Marty King across the room just as a lofty, very striking dark-haired girl walked over, apparently to talk to his wife.

‘Marty,’ Cole said, interrupting his conversation with another client, ‘I need a word.’

Marty’s expression was strained. ‘One moment, Cole,’ he said.

Cole had never seen the client before in his life, a young, pasty actor with pointed ears. ‘Now, Marty.’

‘Excuse me,’ Marty told the man, knowing where to hedge his bets.

‘What is it?’ he hissed as Cole steered him smoothly out to the terrace. The sun was kissing the horizon, a hot red circle on the lilac sky.

‘I want to know where we are with the plans, Marty.’

‘Cole, please, I’ve had things to—’

‘I repeat: where are we?’

Marty mopped his brow. ‘I’m yet to come up with a solution,’ he said. When Cole opened his mouth to speak, Marty barrelled on. ‘But I will. The contract’s a tricky thing, you know that. Give me time.’

‘We don’t have much time.’

Marty shook his head in confusion.

‘Lana wants out. I know it.’ He put his hands on the veranda, breathing deep the clean air. ‘Find a way, OK? You’ve got two weeks.’

‘Two weeks isn’t—’

‘You’ve got two weeks,’ Cole said again, his voice flat.

Marty closed his eyes. When he opened them again he placed a hand on his client’s shoulder. ‘Two weeks it is, buddy. I’m your man.’

Kate diLaurentis hadn’t let Jimmy Hart out of her sight all afternoon. There were too many starlets here and with a party of them staying overnight at the hotel, she didn’t want her husband doing one of his vanishing acts.

‘I’m going for a smoke,’ Jimmy told her, fumbling in his suit pocket.

‘No, you’re not,’ said Kate, smile in place as she greeted Danielle’s sister Freya, a stout screenwriter with bad hair and jowls. Kate noticed she hadn’t bothered losing weight to squeeze into her bridesmaid’s dress.

‘You look radiant,’ she lied.

When she’d gone Jimmy muttered, ‘Bullshit.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

He was still digging around in his jacket. She yanked him round as a photographer ushered them into the frame.

‘Smile, Jimmy-and mean it,’ Kate commanded out the side of her mouth.

Finally he found the cigarettes. In good time, as Kate had just spotted Lana Falcon talking to a very beautiful young woman with poker-straight coal-black hair that ran down the length of her back. She’d better find out who that was, and certainly not with her husband in tow.

Jimmy followed her gaze and she felt, rather than saw, his mouth drop open.

Oh, no, you don’t.

‘Go on, then,’ she said archly, shooing him away, cigarette in hand. Abandoning her husband and heading in Lana’s direction, she muttered, ‘If they don’t kill you, one day I will.’

Chloe French’s accent was what Lana liked best. It was quite proper and upper-class, even if Lana suspected she tried to play it down. She was impossibly pretty–it was easy to see why Sam had wanted her for the part.

‘I still have to pinch myself,’ Chloe said, sipping her margarita. Next to her Nate rolled his eyes, hoping to catch one of Lana’s.

‘It’s as if none of it is really happening,’ she went on, ‘and I’ll wake up in a minute and it’ll all have been a dream.’ She shook her head. ‘LA doesn’t seem real. I bet you felt like this when you started out … or do I sound totally crazy?’

Nate butted in. ‘You sound totally crazy,’ he agreed, wishing his girlfriend could act a little cooler.

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ smiled Lana. ‘Actually, I still feel like that.’

Chloe beamed. She had promised herself back in London that she wouldn’t act like an idiot around Lana Falcon but all that had gone rapidly out the window.

‘I don’t want to go on,’ she said, knowing she was going on, ‘but it’s all true. And you’re married to Cole! I used to fancy him so much at school.’ She was babbling. Nate’s pinch brought her back into line. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘that was a stupid thing to say.’

Lana laughed, a genuine laugh that came from her tummy. ‘Not at all.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s something else, all right.’

‘Did you always want to get into the industry?’ asked Nate, hoping to make up for Chloe’s embarrassing behaviour.

Lana twirled the stem of her champagne flute. ‘Not always,’ she said. ‘I decided it was for me when I was,’ she pretended she had to remember, ‘seventeen. Which I guess is quite late for some people.’

‘And what attracted you to it?’ Nate was pleased. It was a buzz talking to such a gorgeous piece as Lana Falcon, even if she was so out of bounds it wasn’t even funny.

Lana shrugged, a little warm from the drink. ‘Honestly? I suppose I wanted to play at being someone else.’ She wondered if she’d spoken out of turn, but neither of them seemed to pick up on it.

‘That’s exactly how I feel,’ said Chloe. She thought about it some more and then smiled widely. ‘Exactly.’

Lana caught sight of Parker Troy across the room. She quickly looked away.

‘You’re a musician, right, Nate?’ Lana didn’t much like what she’d seen of the guy so far-Chloe was sweet, a bit naive; he had a look in his eye that said he couldn’t be trusted.

Nate fell into his comfort zone: talking about himself. ‘Sure am,’ he said. ‘We’re quite a big deal over the pond, now we’re set to break out here. It’ll happen, you’ll see.’

Chloe smiled at him, brimming with pride. ‘It will.’

Lana saw Kate weaving her way through the crowd. ‘Kate,’ she smiled cordially as the older woman joined them, ‘how wonderful to see you.’ They kissed on both cheeks and Kate made a ‘mwah’ sound.

Before Lana had a chance to introduce them, Kate regarded Chloe with barefaced disdain. ‘And who is this?’

‘This is Chloe French,’ said Lana, appalled at Kate’s bad manners. ‘We’re filming together. Chloe, meet Kate diLaurentis.’

Chloe gave her best smile. ‘I’m thrilled to meet you,’ she said, holding out her hand. Something told her she was unlikely to get a mwah.

‘I’m Nate Reid,’ said Nate, stepping forward.

Kate raised an eyebrow. Nobody said anything. Chloe withdrew her hand awkwardly.

‘Is Jimmy with you?’ asked Lana, cross with Kate for being so rude.

‘He’s outside.’ She flashed a look at Chloe. ‘That’s my husband,’ she clarified.

Chloe nodded. Her palms felt sweaty and her cocktail had gone warm. ‘I hope I can meet him,’ she said politely.

I bet you do, thought Kate. Oh, she could smell these ones out so easily: wannabe actresses who thought they could get their hands on any role, any man. Pretty little things with nothing but stuffing in their heads–except when they indulged in married men’s cocks.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said smoothly, confident she’d made an impression. That should make the girl think twice before treading on her territory. She cringed inwardly. Why did she have to assume every starlet she met was about to go to bed with her husband?

Because they probably are, Kate. Because you won’t give it to him.

She stalked off in the direction of the bar. Somebody needed to keep an eye on that piece of English crumpet.

And it had better not be my sonofabitch husband.

In the bathroom, Cole splashed his face with water. He checked his watch. With any luck he and Lana could retire to their suite before long–he craved silence, relief from the hungry pack, all of them baying for a piece of Cole Steel. If only he could rely on Lana to keep the side up.

Emerging into the main hall, Cole scanned the gathering. He saw his wife talking to the dark-haired girl he’d walked past earlier and a cretinous-looking man with long hair. Straightening his suit jacket, he stepped forward.

‘Cole.’ A voice from behind stopped him in his tracks. He would know it anywhere.

Cole turned, his heart thumping behind his ribs. The man was elderly, with a thin grey comb-over and a nose made bulbous by too much drink. He was leaning on a stick.

Him.

The man who had ruined him. The man he hated. The man he hoped would rot in hell.

‘Michael,’ said Cole tightly, already thinking about how to make his escape.

The famous director grinned, revealing a wall of false teeth. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘It would be nice to see more of you,’ he said. He licked his lips with a thin wet tongue. ‘We used to know each other so well.’

Cole concentrated hard. His face remained impassive. ‘I have a busy schedule,’ he said.

‘Not like the old days, then.’ Michael kept smiling, hunched over his stick, as if they could share in the nostalgia of the past.

‘No.’ Cole lowered his eyes to the floor. This was the only man in the world who could make him feel afraid. Michael was ancient now, at least ninety.

When will you die? Cole thought. When the hell will you die?

‘I can’t talk, Michael,’ he said coolly. ‘I must get back to my wife.’

‘The beautiful Lana,’ said the director, his eyes watery. ‘How I wish I could have worked with her.’

Cole gritted his teeth. Lana was his prize, no one else’s. And certainly not Michael Benedict’s. ‘I’ll pass on your regards.’

And, without meeting the director’s eye, Cole was gone.

30

Las Vegas

‘What’s wrong with you anyway? You’re meant to be relaxing.’

Jessica Bernstein adjusted her position on the spa table to face her sister. The two women were enjoying a hotstone massage at the Spa Bellagio, the room decked out in eucalyptus-scented candles and rose petals. For Jessica it was the perfect way to spend yet another lazy afternoon; for Elisabeth it was giving her more time to think–something she didn’t need.

‘I’m fine,’ she replied, trying to focus on letting her muscles go.

‘Trouble with Robert?’ asked Jessica, in that way she had of fishing for scandal.

‘No, everything’s fine.’

‘Liar.’

Elisabeth closed her eyes as the masseuse worked around her shoulders. They felt knotted and tense. Memories of that fateful night with Alberto Bellini played constantly in her mind in vivid, breathtaking detail, like the reel of a blue movie. She had to get herself together–she and Robert were due at the MGM Grand later for the big fight.

The thought of Robert made her heart ache. She loved him. What the hell was she doing?

‘And you’ve been having hot sex,’ continued Jessica. ‘I can tell.’

‘What?’ Elisabeth snapped.

‘You’ve got that … thing. I don’t know how to describe it, like you keep thinking about all the sexy fucking you’ve been doing and then getting embarrassed about it.’

Elisabeth was appalled. ‘Jessica!‘ she scolded, indicating the masseuse, who was sure to be taking everything in. On top of that, she was shocked by the accuracy of her sister’s diagnosis.

‘So? Is it true?’

‘I’m not talking about this.’

‘It is, then.’

Elisabeth refused to speak any further until they had some privacy–one word in a Vegas hotel about what had happened with Alberto and it would spread like wildfire. Yet strangely she did feel compelled to talk to Jessica about it. Jessica was the only one who understood Bellini’s attachment to their family and who knew what a Lothario he really was. Besides, keeping it to herself was driving her crazy. In her way of cutting brutally to the point, her sister might even be able to dispense some useful advice.

Twenty minutes later the women pulled on their towelling robes and slippers and padded towards the meditation room. Fortunately it was empty.

‘Spill,’ said Jessica as soon as they were inside. ‘I want to know everything.’

As Elisabeth grappled for a place to begin, Jessica got bored waiting and steamrollered in. ‘It’s not Robert, is it? It’s someone else.’

‘Shh! For God’s sake, Jessica.’

‘Oh. My. God. Really?‘

An assistant came in and offered them drinks. Elisabeth ordered a jasmine tea while Jessica opted for fresh mint, adjusting her white-flannel headband with pearlescent fingernails. As soon as she left Elisabeth clarified the situation.

‘It’s not what you think,’ she said.

‘I never said what I thought.’ Jessica put her head back, inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. ‘Tell me what happened.’

Elisabeth thought how to word it. Eventually she settled on, ‘Alberto Bellini … well, he seduced me.’

There was a moment’s pause before Jessica said, ‘Oh. That’s it?’

Elisabeth was surprised. ‘What do you mean, “That’s it?"?’

Jessica opened her eyes a crack. ‘I thought it’d be something way more juicy. Bellini’s an old dog–he’s done it to me before.’

Elisabeth was outraged. ‘What?‘

‘Oh, you know, nothing really. Just trying it on when he’s had too much to drink, managed to get his hands up my skirt once. I tried to tell you in France.’

The tea arrived but Elisabeth felt too sick to stomach it.

‘It’s not like he’s serious,’ Jessica went on, taking a sip with an accompanying ‘Ow!’

‘Did you go to bed with him?’ asked Elisabeth, taking care to inject the question with a good dose of disgust.

Jessica hooted with laughter, which made it even worse. ‘Ha! No, of course not! He’s, like, way old. On the contrary–I told him exactly where he could put it, and let’s just say it wasn’t anywhere near me.’

Elisabeth endeavoured to hide her cringe in the steaming drink.

‘You know what I think?’ Jessica went on. ‘I think if it ever came down to it he wouldn’t even be able to get it up. His dick’s been left cold for so long, it’s probably haunted!’

It certainly isn’t, thought Elisabeth, dismayed at the idea that her sister–who was scarcely discerning about who she jumped into bed with–had turned down Alberto’s advances. It was too mortifying for words.

‘So what did you do?’ asked Jessica, sitting up. ‘Did you tell him where to go?’

Oh, he didn’t need to be told that. He knew precisely where he was going.

‘Well, of course I did,’ Elisabeth said, quickly backtracking. ‘I mean, it’s insulting. It’s not as if I’m not having fabulous sex with Robert.’

Jessica was disappointed. ‘So it is only Robert. How fucking boring. Honestly, Elisabeth, just when I think you’re about to surprise me and do something exciting.’

If you only knew.

Shaken, Elisabeth put down her tea carefully and looked at her sister. It wasn’t just the insult of Alberto trying to get lucky with Jessica, it was more a feeling of … God, she hated to admit it … jealousy. Much as it pained her, and much as his advances had likely been born out of alcohol–Jessica was hardly the kind of sophisticated woman he was attracted to-she acknowledged that fatal stab. How much had Alberto wanted her? Had he told her how beautiful she was, that she was the most exquisite woman in the world, the very things he’d told Elisabeth? It was too dreadful to contemplate.

‘It’s so unfair,’ whined Jessica, tying her fine hair in a knot.

‘What is?’ Elisabeth was still thinking about Alberto and wondered if Jessica might be about to confess to actually finding him devastatingly attractive, and how she wished, just between the two of them, that she’d accepted his advances and then Elisabeth could explain that, in fact, she herself had—

‘I wish I could get an invite to the fight tonight. I bet I could if Daddy were here.’ Bernstein was away on business.

Elisabeth forced herself to focus on the evening ahead. She would be on Robert’s arm, his fiancée, the two of them showcasing Vegas together. He could never find out–it simply was not an option.

‘I’ve got things to do,’ said Elisabeth, gathering her stuff. Tempting as it had been, she was glad Jessica was none the wiser: her sister was a leaky bucket when it came to gossip–what had she been thinking? No, this was something she was keeping strictly to herself. A crazy mistake, that was all. One night of weakness. She would forget it, pretend like it never happened.

‘Catch you up.’ Jessica reached for two slices of cucumber and positioned them over her eyes. ‘I’ve got a bit more work to do here first.’

31

Los Angeles

A week after the Romans’ wedding, Nate Reid rolled over in bed, a sour taste in his mouth. His eyelids felt like they were stuck together.

Last night must have been a big one–he couldn’t remember a thing about it. He lay quietly for a moment, eyes closed, sunlight breaking through in an assaulting shade of orange–what idiot prick had opened the blinds? Bits and pieces of the previous evening swam into focus. They’d been out with Felix and the record label. He vaguely recalled a basement club in Hollywood. There were girls and groupies and tequila and who knew what else.

Bringing his fingers to his temples and applying a little pressure, Nate let out a pitiful whimper.

‘Hey, honey,’ said a twangy American voice, ‘time to get your lazy ass outta bed. It’s one o’clock. I made brunch.’

Nate allowed his eyes to open a crack and frowned at the woman before him. She was pouring orange juice into two glasses. He didn’t recognise her.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘Rafaella,’ the woman said, unoffended. She was dark-skinned and tall like a man.

‘Did we …?’ he enquired warily.

‘What didn’t we?’ she responded with a snort, drizzling maple syrup on to a stack of pancakes and bringing them over. ‘Hope you don’t mind, I helped myself to food. Looks like you could do with something to eat.’

At the smell of the pancakes Nate bolted to the bathroom, where he promptly threw up. Fuck, this was bad.

He was glad when, an hour later, Rafaella finally departed, after stuffing her face with just about everything in the fridge and watching a slew of headache-crunching cartoons. It was unnerving to hang out with a stranger who only hours ago you were doing God knows what to, or who–as Nate suspected as he observed Rafaella out the corner of his eye–was doing God knows what to you. Especially when she was sprawled across most of his sofa.

Nate took a shower and started to feel a little better. His thoughts turned to Chloe–reassuring, sweet, harmless Chloe-as they always did with a hangover in need of some TLC. His girlfriend was mixing with some pretty important people these days. As of the wedding, he’d made a vow to stay faithful. As of today, he conceded, remembering Rafaella.

He threw on some jeans and dialled Chloe’s number.

Pleasingly she picked up straight away. ‘Hi!’

‘Hiya, babe. How’s things?’

‘I’m great.’ It sounded like she was in a car. ‘How was last night?’

Nate was confused. ‘Did we talk?’

Chloe laughed. ‘I knew you were out of it. You called at, like, two o’clock and completely woke me up.’

‘Sorry.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘Can you meet later?’ he asked.

There was a crackle on the line. ‘Sorry, I’m busy later. Maybe tomorrow?’

Had he heard right? It wasn’t like Chloe to blow him out.

‘Whatever,’ he said, acting like he didn’t care.

The line kept cutting out. ‘—bad connection—call you—I miss—’

Nate hung up and tossed the phone on to his bed. He was annoyed. Chloe hadn’t even told him where she was.

He contemplated his options for a moment before throwing on an ill-conceived outfit and heading out for some air. He slammed the apartment door loudly behind him.

Chloe closed her phone quietly. Nate had sounded pissed off.

‘Everything OK?’ asked Lana.

The women were cruising through Hollywood in one of Cole’s silver Mercedes, heading back to the Steel mansion–they had just wrapped their scene and Lana had invited Chloe to spend the afternoon.

‘Yeah, sorry.’ Chloe put the phone back in her bag. She looked puzzled. ‘I think he hung up on me, that’s all.’

Lana waved a hand. ‘I’m sure he didn’t.’

Chloe bit her lip. She decided not to let it ruin the rest of her day. This morning on-set had been amazing. Nate could wait.

Minutes later the car arrived at the foot of the drive. It sat purring gently while Cole’s cast-iron gates eased open, before slipping through and beginning its ascent up to the house.

Chloe was agape. ‘You live here?’

Lana nodded as they pulled to a stop next to Cole’s collection of vintage cars. ‘Yes, I live here.’

After giving Chloe a brief, edited tour, Lana fixed some cordial and they sat out on the terrace loungers, enjoying the winter sun.

‘You did a good job today,’ she said, impressed with Chloe’s performance. ‘You’re right for this.’

‘You think?’

‘I think.’

Chloe smiled. ‘Thanks. I had a lucky escape with Sam … he was kind of all over me when I arrived.’

Lana smirked. ‘Join the club. Wait till he sees you with your clothes off.’

‘Oh, I’d never do nudity.’

Lana looked at her sideways. She decided not to comment.

‘You’re so fortunate,’ said Chloe after a while.

Her words seemed a non sequitur and for a moment Lana was confused. She looked around her. ‘It’s a lovely house,’ she said carefully.

‘It’s a stunning house.’ Chloe picked up her glass. ‘It must be nice to have a proper home. A husband you love.’

Lana raised an eyebrow.

‘My parents,’ she went on, ‘well, my dad, actually… he lives in London, the same place I grew up in. I used to love it. But recently it doesn’t feel like home any more.’

There was a moment’s pause before Lana said, ‘Things don’t when you grow up. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing.’

‘It isn’t, not really. It’s just sad that all that’s … gone.’ She looked at Lana. ‘My parents are divorced,’ she explained.

Lana’s eyes were kind. ‘That must have been hard.’

Chloe shrugged. She got up and padded over to the infinity pool, where she sat down and trailed a hand in the water. ‘Do you mind if I put my feet in?’

Lana smiled. ‘Sure.’

‘I’d love to have it one day.’

‘What?’

‘You know.’ Chloe took off her sandals. ‘A husband, kids–a family.’

‘I would, too.’

Chloe squinted against the sun. ‘You’re nearly there.’

‘Nearly.’

‘Nate and I haven’t really talked about it.’ She tapped the surface of the pool with one foot. ‘He’s definitely The One, though.’

‘It’s great you’re so sure.’ Lana refilled their glasses.

‘You just know, don’t you?’ Chloe said softly. ‘And that maybe if everything isn’t brilliant, you know, maybe if you have the things that bug you or whatever, you just make it work, because that’s what relationships are about. You can’t just give up. It’s a commitment.’

Lana thought about it. ‘No, you can’t just give up.’ She sat back. ‘I read how you two met, it’s quite a story.’

‘Romantic, huh?’ Chloe grinned, thinking what a heroic tale it would be to tell their grandchildren.

Lana brought over Chloe’s glass and sat down next to her. She took off her own shoes and dangled her toes in. The water was cold.

‘I don’t think Kate diLaurentis likes me much,’ Chloe said. She’d been meaning to sound Lana out about it since the Romans’ wedding.

‘I wouldn’t worry about Kate,’ Lana assured her. ‘She’s just unhappy.’

‘She is?’

Lana didn’t like to gossip, but Kate had been so foul last week that she didn’t feel too concerned about it. ‘Her husband’s fooling around, has been for years.’

Chloe shook her head. ‘Why do people have to cheat? It’s so awful.’

‘Beats me.’

‘I’d never cheat on Nate. You’ve got to trust who you’re with.’

Lana nodded, her thoughts darting guiltily to Parker Troy.

‘They’ve got kids as well,’ she went on, ‘which makes Jimmy even more of an asshole.’

‘I guess he’s handsome in a geeky sort of way,’ Chloe said mischievously.

Lana made a face. ‘Not my type.’

Chloe grinned. ‘Who is?’ she asked, interested. ‘Apart from Cole, obviously.’

God, thought Lana, Cole was not her type at all. And yet he was her husband.

‘Ah, you know,’ she waved the question away, embarrassed, ‘the usual. Strong but sensitive. Handsome … but humble. Serious, but who can make me laugh …’

Chloe’s eyes widened. ‘Some ex-boyfriend, I can tell!’

‘Shh!’ Lana gestured frantically.

Chloe laughed, she hadn’t meant it. She turned to Lana. ‘I’ll bet Cole’s just the best husband ever,’ she said.

Lana slipped her shades on. Memories of Robbie tortured her–she had to let him go. With the premiere fast approaching, she could no longer afford to indulge in the past. And yet it refused to set her free.

The words came easily enough. ‘You got me,’ she said automatically. ‘He’s the best husband ever.’

32

Belleville, Ohio, 1998-9

‘You know what you’ve got to do,’ Robbie had said that day he’d met Lester. ‘You’ve got to find the courage to face up to him. ‘

But Laura couldn’t. She was too afraid of the consequences.

Over the next twelve months they dated in secret. Laura was still underage and while there were times she wanted to give herself to Robbie completely, times she was desperate to and begged him to take her, he refused. He had waited long enough and he would wait a little while longer–she, he promised, would be worth every second.

At school Laura was adamant that their relationship be kept quiet, in case word ever got back to her brother. Nobody could find out, not even Marcie. She knew that Lester would beat her–or worse-if he ever discovered it. For a while he had been dating a local barmaid and his attentions had been mercifully diverted, but lately, after that fell apart, he had been requesting more and more things from his little sister. He still hadn’t touched her, but occasionally he wanted her to touch herself. He always threatened her with a fist when she refused.

Her first summer with Robbie was long and hot and she never wanted it to end. They would spend hours just kissing and talking, behind the school or in the park, under the stars at night when Lester was out. He would leave notes in her locker at school telling her he was thinking about her, that he liked what she was wearing that day, how much he wanted to kiss her and touch her. It was like she had the best-kept secret in the world. It made her feel mighty.

She had asked Robbie to assure her of one thing: that he wouldn’t try to challenge Lester or go to the cops–it would be she who bore the brunt of it. She hadn’t told him the full story of the abuse, hadn’t told anyone, and knew he’d be unable to hold back if she did.

Often Robbie talked of his ambition, to make enough money to give her the life he said she deserved. Laura had her own ambition–to make enough money to live independently, never to be reliant on anyone else–but Robbie seemed to have a thing about saving her and at that time she was happy to be rescued. He told her how he planned to follow his father into the hotel business. Wait until she saw the desert lights, she’d scarcely believe her eyes. In Vegas they could live happily together. Lester Fallon could never come near them again.

On Robbie’s eighteenth birthday he told Laura he wanted her to come with him: he was quitting Belleville to study for a business degree and refused to leave her behind. She would turn sixteen in a month and a horrible instinct told him that Lester, with all his sick perversions, wouldn’t wait much longer. Robbie had seen the look in Laura’s brother’s eyes and he didn’t like it one bit. Lester was a hungry man, a twisted man. Hungry for his own sister.

‘I can’t …’ protested Laura.

‘Why?’ He took her in his arms. ‘Why can’t you? ‘

She couldn’t think of a reason, except for a misguided sense of loyalty to the brother who had hit her, abused her and caused her such misery. She knew Robbie Lewis was the love of her life. They hadn’t used that word yet but there was no doubting how she felt.

