Hollywood Sinners (29 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

S
ureiny Vélez was having a bad day. She’d woken up with a headache, had the children refuse to eat their breakfast then on the way to kindergarten the car had got a flat. Eventually she had dropped them off, but not before sitting on the sweltering verge with two screaming under-sixes for half an hour while Kate’s cover turned up. By the time she got back to the mansion, she was not a happy woman.

Even less so when she saw Jimmy cavorting outside by the pool with his new lady friend. Chloe French was very pretty, Sureiny conceded, dropping her bags in the kitchen, even if she thought it acceptable to run around outside without her top on. She’d seen more than enough of the girl in the past few days, in all senses of the word.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s broken his blonde rule
, she thought, patting her own dark hair. When Sureiny had first been employed by Kate diLaurentis four years ago, as a fresh-faced twenty-one-year-old, she had been shocked when Jimmy had propositioned her in the kitchen one night. Right here, in fact, she thought now, running her fingers over the hob. She remembered how he had approached her from behind, slipping his long fingers round her waist until the milk she had been warming had burned and frothed over… The next morning, it was as if nothing had happened. He’d had his piece and that was enough. Sureiny was left in no doubt as to who was the boss.

She slammed the fridge door shut. Every time Kate was away he did the same thing, bringing girls back to the house, installing them for a few days and having his piece of fun. Maybe this one had more backbone than the rest of them, wouldn’t go running and crying when he called it off. Just like she had.

Sanamagan!

She’d had enough. Jimmy Hart was a user, a liar, the worst kind of cheat. The time had come for quiet little Su-Su to speak up. His wife deserved to know exactly what was going on.

Turning away from the window, she lifted the phone and dialled.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

London

N
ate Reid belted out the final line of The Hides’ number-one single and the Apollo ruptured in applause. Chris’s drum roll wheeled on and Nate grabbed the mike stand, raising it aloft his head like a weightlifter, mouth open, roaring back at his fans. They clamoured for an encore, stamping their feet and chanting his name.

‘Nate! Nate! Nate!’

It was electrifying. Banners rippled in the audience, girls telling him that they loved him and they wanted to marry him. They craved him. Every single person here did.

Chris counted in the first song of their farewell set, a slower number that had people waving lighters and sending whistles into the air like balloons.

Nate looked out at his minions with pleasure. Since the release of
Nowhere Town
, The Hides had been the hottest band in British music. And in a move that surprised everyone save Felix Bentley, they were now smashing the charts in America. The past few months had been a roller-coaster of wild parties, champagne and cocaine, drink, drugs and groupies; girls who did things they didn’t even know had been invented yet.

When Nate came away from the mike the whole auditorium took on the lyrics—he’d given this to them; he’d given them someone to love.

‘
This girl’s the only one for me; tell her I love her, she just cannot see…’

It was a song he had written for Chloe, one of the many times he’d resolved to try keeping it in his pants. Focusing on the lyrics, he fought the rising surge of fury that accompanied her name. It had been three months since the night she’d castrated him—and she may as well have done for the lack of action he’d received in the ensuing weeks. Fortunately things had picked up again, in almost direct correlation with his growing status, but still her rejection stung like nothing he had experienced before.

‘This girl’s the only one for me; can’t she see I want her, can’t she see we’ll be…’

He almost stumbled over the words when he remembered how brutally Chloe had done it, the force of her character assassination and how public a humiliation it had been. Well, fuck that. Things had been shit for a while but he’d managed to steer things back on track. He’d done a few interviews that had set the record straight: finally he had broken free from a stifling, claustrophobic relationship with clingy Chloe. Yeah, he was a ladies’ man, he was born that way. It complemented his image to a T. Possibly more than Chloe ever did.

Two harder numbers later, the lights went down and the cheers went up. Cameras flashed in the crowd like stars. By the time The Hides had left the stage, the noise was deafening. Nate clapped his bandmates on the back and they shared a sweaty, euphoric embrace. The band was rock royalty—and, fuck it, he was the king.

* * *

The after party took place at 17 Village, a private club in Kensington favoured by the fashionable London set.

Nate sat back in one of the booths and draped an arm across the shoulder of the blonde beauty either side of him. One of them placed a possessive hand on the inside of his leg; the other leaned in and sucked on his earlobe.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ the plumper one purred. Bite-sized patches of flesh peeped through her netted dress, the straps digging in a bit, making her look like a Sunday joint prepped for roasting.

Nate knocked back the rest of his beer. Felix was partway through a DJ set and he had no intention of going anywhere. Besides, he could have the pick of any woman there.

Spencer ambled over with a clutch of vodka shots. ‘Check it out—Kate diLaurentis is at the bar. Random or what?’

Nate peered over his guitarist’s shoulder. He recalled meeting Kate at the Romans’ wedding last year. She was also an acquaintance of Felix—he must have invited her. Nate wondered if she’d seen him perform.

Yes, it was her all right. Only she looked…different. She was dressed casually, in a loose-fitting trousersuit and boots, her platinum hair falling around her shoulders. It was a far cry from the uptight Hollywood wife he remembered