Weeks later, on the night she turned sixteen, everything changed.

Lester was out drinking, unaware what day it was, and she and Robbie were in their usual place, beside the felled tree, on a blanket under the stars. There, finally, she had given herself to him.

Robbie was gentle, taking his time, not wanting to hurt her. As she lay back and whispered, ‘I want you,’ a low groan escaped his lips and he moved himself on top of her. Unbuttoning her blouse, he slid a hand on to the skin there, feeling the steady beat beneath his palm. She shook from deep within.

They stayed like that, his hand over her heart.

‘I love you,’ he said.

It was like finding the answer to a great mystery and realising it was something so simple all along.

‘I love you, too.‘

‘Be with me,’ he said. ‘Always.’

She raised her head to kiss him, tracing the line of his jaw with her finger. ‘Always.’

His hand found her breast and she moaned softly, her nipple hardening under his touch. He wrapped an arm underneath her and pulled her body up towards him. On instinct she felt for his hardness and freed him from his jeans, and that part of him wasn’t a frightening, threatening thing but a warm, familiar part of the boy she loved.

Her body was ablaze, every fibre wanting him inside. When he entered her she felt a brief, sharp pain, but it was a wonderful, exquisite kind of pain and she savoured it, slowly easing into the rhythm of his movements, fitting with him, until they were just one person. As the pleasure mounted and a hot prickliness began at the point where they joined and then swelled within her, she gave herself up to the most blinding, body-shattering feeling she had ever known. She wrapped her legs tight around him and pulled him further in, wanting him, needing him, loving him and never wanting him to stop.

Afterwards, as they lay naked in each other’s arms, he asked her again. Except this time it wasn’t a question.

‘Come away with me.’

She looked into his eyes and brushed away a lock of dark hair. ‘You know I will.’

Once more they made love, and this time it was slower, more passionate, and even though it was dark she could see him watching her all the while. This time there was no pain, just that indescribable heat that surged through her. She could never have guessed that pleasure like it existed.

She should have known it couldn’t last.

‘Well, well, well,’ said a rasping voice, the light from a battered torch bathing their bodies in yellow light. It was Lester, drunk and swaying, his lank hair in a thin rope down his back and his lips split and cracked.

Laura grabbed her clothes. Robbie pulled on his jeans, eyes fixed on the other man.

Lester fumbled in his belt for something. In the bald light they saw it was a gun. He waved it in their faces, his eyes manic.

In her heart Laura knew something terrible was going to happen.

‘Somebody better tell me what the hell’s going on,’ he growled, ‘or I swear to Christ I’ll blow both your brains out.’

33

Las Vegas

The MGM Grand Garden Arena was a pit of clamour and excitement. Thousands filled the space, surging up its steep flanks, waving banners and punching the air, surrendering to the adrenalin of the night. The focus: a small square lined with red rope. In minutes, two of the world’s greatest fighters would take to the stage.

Elisabeth arrived late–it was the first event in months where she and Robert hadn’t made their entrance together. She peeled off her fur coat and took a front row seat next to her fiancé. He was talking to the city mayor but smiled and stood when he saw her.

‘Hello, darling,’ he said, kissing her chastely.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she muttered. She offered no excuse. In truth she had fallen asleep after the spa session and had been dreaming of Alberto Bellini so vividly that she had missed her alarm.

‘Don’t be.’ He stroked the hole of flesh her gown revealed at the small of her back.

‘Elisabeth, what a pleasure to see you.’ Oliver Bratman, mayor of Las Vegas, stood to greet her. He was clad in a royal-blue pinstripe suit with a beetroot cravat spilling out the top pocket. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Oliver.’ Elisabeth kissed him. ‘You look well.’

‘As do you.’ He grinned. ‘Must be the flush of an imminent wedding.’ His eyes glittered. Oliver was tall and bald, with thick, dark eyebrows and a nose mapped with burst blood vessels.

Elisabeth’s eyes flitted to Robert’s and he laughed smoothly. ‘Fear not, Oliver, you’ll get your invite.’

The roar of the crowd was deafening as the boxers were brought in. One was Mexican, his opponent British. Elisabeth had been watching these fights since she was a girl, dragged along by her father and not understanding why anyone would want to watch two sweaty men punching the lights out of each other. But over the years she had started to see a grace in it and now she found herself swept along in the pulse of the night.

Robert kept his hand on the small of her back. Once she would have found it electric; now she found it stifling. She focused on the fight.

The men’s bodies were slick with sweat as they swiped and punched, bouncing on their toes. The clash of their skin as they intermittently held each other was mesmerising.

Elisabeth was on her feet, so caught up in it that she barely noticed Robert taking a call. When he hung up he looked alarmed.

‘I’ve got to take this outside,’ he said. His face had gone completely white.

‘Is everything OK?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

He shook his head and said something in her ear. It was impossible to hear above the noise and he had to repeat it. Still she couldn’t understand.

‘I’ll come with you,’ she shouted.

‘No,’ he said quickly, patting down her concern with his hand. ‘I’ll be back.’

Elisabeth watched him go. When she turned to the ring she saw the British guy was down. His eye was split and there was blood spurting from his nose. He got to his feet, resuming the dance, a pink bubble popping at his lip.

And then, on the far side, she caught sight of Alberto Bellini. He was staring at her. He looked taller than usual, his snow-capped frame even whiter beneath the lights. The rest of the room vanished–it was just the two of them, their eyes locked. She averted her gaze. He could not know what he had done to her.

They had been avoiding each other since the night of the Oasis. She had expected him to visit her dressing room, half of her wanting him to, half of her not, but so far it hadn’t happened. This made him even more desirable–Elisabeth couldn’t account for his apparent indifference. She knew she was incredible between the sheets, he couldn’t have been disappointed. Perhaps it had been her reaction the morning after. Waking early from a dreamless sleep, a pair of strong arms, thick with hair, wrapped round her waist, her initial response had been one of disgust. She was disgusted at how freely she had given herself to him; disgusted at her terrible betrayal of Robert. Quickly and silently, she had dressed and made her exit before he awoke.

The boxers were in a tussle now, gripping each other’s heads, pounding their gloves. What fascinated Elisabeth the most was the strange intimacy that existed between them. Two men: both strong, both powerful, both wanting the same thing. Both prepared to fight for it.

A jet of blood spurted into the air and it was KO.

34

Los Angeles

Cole Steel’s agent poured his sixth coffee of the day and lost count of the number of sugars he put in it. It had been a shitty morning at his downtown office: he’d spent most of it in talks with aggressive publicists, and on top of that the air-conditioning was out.

Marty King dialled his secretary. ‘Jennifer, can we get this thing fixed? I’m sweating like a goddamn pig in here.’ He replaced the receiver and mopped his brow with a silk polka-dot handkerchief.

Marty’s office was an exercise in minimalism–a large white space sliced through with black leather and chrome. Back in the seventies when he had first started up, he had employed a then-little-known Norwegian designer to draw up the plans. It was still, in Marty’s view, the most stylish office in town. Outside, the emerald tops of palm trees rustled in the breeze of a pure-blue LA sky. It reminded him of a David Hockney painting.

Marty took a slug of coffee and it scalded his throat. He felt unbearably hot–and it wasn’t just down to the air-con. It was his client Cole Steel’s arrangement with Lana Falcon: the whole thing was enough to give him a coronary. The finer points of the deal had been complicated enough to begin with, but now Cole wanted to extend the contract and not only did that mean dealing with supreme hard-ass Rita Clay–it also meant coming up with a drastic plan of action. Instinct told him that Cole’s current wife wasn’t going to be all that easy to hold on to.

And then, yesterday, he had hit on the answer.

It was the only way.

But, boy, was it making him sweat.

In all his years in the business, Marty had never before been prepared to take such a risk. The solution he’d come up with made him question his whole moral fibre, something he consistently tried to avoid. Could he really go through with it? Moves like the one he was planning weren’t the reason he’d got into this game.

And he felt sorry for Lana–she was a smart girl, a talented girl, but she’d had no real idea what she was letting herself into when she’d signed with Cole. Marty knew his client was a difficult man but they went back a long way: these days he could anticipate Cole’s next move before he knew it himself. He had already been anticipating the renewal request. If Lana was able to do the same, she might have stood a chance–for when Cole made up his mind about something, it was as good as done.

If only his client could get his damn prick up! It’d make Marty’s life a hell of a lot easier.

He knocked back the rest of his coffee and checked his watch. It was four o’clock. Loosening his tie, he prepared for the long night ahead. If Cole Steel wanted to stay married, then that was exactly what was going to happen.

‘Are you Jimmy Hart?’

Across town, Jimmy looked up from beneath the rim of his baseball cap, a sticky array of empty shot glasses on the bar before him. The sudden movement made him feel decidedly woozy. He resolved to determine how pretty she was before answering the question, which was difficult to gauge when the room was swimming. Catching his reflection in a mirror on the opposite wall, he groaned. It was a good disguise at least: gone was the award-winning comedy movie star and in his place some bum drunk with three-day stubble and shadows round his eyes.

He’d been at Joey’s since three, a dimly lit bar off Wilshire that stocked an apparently endless supply of whisky, after yet another argument with his wife. The owner was a jocular Italian who either didn’t recognise Jimmy in his customary combats and cap, or politely pretended not to.

‘What’s it to you?’ he asked the woman, registering long dark hair, too frizzy, and clumpy eye make-up. She wasn’t bad, nice and tall, but today he just couldn’t be bothered. Women were cut from an identical mould – they were all chasing the same things: fame, money and the glory that came with bedding a movie star. Except for Kate–these days all she wanted was his dick on a stick.

‘I’m such a fan,’ she said in an artificial sing-song, slipping uninvited on to the adjacent bar stool. He noticed she was wearing cheap fishnet stockings that were torn over the knee. Maybe she was a hooker.

‘Yeah, well, you’ve got the wrong guy.’ He gestured for a refill.

‘I don’t think so …’ She reached for his leg but he swatted her hand away, vaguely pleased that the alcohol hadn’t deadened his reflexes. Somewhere amid the weak layers of temptation he must have an inbuilt anti-skank mechanism.

She watched him quizzically for a moment before raising a hand and giving him the finger. Her hands were massive.

‘Fuck you, bozo,’ she said gruffly, her voice dropping by an octave.

Glad to have been spared the attention, Jimmy downed another. It wasn’t helping, but tonight he just wanted to forget. And yet the more he drank the more thoughts of Kate wrung him out, like water being squeezed from a sponge. The marriage was in freefall. Since he had last tried to have sex with his wife, communication had all but broken down–the only time they talked to each other was when it concerned the children.

Jimmy put his head in his hands when he thought of the kids–it was because of them that he felt like a real bastard. But what could he do? When he had met Kate she had been a different person. And so, he supposed, had he. Everyone expected a comedian to be a self-loathing arsehole. Why disappoint?

Something buzzed in his pocket. It took a second to realise it was his phone. Had just saved him from liver failure, probably.

It was his agent. Great timing. He was tempted to stuff it back in his pocket but some faint intuition told him to pick it up.

‘Brock, hi.’ He tried to focus-drunk comics were such a cliché.

‘You’re drunk,’ said Brock.

‘I’m not.’ Jimmy nodded as the barman refuelled his glass.

‘Where are you?’ Brock asked suspiciously.

‘At home.’

‘Aha! I just called you there and no answer.’

‘I was taking a dump. What’s this about, Brock?’

‘You’ve got a casting next week.’

Jimmy was confused. ‘Have I?’ It had been ages since he’d been called for anything. His last film was a terrible commercial effort in which he’d had to gussy up as a range of overweight characters, hilarious, of course, because he was naturally so thin. It had bombed–fat wasn’t funny–and now Jimmy had all but given up on an opportunity to redeem himself. He’d been humiliated.

‘I’ll send over the script,’ said Brock.

‘As long as I don’t have to eat fifty chilli dogs or whatever.’

‘No chilli dogs. Or doughnuts.’

‘Fine.’

‘And remember Harriet Foley’s party on Friday. You should go–she likes you.’ Harriet Foley was the quite terrifying US editor of major fashion magazine In. She was extraordinarily well connected.

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Good. I’m bringing Chloe French,’ said Brock, loudly chewing gum. ‘I thought you two might get on–y’know, the Brit thing.’

Jimmy remembered seeing her at the Romans’ wedding. Young, arresting, with all that wonderful hair.

‘I gotta go, Brock. I’ll call about the script.’

‘You got it.’ Then, before he hung up: ‘And, Jimmy?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Go home.’

Jimmy closed his phone, downed the final shot and put a fifty on the bar. He could feel the rot of depression sinking in and told himself to climb up out of it.

Something needed to happen. Something good. Something, he decided, called Chloe French.

35

Chloe awoke early in her Malibu apartment to a beautiful Friday morning. She swam forty lengths in the pool and then fixed herself a breakfast of blueberries, oatmeal and a poached egg white. Since arriving in LA she’d felt well: sunshine, good food and no booze was definitely the way forward.

Brock Wilde had told her that literally everyone in LA had a personal trainer, so after throwing on some clothes she hailed a cab. The other day she’d spotted a fitness club downtown called Bench, which looked smart and the least intimidating–nothing to do with the fact that she thought she’d seen Robert Downey Jr disappearing through the doors.

At Bench she was greeted by a pretty blonde woman with astonishingly toned arms.

‘I’m Bonnie,’ she said, delivering a firm, rather painful handshake. Her teeth were too big for her mouth.

After some quick tests they got down to it with some weights and cardio work. Chloe tried to keep fit but after half an hour she was knackered.

‘Sorry,’ she wheezed beneath the weights, ‘this is harder than I thought! ‘

‘Need to rest up?’ asked Bonnie with a knowing smile.

Chloe nodded. She sat up and downed a litre of water.

‘Are you an actress?’ enquired Bonnie, passing her a towel. Chloe remembered that she wasn’t yet well known over here. It was rather nice.

She nodded and took the towel gratefully.

Surprisingly Bonnie didn’t look that impressed. ‘Come on, then. All the more reason to get back to work.’

What? That was a break?

‘You don’t want to lose any more weight, you know,’ said Bonnie, tweaking the equipment as her client lay back down.

‘I know,’ said Chloe.

‘I’ve gotta say it–I see too many young girls go that way.’

‘It won’t happen to me.’ Chloe decided she liked Bonnie. Even if, she thought as she settled into a series of tough arm reps, she was a hard taskmaster.

‘I’ve got this party on Friday,’ she went on. ‘I want to be ready for it.’ Chloe had read In magazine religiously throughout her teens, had appeared in the UK edition once or twice, and was hoping to impress its editor. People said Harriet Foley could make or break a career.

Bonnie never pressed for detail. She couldn’t stand name-dropping. ‘I’m sure you’ll be great,’ she said as Chloe finished up. ‘The guys there are gonna have their tongues hanging out.’

Chloe shook her head. ‘I’ve got a boyfriend, actually.’

Bonnie raised a cynical eyebrow.

‘What?’ Chloe laughed.

‘It doesn’t stop most people.’

‘Well, it stops us,’ said Chloe firmly. ‘We’re happy.’

‘I’m glad.’

As she padded to the changing rooms, Chloe felt a flurry of excitement. She’d missed Nate these past few days. She couldn’t wait to see him.

When she dialled his number less than an hour later, a sleepy voice answered.

Chloe held the phone under her ear, sliding a knife into a buttery avocado. Was he still in bed? It was past midday.

‘Nate?’

‘Whozat?’

Chloe frowned. ‘It’s me,’ she said patiently.

‘Oh, hey, babe.’ Yes, she’d definitely woken him up. She knew what he sounded like in the morning, all mussed-up and sexy.

‘Are you busy today?’ she asked, twisting the halves of the avocado apart.

‘Are you?’ he countered.

Chloe took the phone in her hand. ‘Don’t be like that,’ she said gently. ‘I did have stuff on yesterday. I couldn’t get out of it.’

‘Right.’

‘I’m sure you found something to do instead.’

‘Sure did.’

Chloe dropped a bag of salad into a bowl. ‘D’you want to meet? I can come over.’

‘Er, yeah …’ There was a rustle on the other end. Chloe thought she heard a woman’s voice in the background.

‘Who’s there?’ she asked, straining to hear.

‘One of Chris’s birds,’ said Nate quickly. There was another shuffle then the sound of a door closing. ‘Come over in an hour?’

Chloe grinned. ‘I will. Can’t wait.’

‘Me neither, babe, me neither.’

An hour later, after Chloe had eaten and showered and changed into a cute Adam playsuit, she took a cab to Nate’s downtown apartment. The record company had put them up in a nice block with its own pool, but it wasn’t as smart as her own place. She chided herself for making the comparison.

‘Hey,’ he said nonchalantly when he opened the door. He stepped back to let her inside, not bothering to kiss her hello.

Chloe was shocked at his appearance. Whereas she had adopted a healthy LA glow, her golden skin clear and her eyes bright, Nate’s face had a grey pallor and the whites of his eyes were almost yellow, with an eggy sort of sheen. Maybe this was part of the image. But the fact remained he didn’t look well.

‘Are you poorly?’ she asked, stepping in. She pressed a palm to his forehead.

He flapped her away. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, swaggering into the living room. Chris was on the couch, his arm draped round a stoned blonde with blue-saucer eyes.

‘Hey, Chris,’ said Chloe. The girl didn’t register. Chris looked at her quickly then glanced away.

‘What were you up to last night?’ she asked Nate as she followed him into his bedroom. It was a total mess in there, strewn with half-full mugs of tea and plates littered with pizza crusts.

‘Not a lot,’ said Nate, closing the door.

Chloe nodded and sat down on his unmade sheets. The linen released a musty, not altogether unpleasant scent. ‘How’s the band?’ she asked.

‘Pretty good,’ he said, fiddling with the stereo. ‘The new stuff’s killer.’ His voice became animated as he told her how they’d just shot a video for the first single, something about a deserted warehouse and strung-up trawler nets.

She mustered enthusiasm. ‘That sounds great,’ she said, waiting for him to ask her about the shoot with Lana. He didn’t.

‘Love this tune,’ he muttered, settling on a track. He sat down next to her. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling overdressed and awkward.

‘Is everything OK?’ she asked quietly. ‘You don’t seem yourself.’

Nate snorted. ‘Probably because you haven’t seen me in a while.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Chloe was concerned. ‘We saw each other at the weekend.’

Nate shrugged. ‘It doesn’t bother me,’ he said, lying back and fiddling with the belt on his trousers. ‘Just that now you’re all Hollywood, it looks like your celebrity friends are getting more of you than I am.’

‘Is that how you feel?’ Chloe asked softly. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think—’

‘Like I said, whatever.’ Nate took her hand. ‘I’m sure you can make it up to me.’ With his other hand he unbuckled his jeans and a rock-hard cock sprang free. He guided her fingers.

‘Nate, shouldn’t we talk about this?’

‘There’s better things to do than talk.’ His voice was gravelly now as he pulled her head towards his crotch. ‘Things that mean more.’ Closing his eyes, he ran his hands through her luscious hair–she’d take to it, had never been able to resist.

Sure enough, moments later he felt her lapping at his dick like a kitten.

This is where she belongs, he thought, propping himself up to watch the show. Chloe went at it tentatively at first, then with greater enthusiasm, clasping him between her palms, cupping and kissing his balls. He pushed himself further till he heard that beautiful mewl of resistance, felt her little soft tongue press down hard on his tip.

Withdrawing, he flipped her back on to the bed. He pounced on her, kissing and biting like a wild animal. With his teeth he freed her breasts, sucking at them hungrily, tucking his arm round her waist to bring her up closer.

‘I want you, Nate,’ she whispered. He buried his face in her neck, pulling on her earlobe. Man, she was beautiful.

He fumbled with the playsuit, trying to work out how to undo it. Eventually he gave up and hooked his fingers in, pulling the crotch of it to one side.

Chloe felt his cock pressing for entry. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ she asked through the haze. She raised a knee against his chest and levered him off.

Nate appeared confused. ‘I’m all out.’ He grinned. Realising how that sounded, he hastily added, ‘Chris nicked ‘em all.’ He leaned in to resume kissing her.

‘Come on, Nate,’ said Chloe, firmly this time. ‘I don’t want to get pregnant.’

Nate hauled himself off, rolling his eyes. Grudgingly he wrapped a dirty-looking towel round his waist and disappeared from the room.

Chloe sat up. She tucked her knees up under her chin and waited for him to come back. Moments passed. What was taking so long? She lay back and stared at the ceiling, a great fan with huge blades whirring above her. Bored, she rolled over and slid open his bedside drawer. There was a photo of the two of them at some launch in London last year, their arms round each other, smiles wide. She grinned at the memory.

Lifting it, she ran her fingers round its edges. They were made for each other, she knew that much. Nate had just been tired earlier, there was nothing to worry about.

As she went to replace it, her eyes fell on something else. Beneath the picture was a box of condoms. ‘Aha!’ she said happily, thumbing open the top and about to call out to Nate. But nothing prepared her for what it contained.

Chloe frowned. The box was stuffed with little squares of different-coloured foils, all of them ripped open at the top. Tens upon tens of condom wrappers with nothing inside. She emptied them out in the drawer, confused at first and then, as understanding came, totally numb. She felt her heart stop. Tears sprang to her eyes. The world shrank so it was tight around her. She pulled the sheet up to cover herself.

Faintly she heard Nate having a brief conversation with someone outside. She thought she heard the words, ‘Not this time, mate,’ before Nate opened the door and triumphantly held up the goods. She found she couldn’t say anything.

The sex was painful. Chloe was detached throughout, gazing blindly up at the ceiling, silent. Nate didn’t seem to notice as he rocked on top of her, mumbling things in her ear that she couldn’t hear. He tore at her body, attacking her, driving into her with unstoppable force.

Eventually he climaxed. Chloe lay still, eyes wide open. Nate rolled off and muttered, ‘Fucking amazing, babe,’ then fell asleep almost instantly. She heard him start to snore.

Chloe lay awake for what felt like hours. She was unable to get up and leave, not knowing if her legs would carry her.

She turned into the pillow and cried silent tears.

36

Lana punched in Cole’s number one more time, was transferred to the usual answering-machine and hurled her cell at the wall. What the fuck was her husband playing at?

Struggling to regain her composure, Lana made her way down the main stairs and out on to the terrace, where she promptly dialled Rita. Her agent picked up immediately.

‘Rita, Cole’s got me locked up, I’m going crazy. You’ve got to do something.’ She had been trapped in the mansion all day, waiting for his return like one of his pet dogs. Cole’s security had been instructed not to release her from the grounds until he was back–apparently he wanted to talk to her.

Did he know about Parker?

The heavies were more like robots than people, there was no getting round them. She was shaking with the injustice.

‘Hang on a minute, honey, slow down.’ Rita said something to the person she was with before coming back on the line. ‘I’m all yours, Lana, explain to me what’s happening.’

‘My husband’s got me locked in the house.’ Her voice was thick with frustration. ‘They’re not letting me out. I’m helpless, Rita, I’m fucking helpless.’

‘Whoa, whoa, who’s not letting you out? Cole?’

‘His security. It’s on his instruction.’

‘Just calm down a second, OK? Take a deep breath. Tell me why.’

‘I don’t know.’ Lana took in the expansive grounds, at this moment the smallest place in the world. There was a stitched-up feeling in her chest like panic. ‘He wants to see me.’

‘OK,’ rationalised Rita, ‘so what if he just wants to catch you when he gets back; make sure you don’t miss each other—’

‘By shutting me in?’

‘You both lead busy lives, Lana,’ said Rita reasonably.

‘What’s going on here?’ Lana couldn’t stop herself from snapping. ‘Don’t you believe me?’ A wave of horror crashed over her when she realised Rita was the only person who knew the precise nature of the deal and who could do anything about it.

‘Of course I believe you,’ she said with feeling. ‘I’m just trying to put forward both sides here. If we raise this as breach of contract, we’re embarking on a serious accusation.’

Abruptly Lana heard the main door slam shut. Rita picked up on the distraction. ‘Are you all right? What is it?’

‘He’s home. I’ve got to go.’

‘Call me later,’ Rita urged. ‘If you don’t get in touch before six I’m coming to the house.’ When Lana didn’t respond, she pressed, ‘OK?’

‘OK.’

Lana folded her cell shut and stormed into the hall. Cole was removing a pair of leather driving gloves with the precision of a surgeon. His expression was calm.

‘Hello.’ He removed his jacket and laid it on the side for his housekeeper to pick up. ‘You look upset.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Lana evenly, ‘I’m not upset. I’m furious. I want you to tell me what the hell you think you’re doing keeping me prisoner here. What am I, just another of your meaningless fucking possessions? I certainly cost as much, didn’t I? In fact,’ she laughed bitterly, ‘why give me the house, Cole? Why not lock me up in the garage along with your precious cars? And while you’re at it, why not go ahead and install me with a fucking security system?’

Cole just stared at her. Eventually he said, ‘Don’t swear, Lana, it doesn’t suit you.’

‘I’ll do whatever the fuck I like, Cole,’ she managed, hot rage simmering. ‘And there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.’

He frowned, confused, then walked past her to the bar where he sank wearily into a studded leather armchair. His footsteps echoed round the space and she saw he was wearing a pair of stacked, patent black heels. Offset by the trousers he wore, which were a fraction too short, the overall picture was bizarre.

He shook his head. ‘Frankly, I’m surprised.’

‘You’re surprised!’ she exclaimed in disbelief. ‘Imagine how I felt this morning when I tried to leave the house and one of your guys held me back?’ Her voice quietened. ‘He restrained me, Cole. Does a man like you have any idea how that feels?’

Cole’s face was blank. As ever he looked immaculate, pristine, cold. ‘They were only following my orders,’ he said smoothly. ‘They were doing their job.’

‘It’s not their job,’ Lana said shakily, scarcely able to contain herself, ‘it’s yours. But you’re not man enough to do it, are you? Oh, no, you couldn’t even—’

In an instant Cole was on his feet, his arm in the air.

Lana released a mirthless laugh. ‘Are you going to hit me? Go on, Cole, take your best shot. Go on–I’m good at this, you know, better than you think. I’ll—’

‘I’m not going to hit you,’ he said quietly, his arm falling to his side. ‘I would never hit you. I’m sorry, I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have done that.’

Momentarily silenced by his words, Lana attempted to slow her racing heart. When she spoke her voice was soaked with resentment. ‘You wouldn’t understand, Cole, but I’ve been through things much worse than anything you can throw at me. I won’t let you scare me. And I sure as hell won’t let you keep me here against my will. You put me in a cage and it’s the worst punishment I can imagine.’

Cole met her gaze. ‘I had to.’

‘Why?’ Her pulse surged as she remembered her affair. But her husband couldn’t know–such an affront would surely warrant a more deadly penalty.

‘Where were you yesterday afternoon?’ he asked stonily.

She breathed an inward sigh of relief. That was easy. ‘I was with a colleague. We had a scene together and then I invited her back here.’

Cole eyed her. ‘I couldn’t get hold of you,’ he said after a moment. ‘What’s the good of my wife if I can’t get hold of her?’ He seemed genuinely puzzled.

Vaguely Lana recalled putting her cell on quiet for the scene–she must have forgotten to switch it back on. ‘My cell was off,’ she explained. Then she shrugged. ‘And, yeah, I guess the house phone might have rung a couple of times …’

She could see the effect that had on Cole. One thing he could not abide was a ringing phone with no one to answer it–it was too much like chaos.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he lost it.

‘What the fuck good is that?’ he fumed. ‘And how dare you bring some fucking stranger into our home?’

Lana was alarmed. ‘Our home?’ she retorted. ‘You’ve made it quite clear this house belongs to you alone. As for “home”–don’t make me laugh.’

‘You need to apply some thinking to this, Lana,’ he said coolly. ‘The last thing we need is some silly starlet poking her nose around our affairs and drawing conclusions—’

‘Ah, so that’s what this is all about.’ A beat. ‘The bottom line, Cole, is that you don’t want me to have any friends. You don’t want me to know anyone. And it’s not just about protecting our little arrangement–’ she said the word with disgust ‘–it’s about keeping me in my place. You’ve gotten rid of everyone, haven’t you? My friends, my foster mom, everyone. You won’t have me thinking for myself, or making my own choices, and above all you won’t have me living my own life.’

‘I never stopped you being in touch with your foster mother, don’t you pin that on me.’

Lana’s voice shook. ‘You make it so I don’t know who I am, Cole. Can’t you let me breathe?’

‘We have our reputation to think about!’ The shrill of it rang out around the walls. ‘Does that mean nothing to you?’

Lana shook her head. ‘There are more important things than reputation, Cole.’

‘Not when you’re me.’ He was trembling. ‘Not when you’re me. This is a delicate understanding.’ He jabbed a finger at her and then at himself. ‘I know it, I’ve done it before. You cannot afford to be cavorting around with whoever happens to want a piece of—’

‘Cavorting?!’ she spluttered. ‘I think I’ve forgotten what that feels like!’

Cole’s eyes flashed. ‘Why must you be so goddamn secretive?’

He watched her, waiting for an answer. This was one point on which Lana knew she couldn’t tell the truth. Here she was telling Cole not to treat her like a prisoner, when the fact was she fully deserved to be one.

Her thoughts flipped to Robbie. Stay quiet. It’s his past as well as yours.

She folded her arms and looked away, convinced he could smell her guilt.

‘Pack your bags,’ he said calmly.

Lana’s head snapped up. He couldn’t be serious. ‘What?’

The passion that accompanied his wrath had evaporated–Cole was back to his usual, closed self and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Had she heard right?

‘We’re going to Vegas,’ he said. ‘Tonight.’

‘Why?’ It came out like a laugh. There was no way she was going to Vegas. She’d come up with an excuse, something, anything.

‘We’ve tipped off the press. It’s a spontaneous romantic getaway.’

This time she couldn’t stop the laugh escaping. Was he kidding? No, it seemed not–she doubted the irony had even registered.

‘I want to meet these characters behind your premiere,’ Cole went on, heading for the stairs, ‘make sure they’re on top of everything. It’ll be an important evening for both of us.’

Lana was struck dumb. Eventually she managed to stammer out a response. ‘I-I’m not going.’ It sounded like her voice was coming from very far away.

Cole turned and gave her a look she hadn’t seen before–a mix of grudging admiration and complacent satisfaction, knowing he had the contract on his side. ‘Oh, yes, you are.’

She shook her head. He could have no idea of the real reason she simply could not step on that plane with him. ‘I’m not going,’ she said again.

‘Unfortunately that is not your choice,’ he said, totally composed. ‘If you’re in any doubt, please consult the paperwork.’

It was a losing battle. Lana was bound to accompany Cole on publicity trips, even at such short notice. But it wasn’t possible. Going to Vegas wasn’t possible.

‘The jet will be ready for us in an hour,’ he told her, once she’d had time to digest the full impact of her duty. ‘Pack your bags.’

Lana blinked once, twice. Things were turning in on themselves, thick like glue. It was the stick of inevitability.

‘Where are we staying?’ she asked, already knowing what he was going to say.

‘Where do you think?’ He paused before delivering the final blow. ‘The Orient.’

37

Belleville, Ohio, 1999

‘Lester, please,’ Laura sobbed, pulling her clothes on, humiliation burning. Robbie was already dressed.

‘Lester, please,’ he mimicked, waving the gun again. ‘Please what, huh, bitch?’

Laura felt unbearably cold. The night was dark and thick. She felt Robbie’s hand on her shoulder.

‘Just cool it, Lester, OK?’ he said.

‘I’ll cool it when the hell I like,’ snarled Lester, slurring his words. ‘She’s a little whore, boy, you’re best off keepin’ away—’

In a flash Robbie rushed forward and slammed a fist into Lester’s face. It made a hard, smacking sound and Lester tumbled backwards, groping beneath him for the mossy ground. The gun flew from his grip.

‘Never speak about her like that again,’ commanded Robbie, his voice swollen with conviction.

‘You motherfucking sonofabitch—’ Lester scrambled to his feet and threw himself at Robbie, knocking him to the ground and pinning him with his knees. In a series of sickening shots, Lester pummelled Robbie, one punch after another, a hideous grin splitting his face, sharp rasps escaping with each exertion.

Laura moved quickly, hurling herself at her brother’s back, clinging there, clawing at him, biting his sour-tasting skin and begging him to break free. Eventually he did. Robbie was knocked out cold–or worse, she couldn’t tell.

‘Robbie!’ she howled, collapsing on to him. Lester dragged her off, pulling her into the trailer, grabbing her hair with his dirty fists.

‘Let me go!’ she cried, and he obliged by releasing her violently, sending her crashing to the floor and slamming her nose. She felt blood drip thickly, its iron taste in her throat.

Robbie. There might still be time.

Laura knew that speed was her strength. Lester was so drunk, on adrenalin now as well as liquor, that he could hardly stand up straight. She darted past him into her bedroom, grabbed a small bag from the top of the closet and threw some clothes into it. Taking one final look at the room she’d called home for the past seven years, she made her way back into the kitchen.

‘Don’t even think about it, bitch,’ slurred Lester, crashing into the kitchen table. Then he laughed. ‘You wouldn’t even dare. ‘

She watched him stonily.

With a burp he reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer.

‘I’m leaving,’ she told him, her expression cold. She stood with her back to the door, ready to make her escape. ‘And I’m not coming back.’

Lester squinted at her. ‘You won’t get far,’ he sneered as he chipped the top off the bottle. ‘An’ run good as you like, little girl: only place you’re endin’ up is my bed.’

He leered towards her, his breath rancid. Frantic, Laura reached behind, ready to push the door open. But before she could he grabbed her wrists and lunged, his bony chest squashing against her breasts.

‘Get your hands off me or I will make you regret it,’ she hissed. She spat in his face.

Lester blinked a couple of times, then sniggered, a cruel, throaty rasp. Shoving his bottle down on the side he pushed her to the floor, restraining her with grimy hands and shoving a knee between her legs.

‘What you gonna do, huh, baby sis? You’re a woman now, and women got things they have to do.’ He unbuckled himself. ‘Sixteen today, ain’t that right? I bet you thought I’d forgotten. Never. You’ll never be able to get away from me.’ His breath was rotten, his teeth blackened. She struggled beneath him. ‘I’m always gonna find you out.’ He landed a wet, rubbery kiss, half on her lips and half on her cheek. ‘Always.’

With all her might she tried to throw him off, kicking and punching and gnawing at his shoulder. He ripped aside her knickers, his mouth open, tongue escaping, eyes wild.

‘I’ve waited for you,’ he gasped, his voice syrupy with desire. To her horror she felt his thing. It wasn’t hard like Robbie’s, it was soft and thin and damp at the end. She gagged.

He thrust her legs apart, guiding himself in. She screamed out loud.

Then, as though an unexpected thought had occurred to him, Lester’s features were suddenly rearranged. He looked puzzled, raised a hand to his head before releasing a watery ‘Ugh’ and slumping on top of her, his face buried in her neck. There was something sticky and warm dripping on to her and as a bead of it slid into her mouth, she tasted its saltiness and realised it was blood.

‘Get him off me!’ she yelled, pushing at his bulk with all her strength. Her brother rolled on to the floor, face down, the back of his head a red, shredded mass of glass and skin and hair.

She stared at it, at him, dumb. It took her a moment to realise there was another person in the room.

Robbie Lewis. He was standing above her, shaking, a glass bottle in his hand. The top of it had come off in a jagged line and glistened black-red in the dim light.

‘What the fuck have I done?’ There was silence before he said it again. ‘What the fuck have I done? ‘

38

Las Vegas

Elisabeth Sabell stabbed a spear of asparagus with her fork. She bit off its head and chewed carefully, scrutinising her fiancé. They had met for a late lunch at Athena, the Parthenon’s signature restaurant, but Robert had barely uttered a word.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked gently.

‘Nothing’s the matter.’ He loosened his tie. ‘Just a little hot in here, that’s all.’

Elisabeth looked down at her salad, her appetite vanishing. She felt like there was a stamp across her forehead that disclosed her guilt.

‘Are you sure?’ she enquired weakly.

Robert smiled in a way that made his eyes go crinkly at the edges. ‘Of course.’

A simultaneous rush of relief and affection compelled her to take his hand. She stroked his skin with her thumb, the first real act of intimacy between them in weeks. They’d made love, of course, but methodically–not with the passion they’d once shared.

‘What time are you expecting them?’

He reached for his glass of sparkling water and took a very long drink. ‘Early evening,’ he said. ‘They’re scheduled to arrive at seven.’

‘Great!’ Elisabeth sang, wearied by the thought of it. She wasn’t looking forward to this evening at all. The last thing she wanted was to make Lana Falcon’s acquaintance. The woman spelled trouble for Robert and her–she couldn’t put her finger on it but it was definitely there.

Then again, Elisabeth was hardly able to indulge in the mistrust of others. Swallowing her memories of Alberto Bellini with the next slug of Sancerre, she put her cutlery together and gave Robert a tight smile. Since the fight she’d vowed to put him from her mind. It wasn’t easy. Every time she thought of Alberto’s touch, the way he had caressed her body with hands that had known a thousand dangers, she felt a shiver ripple right down her spine.

‘I’ll give them a tour of the Orient before we eat,’ said Robert. He cleared his throat.

As Elisabeth glanced up she felt a stab of guilt. She had to tell him, they were getting married. The twinkle of her engagement ring caught her eye. Robert still hadn’t mentioned a date for the wedding. In a defence she didn’t quite support, she decided it was no wonder she’d found solace elsewhere.

The mess you’re in is Robert’s fault, is it?

Yes, it is. He forced me into Alberto’s arms.

Don’t kid yourself, Elisabeth.

‘Is there something you want to talk to me about?’ she asked, bracing herself for the accusation. Hoping for it, even.

You’re a coward.

Instead Robert’s face broke into a warm smile. ‘No, darling.’ She got the impression he was treading carefully with what he said. ‘Why?’

She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

A moment passed. She felt his eyes on her but she gave nothing away. For a second it was like they didn’t know each other, just two strangers meeting at lunch. Abruptly he stood up.

‘I’ve got a VIP arrival,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘I’ll see you this evening, yes?’

Elisabeth dabbed her mouth with a napkin. ‘Of course–I’ve got a session with Donatella anyway.’

Robert tried a laugh. ‘Good luck,’ he said, remembering Elisabeth’s formidable voice coach.

Elisabeth didn’t join in. She rose to her feet. Then she added in a weird chummy sort of voice, ‘Till this evening!’

Silence. There had been this awful politeness between them for weeks. She felt like she should shake his hand.

‘Eight o’clock?’

She nodded, then grabbed her things and made a swift exit. It seemed important she be the first one to leave.

39

Later that afternoon, Robert stood for a long time under the hot needles of water. He scrubbed furiously at his skin, washing away the sleepless night he’d had, the torturous day; preparing himself for what was to come.

In less than two hours, Lana Falcon would be in his hotel. He would see her again. He would see those clear green eyes and pretend he hadn’t looked into them a thousand times before. He would embrace her politely when they met, feel her familiar shape and skin and smell her hair. He would talk to her like they had never even met.

But despite how it had ended, he couldn’t bring himself to wish he had never been a part of her life. It would still be Laura, he couldn’t doubt it, and for that reason he knew he would still love her. He would still love her in that lasting, irrevocable way he could not summon for anybody else. Her laugh, her kindness, her body.

He remembered the night she had walked out on him, the guilt that had set hard in their bones finally winning the fight. That morning he’d woken to find her gone, her closet empty, not a trace of her left. Except a note:

Robbie, this is my lie. Let me take it with me.

The words he had lived with for the past decade.

A familiar surge of anger flared. Everything she’d put him through and that was how she repaid him. He’d told her it would happen. She hadn’t listened.

He scoured his face and chest, ridding himself of the memories.

At the MGM he’d heard they were coming, wanted to scope out the Orient before next summer. It sounded so simple, just an introduction over dinner, except Robert knew it would be almost impossible to do.

I’m going to see Laura again.

He didn’t think Elisabeth had suspected anything over lunch today. When he thought of his innocent fiancée he felt nothing but shame.

Turning off the shower, he stepped out, pressing a towel to his face. It was easier to feel anger than it was hurt.

He could not continue to let Lana Falcon rule his life. She had moved on; she didn’t want him. She’d wasted no time in getting married to another man. Clearly she had forgotten everything; meanwhile he’d been holding out on the rest of his life–and for what? Some girl who couldn’t care less.

Tonight would draw a line under the past. He was a St Louis, a businessman, and he hadn’t got this far by indulging his emotions.

Robert wrapped the towel around his waist and emerged into the bedroom.

To his surprise Elisabeth was sitting on the bed, her eyes dead on him. She must have come in and got changed while he’d been in the shower. Her gun-metal-grey gown was studded with crystals and a serious expression clouded her beautifully made-up face.

‘I thought I was meeting you there,’ he said, running a hand through his wet hair. He pulled a dark blue suit out of the closet.

Elisabeth swallowed. ‘I’ve got to be honest with you.’

Robert turned round. Immediately she looked away and in that movement he knew the hurt he’d caused her ran deeper than he knew. He’d withdrawn the past few months, he’d treated her unfairly–what was she supposed to think?

‘About what?’ he asked softly.

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it again. Tears threatened and she raised a hand to stem them. ‘I don’t know how to …’ she began.

Robert saw his opportunity. ‘I know things haven’t been great between us,’ he said quietly, approaching the bed.

‘Me, too,’ she blurted. ‘It’s because I’ve done—I mean, I’ve been—’

‘Stop.’ He sat down next to her and put a finger to her mouth. ‘I already know.’

Elisabeth was confused. ‘You do?’

‘Of course.’ He put an arm round her and pulled her into his warmth. ‘I’ve not been there for you lately, I’m aware of that.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘To tell the truth I’ve had a lot on my mind, I had a few things I needed to work out. Now that I have, I know what I want.’

He pulled away so he could look into her eyes. They were blue, so blue. That treacherous part of him willed them to be green.

‘And what’s that?’ she asked.

He closed his eyes. ‘I want to … Hang on.’

Suddenly he was on his knees, in front of her, his strong, bare chest still wet from the shower.

‘Elisabeth.’ He looked up at her solemnly.

Her breath caught.

‘Will you marry me?’

She let out a burst of laughter. ‘What?’

‘I don’t mean it like a proposal.’ He took her hand and rubbed a thumb over the sparkling diamond. ‘I mean it like a date, OK? Let’s set a date. For the summer, after the premiere.’ He became animated. ‘Soon after the premiere, in August, yes? Pick a date for me and I promise you,’ he put a hand on his heart, ‘we’ll do it.’

Elisabeth was stunned. This was it: her opportunity to become Mrs St Louis; the most powerful woman in Vegas. It meant she could put the episode with Alberto Bellini firmly behind her. She could be free from her family once and for all. So why didn’t she feel happier?

Robert looked up at her expectantly.

‘Yes!’ she cried, surrendering herself to the release. In one word she was back on safe ground. Everything was going to work out, this was how it was meant to be–her night with Alberto had been a blip, nothing more, just as she’d known. ‘Oh, of course, yes!’

She fell into his arms and he kissed her fervently, his hands buried in her glossy blonde hair. Gently he lowered her to the floor and moved on top of her, kissing her, one hand cupping her chin, the other working the zipper on her dress.

Elisabeth thought briefly of Alberto, but only briefly. Robert had saved her, delivering her from transgression and showing her the way.

Robert thought of Lana and resisted her with all his might. He resisted Belleville, that final, terrible decision, though it came in waves, thick and fast.

This was the right thing, for all of them. It was the right thing for him. It was.

40

Belleville, Ohio, 1999

‘We’ve got to go to the police.’

Robbie was slumped against the door to the trailer, his head in his hands.

‘No.’ Laura shook her head fiercely. ‘No cops, no way.’ Indecision was a luxury they could not afford–there would be time for weakness later. For now they had to think straight, and if there was one thing she was certain of, it was this: Lester Fallon had taken enough of her life already, there was no way she was giving him more.

‘Laura, I killed him.’ Robbie shook his head. ‘Do you hear me? I killed him.’

Laura thought she was going to be sick. ‘It was self-defence,’ she said at last, her voice cold. ‘He was trying to rape me. ‘

They had no idea how much time had passed since the fatal blow. It felt like hours. The smashed bottle lay on its side at her brother’s feet, staring back at them, accusing. The words ‘murder instrument’ looped in Laura’s mind.

‘I need some air,’ she said. ‘We have to get our heads together, come up with a plan.’

Robbie looked up at her. ‘No police?’

She shook her head. ‘No police.’

He closed his eyes. ‘OK.’

Outside they sat next to each other, not speaking. It was dark and late and there was no one around. Robbie took Laura’s hand in his and held it.

This was the only boy she had ever loved. It was her fault they were in this mess and there was no way she was letting him take the rap for it. He had a bright future and he’d give that up over her dead body. Not Lester’s.

Eventually she turned to him. ‘It’s our only chance.’

‘What?’

‘My brother keeps a can of gasoline out back.’

Robbie held his hands up, as if he could repel the force of her suggestion. ‘Laura, no.’

‘Just think about it a second—’

‘No.’

She touched his face. ‘Don’t you get it? My brother’s so drunk most of the time he doesn’t even know who he is. He could burn this place down all by himself. Nobody around here would ever know … Robbie, they’d expect it.’

She paused. ‘Do you hear what I’m saying? We have to destroy the evidence, all of it–it’s the only way.’

Robbie shook his head, but she could see him flipping it over, feeling its edges, trying it out.

‘We can’t.’ His eyes were black, serious. ‘What about the future? What about Vegas? How could we ever live with ourselves—?’

Laura kissed him. He kissed her back and for seconds they forgot. Tonight wasn’t happening; it was just a terrible dream from which they would soon wake up.

‘We will live, Robbie. And this is how. I’m not letting him ruin the rest of my life. I’m not letting him ruin us.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I’m not.’

He kissed her again. I’d do anything for you,’ he said, and she believed him. ‘But I know you and I know how you think. I can’t walk into this now if it means you realising in a year’s time that we made a mistake—’

‘That won’t happen.’

‘It might. ‘

‘It won’t.’

He shook his head and laughed emptily. ‘You can’t be sure of that.’ He held her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. ‘We go to the police—’ When she opened her mouth to object, he put a finger to her lips. ‘We go to the police and explain what happened. It was self-defence, just like you said. We’ve done nothing wrong.’ He swallowed, turned away. ‘You haven’t, at least.’

Laura shrugged him off and got to her feet. He would never convince her, however hard he tried. She knew he would carry the weight of the punishment and if there was anything in her power that could stop that happening, she would do it.

He followed her round the back of the trailer, watched in silence as she rummaged in a heap of cans.

‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘It’s not the right decision. You can’t see it now, but I promise you, it’s a mistake.’

‘Forget promises, Robbie.’ She found what she was looking for, freed it with a violent tug and unscrewed the cap. A sweet, stinging smell rose up from its neck. ‘You promised me we’d get away from here, you promised me that, too, remember?’ Fighting tears of panic, she wiped a sleeve across her nose. It left a sooty black mark. ‘I’m not letting you go down. This is our only way out and I’m taking it. For once, I’m fighting back. Just tell me: tell me you trust me.’

His answer came straight away. ‘I trust you.’

Laura took a deep breath, bolstered by his confidence even though she knew he would have played it differently. ‘You don’t have to be a part of it,’ she said.

He reached for a pack of matches on a decrepit ladder of wooden shelves behind her.

‘I am a part of it.’

When she took them from him, they both knew there was no going back.

41

Cole Steel’s Gulfstream private jet soared high above the clouds, its sleek white body glinting against a flesh-pink sunset. Vegas was less than an hour away.

‘Have a drink, it might cheer you up,’ said Cole. Lana stayed quiet.

Cole knew he had to draw his wife back to him, as one might a mistrustful pet, if they were going to convince waiting paparazzi that the marriage was rock-solid. The way Lana was acting, it was as if she were being taken to the gallows.

He leaned over. ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked through gritted teeth. Still she didn’t say anything, just kept staring out the window. ‘Christ!’ he spat, losing his temper. This was a complication he could do well without. He turned back and flipped open a magazine with force.

The jet, one of four in Cole’s fleet, was palatial. Its interior was a fine palette of neutral creams complete with gilt finishes, and on each leather seatback the letters CS were embroidered in gold. Crystal lamps adorned the cabin, a fusion of modern and classic, and a bar at one end stocked a wealth of refreshments.

Lana stayed where she was. She could not look at her husband, could not bear to look inside the cabin even, too stark a reminder it was of where she was going. Instead she preferred the view outside, the uncomplicated spread of the sky.

Cole got up and stormed to the bathroom, muttering something on his way past. Lana watched him go, a tide of nausea washing over her as nerves tightened their hold.

Robbie Lewis was down there somewhere. He was close.

The past threatened to overwhelm her; that last part that hurt her heart the most and left her awake at night, wrung out with guilt. She battled it with all her strength.

Cole resumed his seat and began tapping furiously on his laptop. Lana glanced across at him with a stab of pity. She could not love him, not ever. Thank God the end was within reach: in two years their marriage would be over and she would be free to love whomever she chose.

Closing her eyes, she imagined what Robbie might say if she told him this, if she dared to confess that she still had feelings for him. Would he laugh at her? No. Would he be mad? Maybe. Was it possible, even the tiniest possibility, that he felt the same?

Hope blossomed, just a vulnerable shoot but hope all the same. Yes, it was possible. There was still a chance; they could still have a future. It didn’t have to be over.

‘On second thoughts, I will have that drink,’ she told Cole.

He looked up and smiled at her, relief softening his features. He summoned his attendant. ‘Make it strong,’ she added.

There was no other way. She would go to Robbie tonight, talk to him alone and tell him how she felt. That as soon as the contract with Cole was up, she wanted to be with him. That she was sorry for the heartache and for all she had put him through, but that she could never know peace with another person in the way she knew it with him. They would confess to everything if they had to.

Lana watched the blazing sun dipping below the horizon, a purple glow cast in its wake.

Suddenly the world had changed. There was hope, at last.

42

Belleville, Ohio, 1999

Afterwards they went to the police, their story ironed dead straight. Laura didn’t need to fake her tears–they were real enough–and neither did Robbie his part as the concerned boyfriend.

They told their account of that night countless times over the next days, weeks … time soon lost its meaning. They’d been in the park, had seen smoke billowing into the sky and heard the shouts and cries for help. Running to its source they’d got closer, ever closer to her brother’s trailer until they were right on it. The scene had been worse than they could have imagined–the magnitude of the blast, the reach of the inferno and the panicked screams of the gathered crowd. Flames spat and hissed into the night, thrashing the trailer to pieces, scorching everything inside. Anyone unlucky enough to be in there wouldn’t have stood a chance.

As Laura had predicted, once the drama of the fire blew over nobody paid much attention to the loss of Lester Fallon. It was no great surprise that the loner drunk had finally been dumb enough to set fire to his own home–they just thanked God he hadn’t taken his little sister with him. As a result the inquiry was faint–hearted, it was as good as a closed case. The community was a better place without Fallon-the bum had got what was coming to him. It turned out the police had taken him in on several occasions previously, mostly on alcohol-related counts, and knew he was a vicious, unpleasant man.

A social worker came to visit the week after Lester died, and it was decided that Robbie and his family would look after Laura until she came of age. But they had to get out of Belleville. The compulsion to start afresh was greater than ever.

Two months later Laura and Robbie left for Columbus, where within weeks Robbie began working at an accountancy firm while studying for his business course in the evenings. They moved into a tiny one-room apartment and Laura took a job waiting tables in Harry’s Burger Bar. While it wasn’t the most glamorous of jobs, it was a start.

One busy afternoon a young man came into Harry’s, ordered a double cheeseburger, introduced himself as a talent scout and asked Laura if she’d ever considered acting. She wasn’t tall enough to model but she had a classic beauty that would look great on screen. It wasn’t the first time a customer had commented on her looks, so she didn’t think much of it. When she told Robbie that evening she expected him to find it funny, but instead he encouraged her.

‘Why not?’ he asked, glancing up from his papers. ‘You’ve got nothing to lose.’

‘An actress?’ She laughed. ‘Come on, Robbie, get real.’

He shrugged. ‘You can do anything you want. You’re certainly not flipping burgers the rest of your life.’

Laura had kept the man’s card, but didn’t feel ready to pursue it just yet. With the crime they had run from, it hadn’t occurred to her to dream of a future much beyond the next couple of weeks. The fear was still there that if she pushed her luck even a fraction too far, it would all come crashing down.

They never spoke about that night. She had sworn to Robbie that she wouldn’t let it affect them–no regrets–and that meant burying it deep. What she wanted to do was thank him for saving her life. She might not have died at Lester’s hands on the trailer floor, but he would have killed a part of her she could never get back.

For the first six months things were good. They were happy, in love and the future was there for the taking. Robbie was excelling in his course and was already in touch with his father about the move to Vegas.

But not long after, things started to change. The rot set in. For Laura, it began with the nightmares: her brother pinning her down, pushing his way inside, attacking her body. The look on his face when the deadly blow had struck; the gash on his skull that ran so deep. But worse, the way she had so ruthlessly destroyed the evidence, dousing the place in gasoline and lighting the match. It wasn’t what Robbie had wanted: he’d wanted to do the honest thing. She was the poison, damaging everything and everyone she touched, ruining it, killing it. It was only a matter of time before the same happened to him.

She found she was unable to explain these horrors to Robbie, the dark images that flashed across her mind in the dead of night in that lonely, terrible way. The only certainty was that if she stayed with Robbie, she would endanger him.

Robbie tried everything, desperate to find a way to reach across that space and comfort her. His worst fears had come true: guilt was a persistent beast, and it refused to relinquish the woman he loved. There was nothing he could do. When he reached for her body, she pulled away. When he told her he loved her, she pretended not to hear. There had always been fight in him, but he didn’t know if he could fight for both of them.

Close to a year after they had first arrived in Columbus, Robbie awoke on a grey, still morning to find she was gone.

There was a note. Some crap about sparing him; some meaningless martyr bullshit.

For weeks he was angry. He half expected her to come back, to say their love was worth more than this and that they’d try to make it work. When she didn’t he called her again and again, left countless messages, all saying things he didn’t really mean and not one that said what he really meant. No reply. He guessed she’d changed her number. He tried a couple of leads, sat in Harry’s for days on end, hoping for a clue–maybe she’d mentioned something to someone, anyone. Nothing. She had gone, vanished like a ghost into the night.

He drank for a while. Slept with women without knowing their names. Every morning he woke and looked in the mirror, hating what he saw.

Murderer.

Dark shadows round his eyes. Black stubble he couldn’t be bothered to shave. But most of all the intense sadness that clung to his shoulders like fog.

He scraped a pass on his course, though Christ knew how.

Then, in the New Year, he called his father.

‘I’m coming to town,’ he declared. ‘I need to start over. Vegas is it. ‘

43

Los Angeles

Harriet Foley’s mansion sat in the heart of Beverly Hills, a magnificent white building set in a cluster of palms and furnished with a staggeringly expensive collection of contemporary art. Guests milled poolside under a violet sky pierced with stars. The evening smelled sweet, like money and sex and the December sun bleeding out of the day.

Chloe hadn’t felt like coming. Since her afternoon with Nate a few days ago, she’d felt dreadful–she hadn’t seen him since. All her instincts told her to run back to London, back to the house in Hampstead and curl up in bed, shutting the curtains and forgetting the world. But she couldn’t. And anyway, the UK was the worst place she could be right now.

She couldn’t find the courage to break up with him. She didn’t know if she could do it by herself. And what if she’d misunderstood? What if she’d misread the situation? But, despite these brief intervals of hope, she always reached the same conclusion: whichever way she looked at it, Nate was guilty as sin. It killed her.

‘Hey,’ said Brock, taking her arm as they were ushered inside to take their seats, ‘everything all right?’

She nodded. She had to pull herself together–this was an important evening.

Harriet’s dining room was more like a greenhouse, with lush jade foliage hanging down each side. An absurdly long table, as it would need to be to cater for this number of diners, was decorated with lavish flower arrangements and spotted with baskets of multi-seeded bread. A small, tastefully decorated Christmas tree stood in one corner, as if to show willing.

‘You know,’ Brock nudged her, ‘Harriet’s been looking at you all night. She likes what she sees.’

Chloe had dressed carefully in an all-black trouser suit, Louboutin heels and bold silver jewellery. With her glossy black hair and cat-like grey eyes, the effect was simple but striking. She knew she ought to feel more excited, but couldn’t get rid of this lead weight in her stomach. The thought of Nate with all those other women or, arguably worse, with just one …

‘I’m glad.’ She forced herself to smile.

‘Good.’ Brock reached into an ornate Japanese bowl for an edamame bean pod. ‘Stop looking so glum.’

A starter of tempura prawns arrived–only two, resting self-consciously on a tiny nest of watercress. While Brock turned to an agent friend of his, Chloe searched for someone with whom to start a conversation. She found the women difficult to approach, had been especially sensitive to it since the reception she’d had from Kate diLaurentis. Apart from a kid actor opposite who she vaguely recognised, she was probably the youngest person here–and guessed that didn’t do her any favours. She wondered where Lana Falcon was tonight. Probably with Cole, enjoying a dreamy romantic evening.

Chloe clenched her fists in her lap. She couldn’t bring herself to think where Nate was tonight. Or with whom.

‘Excellent,’ said Brock, dragging her back to the moment. ‘Here’s Jimmy.’

She heard the accent first, a little bit Americanised but still very much there, then looked up as a lofty, shambolic-looking man swept in, apologising profusely in the British tradition, greeting his host then falling into the seat next to Chloe, where he promptly did justice to the plate in front of him.

‘What a fucking day,’ he said, chewing loudly. His wine glass was filled and he slugged half of it back in one.

It was past nine o’clock and Chloe suspected his late arrival wasn’t the best etiquette, but seeing Jimmy now she understood how he could get away with things like this–in that bumbling, awkward way people like Hugh Grant might.

Chloe felt Brock tense. ‘Jimmy,’ he said in an undertone, ‘what’s going on?’

Jimmy glanced up, ready to placate his agent, when he clapped eyes on Chloe and his face froze. It was a classic double-take.

‘Good, you’re not drunk,’ Brock said out the side of his mouth, topping up Jimmy’s water glass all the same. ‘Jimmy, meet Chloe French. Lana Falcon’s new protégée.’

He stared at her, a prawn suspended between his finger and thumb.

‘I’m Jimmy,’ he said finally, holding out his other hand. He had a nice face, with scratchy lines round the eyes that suggested he smiled a lot. His top teeth came out a fraction over his lower, which gave him an unpretentious, quite geeky look, and his hairline was receding in a sexy Jack Nicholson-type way. Yes, Chloe thought, he was definitely attractive. Not that it mattered one way or the other.

‘Nice to meet you,’ she said. He had a good, firm shake. She thanked the waitress as her glass was refilled.

‘Which part of London are you from?’ he asked, not taking his eyes from her.

‘North,’ she answered, glad to have someone to talk to, ‘Hampstead. And you?’

‘Even further north. Manchester, originally.’ He looked down at the prawn, appeared surprised, as though someone had put it there without him noticing, and popped it in his mouth. ‘Don’t go back to the UK so much any more–except for work, which isn’t the same.’

‘Do you miss it?’ she asked.

He made a face. ‘Yeah. Not so much it as, well, me.’ A pause. ‘That sounds weird.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

He grinned. ‘You’re sweet.’ His gaze was so intense that Chloe felt the rest of the room retreating, as if she and Jimmy were the only people there. He was not what she had expected: she’d seen him in a few things, including that awful film where they put him in a fat suit, and had always thought him borderline cringy. In the flesh he was surprisingly charismatic and charming.

When the main arrived Chloe found she had lost her appetite. But this time it wasn’t because she was sad, it was something different. She’d never been able to eat in front of someone she fancied.

A pang of guilt shot through her, before she remembered what Nate had done. A little flirtation was nothing compared with his betrayal.

‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’ asked Jimmy.

Chloe was embarrassed–she didn’t want him to think she had a problem. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she told him.

He seemed unfazed. ‘Mind if I …?’

‘Go for it!’ She laughed, nudging across her plate.

‘Thanks,’ he said, forking a chunk of meat into his mouth. ‘There’s barely food at home, have to grab it when I can.’ He winked and she wasn’t sure if he was joking.

‘Really?’

It was his turn to look embarrassed. ‘I’m exaggerating,’ he said, a little uncomfortably. ‘My wife’s on a permanent diet, that’s all.’

Chloe all but slapped a palm to her forehead. Of course, he was married to Kate diLaurentis. For a moment she’d totally forgotten.

‘How is Kate?’ she asked politely, not really caring how Kate was. She couldn’t believe such a nice man was married to that bitch.

‘She’s fine,’ he said abruptly, stabbing at the food. He was clearly ill at ease talking about his wife.

Chloe sipped her drink. A snippet of information was swimming to the light, something she remembered Lana telling her. Wasn’t Jimmy a serial cheat, forever doing the dirty?

They all are, she thought bitterly. Everybody cheats.

‘Kate’s in Italy. She’s working on some fashion range, meeting designers and stuff.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t know too much about it, actually …’

‘That’s interesting,’ said Chloe, wondering how many girls he was bedding in his wife’s absence. Much as she disliked the woman, she now knew how it felt.

And how her father must have felt.

Chloe gritted her teeth. Trust. There was a joke of a word.

Fortunately Brock cut in and the men struck up a conversation about some casting Jimmy had been to. Chloe was relieved and decided not to talk to him again this evening–it was a shame, she’d liked him, but now she was learning that the only person she could really rely on was herself. This town would make her tough. Maybe it was what she needed.

Dessert arrived, a chocolate concoction with a blood-red jus, and Chloe, regaining her appetite, shovelled it in.

‘You like sweet things,’ observed Jimmy. ‘You know, I could tell you a terrible chat-up line.’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Chloe, finishing.

Jimmy grinned, happy with her feisty response. ‘Sweet, but with a twist.’

With a screech she pushed back her chair and stood, excusing herself.

In the bathroom she sat on the loo with her head in her hands, trying not to think about Nate. The number of times he must have chatted up other women, taken them home, done things to them that she’d thought were only theirs. How many? How long had it been going on? Her mind flipped back sickeningly through the times they’d shared in London, that crazy night in Kentish Town that she’d thought had been a one-off but maybe hadn’t, looking for the signs. She’d been blind, thinking he loved her. What was love anyway? Growing up, it had been what her parents had; then it had been what she shared with Nate. Now she didn’t have a single fucking clue.

When she came back to the table, people were up and mingling. She caught Jimmy Hart watching her and pulled her shoulders back, for a moment enjoying his attention. If she’d wanted Jimmy, not that she did, she knew she had him hook, line and sinker.

She and Brock mingled for a while before he suggested they make an early exit.

‘But it’s only just gone eleven,’ Chloe protested, a little drunk, as he wrapped a coat round her shoulders.

‘Always be among the first to leave, darling,’ he advised. ‘Remember it.’

They said their goodbyes to Harriet, who air-kissed Chloe in dramatic fashion, enveloping her in a cloud of citrusy perfume. A tiny piece of spinach was clinging to her top lip, which no one was daring enough to tell her about.

‘Call me,’ she told Brock, giving him a meaningful look.

On the way out a tall, curly-haired figure stepped in front of Chloe, blocking the way.

‘Leaving so soon?’ Jimmy asked, swaying a bit.

Chloe nodded. ‘It was good to meet you.’

‘Can I see you again?’ he asked quietly. She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. It was clear what he wanted and he was practised at getting it.

Suddenly Chloe felt reckless. She was tired of being the good little girl that everybody crapped on, left behind, got bored with.

‘You can take my number,’ she found herself saying. She expected it to come out shaky but instead it came out firm, like a new voice.

If Nate could do it, why the hell couldn’t she?

44

Las Vegas

The Orient was just as Lana had dreamed, a mine of gold shimmering in the desert.

Christmas had come to Vegas in glittering style–a great, sparkling tree soared into the sky outside the hotel, cherubs and baubles dripping from its flanks; three reindeer, their antlers tough and wide, stood with their keeper in a little wooden stable, their noses gently patted by tourists under a snow-capped roof. To Lana it was scarcely real, like finding a door to her imagination. She half expected to feel a hard pinch and wake up back in LA.

An army of waiting paparazzi swarmed out front, cameras brandished like weapons. Lana held her breath as the car pulled up. Word had got out: hordes of screaming fans, a crowd three-deep, waited to catch a glimpse of Hollywood’s most famous couple.

Cole adjusted his tie and smirked. ‘Ready?’ he asked, as he always did. A flush wrapped round his neck like a scarf, a badge of adrenalin at what was to come.

He had produced a new gown for her to wear this evening: a backless silk cream dress that clung in all the right places. She wore her auburn hair loose and only a light dusting of make-up. Cole liked to have the final say in her wardrobe.

Lana nodded. He seemed to have forgotten their earlier dispute–not that she expected him to act any different when there was press waiting.

She took a deep breath. Robbie Lewis was seconds away. She fought down panic, remembering what she had to do and what she had to tell him. What was it they said? In Vegas, anything was possible.

In Vegas, you can be whoever the hell you want.

The door was pulled open and noise flooded in like water. The force of it was like a vacuum and Lana had to push herself to step out into it, smile in place, the luckiest woman in the world. And there was Cole’s hand taking hers, moving her forward, presenting her to the cameras. She knew the routine and didn’t put a foot wrong.

They were calling for her over and over until it didn’t make sense any more. It wasn’t her: it was just two words, a made-up name.

Cole guided her inside, stopping once or twice to look into her eyes, whisper something in her ear and make her laugh. The whisper was always a direction, like ‘Left, three o’clock’, and they would both giggle like besotted lovers before turning in sync to any camera that had missed the killer angle. Cole was a masterly director, and in part she was thankful to him for steering her through. She did not have to think at all, just smile, always smile and never let it slip.

Inside the lobby, Lana took in the sheer opulence of it and shook her head in wonder.

‘Wow,’ she said.

‘Hmm,’ said Cole.

There was a man at Reception with his back to them. He was tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair cut neatly at the neck, where she could see a thin band of skin just visible above his white collar. It was this part of him that told her who he was, like a country she had visited a hundred times; a land she knew as home.

When he turned, Lana gave nothing away, even though her heart was thumping so fast she feared it would soon burst free of her chest, and wouldn’t it be a shame to spoil this beautiful clean floor.

He looked the same, only older. There was no other way to describe it. He was Robbie.

She met his eyes for a split second and it went through her body like lightning.

‘Hello,’ he said warmly, stepping forward and holding out his hand. ‘It’s my great pleasure to welcome you both to the Orient.’

He was handsome in a midnight-blue suit, his eyes dancing as he smiled, and oh, that dimple in his chin. She realised she had kept every detail locked away, she hadn’t forgotten any of it, because it wasn’t like remembering what was lost as much as reminding herself of what had been there all along.

It’s still you.

‘It’s our pleasure to be here,’ said Cole easily, shaking Robbie’s hand. ‘It’s a beautiful hotel, very unusual. Lana’s not been to Vegas before, have you, darling?’

Lana opened her mouth. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I—’

‘So we’re very excited,’ finished Cole. Lana saw he was still holding firm to the handshake, placing his other hand on Robert’s arm in an assertion of power. There was quite a difference in height between them and in a lifetime of looking up at people, Cole was loath to let the taller man think he had the advantage. This guy might be a billionaire hotel magnate, she could hear him thinking, but he wasn’t a movie star.

Lana smiled politely as she extended her own hand. ‘It’s good to see you,’ she said, wanting to hold him, hug him, love him, her friend.

To her dismay she couldn’t read his face. He glanced at her briefly and she detected a flicker of something, a splinter in his composure, but then just as quickly it was gone. Instead Robbie took her hand, smiled and gave it a single shake.

‘I’d like to give you a tour of the hotel before supper,’ he said, looking only at Cole. With a twist of desire Lana could tell he was good at what he did–you put your trust in Robert St Louis straight away, you let him take the lead.

Except maybe for Cole, who now placed a protective hand at the small of Lana’s back. ‘I’d prefer to eat first,’ he said, changing the order of things for the sake of it. Like a test he added, ‘If that’s OK.’

Robert held out his hands in an easy gesture. ‘Of course, whichever you prefer.’ He smiled again, but still he didn’t look at her. ‘If you’ll follow me.’

The Aromatique restaurant was vast and empty, closed for the night in their honour. They took a booth overlooking the glittering Strip. The window was curved and the glass ran right down Lana’s side and under her feet, so it was like sitting in the sky. The illusion was clever and it made her smile. She felt Robbie’s eyes pass over her. When could she get him alone? It was all she could think about.

Robbie requested a Lotus, the Orient’s signature aperitif, for four, and then suddenly, stupidly, Lana remembered that his fiancée was joining them. How could she have forgotten? In planning her great confession, she had neglected to think once of Elisabeth Sabell.

He was conducting a brief, rather formal phone conversation.

‘Darling, we’re in the restaurant now … Yes, that’s right … Of course, see you then.’ He snapped his cell shut and turned to Lana and Cole. ‘My apologies, Elisabeth’s on her way.’

That was never how you used to talk to me, Lana thought.

‘I’m looking forward to meeting her,’ Lana said, to make out like she didn’t mind, but it sounded bitchy and stupid.

When the drinks arrived, Robert focused almost exclusively on Cole as they discussed the ways in which Vegas had changed over the years. Every so often Cole would reach to stroke Lana’s hand or her arm, his small, soft fingers trailing over her skin. He was sending out a very clear message to Robert, communicating that his relationship was an intimate, physical one. Lana didn’t know if this was an antidote to his own insecurities or because he could pick up on something between Robert and his wife. To her it was glaring, the atmosphere too much to bear. She needed to get Robbie alone. She had to.

Just then the far door opened and a dramatically beautiful woman swept in. Her enviable figure was cloaked in a stunning grey gown. Jewels glinted like light on water as she drifted towards the table, a mane of blonde hair cascading down her back like liquid gold. She exuded a clean, musky scent. Lana didn’t know what she had expected, but never a creature as glamorous as this.

‘Good evening.’ Elisabeth smiled, the epitome of charm, as the three of them stood to greet her. ‘It’s wonderful to meet you both.’ She kissed Cole and Lana on both cheeks, then Robbie on the lips. The kiss lasted a fraction too long and Lana had to look away. She felt sick.

It’s not Robbie, stop thinking of him as that. It’s Robert.

‘Excuse me,’ Lana said, standing. ‘I must just go to the bathroom.’

‘What is it, darling?’ asked Cole. She could hear the tight strings of his anxiety.

‘I won’t be a minute,’ she said, desperate to get away. With all the dignity she could muster she headed out of the restaurant, without a clue where she was going.

She squeezed her eyes shut and leaned back against an elaborately papered wall, trying to slow her breathing.

It was all too much. Seeing Robbie again had knocked her hard and, worse, seeing him so happy with Elisabeth. He was ignoring her. But what had she expected–a chat about the good old days? Part of her wanted to stalk back in, shatter this polite bullshit between them and tell Cole and Elisabeth exactly what their history was. She couldn’t. All she could do was find an opportunity to tell him how she felt.

When she arrived back at the table, a huge platter of seafood–oysters, mussels, lobster, caviar–was the talking point. Cole was telling an anecdote, ever the raconteur, about fishing in his boyhood, which ended with him securing an almighty catch and being dragged into the water. Lana had heard the tale before at numerous dinner parties and small details changed every time, making her wonder if it was true.

Elisabeth laughed with spirit in all the right places. She had a nice laugh, thought Lana.

‘So, Lana,’ said Elisabeth, ‘tell us about Eastern Sky.’ She chucked back an oyster and then tried feeding one to Robert, who gently pushed her away with an uncomfortable expression.

‘Never liked them,’ he explained. Elisabeth looked confused.

‘It’s a magnificent piece of work,’ smiled Lana, relieved to be on safer ground. ‘Filming with Sam Lucas has been a dream of mine for some time.’

‘We can’t wait to see it,’ said Elisabeth, raising her glass for a toast. ‘We’re both so thrilled that the premiere is coming to the Orient.’

‘To Eastern Sky and the Orient,’ said Robert, as the glasses collided.

‘Lana’s set for great things,’ Cole chipped in faithfully. ‘She’s an exceptional actress and this film will showcase her brilliantly.’ Lana waved down his praise.

‘I’ll be the first in line to see it,’ said Robert. Finally he looked at her, his dark eyes grave. Lana couldn’t bear to hold it; the electricity between them was crackling. Next to him, Elisabeth threw back a glass of champagne in one.

‘I understand you have a residency here,’ said Lana, turning to Elisabeth. She couldn’t help but watch Elisabeth’s mouth and imagine Robert kissing it. Did he kiss Elisabeth as he had once kissed her? ‘The Desert Jewel must be a special place to perform.’

Elisabeth nodded, happy to get down to business. ‘That’s right,’ she said, shredding a fillet of salmon. ‘I’ve had an excellent reaction so far, more than I could have hoped for.’

‘I’d love to see your show,’ said Lana, knowing the opportunity would never arise.

‘Well,’ said Elisabeth, squeezing lemon on to her plate with gusto, ‘as a matter of fact, I’ll be performing at the after party.’

‘At the premiere?’ asked Cole. ‘Isn’t that a bit unusual?’

‘We pride ourselves on leading, not following,’ said Robert.

Lana had to admit his plans sounded sensational. Robert described with passion how the sets were under construction, florists and caterers working round the clock to perfect every last detail; plans for accommodating a flood of A-listers were under way across the Parthenon, as well as logistics for bringing guests to the Orient’s red carpet. He was frank about his desire not only to showcase Eastern Sky but also his hotel. They were, he explained, made for each other. Lana, relishing the chance to watch him while he spoke, had to look away.

‘Which brings me to your own accommodation,’ Robert finished. ‘I’d like to invite you both to stay here at the Orient as our very special guests.’

Cole was pleased. He had expected preferential treatment. ‘We’d be delighted.’ He nodded, failing to consult Lana.

As Elisabeth elaborated on the show she had planned, Lana listened politely and pretended not to notice Robert’s every move. When he filled up her wine glass she watched his capable hands, his long fingers and the colour of his wrists. She missed his skin.

Elisabeth and Cole were locked in conversation about performance techniques. Robert leaned forward. ‘Actually, the bathroom’s that way,’ he said, thumbing behind him. There was a smile on his face that she hadn’t seen all night. It lit her up inside.

She laughed and the release was giddying. ‘I guess I just went for a walk.’

He was still smiling. ‘Find anything nice?’

‘It’s all nice.’ It felt like such a limp compliment, but it was all she could think to say.

‘Can I show you the view?’ he asked, standing up before she could object. Cole’s eyes shot to Lana but Elisabeth was still talking and manners won out.

‘I’d love that,’ said Lana, thrilled. She liked Elisabeth, she felt bad, but she had to do this–she had to try.

The panorama from the north side was breathtaking. Lana watched it quietly for a moment before turning to Robert. They were far enough from the table not to be heard.

‘Robert, I … I don’t know where to begin.’

‘Don’t,’ he said, staring ahead. ‘You don’t need to say anything. Let’s just get through this evening.’

She watched his handsome profile. ‘I can’t forget,’ she whispered. ‘You might be able to, but I can’t.’

He turned to her, his eyes flashing. ‘You didn’t leave me with a lot of choice.’ His voice was even. There was sadness in there and she clung to it like a raft.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I had to leave, I–I thought it was the right thing.’

‘It was,’ he cut in.

Tears sprang to her eyes. Don’t you dare cry.

‘What happened is behind us,’ he went on. ‘We can get along; we’ve a premiere to share, after all. Let’s keep this professional.’

‘I’m proud of you,’ she said, desperate to get through to him. His eyes came to meet hers, their gentle brown so familiar. ‘It’s beautiful. You did it.’

‘Of course he did it,’ interrupted Cole, suddenly at her side. ‘He built the whole thing from scratch, isn’t that right, St Louis?’

Robert straightened. ‘Well, I had—’

‘Let’s go back, shall we?’ Cole put an arm across Lana’s shoulders in a fatherly fashion and guided her gently. She followed Robert, watching the gleam of his heels.

‘Robert and I have an announcement,’ said Elisabeth when they’d all sat down. ‘Well, sort of.’ She was clearly slightly merry and tapped the top of her glass with a long fingernail as if she was about to make a speech. ‘I just can’t keep quiet a minute longer. Darling …?’

All three of them turned to look at her. Robert appeared perplexed.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

She gave him a look. ‘Sweetheart, come on. Do you want to invite them, or shall I?’

Realisation seemed to dawn. ‘Elisabeth, I don’t know if now is the right time.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport-this is barely notice as it is!’

‘What is it?’ asked Cole, looking from one to the other.

Lana had a horrible feeling she knew what was coming next.

‘We’d like to invite you both to our wedding,’ Elisabeth said happily. ‘In August.’ She looked at Lana. ‘Robert and I would be thrilled if you could come.’

45

‘Just what in Christ’s name is wrong with you?’ demanded Cole, tugging off his tie.

It was midnight and they’d been shown to their suite after Elisabeth had enjoyed one too many celebration cocktails and fallen off her chair. Not terribly dignified, but at least she’d been having a good time–unlike his wife.

Fuck! Lana had been in a shitty mood ever since they’d arrived, hardly uttering a word through dinner. It was apparent that St Louis and his fiancée were extremely important people in this town–God only knew what conclusions they had drawn from Lana’s doomed expression. Cole and his wife were meant to be the happiest couple in Hollywood–if she’d forgotten that, she needed to get with the damn programme.

‘Nothing,’ said Lana blankly. She was sitting quietly on a chair, her hands in her lap. Mercifully their suite had separate sleeping quarters, but Cole was on a rampage and wouldn’t let her out of his sight until she’d accounted for her behaviour.

‘Is that all you can say?’ Cole shook his head in disgust.

‘All night you’ve been distracted, acting like I dragged you here against your will.’ He momentarily ran out of steam at the corner he’d walked into. Moving on, he stormed, ‘Even when they invited us to the wedding you couldn’t slap on a goddamn smile!’ He stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door.

A second later it opened again.

‘Don’t think I don’t know what this is about,’ he said.

Lana laughed humorlessly. ‘Sure.’

Cole walked towards her, a muscle twitching in his jaw. ‘Just what is that supposed to mean?’

‘Forget it.’

This was bad; he’d never seen her like this before. Their second argument in one day! Normally they wouldn’t talk this much in a week. He’d have to placate the situation before tomorrow–if she could at least perform at breakfast then perhaps they could salvage it.

He sat down opposite her. ‘I know you’re still upset about what happened this morning.’

She stayed quiet. Maybe she was ill.

‘I apologise for keeping you in the house,’ Cole said magnanimously. He closed his eyes as though it pained him. ‘There, it’s done. Now can you please throw off this childish sulk and concentrate on tomorrow.’

She frowned. ‘What’s happening tomorrow?’

‘I’d like us to breakfast with St Louis before we go,’ he said, glad she was finally engaging.

‘No,’ she cut in. ‘Please, Cole. I want to leave immediately in the morning.’

‘Why?’

She looked away. ‘I can’t explain. I’m tired. I just want to go … home.’

Cole’s anger was instantly dispelled. Lana had always refused to refer to the Beverly Hills mansion as her home–until now. If she was thinking of it in those terms, perhaps it would be easier to keep her than he thought.

As if on cue, his cell rang. It was Marty King.

‘Marty.’

‘Cole, hi. You’re in Vegas?’

‘Yeah. What is it?’ He got up and paced over to the window. He could see his wife reflected in the glass, her sad expression still in place.

‘Two things,’ said Marty, who sounded like he was eating. ‘First, I got you scheduled for an impromptu appearance next week at Castelli’s–thought you could throw a few shapes like you did at that fundraiser, get everyone dancing, y’know, like a spontaneous thing. Remind everyone what a great sense of humour you’ve got.’

Cole pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. ‘And second?’

‘And second …’ Marty was quiet a moment. ‘Is Lana there?’

Cole held the phone closer to his ear. ‘Go ahead.’

‘I’ve found a way to seal this deal,’ he said. ‘Lana’s yours, Cole. I can’t discuss it over the phone but come see me when you’re back and we’ll go through the plan.’

He kept his voice low. ‘This had better be good.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry, it is.’

Cole breathed an inward sigh of relief. Now all he had to do was get his wife smiling again. Fine, if it made her happy, they’d leave first thing.

‘I’ll be there,’ he said, snapping his cell shut. He watched Lana’s reflection in the glass. For a long time neither of them moved.

46

Days later, at the Vegas palace he called home, Frank Bernstein uncorked his finest bottle of vintage Krug with a great flourish. A twist of vapour escaped at the neck before it was emptied into a spread of waiting glasses.

‘What did I tell ya?’ he boomed, slapping Robert hard on the back. ‘I knew you’d do the right thing, son, I knew it all along.’ He raised his glass. ‘To the wedding!’

Robert smiled at Elisabeth as everyone lifted their crystal flutes-Bernstein, looking more leathery than usual after a business trip to Sicily; Christie Carmen, clad in a microscopic pair of silver hot pants; and Jessica, with lips slightly pursed, as usual, at her sister being the centre of attention.

‘Mr and Mrs St Louis,’ said Elisabeth, savouring the words as she took a drink.

Her father nodded, satisfied. Thank Christ this damn union was finally going ahead. He’d thought back in France they were cooling things off, taking their time. Not on his watch.

There was too much at stake. Elisabeth had to get down that aisle and not a moment too soon.

‘How long will this take?’ moaned Jessica, already thinking about her outfit for the New Year’s party she was attending that evening.

Ignoring her, Bernstein took Robert’s arm and they moved away from the women.

‘You know what this means, right, St Louis?’ At the window they stopped and he put a hand on the younger man’s back. ‘You and I got some talking t’do.’

Robert ran a hand through his dark hair. He was tired. ‘We have? ‘

‘The future,’ said Bernstein, lighting a Cuban and angling his body away from the girls. A curl of smoke escaped out the side of his mouth. ‘You got responsibilities now.’

‘I know my responsibilities, Bernstein.’

‘Damn right. An’ now I’m tellin’ you, you got some more. Capiche? ‘

‘I won’t be threatened.’ Robert kept his voice down. ‘You can tell your associates it’s not happening.’

‘Wake the hell up, kid. What makes you think you’re any cleaner than the rest of us?’

‘I told you, I’m not interested.’

‘Well, get interested.’ Bernstein’s eyes darted to his daughter. ‘Call it insurance. One of these days you’re gonna need someone t’watch your back, an’ Elisabeth’s, an’ the kids’.’ He leaned in. ‘You got a story I could wipe my ass on? Think about it, wise guy.’

Robert’s head snapped up. What did Bernstein know?

He was being paranoid. Christmas had been and gone since Lana’s visit, but still he couldn’t get her out of his head. Every night since he had replayed it and tried to find a different outcome. The bottom line was: he’d blown it.

Sleep had eluded him that night of the dinner, knowing she was close by, closer than she’d been in years. He’d lain awake and thought of her in his hotel, making love to her perfectly pleasant but strangely artificial husband; of all the things he wanted to do but couldn’t. In the end he had given up and crept out of bed, careful not to wake Elisabeth, and spent the early hours composing a number of letters, none of which said what was important and all of which were balled up and thrown in the trash. He had dressed at six, waited an hour and then headed to the Orient, resolved to find her. He hadn’t prepared what he would say, but knew when he saw her that he’d find the words.

But she had already gone. He was too late.

‘Can you please tell your girlfriend to put some clothes on?’ Elisabeth drifted over in a mist of Chanel, a distasteful expression on her face. ‘It’s like the Playboy mansion in here.’

Bernstein chuckled as his eyes feasted on Christie Carmen, burbling on to a fed-up-looking Jessica, her ass like a split peach. He patted his stomach as though he’d just eaten a big and satisfying meal.

As soon as he moved off she pounced on Robert. ‘What was he talking to you about?’

‘Nothing important.’ Robert twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers.

Elisabeth was suspicious. Her sister’s words came back to her.

Something Daddy’s not telling us.

‘It looked important,’ she said, narrowing her eyes.

‘It wasn’t.’

She held up her hand, showing him her engagement ring like an identity badge. Elisabeth loved diamonds. It struck Robert then that he’d never thought he would marry a woman about whom he could say that.

‘We’re going to be married,’ she announced. ‘Let’s start by being honest.’

Elisabeth was shocked at how far she could push her hypocrisy. It’s easier to point the finger, isn’t it?

‘Can I get everyone’s attention?’ bellowed Bernstein, mercifully coming to the rescue. His terracotta face was cracked in a wide smile as he fondled Christie Carmen’s behind. ‘Me an’ Christie’ve got a special announcement of our own.’

‘What is it?’ asked Jessica, impatiently tapping her foot.

‘Well …’ said Bernstein, giving Christie a quick kiss on the lips, ‘we’re tying the knot.’

‘What?’ Elisabeth made no attempt to conceal her shock. She turned to Robert for reassurance. He shrugged. Jessica started laughing.

‘An’ you know what this calls for?’

‘More champagne!’ recommended Jessica, hiccupping.

‘Honeys,’ Bernstein held his arms out to Christie and Elisabeth, ‘this is gonna be the double wedding of the century!’

‘What do you want?’ Elisabeth said coldly, pushing past Alberto Bellini and stalking into her dressing room.

‘I had to see you.’ He followed her in and closed the door. ‘It has been too long.’

‘Forget it, Alberto. I have.’

Elisabeth pulled off her clothes and lifted a Dior gown from where it hung in waiting. She stood for a moment in her underwear, trying to work out how to put it on.

‘Could I get a little privacy?’ she snapped, sliding her wrists through the armholes.

Alberto watched her hungrily, his eyes scanning her body. ‘We must talk.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’ She turned and unfastened her bra, tossing it over the back of a chair. ‘Now, please, I’ve got a show to do.’ Dropping the fabric over her head and trying to tug it down to cover herself, she thought she heard a tear. Shit!

There was a tentative knock at the door.

‘I’m capable of dressing myself!’ barked Elisabeth blindly through the folds of material. Why did Alberto have to choose now of all times to make an appearance? The New Year Show wasn’t something she could afford to blow.

‘Let me help, bellissima,’ he crooned, approaching her half-clothed form.

Elisabeth gritted her teeth. She felt Alberto’s rough hands pull gently at the fabric, and a couple of times the cold metal of his rings as they brushed against her naked skin. His face was close to hers, she could feel his hot breath. Her nipples hardened and she realised she was aching to be touched.

‘Thank you,’ she said tartly, as with a final movement he slipped the dress over her head.

‘My Elisabeth,’ he whispered. He looked in her sea-blue eyes. ‘How I have missed you.’

Elisabeth shook her head. ‘Give it up, Alberto.’ She dragged an ivory-handled brush through her hair, now something of a nest after the scuffle with the gown. ‘Our night together was a mistake. I’m sorry for having led you on. I’m marrying Robert and that’s the end of it. Please,’ she looked at him, ‘let’s forget it ever happened.’

‘Amore mio,’ Alberto murmured, ‘I cannot forget.’

‘Then try.’

He shook his head sadly. ‘Do you disregard all that we talked about?’

‘I made a mistake,’ Elisabeth retorted sharply, spritzing fragrance behind her ears. ‘This is my future, Alberto, and you had better get used to it.’

In a heartbeat he was behind her, his fingers tracing a line down her spine. ‘You cannot erase the passion we have shared.’ He planted a chain of soft kisses across her shoulders.

‘Passion?’ She tried to make a joke of it. But she could feel her resolve crumbling.

What is one last time? she reasoned as Alberto began to kiss her neck. His hands crept round and cupped her breasts, caressing her between a finger and thumb, covering her delicate frame with his bear paws. She turned, and in a flash his lips were on hers. In her heels she was almost as tall as him and could smell the ginger in his hair. When he placed his hands on her waist, they were so big they almost met round the middle.

Call it one last time before she walked down the aisle, Elisabeth thought. Call it a lucky charm before the show. Call it a poison she had to bleed. She ignored the voice that called it different. Call it infidelity.

47

London

Christmas in Hampstead had been bleak. England was grey and cold and Chloe couldn’t wait to get back to America. Brock had several castings lined up already-word had got out fast about her performance in Eastern Sky, helped along by Sam Lucas’s glowing approval.

The London house had been monopolised by Janet and her boys-it seemed the hole Chloe had left in her absence had rapidly been filled. Janet did Christmas in her own, different manner, and everybody knew you should only ever do Christmas one way: in the way you always had. She and her father had muddled through after the divorce, always digging out the same moth-eaten decorations, ripped streamers and balding tinsel, an angel with a smudged face she had chewed when she was four. Now everything was changed-it was all from Liberty and neat and good quality and none of it she recognised.

Chloe lay on her bed, black hair fanned out across the pillow, and stared up at the ceiling. Next week she’d be back in LA. It was a new year and she could start to get her head together-beginning with her finally finding the guts to dump Nate. She’d been wondering if maybe she could learn to live with her gruesome discovery, just get on and turn a blind eye-didn’t people do it all the time? But seeing her father again over Christmas, she knew she could not. The only person she was cheating was herself-and she’d been cheated on enough.

She rolled over, her stomach crunching at the thought. She’d been a coward these past few weeks, but she’d also learned a lot. It was time for a change.

Thursday was Nate’s album launch, a big fancy affair at some club in Soho. The event itself would be too public-she’d do it after, she could play the charade until then. The break-up would be painful, but she had to rip it off quickly, like a plaster. The scab would heal eventually.

‘Darling!’ Gordon French called up the stairs in a loud baritone. ‘Pamela and Freddie are here.’

Chloe sighed. Not even the militia of extended family was enough to distract her from her black mood. She swung her legs off the bed and headed downstairs to greet her jovial uncle, and an aunt who always smelled of soup.

Two days later Chloe arrived at Shaik, a celebrity hang-out in Soho, to celebrate the launch of The Hides’ new album.

She spotted Nate hanging about outside as the car pulled up. He’d told her to meet him there-the perfect stage management for their first UK shot together in months, no doubt.

‘Babe!’ he called as she exited the car. She knew she looked good in a clinging jersey dress and biker boots. Paparazzi surged forward.

‘Hi, Nate,’ she said coolly, fighting down the butterflies in her stomach. Cameras circled them like vultures. When Nate kissed her, she felt nothing.

Inside, the place was heaving. Designers and DJs, models and musicians, actors and artists chatted and drank in their cliques, most of whom had parents who were famous in the eighties. Long-legged beauties leaned, bored, against the bar, their feet crossed at the ankles; an up-and-coming male singer in skinny jeans and a blazer, his quiff arranged on his head like a croissant, held fort in a grey-leather booth; a chart-topping twenty-something with her forty-six-year-old boyfriend downed cocktails amid a swarm of admiring hangers-on. Everybody wore a slightly pained expression, as though it hurt to be this cool. Chloe felt distanced from it all.

‘Let’s get a drink,’ said Nate, guiding her through. As an afterthought, he added, ‘You look nice.’

‘Thanks.’ Chloe scanned the room as she trailed after Nate. How many of the women here had he slept with? All this time she’d thought the London girls gave her bitchy looks because of her modelling, and it could just as well be down to them shagging her boyfriend. She felt a twist of humiliation.

He got them a couple of sambuca shots. Chloe tossed hers back in one, wincing as the aniseed torched her throat.

‘Thirsty?’ Nate teased, ordering two more. He rammed his tongue down her throat while they were waiting. It tasted grim.

Chloe heard her name being called and pulled away.

‘Chloe, hey!’ It was Melissa Darling. ‘Hello, Nate.’ She put her beer down on the bar.

‘Hey.’

Chloe hugged her agent hello. ‘I’m so happy to see you.’ She meant it.

‘Me, too,’ said Melissa. ‘They’re going mad for you two outside.’ She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I think they’ve been lonely without you!’

Nate smirked. ‘Amazing what a slice of the American pie can do for you, eh, babe?’ It wasn’t clear which woman he was talking to.

Melissa gave a polite smile. ‘Congratulations on the launch.’

‘Ta.’

‘You look gorgeous, Chloe.’ She turned back to her client. ‘LA suits you.’

‘Thanks. I can’t wait to go back.’

Nate cut in. ‘All right, Chlo, keep your knickers on.’ He winked at Melissa. ‘We don’t get to see much of each other in LA, busy schedules and all that,’ he explained. ‘It’s quite nice being back for a bit, don’t you think?’

Chloe couldn’t look at him. ‘Sure,’ she said.

There was an awkward silence.

‘I’ll call you,’ said Melissa, kissing her. ‘Let’s go for coffee before you fly back.’

‘That sounds good.’

‘All the best with the album, Nate.’

He nodded through a mouthful of beer as she moved off.

‘Right, I’m on,’ he said, gesturing over Chloe’s bare shoulder. He planted a wet one on her cheek and swaggered through a gaggle of fans.

Chloe turned. The rest of the band was grabbing their instruments on a dimly lit stage in one corner-she hadn’t even noticed it when she’d walked in. The mike, lit dramatically from behind, stood patiently as Nate parted the waves of the crowd. He high-fived a flurry of outstretched palms as he mounted the steps and took his position.

‘Hey,’ Nate grunted into the mike. ‘Thanks for coming.’ There was a tinny shriek.

Chloe ordered another shot. She downed the sticky liquid as soon as it arrived.

Fuck it. She ordered another as the guitars started up. Then another. She’d need a good dose of Dutch courage to get through the pretence.

Nate strutted across the stage in his skinny jeans, shaking his head and jerking the mike, flipping it round in his hands as he sang-or largely spoke-the words. The crowd was doing most of the work, taking over the lyrics dutifully whenever Nate plugged the mike in their direction. Normally Chloe would join in, but she didn’t even know how this new one went.

They only did a couple of numbers, and when it was over Chloe felt the room spinning. She wanted to go home, she couldn’t be arsed with any of it.

Fuzzily she walked over to one of the booths and slumped down. She felt like everyone in the place was looking at her, laughing at her, knowing what a stupid fool she’d been.

‘Hi there.’ A bloke came to sit next to her, someone she vaguely recognised from a party she’d been to with Nate a year before. Was he a playwright? She couldn’t remember.

‘Hey,’ she said back, disinterested. She didn’t care if she appeared rude-she was too tired and emotional and drunk to bother how she came across.

‘Want a drink?’ He moved closer. His hair was thinning and he was wearing little round glasses in the style of John Lennon, she guessed, though he just looked like a freak.

She rested her chin on her hands. ‘No, I’ve had enough.’

‘I’m Baz.’

‘Great.’ How could this guy just waltz in and start chatting her up, knowing she was officially with Nate? Clearly she was the only person in the whole world to whom relationships actually meant something.

‘Want to get out of here?’ the man asked.

Chloe’s attention was distracted. She could see Nate talking to a pretty brunette at the bar. The girl was giggling at everything he said and tossing her hair, her bright red lips wet with gloss. And then-no, he couldn’t be, not while his girlfriend was sitting right here-one of his hands reached down and patted the girl’s behind. Not only that but it stayed there, and now he was leaning in, whispering something in her ear.

That was it.

‘There’s something I’ve got to do first,’ said Chloe, getting to her feet.

Feeling surprisingly calm, she walked over to where Nate and the girl were standing. Fuck him-she’d been Little Miss Nice for way too long. He deserved everything that was coming his way.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, tapping Nate’s shoulder.

He looked up, an inane grin on his face. He didn’t even do her the good grace of appearing guilty. ‘Hey, babe,’ he said instead, eyes foggy.

‘I’m not your babe,’ Chloe spat.

He was confused. ‘What did you say?’ The girl next to him opened her doe eyes wide, relishing the drama.

‘Do you want me to spell it out?’ Chloe demanded, hands on hips.

‘Chill out, babe, you’re making a scene.’

‘No.’ She stuck her chin in the air. ‘I won’t chill out. Why should I?’

Now he looked uncomfortable. ‘You’re drunk. You’re embarrassing yourself.’ He put a hand behind her back, preparing to guide her out.

She shook him off. ‘Don’t you touch me,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t you ever, ever again touch me. How dare you imagine you have any right to come within a mile of me? You lying, conniving—’

‘What did you call me?’ Nate took a step forward, anger twisting his features.

‘Go fuck yourself, Nate. You know what you’ve done.’

The group around them fanned out, people backing away to get a better view, until it was just Chloe and Nate in the circle.

‘Do I?’ Nate called her bluff, attempting to laugh it off now they had an audience.

‘Oh, you need me to say it louder, do you?’ Chloe’s voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘Whatever you want, Nate, just like we’ve always done it.’ She whipped round, her dark hair lashing behind her like a whip, and stormed towards the stage. Nate bolted after her, grabbing at her top, but he missed and went flying face first on to the floor. There was a scuffle before he surfaced, straightening his leather jacket, a strident shade of red.

Chloe took the mike, turned it on and banged it a couple of times. She was drunk but for once she could see totally clearly. The music died.

‘Nate Reid,’ announced Chloe, ‘is a liar and a cheat.’ She waited while a thick silence descended on the crowd. Their outlines were black against the glare of the spotlight.

‘I don’t know how long he’s been going behind my back–probably since the beginning. He’s a filthy, dirty, philandering bastard, and more than that, he’s an actor.’ She clapped her hands slowly several times. ‘He’s played the part of my boyfriend very well.’

‘Shut your fucking mouth, Chloe.’ Nate lashed to the front, eyes blazing. ‘It’s all lies.’

‘I’ve had to go for an STI check,’ Chloe went on, her voice sounding loud and clear round the warehouse, ‘and I’d encourage any girl who’s been with him to do the same. If you think you’re the only one, chances are you’re wrong.’

A gasp rippled round the crowd.

‘What a load of bullshit!’ shrieked Nate. ‘You’re seriously going to listen to her? Give me a break. She’s just jealous, can’t handle my fame. Isn’t that right, babe?’

‘Do you know what?’ Chloe said calmly. ‘Fuck you, Nate Reid. Fuck you and your pretentious fucking music. I don’t need you to corroborate me and I never have–in fact, if you could operate your shit-sized brain for more than a second you’d realise it’s the other way round. Without me you’re nothing but a wannabe musician pretending to be poor.’ A pause. ‘Oh, yes, surely everyone here knows about the Buckley-Reids, Nathaniel–if they don’t, maybe you should tell them?’ She saw Nate gulp. ‘You’re phoney and you’re arrogant and all you ever think about is yourself. Go find a pretty little airhead who’s interested in sucking you off, because I’m telling you, it’s not me.’

Gathering all the dignity she could muster, Chloe replaced the microphone, stepped off the stage, made her way through the crowd and left. A smattering of uncertain applause accompanied her exit but then just as quickly died.

Nate was shaking. Someone tried to touch his shoulder and he slapped them away. His whole body was trembling, shuddering with uncontrollable rage. Vaguely he heard the DJ start up again, the crowd dispersing, no one knowing what to say.

Nate stood alone. How dare she? Stupid stuck-up-her-own-arse bitch!

In a frenzy he stalked out of the club, shoving a paparazzo on his way past. Someone else tried to take his photo and he punched their camera, the lens smashing as it crashed to the ground. Pumped with adrenalin he hauled the unfortunate man up and slammed a fist into his face, sending him careening back into the flank of a black cab.

‘Steady on, mate,’ someone said.

He started walking. He didn’t care where he was going. Never before in his life had he felt so livid, so incensed, so … humiliated. Maybe if he walked fast enough he could catch that bitch up and wring her scrawny neck.

Eventually he stopped, lit a fag, slumped down on the pavement.

He’d get his revenge.

One thing was for sure: nobody humiliated Nate Reid and got away with it.

48

Los Angeles

‘A baby.’

The pool cue, carefully chalked at one end and about to break with deadly accuracy, paused mid-shot. Cole looked at his agent across the table like he was mad.

‘A baby,’ he repeated.

‘That’s right.’ Marty King raised a hand to pat his spongy hair. ‘It’s the only answer. Cole, we have to give Lana a baby.’

‘Are you crazy?’ Cole spluttered, not knowing whether to laugh. He took the shot. It broke cleanly, sending the balls darting across the green felt. Two of them potted with a satisfying plunk.

‘No. I’m clever.’ Marty rested on his cue. It was a cool January morning and the men were in the basement games room at Marty’s Bel Air pad.

‘Come on, Marty, listen to yourself. Give her a baby. You’ve got to be kidding.’

Marty watched as Cole took a second shot. ‘It’s a radical suggestion, I know. But hear me out. This wouldn’t just be about Lana–it would be about you.’ He raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Cole, you gotta admit, fatherhood would be a wise move.’

Cole opened and shut his mouth like a fish. ‘This is insane,’ he hissed, realising Marty was serious.

‘I’ve thought about it carefully,’ said Marty. ‘You should, too.’ He leaned his large frame over the table and lined up his aim. ‘Consider Kate diLaurentis–seven years married to you and no kids, then she shacks up with that funny-guy jackass and all of a sudden she’s getting knocked up all over the joint. You’re not getting any younger, Cole.’ In a clean move he pocketed one, careful not to overtake his client.

‘Forget it,’ snapped Cole, ‘it’s kamikaze.’

Marty stood back. ‘Like I said, I’ve thought everything through. We have options.’

Cole shook his head in disbelief. ‘Like hell we do, Marty. Is this all you’ve come up with? You’ve had since the fall to bring something to the table, and this is it?’ He reached for his glass of mineral water, a wedge of green lime bobbing on the surface. Marty stayed quiet, letting Cole turn things over.

After a moment he said, ‘Do you think people have noticed? I mean …’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do you think people wonder why I don’t have kids?’

Marty puffed out his chest. He thought about how to say it then settled on a truthful, ‘Probably, yes.’

Panic surged. Seeing Michael Benedict at the Romans’ wedding two months ago had freaked him the hell out. When would the old bastard kick the damn bucket? It couldn’t be long now. He’d take the secret with him and finally it would all be over–that day couldn’t come soon enough. In the meantime, it was imperative Cole keep Lana. She was his shield.

A vein became visible in Cole’s temple. Marty knew it was his time to strike.

‘There’s plenty of ways, Cole,’ he said. ‘That’s why I wanted to see you today, talk through the possibilities.’ He chalked his cue.

‘Which are?’

Marty took a deep breath. ‘You must present Lana with this. There’s no way we can do it under wraps, you’ve got to keep her on board.’

Cole’s eyes narrowed. He said nothing.

‘Lana bearing your child will be rewarded handsomely in the contract,’ Marty continued, ‘which, naturally, we would extend for a five-to ten-year period. Her career continues to flourish and she’s a working woman and a fine mother, an inspiration to women everywhere who want to have it all. When the contract terminates, the child remains with you. Lana has regular access but a hectic schedule means you’re the most stable party. You like that, huh? A real family man, Cole; a good father.’

His agent rambled on before Cole could object. ‘This must be a biological child–we’re wasting our time with adoption. Too messy, too passé, and, besides, the point is that everyone thinks the kid’s yours, fruit of your loins and all that.’

Cole grimaced. ‘And how do we go about that?’ he asked, tight-lipped.

A pause. ‘You ever heard of insemination?’

A cold draught passed across the back of Cole’s neck. He laughed in good humour. ‘OK, OK, very good, you got me.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘So am I.’ He lined up the black. ‘It’s preposterous. Lana will never agree to it.’

‘Not at first, but give her time. Let me talk to her–after all, it’ll be my kid she’s carrying.’

Cole straightened, incredulity contorting his features. ‘What did you just say?’

Marty gulped. ‘Well, I–I guessed we’d have to use my—’

‘Explain to me why the hell I wouldn’t do it?’

Marty looked flustered. ‘I just assumed—’

‘You assumed what?’

‘That you couldn’t …’ Marty’s eyes shot to the floor. ‘I didn’t think guys like you could … Look, buddy, I don’t know much about—’

‘You don’t know shit, Marty,’ Cole spat.

Marty nodded dutifully. ‘I don’t know shit.’

Cole spluttered a disgusted laugh. ‘To hell with this insemination plan–I bet you thought you could jump straight into bed with her. This is my wife, Marty. Christ, I haven’t even—’

‘It’s not like that,’ Marty simpered. ‘I just wanted to help. You know I’m the only person who’d do this for you—’

‘Spare me the crap.’ Cole gave his agent a long look. He took the shot. The black dropped neatly into the far pocket.

‘I can do it,’ he said quietly, rolling the cue between his fingers.

Marty waited. He cursed his own stupidity–any other day there’d be a price to pay, but fortunately his client was too preoccupied.

‘I’ve got it covered,’ Marty said eventually. ‘Hear me out.’

Cole sat down. ‘Astonish me.’

‘It’s all about you, Cole, OK? A hundred per cent. We use your …’ Marty looked about him ‘ … your little guys. Lana agrees with the right financial and career incentives. In a year’s time you’re all set: it’s happy families, good-fuckin’-night-John-Boy. You both sign a new contract–I’m the only one with the information, I sign a confidentiality clause. It’s as good as done.’

Cole sat very still, going through the possibilities.

Michael Benedict can rot in hell.

‘Even if I did consider it,’ he said, ‘even if I did, it’s way too risky. Lana’s never going to agree, not in a million years. Soon as I mention anything she’ll go running to Rita Clay.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Marty sagely. ‘Lana knows she’s on to a good thing as Mrs Cole Steel. Security in Hollywood isn’t an easy thing to come by, and that’s not even taking into account what it’ll mean for her moving forward.’ He held his hands up. ‘Just think about it.’

‘I need to think about it,’ echoed Cole, like he hadn’t heard.

‘It’s security for you, too, buddy,’ warned Marty. ‘That’s why I know it’s the perfect plan.’ He waited. ‘But, hey, you think about it all you want, take your time. When you’re ready, you know I’ll be here.’

49

Sam Lucas celebrated his sixtieth birthday at L’Etoile, an exclusive celebrity hotspot in West Hollywood.

Lana was stunning in a high-necked Valentino dress that showed off her legs and Marc Jacobs heels. The paparazzi were out in frenzy and no sooner had Cole’s security dropped her off than a circus of flashbulbs swooped in like vultures, popping and sparking close to her face. She fought the instinct to shield herself and walked dutifully into the fray, smiling and turning, a routine so familiar that she didn’t have to think about it at all.

L’Etoile was resplendent. The ultimate playground for the Hollywood elite, it was a festival of colour: sleek recliners and straight-backed couches bordered the gleaming wood-stain deck, more for show than comfort, all sewn up in a variety of elaborate, brilliant fabrics; an extravaganza of glass bottles, every kind of liquor you could imagine, lined the walls behind an L-shaped bar, lit from beneath by fluorescent spot bulbs.

Three huge Moulin Rouge-style birdcages hung suspended from the ceiling like pendants.

The place was heaving with Hollywood’s biggest names.

‘Where’s that gorgeous husband of yours tonight?’ asked Lana’s publicist over the noise.

Lana smiled, more with relief that Cole wasn’t there than at Katharine’s flattery. Katharine Elliot was in her forties with a mass of dark hair cut blunt at the chin. She was straight-talking, fast-acting and fiercely good at her job. She was also among the closed set that knew the marriage was contractual, but that was as far as it went: unlike Rita, she knew nothing of what really went on behind closed doors. As far as she was concerned, this sort of thing happened all the time. Lana had got a lucky break getting hitched to one of the best-looking in the business–she could have done a lot worse.

‘He’s in Boston.’

Katharine plucked a micro-burger from a passing tray. ‘You must wish he was here. Plenty of press opportunity tonight.’ She took a bite out of the burger even though it was small enough to eat in one.

‘We couldn’t make the timings work,’ explained Lana. Briefly she glimpsed Parker Troy out the corner of her eye.

As if reading her mind–though thankfully only a propos the film–Katharine went on, ‘We’ve got fabulous advance reviews coming in; they’re queuing up to talk to you.’ She sipped her cosmopolitan with a neat, cherry-lipsticked mouth.

Lana raised her own drink. ‘That’s good news.’

‘Oh—!’ Katharine spotted a publicist friend and waved keenly, the bangles jangling on her arm. She hugged Lana before being swallowed by a cacophony of exclamations.

Lana weaved through the crowd, nodding to familiar faces as she passed, and made a beeline for a tray of champagne. Throwing back a slug of fizz, she wondered how much it would take to deaden her to Robert St Louis once and for all. Since Vegas she had battled to put him from her mind, back to the dark, lonely place she had kept him all these years. Like having just woken from a bad dream, the outline clung on, refusing to fade.

She tried not to be bitter. How could she be mad at him? She’d wasted no time in getting married herself, and while of course she knew the truth of her pact with Cole, she could only imagine how it must have looked. Her heart ached when she thought of how much pain she’d put Robert through–it wasn’t enough that she’d disappeared without a word, a letter, a call, nothing, but then only a few years later she’d wed the biggest star in Hollywood. Coverage had been splashed across newspapers and gossip rags, on every TV channel and magazine cover. At the time her lack of contact had seemed like a necessary sacrifice. Now it seemed selfish and unkind.

Karma worked in mysterious ways. Robert had moved on and was happily engaged to the woman he loved. It wasn’t her. There would be no more wonderings; no more what-ifs.

‘Lana, darling, thanks for coming.’ Sam Lucas descended on her, his face pink and damp with sweat. He kissed her moistly and she fought the urge to wipe a palm across her cheek.

‘Happy birthday, Sam.’

‘It is,’ he said, picking his teeth. ‘Woulda been nice if Chloe could’ve made it.’

Lana looked around. ‘Where is she?’

‘Not well. I spoke to Brock Wilde this morning.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘Sure is.’ He grinned. ‘The critics are getting pretty excited about her, I gotta say. She’s gonna make a splash in Vegas.’

The word punched a hole in Lana. She smiled as a tough-guy actor who’d worked with the director in the nineties slapped Sam on the back. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, moving away.

She needed something else to drink–and fast. A tray of champagne swept past and she plucked a flute from its surface, just in time to feel something large and hard bump into her back. She turned. It was Parker Troy.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, looking at his shoes. Handsome as ever, he was wearing a brown tux and open shirt, his muddy-blond hair falling over his forehead. If she concentrated very hard he could almost be someone else.

Instinctively she touched his arm. ‘It’s been ages.’

‘Yeah.’

They looked at each other. Parker felt intimidated, as he always did when he had to engage her in anything other than sex.

‘How have you been?’ asked Lana.

‘Good.’

Wow, we really don’t have anything to talk about.

Parker asked a couple of courteous, couldn’t-give-a-crap-about-the-answer-to questions. When he drew a Camel from his top pocket and said he was going outside for a smoke, she knew she would go with him. She needed it. Her body needed release.

They snaked their way through the swarm of guests and outside on to the terrace. A high-walled, secluded space, it was hidden from the street and safe from the paparazzi’s prying eyes. It was empty. They were alone.

Parker took her hand and pulled her round the side of the club, into the neck of a narrow alley that was entirely hidden from sight.

They didn’t say a word. Lana’s head was buzzing with the champagne. All she could think about was how this was a new beginning. Soon, after Cole, she would be free. Whatever she had with Robert, she knew now it was gone. The past was over and it wasn’t coming back.

Parker unzipped his trousers with fumbling urgency, grabbed her ass and hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around him.

One last time. That’s all this is.

As he drove into her, his breath hot against her ear, somewhere in the distance a weak alarm sounded.

Don’t be stupid, Lana. Tell him to stop.

She felt him move inside her and the rest was history.

PART THREE

Spring

50

New York

The man scraped the bottom of the saucepan with a knife. Brown shavings of scrambled egg peeled off the metal, curly like woodchips. Shit, he’d burned breakfast.

‘Nelson, honey, can you fix me some more coffee?’

The woman at the table looked older in the cold light of day. She was overweight with loose, pasty skin and a nest of black hair, stiff as wire. With his back to her at the stove, the man tensed, but responded to his alias all the same and refilled her cup. He’d been living under the name Nelson Price for ten years now. Ten long, long years. But the wait would soon be over.

‘Thanks, baby,’ the woman said in a whiny voice. She picked up the remote and started flicking channels on the TV. ‘Where’s breakfast?’

‘I’m doing it, aren’t I?’ the man snapped, thinking she could benefit from missing a meal or two. He couldn’t even remember where he’d picked this dyke up–she’d probably come into Club 44 and taken advantage of him when he was drunk.

At thirty-six, clad in his morning attire of stained beige jockeys, he was an alarmingly unattractive man. Years of drink had left him looking closer to sixty than forty, with ravaged skin stretched over pointed, rat-like features. His eyes were squinty, hard and pitiless. His thin brown hair clung stubbornly to the very back of his head, refusing to abandon him completely and concealing a deep, jagged scar that ran from one ear to the other. The front was completely bald and shiny as a wiped-down surface. Lean and crooked in frame, his sharp bones pushed at the skin so that when he was naked it was possible to count the knots of his spine. His nose had grown longer over the years, curved now like a beak.

He dumped the scorched eggs on to two plates and brought them to the table, where the mounds quivered brain-like. The only bread in the apartment was covered in mould, so they’d have to make do. This one, whatever her name was, obviously didn’t give a crap as she shovelled the yellowy-brown stuff into her mouth, chewing loudly and slurping her coffee.

Something on the TV caught his attention. A name, that was all it was. But it was her name. The name he hated beyond all others. Two dirty words.

Lana Falcon.

‘Go back,’ he ordered calmly. The egg on his fork balanced uncertainly before dropping to the plate in miserable defeat.

The woman ignored him and continued flicking channels.

‘I said, go back.’ He wouldn’t ask again.

‘What, baby?’ she said, distracted, her mouth full of food.

Lester Fallon snatched the control and punched at the buttons. Seconds later they landed on a celebrity news channel.

And there she was. His sister. It seemed she had an alias, too.

Liar, murderer, bitch.

She was rich, she was famous; she lived the life of a fucking princess like she hadn’t got a care in the world.

Like she hadn’t killed her own brother.

The injustice of it made him shake.

‘Nelson, honey, are you OK?’

Lester put down his cutlery. ‘I want you to leave.’ He could feel his rage boiling up inside, threatening to spill. He would warn her once more, but that would be the last time. The mere sight of his sister, the mention of her name unleashed the animal in him. He could not be held accountable for his actions if this lardy-ass broad got in the way.

‘What’s the matter, sugar-pie?’ she bleated. ‘Don’t you want me to suck that fine old dick of yours one more time?’

Under the table Lester wiped his palms on his hairy knees.

‘I said, leave.’

The woman took her time in clearing the last of her plate. ‘Fine.’ She wiped her mouth on the back of her arm. ‘You just give me what I’m owed and I’m outta here.’

Lester’s knuckles cracked beneath the surface. He hadn’t realised that was the deal.

‘I ain’t got no money,’ he snarled.

The woman made a face; she’d heard it all before. ‘That watch’ll do nicely,’ she said, her eyes darting to the cheap imitation Rolex attached to his wrist.

In a single swift movement, Lester’s hand shot up and slapped her across the face. She responded quickly, going for his head, digging her nails in and pulling at what hair there was, the table dragged between them so the plates and glasses went crashing to the floor. He punched her once, twice, sent her flying the same way. Slut! Why couldn’t these dumb women control themselves? It was her own fault, coming in here demanding money. She was privileged to spend a night with a man like him–if anything, he should be asking for the dough. He pounced on her, not giving her a chance to escape. Fuelled by hatred for his sister, he wrapped his long, skeletal fingers round the woman’s neck, pressing his thumbs hard into her clavicle. She gasped and choked, blood rushing to her face. Her eyes bugged, wild with fear.

A searing pain shot through Lester’s groin. In the struggle she had raised a knee and got him where it hurt. His mouth hung open and he made a wheezing, high-pitched sound, rolling backwards, curled up in a ball. She kicked him repeatedly in the back–the bitch had heels on–then hard in the head, once. He felt a trickle of blood run from his nose. Helpless, he watched as she unstrapped the watch, pocketed it, kicked him one more time in his gut then grabbed her bag and slammed the door behind her.

He lay there a while, nursing himself and groaning. The apartment was quiet and it smelled bad. The trash needed taking out, he hadn’t done it in a week, maybe longer, he couldn’t remember.

For eight years he had lived in New York City, waiting tables at various strip bars, the latest of which was Club 44. He’d arrived in town with enough bucks to get a deposit down on an apartment, dive as it was, on Greenwich Street, with a tiny bedroom, a bathroom whose toilet kept filling up with shit–there was a problem with his drains–and a kitchen coated in fat and grease. Everything was seventies in style, from the sludgy creams and browns of the decor to the fringed, mottled lamps, some of which worked, some of which didn’t.

He could hear the TV reporter chattering on. It was white noise to him–only the sound of his sister’s name could skewer the surface. She was living the life of a queen in Hollywood, a rich and successful film star; that dumb fuck ex-boyfriend of hers a Vegas billionaire. Where the hell was his money? Where were the millions he was entitled to? They had taken everything from him, left him with nothing but the clothes on his back–but soon he would claim what was rightfully his. Two murderers about to pay the ultimate price.

At least they hadn’t stayed together–to cap it all with a sickly fucking love story would have been the final insult. No, instead Laura had married the most famous actor of them all: Cole Steel. It defied belief.

They had escaped from one of the most heinous crimes imaginable and had gone on to live the life that he, Lester Fallon, deserved. Refuge, he decided as he lay on the floor, his ear pressed against the scratchy doormat, could be found only in what was to come. Life had been cruel, but little Laura’s and that Lewis kid’s success was only part of the grander scheme of things. The higher they got, the further there was to fall.

Lester closed his eyes, thinking he ought to try to get up. His head was banging from where that whore had attacked him.

Memories came flooding back. Memories of the night he died.

Lester Fallon had been a dead man for ten years now. Killed by a blow to the head then reduced to nothing, burned to ashes by a couple of kids.

Or at least that’s what they thought. Instead he had been resurrected, risen to seek vengeance upon those who’d tried to bring him down. The power he now wielded was infinite: it was what had kept him going all this time. They had no clue that he lived on, under another name but still the same man, only now he had hatred coursing through his veins like life-blood.

They were so stupid they hadn’t even thought to check he was dead. That kid had knocked him out cold, had probably pissed his pants when he thought he’d killed a man.

Lester had come round slowly that night, the weight of concussion confusing things. Swimming up into consciousness, he’d realised he was alone. Voices were talking in whispers, voices all around, telling him he had to move.

Instinct, from wherever it came, had compelled him to wrench open a back window and climb out the trailer. He had fallen in a slump on to the hard ground, where he had thrown up sour, rank-smelling beer. One hand was numb and there were tiny dots springing behind his eyes. He’d reached a hand round to touch the back of his head and felt that bloody pulp, the tip of his thumb disappearing into a pit of soft, wet matter. He’d retched again, but this time nothing came out. Ripping off his shirt, he had wrapped a torn sleeve around the wound, stemming the blood.

For a while he’d lain still, thinking about all the things he would do to her once he had the strength to move.

Faint voices, panicked, hushed, had reached his ears. It was difficult to tell what they were saying. Whether it was down to his addled mind or sheer intuition he did not know, but something told Lester to get to his feet; to run. Staggering up, he lurched into the night, the moon hovering above, pale and lonely in the open black sky. When he came to the road he fell to his knees, gasping for air. Sleep threatened to take him.

The explosion seemed to happen in his head, so painful it was, that when he looked round to see those bright orange flames dancing in the distance, he thought he was imagining it. It took another moment to connect with the fact that the raging fire was in the direction he’d just come from. His trailer was burning. His funeral pyre.

He had kept running, feet dragging on the road, not knowing where he was going. With each stumble he half expected the cops to pull him over–someone, anyone. They never came. Eventually, wandering blindly further and further, deeper into the night, delirious, he’d fallen down on the road and passed out. He had escaped death once. This time it could claim him.

Next he knew, his aching body was being dragged into the cab of a truck. It was light. His eyes were stinging and he had a taste in his mouth like shit, bitter and cloying. His lips were dry and cracked, his head throbbing.

The truck belonged to a long-distance driver named Big Carl. Big Carl wore a string vest and had arms like hams, mapped over with vein-green tattoos. There was a donkey in a sombrero swinging off the rear-view mirror. They drove for what felt like hours, passing the state border as night was creeping in. Lester drifted in and out of sleep, his tongue lolling fat in his mouth, thick as meat. At a gas station Big Carl produced a bottle of water, which Lester drank thirstily.

Big Carl lived in a beat-up house, down a dirt track in the middle of nowhere. He said he’d put Lester up in return for him looking after the place–Lester hadn’t raised a finger in that direction for years but he had neither the energy nor the inclination to object.

Lester passed a miserable two months like this, slave to the demands of his keeper. Something was changing in his head, like he was wired differently somehow. His memory was patchy, he kept falling over; he was forgetting things like his middle name and three times four. Hours passed where he could only stare at a wall, the rest of the world was too complicated, too plural. Weak and confused, he tried to make sense of what had happened that fateful night. It kept escaping him, like sand running through his fingers.

But over time, as his strength returned, Lester slowly put together the pieces. He worked out why no one was coming for him. They thought he was dead, everybody did. His sister would have told the cops that he’d set fire to the trailer himself. She was a good little liar.

Surely she would be discovered. Somebody had to know where he was … didn’t they?

He would go back to Belleville. Sort Laura out once and for all.

One morning in June, Lester made his escape–Big Carl was on a long-distance trip and Lester had no intention of ever seeing him again. He was free. Revenge was close.

But, walking the streets of a deadbeat town, feeling conspicuous as only a freed man can, Lester’s resolve began to waver. He caught his reflection in a shop window. He had gained weight. His hair was different; he seemed taller. There was a steeliness in his eyes that he admired. He felt stronger than he ever had.

Lester Fallon had defied death–there was nothing he could not do now.

That night he sheltered under a flattened cardboard box, kicking the rats that gnawed at his ankles. He slept fitfully in short, lucid bursts. Then, around dawn, a voice came to him. The voice was other-worldly, primal, and it spoke to his core. It seemed to come from within him and outside him at the same time, and told him simply this–that revenge would come some years from now, and the moment of that revenge would end the world as they knew it.

The end of the world as they knew it …

A new plan began to take shape. What was there to go back for? Belleville and the people in it were as dead to him as he was to them. He would wait for Laura, biding his time. The scene of his vengeance would be all the sweeter for it.

Over the next year, with no possessions or money, Lester decided to reinvent himself. He became Nelson Price, a name he’d seen on a reel of daytime movie credits, and hitched a ride to Bosfield, a town not far outside Indianapolis. There, drinking one night, he had hooked up with a local fraudster named Irvin Chance, owner of a ginger balding head and russet handlebar moustache, as well as a notorious strip joint on East Meridian. In return for waiting tables, Irvin gave him a bed in the house he shared with his wife, an overweight, unhappy-looking broad called Anna-May. The work was hard and unrewarding, but it was a roof over his head.

Things became complicated when Anna-May started spilling her guts, confiding that Irvin hadn’t paid her that kind of attention in months.

‘He used to say I had the sweetest ass in the whole of the state,’ she’d slur, shoving her fat hands into a bag of chips. ‘Now he won’t even look at me.’

At first Lester wished she’d shut the hell up, but as Anna-May’s drunken, rambling confessions took on a new light, things began to get interesting. It turned out that Anna-May was the only daughter, once young and beautiful, of a wealthy oil baron, but had been cast out of her family when they’d discovered her relationship with neighbourhood bad boy Irvin. In fact, Lester discovered, it was she who had financed Irvin’s bar, and she, despite her apparent indolence, who held complete control over their finances.

Lester saw his way in. Sex. Anna-May didn’t get it any more–he could give it to her. It was the perfect transaction. Soon it transpired that Anna-May had never had a man go down on her, and, though it made bile rise in Lester’s throat every time, he grit his teeth and got to it. In only a matter of weeks Irvin was phased out of the marriage–and, with special indulgences from Lester, out of the bar. Lester stepped up as owner, choked back disgust in bed every night with a sweating, insatiable Anna-May, and had soon saved enough to make it on his own.

Eighteen months later, Nelson Price–who, of course, despite Anna-May’s concentrated search efforts, did not exist–disappeared quietly into the night. Just in time, for Anna-May had started gabbing on about marriage, which was about as far away from his intentions as it was possible to get. Over the months his hunger for revenge had not waned–it was fiercer now than ever. He took as much cash and jewellery as he could and headed for New York. That was nearly eight years ago now.

Some time after, downing shots in a bar on West 14^th Street, he had seen a face he recognised. She was in a low-budget TV drama about a woman who falls in love with her psychiatrist.

Laura.

A year later, his sister was starring in a sitcom you couldn’t walk down the street without seeing in a store window–one of the best-loved American shows of the last twenty years or some crap. Lester’s heart had turned to stone, hardened by the fist of his loathing. Was she still fucking her murderer boyfriend? He didn’t think she was. It wasn’t until months later that he found out about Robert St Louis and his hotel empire.

They couldn’t run for ever from the fact of their crime: they had killed a man in cold blood and yet they just carried on like nothing had happened. Everybody did.

It was tempting to bring them down then and there.

America’s sweetheart, Laura was called. Ha. They wouldn’t be saying that if they knew she’d torched her own brother to death. But the voice he’d heard that night he’d left Big Carl’s was revealing its intent. Of course. They now had millions in the bank, more money than Lester could ever imagine–and he was entitled to every last dime. Oh yes, they had a very big score to settle.

And then, just like that, the golden opportunity had arrived. It was perfect.

Lester pushed himself up on to one arm and reached for the side, hauling himself to his feet. His cock still hurt from where that hooker had kicked him. He scratched at his balls, yawning, preparing for the day ahead.

Every day he was preparing.

This summer, in three months’ time, the premiere of Lana’s new movie was going to that bastard’s hotel. Lester kept track of every damn move those killers made.

When he was done with them, there would be nothing left. No more Lana Falcon and no more Robert St Louis. Patience, at long last, would be rewarded.

Vegas was going to be a glorious reunion.

51

Los Angeles

Kate diLaurentis lit a second candle, a slender, violet stalk set in silver, and stepped back to survey the table with satisfaction. There, perfect.

She had spent all afternoon at the mansion preparing a sumptuous anniversary banquet for Jimmy, who was due home any moment. Nerves jangled. Tonight was important–it was the night she would steer her marriage back on track, and she knew what that meant doing. Anxiously she fiddled with the neck of her aquamarine satin dress, encouraging a little more chest to spill forth. Smoothing her blonde hair, held in a hard knot at the back of her head and drawing the skin up so tight it was verging on painful, she reminded herself that she had a very good reason to feel confident.

This morning she had secured, albeit last minute, a role in George Roman’s new production. Her comeback was finally within reach–à la Demi and Courtney, she was about to make forty-something sexy again–and who better to be championed by than the man with the golden touch? He was even jetting her off to London to meet the rest of the cast.

In celebration she had given her kitchen staff the night off–it couldn’t be that hard to cook a meal. She checked the lamb one more time. Who knew how long it took, but it had been in there practically all day so it must be done. Then she poured herself a glass of wine and waited for Jimmy to come home.

Minutes later she heard the door go and her husband stumble into the hall. She balled her fists. He’d better not be drunk.

‘Hello, darling!’ she sang, sailing out to greet him and positioning her body to award him the best view of her legs, which were almost entirely visible where the dress split up one side. She was pleased to see he had only tripped over their son’s toy truck–hadn’t she told Su-Su to put that stupid thing away?–and appeared, at least, to be sober.

‘Hi,’ he said, clearly in a bad mood. He trudged past her, failing to take in her clinging dress or killer heels. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, helping himself to a beer from the refrigerator, ‘happy anniversary.’ He knocked the bottle open and swigged from it, before wiping his mouth with his shirtsleeve and burping gently. ‘Something smells good.’

‘It’s dinner,’ said Kate tightly, determined not to let his behaviour affect her evening.

‘You’re cooking?’ He went to laugh, realised she was serious and caught himself in time. When they’d first been married Kate had taken to the kitchen quite frequently–she’d explained she had never been allowed to when she was living with Cole; he insisted his staff did it all–and every meal she’d produced had been practically inedible. It had become, or at least it used to be, a standing joke between them.

Instead he looked surprised. ‘Wow, OK. Thanks. Um …’ He spotted a vase of white roses on the side and plucked one from the water, hoping charm would win out. ‘Here you go.’

It was inexcusable that he had failed to bring her a bouquet. Swallowing her disappointment, Kate took the rose from him and forced herself to smile.

‘Come on through,’ she purred, leading him out on to the candlelit terrace. The table was set beautifully in purple and vanilla linens–one thing Kate’s hostess skills did stretch to–with an elaborate, silver-leafed flower arrangement at its centre. Soft music played on the stereo.

‘This looks good,’ said Jimmy, taking a seat and pulling his chair in. He turned to his wife. ‘Are you feeling OK?’

She put her hands on his shoulders, which felt quite bony, and began to rub. ‘You just relax,’ she soothed, bending so she could whisper in his ear, ‘and let me take care of things.’ Quick as a flash her tongue darted out and licked his earlobe.

‘What was that?’ he cried, swatting his ear.

‘Relax,’ she said again, running her hands down his arms. Hmm, he had got rather thin. She hoped he wasn’t on drugs. Gently she began kissing his neck, moving her hands down over his stomach until they reached a slowly but surely swelling bulge in his trousers. Jimmy had the biggest dick in Hollywood–a fact that had once delighted her but was now quite frightening. But the night was young and there was a marriage to save.

She unscrewed a bottle of red wine and filled both their glasses. Holding hers tight, she floated over to the stereo system. When the music came on, she started to move, swaying her hips sexily and winding to the floor. Phew, that was hard on the legs. Raising her arms above her head, she pushed out her chest and her ass. To hell with the dinner. Maybe she ought to strip for him, that’s the sort of thing he liked–show him what he had been missing all this time.

Jimmy remained at the table, visibly uncomfortable. ‘What are we listening to?’ he asked, anything to make conversation.

‘A new band,’ Kate murmured, closing her eyes as if the song had transported her. ‘I thought you might like them.’

He frowned. ‘It’s a bit … I don’t know, rock. Didn’t think you were into that sort of thing.’

‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me,’ she said huskily.

Jimmy picked up the sleeve for something to do. ‘The Hides.’ He flipped it over. ‘Bit of a stupid name, isn’t it?’

Keeping her eyes fixed on him, Kate continued the slow dance. ‘Their producer sent me a copy. Felix Bentley, you know–we’re friends. Good friends.’ She giggled coquettishly.

The attempt to make her husband jealous flopped, as he continued to scrutinise the album cover. She sensed he was avoiding looking at her. Maybe she’d acted too quickly, too much too soon. They’d eat, talk, she’d tell him about her new venture. And then …

‘I had some good news today,’ she said, meandering into the kitchen and bringing out an incinerated rack of lamb with over-steamed vegetables. She laid everything on the table. ‘I hope it’s all cooked,’ she said, taking a seat opposite him.

‘It looks … well done, Kate.’ He watched for a reaction but none came. When he pulled at the meat it came apart in coarse grey ropes. ‘What’s the news?’

Kate took a mouthful of wine and prepared herself. ‘Well …’ She paused for effect. ‘George Roman wants me for his new movie!’

Jimmy looked genuinely impressed. He opened his mouth to speak.

‘Thanks,’ she trilled, before he had a chance to say anything. ‘It’s moving so fast I can barely keep up! George is flying me to London this week. Jimmy, this is my ticket back to the top!’ She wondered why he didn’t get up, give her a kiss, anything. It was like they were business partners. God, is that what we are?

‘So you didn’t get the Carl Rico?’

The question threw her, before she remembered the degrading audition she’d attended a few months ago. She tensed. Why did Jimmy have to bring that up? This was her big moment, her big news–trust him to want to ruin it.

‘No, thankfully,’ she said crossly, recalling Carl Rico’s shifty eyes roaming over her breasts like a starved beast.

He grinned. ‘So you won’t get your tits out for this one, then?’

It was the wrong thing to say. Kate put down her fork, her expression cold. ‘No, I won’t.’ Then she muttered, ‘I don’t know why you can’t be happier for me.’

Jimmy sat back. ‘I am happy for you! If you’d just—’

‘By making wisecracks at my expense?’ She downed her glass of wine and poured another, not bothering to refill his.

‘Calm down a second, Kate—’

She let out a harsh laugh. ‘It’s not me who’s acted out of line, Jimmy. It’s always you, making a joke of me, bringing me down.’

‘You think I bring you down?’ He held up his hands. ‘Come on, we’re having a nice evening, aren’t we? Do we have to argue?’ When she didn’t respond he rolled his eyes, exasperated, and picked at the meal, which was practically inedible. ‘I’m sorry I mentioned Carl Rico,’ he said finally. ‘OK? Can we forget it now?’

But the damage was already done. Why did Jimmy have to shit all over her good news by reminding her of having to get naked in front of some pervert? He didn’t even seem interested in taking her to bed.

He must be fucking around again, there was no other excuse.

Again? When exactly did he stop, Kate?

She wasn’t standing for it a second longer. Oh, no–things were about to change. Kate diLaurentis was on the brink of the biggest career revival in Hollywood history and she didn’t intend to indulge a husband who was messing around.

Jimmy kept his eyes on his food. Without warning Chloe French popped into his head, the cute English actress he’d met at Harriet Foley’s party in December. She was a hot little piece. He wondered if he’d left it too late to call her.

Locked in their private worlds, husband and wife finished their meal in silence. When Kate had cleared her plate, she filled her glass one more time and with a sudden, unexpected flourish threw it in Jimmy’s face. He sat, stunned, dripping with sticky Rioja, his palms upwards. He looked like a religious painting.

She stalked off to bed, alone. ‘You can do the dishes.’

52

With shaking fingers, Lana laid the pregnancy test down on the side of the bath tub.

It might be OK. You don’t know anything yet.

Except she did. She had a feeling in her gut and it had been keeping her awake, stopping her sleeping, wringing her out. It had been eight weeks since Sam Lucas’s party. The first period she’d missed had rung alarm bells–they’d been at the Awards at the time and she hadn’t been able to focus on anything else, not even when Cole went up to collect his gong–but fear had made the warning easy to ignore. At missing her second, they’d sounded more loudly, insisting she listen.

She washed her hands, dried them then sat on the floor with her knees pulled up under her chin. Cole had expected her at a society function this afternoon but she had pleaded illness. She had to be alone for this.

The white stick looked back at her accusingly.

Maybe she wasn’t pregnant, maybe it was a false alarm.

Plenty of women experienced them. Tomorrow she’d get her period and everything would be back to normal. But a persistent voice told her different. Something felt changed, deep inside, something fundamental. Her body wanted to tell her what she didn’t want to hear.

She hadn’t seen Parker Troy since the party. She couldn’t contemplate his reaction if she told him he was about to become a father. To the child Cole Steel’s wife was carrying.

Fear throttled her when she thought of Cole. Parker’s response was the least of her worries, she knew. Quite simply she couldn’t be carrying another man’s baby. It was not an option.

Her heart thumping wildly, Lana reached out for the test. She closed her eyes.

Seconds passed.

When she opened them, it took moments before she was able to digest the information. Confused, she grabbed the box and examined the guidelines. Three times she read them over, looking between the pictured results and those of her own, before she was sure.

Lana put her head in her hands and breathed out slowly. For a long time she stayed like that, not moving.

Suddenly her phone trilled from the next room. Her hands were shaking so it took time to open the bathroom door, which she had wanted to lock even though she was alone. She stood, confused, not knowing where the sound was coming from. Her attention was drawn to the bed, where her cell blinked its red eye. She considered not picking up, then, realising she’d been avoiding calls recently, forced herself to reach for it.

It was Rita. She sat down and answered cautiously.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me. Is everything OK? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all week.’

‘Everything’s fine.’ The words seemed to come from the other side of the room.

‘Good. What do you think of the matricide project?’

Lana winced. ‘What?’

‘The Paramount script I had biked over. What did you think?’

Lana bit her lip so it hurt. ‘I’m reading it today–um, I had something else I needed to take care of.’

‘You only just got to it? Lana, we have to move quickly on this–what’s up?’

It was tempting to tell her. But while Rita was her closest friend, she was also her agent and they had a working relationship to protect. After all the work Rita had put into the contract with Cole, the nightmare negotiations with Marty King, it was indulgent to expect her support.

‘Nothing’s up,’ she said instead, summoning her strength. ‘I’ll finish today–we’ll talk in the morning.’

‘Hmm.’ Rita wasn’t convinced. ‘Fine, but make sure you pick up this time. I’ll call at eleven. Get some sleep if you’re tired.’

‘I will.’

Lana hung up and dragged herself back into the bathroom. She looked in the mirror. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Haunted shadows pooled around her eyes, the dim glare of inevitability.

In her reflection she saw a fugitive who knows she is about to be caught. You’re done for.

53

Cole called Marty on his way back from the function. He was furious.

Lana had been a no-show. She’d let him down again. He was enraged. Humiliated. Wasn’t the whole point that they were a freaking couple? A team, an alliance, call it what you want–they were meant to do things together. What else was the point of having a damn wife? If he had to attend these gatherings by himself all the time, he might as well be going it alone. God only knew what people thought.

And to top it all, Michael Benedict had been there. He shuddered, remembering how the director had watched him from across the room.

‘Hello, Cole,’ he’d said, his mottled skin slack. ‘Have you been avoiding me?’

Cole gagged at the memory.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew something was up with his wife. Lana had been distant for months now and pleading illness didn’t wash with him. His years with Kate had taught him to know when a woman was lying.

He’d resisted Marty’s suggestion at first, there had to be another way. Now she had left him with no choice.

Cole speed-dialled his agent’s office. On his signal the driver sealed the partition glass.

Marty picked up straight away. ‘Cole, hi.’

Cole looked through the tinted glass at the grids of LA rushing by and gripped the leather armrest. He swallowed hard. ‘I’ve made my decision.’

He could hear Marty making excuses to the company he was with. Once he was alone: ‘Are you sure?’

Cole didn’t hesitate. ‘I’m sure. You start making things happen. Marty, I want her pregnant.’

54

Las Vegas

‘What is that?’

Jessica Bernstein grabbed a fistful of her sister’s hair and pushed it back, revealing a moth-sized bruise of a hicky just below her diamond-encrusted earlobe.

Elisabeth smacked her hand away. ‘Get off, it’s nothing.’

The sisters, along with Christie Carmen, were looking through bridal magazines at the Bernstein mansion. It was a warm March day and they were gathered on the east veranda, watching the sun flashing off Bernstein’s gold-bottomed swimming pool.

‘Gross!’ Jessica tried to get another look before being swiped away. ‘What are you, in high school? I never had Robert down as a biter.’

‘Whatever,’ Elisabeth said hurriedly. She had deliberately worn her caramel hair long and loose in an effort to obscure Alberto’s mark of passion. No amount of concealer had made the damnedest bit of difference. Trust Jessica to uncover it.

‘This one’s cute,’ whined Christie Carmen. Elisabeth’s eyes darted to the page and she cattily thought it would be a million years before those over-inflated breasts squeezed their way into a corset dress.

God, when had she turned into such a cow? She wasn’t in the least bit happy about the joint wedding–in fact, it was an atrocity–but deep down she knew it was more than that.

‘Your tits are too big,’ said Jessica bluntly, flipping the page. Christie seemed to take it as a compliment.

‘I want a dress like yours!’ she wheedled, looking to Elisabeth.

‘I’m already sharing my wedding, I’m not sharing my gown,’ Elisabeth muttered, pushing back her chair.

‘You’re a bitch these days,’ observed Jessica with a note of admiration. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be the blushing bride?’

‘We’re not at the wedding yet,’ Elisabeth lashed out. Dread tightened in her stomach at the thought of it, a meagre five months away. She’d sort out her head before then, put a stop once and for all to this madness. Damn it, why did she keep going back for more? Alberto Bellini was like a drug–they just had this profound connection, she couldn’t explain it.

Desperate to get away, she padded inside and fixed herself a martini, plopping in a plump green olive–she had to keep eating, after all. Her appetite had vanished these past few weeks and she was finding it hard to sleep.

Jessica tapped on the glass with a long fingernail. ‘Yes, please,’ she called, indicating the drink. Wearily Elisabeth drew out two more glasses.

After the wedding was set she had tried to cool things, really she had, but Alberto refused to take no for an answer. So had begun a dedicated wooing campaign: flowers and jewels delivered to the house, increasingly hard to conceal; champagne cocktails beneath the stars; a candlelit dinner he had prepared himself. ‘In Sicily, we cook with love,’ he had said that night in the grounds of his mansion, feeding her dark chocolate, and then, after they had swum in silver moonlight, tasting zinging papaya sorbet from that most private of places … She shuddered now when she thought of And all of it, every moment, behind Robert’s back.

Get your shit together, Elisabeth. You’re about to be married.

Back on the terrace, Jessica had moved on from bridal gowns and was busily flicking through a glossy celebrity magazine, looking for pictures of herself. She snatched the martini.

‘Thanks,’ said Christie, taking hers.

‘I went to that party,’ Jessica moaned, tapping the page, ‘and I had the best dress.’ She scanned the photos. ‘They haven’t even got my picture!’

Suddenly Christie piped up. ‘He’s so my crush right now,’ she drawled, nodding to a picture of Nate Reid looking moody outside a London bar.

Elisabeth frowned. Nate Reid, who in some shots looked barely a day over eighteen, was possibly the furthest from Frank Bernstein she could possibly think of. She couldn’t imagine her father was ticking all the same boxes.

‘He’s an asshole,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Didn’t you hear about his girlfriend dumping him? Turns out he’s a cheat with bells on.’ You can talk! her inner voice screamed.

Jessica shrugged. ‘He likes to party,’ she said smugly. ‘And I’d know. Because I’ve had him.’

‘Really?’ Christie’s eyes bugged.

‘He’s wild, all right,’ she said, giving Christie a meaningful look. ‘Very wild.’

‘Like how?’

‘Must we listen to this?’ Elisabeth interjected. ‘Get over him, Jessica.’

Jessica bristled. ‘I’m not hung up.’

‘Sure you are.’

‘Am not.’

‘Are.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Besides, I read he’s hot for Kate diLaurentis. Met her at Danielle Roman’s wedding.’

Jessica laughed nastily. ‘Come on. Isn’t she a granny by now?’

‘Hardly: she’s only a few years older than me.’

‘Exactly.’

‘You’re a bitch.’

‘Takes one to know one.’ Jessica pouted. ‘Anyway, she’s married.’

‘Who?’

‘Kate diLaurentis.’

‘That hardly makes a difference.’

Christie Carmen looked between the two like she was watching a tennis match.

‘Will it make a difference to you?’ Jessica’s eyes flashed.

Elisabeth’s mouth went dry. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? ‘

‘Just asking.’

‘Well, don’t. It was a stupid question.’

‘Oh, sorry. I guess it can’t freak you out that for every single night for the rest of your life you’ll be sleeping with the same fucking person.’

‘Not if that person’s Robert,’ said Elisabeth loyally.

‘Bullshit.’

‘Get your own life, Jessica.’

Elisabeth’s cell shrilled, ending the spat. She checked the display under the table. It was Alberto. Despite herself, her heart leapt.

‘Hello?’ she said as neutrally as she could, slipping back inside. Once she’d closed the patio doors, she hissed, ‘What are you doing calling me? I could have been with Robert!’

‘Are you?’

‘No.’

‘Then we can talk.’

She put a hand to her head. ‘Bellini, we’ve talked before. Please. We must put a stop to this. Don’t make it harder than it already is—’

‘Somebody knows, bellissima!

Elisabeth was quiet. ‘What did you say?’

‘Somebody knows.’

Horror clawed at her. ‘Knows what?’ she squeaked.

‘Perhaps we were not so careful as we thought …’

‘Bellini,’ she snapped, ‘what exactly are you saying?’

‘I have received two anonymous phone calls,’ he explained. ‘I could not identify the voice, I think it had been–how do you say … modified. It could have been a woman or a man. Both calls came direct to me at the Desert Jewel.’

‘Well?’ Elisabeth demanded, panicking. ‘What did they say?’ She turned to check her sister and Christie were still safely outside.

‘My darling, it is not good news for us. You must tell St Louis–or they will.’

Elisabeth clamped her hand to her mouth. What? Was it someone she knew?

‘I can’t,’ she spluttered. ‘Just pay them, anything it takes.’

‘Bellissima, I regret that it is not so easy. I cannot capitulate, I have a reputation to consider.’

‘And my reputation?’ Elisabeth squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Have you thought about that?’

‘Of course, my darling, I am always thinking of you.’

She was shaking. They had been careful–so who the hell was it? More important, just how much had they witnessed? She felt violated.

‘How could this have happened?’ she whispered.

‘My darling, we could never have hidden our true intentions for ever. My desire for you is alive, panting at my feet like a beast. It is there for all to see.’

‘Then put it away!’

‘I cannot.’

Elisabeth felt a cool shudder. Something in Alberto’s voice wasn’t right. ‘Aren’t you worried about this?’ she asked.

‘Of course I am worried,’ he said smoothly. ‘St Louis is a powerful man and he is my friend. It would be much better coming from you than from these … thieves.’

Elisabeth shook her head. ‘I’m not telling him.’ Her eyes pricked with tears when the full force of her betrayal hit. ‘There’s no way. We’re getting married.’ She clenched her fists. ‘I love him.’ He’d never believe it. Even if Robert did find out, he’d never believe it.

Alberto gave a soft chuckle. ‘Then we have a problem,’ he said. ‘For I love you.’

‘Please, Bellini …’ She faltered. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘It is true. Elisabeth, mi manchi.’

‘You must stop.’

‘You must tell him.’

‘I can’t.’

A pause. ‘Do I mean so little to you?’

She reached for a stool and sank on to it, trying to steady her breathing. ‘Of course not,’ she said quietly. ‘I … I can’t stop remembering you.’

‘Then do this.’ His voice was gravelly.

There was a long silence. Each sat listening to the other.

‘You know what you have to do,’ said Alberto finally, softly. ‘Call me when it is done.’

The line clicked dead and he was gone.

55

Los Angeles

The sun woke Chloe, spilling through the blinds in lemon-yellow ribbons. Tentatively she blinked against the light.

A gentle snore was emanating from the other side of the bed. She rolled over, pulling the rumpled sheet up to cover her breasts. Shit.

‘Wake up.’ She nudged the man. When he didn’t respond she nudged him harder.

‘What time is it?’ he asked groggily.

‘Gone eleven.’

Sleepily the man stretched his long, muscular body, lithe as a panther’s, and opened his eyes. ‘Hey,’ he said.

‘Hey.’ She gave him a smile.

It was Mateo, the model she’d shot a fragrance campaign with the previous afternoon. After the shoot he’d invited her to a bar, then hours later, somehow, they’d ended up back at her place. It was hopelessly unprofessional.

‘You’re beautiful in the morning,’ he said, reaching for her.

She resisted. ‘Thanks. I’ve got things to do, you’ll have to go.’ She slid out of bed and padded towards the en suite.

Hungrily he watched her naked body, marvelling at the way her jet-black hair fell so smooth, right down to the dip of her ass where it cut off in a blunt line. ‘So soon?’

‘Yes, so soon.’ She grinned. ‘Last night was fun–let’s leave it at that, OK.’

He sat up. ‘I’m sad.’

‘Don’t be.’ She grabbed a towel.

Dragging his jeans on, Mateo fought down his erection. Chloe French made him indescribably horny. He approached her from behind, burying his face in her hair.

‘You were incredible,’ he murmured, his hands moving down her body. She smelled like sex. ‘Last night blew my mind.’

She pulled him off and wrapped the towel around her. ‘Mateo, I mean it. It’s late and I’ve got things to do. Go.’

When she came out of the shower he’d gone, his number scrawled on a scrap of paper he’d left on her chest of drawers. She looked at it, smiled, tore it in half and threw it in the bin.

An hour later her phone rang. She was in the fitting rooms at Fred Segal and had to fumble, half-dressed, to free it from her bag.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Chloe?’

She frowned. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Jimmy Hart.’

Unexpectedly her stomach did a somersault. In the three-way mirrors she could see her top half, clad only in a lacy pink bra, from every conceivable angle. She folded her arms across her chest, feeling exposed.

‘We met at Harriet’s dinner party in December,’ he went on. She could see the glint in his eye when he added, ‘Please tell me you remember.’

‘Of course,’ she said evenly. ‘Hi.’ She’d thought about Jimmy intermittently over the past three months, vaguely impressed that he hadn’t yielded to another extra-marital temptation and yet slightly disappointed that he hadn’t. The episode with Nate had taught her one thing: men couldn’t be trusted and fidelity didn’t exist. In the game of love and war, if you didn’t become a player you ended up getting played. Kate diLaurentis knew it as well as she did.

There was a pause. ‘Are you busy today?’

‘Yes,’ she said smoothly.

‘Tomorrow, then.’

‘I’m busy tomorrow as well.’ She fingered the label on a six-hundred-dollar blouse.

‘The day after.’

‘Busy.’

‘The day after that.’ There was a grin in his voice. ‘I should warn you, this could go on a while.’

Chloe met her own gaze in the opposite mirror. She could see her other selves looking on.

The old her. Jimmy’s married. He’s a father. It’s the wrong thing to do.

The new. Grow up, Chloe. This is the real world. It’s how things are.

‘Actually, I can meet today,’ she said quickly, before she could change her mind. Any twinge of regret she might feel for Kate diLaurentis was quickly replaced with antipathy when she remembered how horrid the woman had been to her when they’d first met. She owed her nothing.

Jimmy’s voice deepened. ‘Come on over,’ he said, ‘I’ve got the place to myself.’

Chloe knew the deal. It was sex, pure and simple. Nobody else in this city thought twice about it-why should she? In this town, it was a means of survival.

‘You like risk, don’t you?’ she flirted, enjoying her newfound confidence.

‘Never get bored.’

‘You won’t with me.’

‘I’ll bet,’ he choked. Hurriedly he gave her the address.

After a moment she said, ‘I’ll be there. And, Jimmy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t keep me waiting again.’

Later that afternoon Chloe arrived at the Bel Air mansion, her trademark hair tucked under a Yankees cap and dark glasses obscuring her face. She buzzed the gates and was let in immediately, making her way up the massive drive towards the house. Palm fronds rustled in the warm spring breeze, their shapes reflected in a sheet of curved glass at the front of the building.

Kate’s got the right idea, she thought. Make sure you see ‘em coming.

Jimmy met her at the door. He was not as handsome as she remembered, thinner and with less hair, but nevertheless the attraction she’d felt at Harriet’s remained. His brown eyes sparkled with promise.

‘Good to see you,’ he said with a crocodile grin. ‘Come in.’

‘Thank you.’ She stepped inside, pulling off her cap and tossing her raven hair loose. Her jacket peeled away to reveal tight black jeans above a pair of wicked-red ankle boots, and a tight lead-grey top displaying plenty of cleavage. Jimmy’s eyes raked over her.

‘You look good,’ he said throatily.

Chloe made her way slowly and casually round the expansive hall, running a finger over the surfaces, pausing here and there to touch vases, ornaments, an antique china figurine carrying a basket of what looked like eggs, or potatoes, she couldn’t tell which.

So this was what it was like to be the other woman. As she bent to examine a family photograph, smiling faces on a beach somewhere, Jimmy’s pale chest alongside his wife’s golden tan, she realised what the overriding feeling of it was: it was one of power.

‘You’re sweet,’ she said in an echo of his words at Harriet’s dinner party. She turned to face him. He wondered how long it would take to get her knickers off.

Jimmy realised his palms were sweating. He’d brought plenty of girls back to the house, but none who took it in with such concentrated interest as Chloe French. He remembered her differently, as more shy, more timid somehow. They needed to get down to business–this was making him nervous.

‘Where’s Kate?’ Chloe asked, crossing her arms. Jimmy observed the generous curve of her breasts as she turned to one side.

‘At a meeting,’ he said gruffly. Then he added, a sparkle in his eye, ‘I’ll have the place to myself a fair bit, she’s in London this week.’

Chloe raised an eyebrow. ‘Looks like we’ve done a swap.’

There was a long silence. Jimmy gulped. ‘I’ll fix us a drink,’ he said, not wanting to continue this particular line of conversation. ‘Cocktail?’ He moved towards the kitchen.

But Chloe was quick. Silent and agile as a cat, she leapt, pushing him up against the wall.

‘Forget the tail,’ she purred. ‘I can think of something else I’d rather get my mouth around.’ With one hand she unzipped his jeans.

Jimmy was delighted. Grabbing her waist, he pulled her towards him, running his hands over her ass, kissing her sweet red lips. He heard her gasp as she freed his hard-on, her touch trailing the length of it, shocked, as all ladies were the first time, at the size of him.

He plunged his tongue into her mouth, taking her chin in his hands and moving against her, sliding through her fingers, feeling her grip tighten. She tasted of strawberries, fragrant and sugary. With a fist he clenched a knot of her hair, smooth as a river of black silk, and all he could think about was having its softness wrapped around his dick, taking him all the way.

‘Stop.’ Jimmy forced himself to ease her off. ‘Not yet.’

He kissed her again, feeling for her breasts, pleased to find she wasn’t wearing a bra. Tucking his hands beneath her top, he stroked her soft, ripe skin, feeling the shape of her, the hard peaks of her nipples. She moaned and threw her head back, exposing her long white throat. Sliding her top up he peeled it over her arms, revealing a pair of luscious, all-natural tits crowned with delicious pink. He bent his head to taste them, taking one between his teeth and biting gently till it stiffened. With both hands he tugged down her jeans, slipping a hand past her knickers and into a soft nest of hair, plunging two fingers into the tender fold.

She gasped, pushing herself on to him, kissing him, sucking his bottom lip, slick with desire. Riding against him, she felt the hot swell in her gut, rising like an unstoppable tide, bringing her to the point of no return. She raised her knee to bring him further, faster, deeper, then more of him entered her, plugging her in, until the wave crashed down and, panting, she climaxed with a shriek.

When Jimmy could bear it no longer, he withdrew his hand and applied a little pressure to the back of Chloe’s head. Obligingly she sank to her knees, her lips parting to receive him. As the majority of his cock vanished into her mouth, she let out a strangled groan. He cradled her and drew himself in, ploughing on with grim determination. Lights flashed before his eyes and he shouted out, cresting the swells of unadulterated pleasure, one after the other. On he thrust, his cock aching with the promise of release, till she was pushed back, her palms flat on the floor. With a final choke he came fiercely, his heart thumping in his ears; his breath coming in short, sharp rasps.

Neither of them heard the car pull up outside, or the front door close with a slam.

56

It was still dark.

Stealth-quiet, Lana opened the bathroom window, just big enough to fold her body through, and dragged an overnight bag after her. On her feet only the soft pad of socks. Above, the sky blushed plum with the arrival of dawn.

She shimmied along the narrow ledge that ran across the back fence, crouching beneath the radar of Cole’s security cameras–after years living with them she knew exactly their sight lines and trigger points. She wasn’t getting caught out again.

Cole’s perimeter was alarmed, activated at contact. She held her breath and threw her bag over, waiting for the soft thump of its impact, praying it wouldn’t arouse the night watch.

It didn’t. For a while she hovered on the precipice, not daring the make the next move. Beyond the fence was an oak, just within reach if she pushed off her toes and hit it exactly right. Feeling for its limbs, grasping its tough bark, she made the leap. As she embraced the coarse wood, she waited again for the alarm to sound, the dogs to snarl.

Silence.

For seconds she stayed clinging to its trunk, before catching her breath and carefully dropping to the ground. A spray of water caught her off guard, a lawn sprinkler, and she bit hard to stop herself crying out. Realising what it was, she unzipped her bag, slid on her sneakers and ran, half laughing, half stumbling, away from the grounds.

By the time Cole realised she was gone she’d already be on a plane, halfway across the Nevada desert.

57

Cole Steel lowered himself into the soothing bubbles–there was nothing like a soak after a burn in the gym. He ran his hands along the marble flanks of the tub and lay back, reaching for his cucumber face mask. Closing his eyes, he used both hands to apply the cream.

Pumping iron was a necessity. He’d just signed for a blistering action role that involved hanging in a series of mid-air shots: scaling a rock in Australia; dangling from a skyscraper in Tokyo; swinging from a helicopter over Manhattan. It was about time he showed the world he still had twice the balls of a younger actor. Not literally.

Cole felt the skin on his face tightening under the mask. Looking after himself was paramount: the role of Cole Steel was his most demanding to date.

If only Lana applied the same degree of dedication. He needed to talk to her. She’d been ill most of this week, hadn’t come out of her rooms much. Time was of the essence if they were to put this pregnancy plan into action–he vowed to corner her that afternoon.

Hell, he wasn’t stupid, he knew she was already thinking about the end of the contract, couldn’t wait to be free so she could hop into bed with any old Z-list bit-part actor. Wasn’t there more to life than sex? He himself was testament to that. He fished a hand under the water and felt for his penis, soft and flaccid as a mollusc on a rock. Wearily he considered a thousandth attempt, then thought better of it. Gone were the days of tugging uselessly at it like someone milking a cow. There were other ways of getting to the top and getting a good woman–and Cole Steel had managed to achieve both.

Against all odds. Michael Benedict had made sure of that.

Cole shuddered.

‘No!‘ he yelled out to the empty room, the lone word echoing round the white walls, a horrible, insistent taunt.

He held his nose and sank under the bubbles, forcing himself to forget. He’d been so young when Benedict had signed him up for his first starring role. He’d thought everyone had to do it, you know, to keep the director happy. When Benedict had first invited him round to his house, he’d thought everyone had to do it; when Benedict had led him to his bedroom, decked out in black silk and dark, twisting candles, he’d thought everyone had to do it; when Benedict told him to lie flat on his front …

‘I thought everyone had to do it!‘ Cole cried out, surfacing in a crash of water. Ripples spilled over the sides of the tub and washed on to the floor. He sank back, exhausted. To his eternal dismay his cock was rock-hard. Michael Benedict was the only thing. Even after all these years, even after how he hated that man with all that he was and ever would be, the memory of those agonising, exquisite days with Benedict was the only thing that could do it for him.

Fiercely Cole rubbed some cuticle-boosting shampoo through his hair and rinsed it off, clearing his mind, wiping it clean, refusing to think once more of the name. He was disgusted with himself.

Climbing out, he dried his now deflated body. He started at the feet, between the toes, and worked up to the ankle, calf, shin, thigh. Order made things make sense. He threw on a robe and headed downstairs.

In the lobby an army of cleaners was out in force, touching his things and moving them around in a way that was impossible to watch. He took his seat for a late lunch and checked his watch. Still no sign of Lana.

After a light spread of sashimi and mineral water, Cole cleaned his teeth twice, harder than usual so that his gums bled. Then he called round his drivers to see if anyone had taken his wife out that morning on an urgent work matter. They hadn’t. Nobody had seen her.

Cole found his housekeeper out on the terrace.

‘Louisa, have you seen Lana today?’

The dark-haired woman paused in mopping the tiles, thought a moment then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I haven’t.’

Cole ran a smooth hand over his chin. ‘When did you last see her?’

Louisa wrung her hands in her apron. ‘Yesterday, Mr Steel.’

Cole watched her carefully. ‘That’s all.’

He went back inside and stood for a while, hands on hips, thinking what to do. A flicker of anxiety danced in his gut. Something was the matter.

If his wife didn’t want to come to him, he’d simply have to go to her.

At the top of the back stairs Cole knocked gently and waited. There was no answer. He buzzed, listening for movement.

‘Lana?’ he called. Perhaps she was in the bathroom, couldn’t hear.

‘Lana.’ He said her name more forcefully. ‘Open this door.’

Still nothing.

He leaned his face against the wood and tightened his jaw against the cool, hard surface. Only quiet.

After a moment he dropped to his knees and drew to one side the gold leaf covering the keyhole. It was just possible to glimpse the fabrics of her bedroom, the apricot florals of a bed that was perfectly made. And perfectly not slept in.

Like a leopard, he pounced.

Turning from the door he flew down the stairs at startling speed, his bathrobe flying out behind him like a cape. In his own quarters he pulled aside a Man Ray print, reached into a narrow tunnel that could just accommodate his arm and drew out a plain, dark brown box. Inside was a collection of keys, each individually labelled. One was bigger than the rest and it was this he extracted: the skeleton key. He had never had cause to use it before.

He returned to his wife’s rooms with shaking hands and inserted the key into the lock. As it turned, he closed his eyes. He had never accessed Lana’s private space–it was as alien as unlocking a stranger’s house.

Inside, he was surprised at how neat she kept it. There was very little about the place that was personal, no photographs or pictures, no diary at her bedside, nothing that said who she was. The surfaces were clear except for a number of ragged books stacked together on a far shelf. They were all fiction; paperback novels whose pages were well thumbed. He scanned their spines. Mostly classics, none of which he’d read himself.

He yanked open her bedside drawer. Inside was a notebook with nothing written in it, though it looked like several pages had been torn out, then under that was a large white envelope. He lifted one corner and saw a face he recognised. It was a copy of the Las Vegas Reporter, with that hotelier St Louis on the cover. With grim satisfaction he applauded her: she was a hard worker, his wife, reading up on her premiere before sleep.

‘Lana?’ he called again, just to be safe. It wouldn’t do if she discovered him.

In the bathroom he warmed to his cause, fancying himself the private detective. The window was open a crack and he pulled it shut, securing the latch. Her cabinet yielded little–just a handful of half empty tubs of face cream, some packs of aspirin and a tube of toothpaste. There was a stout brown glass bottle with the lid screwed on tight. He turned it round in his hand, finding no label. Removing the cap, he tipped out a couple of white tablets and touched his tongue to their surface. Painkillers. For some reason he felt disappointed.

Then, just as he turned to go, the trash can caught his eye.

With a bare foot he pressed on the cool metal lever and the top eased open. Inside, screwed up tight, only just visible from where it had been hidden under a drift of paper, was a small paper bag. It had the air of having been concealed in a great hurry. He bent to pick it up.

When he first pulled out the white box, he didn’t understand what it was. He opened it and shook its contents, knowing it was somehow significant but not being able to work out why.

Then it dawned.

Cole reeled backwards on to the toilet, his mind hot.

It was a joke, it had to be, a practical joke. His head darted this way and that, like a bird’s, searching the room for the set-up, thinking he must have been Punk’d.

He knew he hadn’t.

How had she …? It wasn’t possible. This was some kind of sick mistake.

Hopelessly he attempted to process it, flipping through a catalogue of possible explanations, looking for something, anything. But there was no getting away from it-the facts were right here, heavy in his hand.

Cole dropped the box with a light smat that belied its significance. He sat very still, his chest rising and falling, his breath strangled.

How could she have done this to him? How could she?

Cole picked up the box and calmly returned to his rooms, locking the door quietly behind him. He got dressed in a series of thick, methodical movements.

After that he made two phone calls. The first was to Lana: he was a fair man, he would give her a chance. Her cell was switched off. Calmly he hung up and placed a second call.

‘Marty, it’s me. My wife is gone.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘Find her.’

58

Lana had chosen to fly direct from LAX. She boarded an ordinary plane, with no entourage, no security or bodyguards. In a baseball cap and dark glasses she was something of a conspicuous figure, but moved quickly through the airport so that by the time she was recognised, it was already too late. The aircraft was only half full, so she was able to sink into her seat, look out the window and go, for the most part, unnoticed.

On the plane she slept, plunging so fast into a deep, sudden unconsciousness that each time she woke it felt like hours had passed, not minutes.

She sipped a bottle of water and tried not to over-think what she was doing. It was foolish; a hasty, ill-considered, selfish plan. But she didn’t know what else to do. Every time she reached for a solution it was like running trapped in a dark grid of streets, every avenue a dead end. This was her only lifeline.

Placing a hand on her stomach, Lana tried to connect with the person inside. It didn’t seem possible that life had caught on–a chance thing, tiny but strong and wanting to fight, accepted by her body without her consent. She felt like she was walking around in someone else’s skin, like she had borrowed a coat that didn’t quite fit.

A flight attendant offered her coffee, clearly star-struck. When Lana declined, she put down her tray and produced a paper napkin and pen.

‘Would you mind?’ she asked excitedly, keeping her voice hushed, holding them out.

‘Of course.’ Lana scribbled her name and the woman beamed, stuffing it in her uniform pocket. Lana wondered if she could tell, like every female she encountered instinctively knew.

The plane dropped through an air pocket and Lana gripped one hand to her seat, the other to her belly. She felt a violent, visceral surge of protectiveness. There were two of them in it now; she wasn’t alone.

It was cowardice, running away when the going got tough and there was no one else, disturbing the life of a man whose heart she had no rights to.

She closed her eyes. For years she had kept her distance with people, it was safer. Friends, colleagues, lovers–since Lester died she had kept them all at arm’s length. People got hurt when they got close, it had always happened that way. After her brother’s death she had lost contact with her foster mom: it was entirely her choice, she had felt too ashamed, too much of a liar to continue writing, and when she moved from Belleville it hadn’t occurred to her to pass on the new address. All she’d ever done was cut people out; shut herself away when they wanted to help. She thought of Arlene with regret and wondered if it was too late.

This child deserved an honest start, and a mother with the courage to face up to her past. There was only one person she could go to. Only one person she could trust.

Briefly Lana turned on her cell as they began their descent into Vegas. A missed call from Rita–shit, she wouldn’t be pleased–and one from Cole. His single attempt spoke volumes. With a heavy heart she knew he had detected her absence. Her thoughts darted to the pregnancy test that she’d stupidly left in the trash–thank God she was the only one with a key. It would be safe there until she figured out what to do.

She had lost enough family to last ten lifetimes. Whatever the outcome, she was keeping this baby.

59

Las Vegas

‘The house always wins. You never heard that, punk?’ Frank Bernstein gave a short nod to his boys and they slammed another punch into the man’s stomach. A red jet of blood shot from his mouth.

‘You dumb motherfucker. You think we ain’t been watchin’ you since you walked into this joint?’ Another slam. ‘Think again, you dumb piece of shit.’ He took a strike himself.

Bernstein wiped his brow, signalled for the man to be brought to his feet. He was young, with sandy-blond hair and a drooping moustache. He wore a red and brown checked shirt and fringed boots, the toes of which were now spattered with crimson. Bernstein sat down opposite, pushing up his shirtsleeves like he was about to conduct a business meeting. The man hung limply between the two goons, a gurgling sound escaping from his throat.

Bernstein lit a cigar. ‘You want a smoke, wise guy?’

Over the past year a number of hotels on the Strip–the Parthenon and the Orient among the worst hit–had been the target of a slot scam, a clever operation involving a device that tricked machines into thinking they were receiving hundred-dollar bills. Bernstein’s surveillance had picked this guy up hours before. His partner–from their gaming pattern there were definitely two–was still at large.

The man heaved for breath.

‘Tryin’ to give it up, I gotta admire you.’ Bernstein lit his own and released a thick cloud.

‘Y’see,’ he said, sitting back, ‘I got a job to do. This is my casino. I got a family; I gotta make a living. You got a family, pal?’

Blood darkened the man’s lips. One eye was swelling, weeping like a piece of old fruit.

Most of the trouble they encountered in the casinos was with crude, low-stake hustlers–it was easy to spot a marker or a counter a mile off. But these days you had to know your way round a computer if you wanted the big money. This guy knew exactly what he was doing.

‘Sure you do. Sure you got a hot broad waitin’ back home, waitin’ on all that beautiful dirty money, ain’t that right? Except for one problem, you fuckin’ motherfucker: that money belongs to me. And guess what? As of right now, you belong to me. You and everything you fuckin’ have. Because if I ever see your ugly fuckin’ face—’

Bernstein was interrupted by his security. A thick-set man approached and bent to speak in his ear. Bernstein nodded. ‘Bring him in.’

He ground out the cigar, then, standing to deliver a final, crushing blow, said quietly, ‘If you ever set foot in my place again, I’ll tear both your balls off and send ‘em so far up your tight white ass you’ll have a sore throat for a week.’ He jerked his head towards the street door–the heavies would escort him, where they’d have a last go. ‘Now get outta my sight.’

The man gone, Robert appeared, looking put upon. He shrugged off his suit jacket. ‘Presentation ran over.’ He sat down. ‘Where is he? ‘

Bernstein smiled. ‘He took a walk out that way, kinda.’ He nodded to the far door. ‘I dealt with it myself.’

‘And?’

‘He ain’t comin’ back any time soon.’

Robert frowned. He looked around him, taking in the blood-spattered floor. Something caught his eye and he put a hand down to retrieve it. It was small and bone-hard.

‘What the hell …?’

Bernstein made a face. ‘Had a guy in here needs t’see a dentist.’

‘We agreed, Bernstein. No violence.’ He kept his voice low but menace channelled through it, a quiet, measured warning.

Bernstein laughed, his big belly rising and falling. ‘You’re funny, St Louis.’

Robert shook his head. ‘Get real, Frank. These guys are working a complex piece of kit, there’s things we needed to know. This wasn’t the right way to do it.’

Bernstein stopped laughing. ‘Thing is, son, your way takes a fuck of a lot longer.’

A silence hung between them.

Eventually Robert said, ‘What did you find out?’

‘That a big man cries like a girl.’

‘About the scam. Who else is in on it, who they’re working for. How they set it up.’

Bernstein shrugged. ‘Beats me.’

It was Robert’s turn to laugh. ‘Don’t you give a fuck?’

‘Course I give a fuck. I give a fuck about the next time they want to pull a stunt like this, and I’m tellin’ you now, it ain’t happenin’ again. Not to you, not to me. It’s over.’

Robert stood up, his eyes fixed on the older man. He could have Frank Bernstein in a second, knock out a whole fistful of teeth in one hit. Truth was he’d endured enough violence in his past. He was tired of it.

‘You gotta wake up, kid,’ Bernstein said. ‘This is a big boy’s game. There’s rules.’

Robert leaned across the table. ‘Those rules are mine. I run my own game.’

‘They was your father’s rules before you,’ Bernstein shouted as he turned to leave. ‘Don’t think for a second your shit don’t stink!’

Without looking back, Robert stepped out and closed the door firmly behind him. He ran into Elisabeth almost instantly.

‘Robert!’ she exclaimed, her eyes wide. ‘I thought you were at the Orient.’

He grimaced. ‘I had a meeting with your father.’

‘Oh, good, he’s here.’ The relief in her voice was considerable. She seemed to catch herself and rein it in. ‘I need to talk to him,’ she explained quickly.

‘He’s otherwise engaged,’ said Robert flatly, taking her arm.

She broke free. ‘It’s rather urgent.’

Robert frowned. ‘Surely I can help?’

‘No,’ she said abruptly. ‘I mean, it’s fine. I’ll catch him later.’

He looked unconvinced.

‘It’s nothing!’ Her voice was shrill.

‘Are you sure?’

Elisabeth looked hesitantly over his shoulder. ‘Of course.’ She forced a smile.

Robert checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to shoot, I’ve got a meeting with Bellini.’

Anxiety strangled her voice. ‘Alberto?’

‘I’m already running late.’

She gulped. ‘You’d better go.’

As Robert made his way across the Parthenon lobby, he tried to focus on the afternoon ahead. It couldn’t possibly mess with his head more than the morning.

60

Elisabeth knocked on the door to her father’s office. Silence.

She pushed it open. A musky smell enveloped her, like smoke and sweat. Papers were scattered on his desk, half-full cups of coffee and a smouldering cigar bent in half in one of his crystal ashtrays. Battle scenes adorned the walls. She remembered being frightened of them when she was a girl.

Deciding to wait, Elisabeth took a seat at his desk. She leaned back in the chair, put her feet up and crossed her arms behind her head. So this was what it felt like to be a man. This was what it felt like to be Frank Bernstein.

She poured herself a drink. The seconds dripped by on his shagreen desk clock.

Her confidence began to falter. After another sleepless night she’d decided this was her and Bellini’s only way out. Bernstein would be mad, he’d be crazy, but he’d stand by her. Once the blackmailers knew the big man was involved they’d run a mile and never dare set foot in this town again. It was a risk she was willing to take–she knew her father was so dead set on the wedding that he’d protect her reputation at all costs. She’d made a mistake. So what? People made them every day. No doubt he’d made a few.

But now she wasn’t so sure. She’d always made such a point of her independence–what would it look like if she came running to him soon as times got tough?

On Bernstein’s desk was a photograph of the family outside the Mirage. It showed Elisabeth, a sulky twelve-year-old holding her father’s hand, whose other arm was cradling a baby Jessica. She squinted and leaned closer. In the background, something she’d never noticed before, was a recognisable figure looking on, half-obscured behind the dazzling waterfalls. Alberto Bellini.

She opened her father’s desk drawer for something to do. The smell of leather assaulted her, a catalogue of files and account books. Bored, she closed it.

The drawer below didn’t yield much else. A stack of old papers impaled on a silver pin, some sleek pens with their lids off, the nibs dry. She tried the last one.

Inside was a locked box. Elisabeth frowned, reached for it, extracting it with care. She shook it, thought she could hear papers but it was too hushed to be sure. Replacing it, she noticed a stack of leather-bound diaries wedged alongside. Each one was fastened with a padlock.

Just as she was about to close the drawer, she noticed something. A crisp white envelope was sticking out the top of one of the diaries. Curious, she took its edge and pulled.

On the front was her own name, staring back at her in ornate script.

Elisabeth

She frowned.

Abruptly the door opened. Hastily Elisabeth slammed the drawer shut and stuffed the envelope into her back pocket. She stood up.

Bernstein charged into the room, clearly in a bad mood.

‘What is it, Elisabeth?’ he demanded, slamming down a hefty dossier. ‘I’m up to my neck in crap today, this better be good.’

‘It’s nothing,’ she said, thinking quickly. ‘I thought you could do with a break, that’s all.’

Bernstein’s brow furrowed. In all her life he could count on one hand the number of times Elisabeth had asked to spend time with him. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Like I said, nothing.’ She smiled brightly.

His eyes shot to the desk. ‘You been snooping around?’ His voice was fierce.

‘No.’

He looked at her closely, before appearing satisfied. ‘Good. Now get outta here.’

Elisabeth didn’t need to be told twice. Hurrying out into the Parthenon lobby, she kept walking till she was out on the Strip, sensing she’d somehow had a lucky escape.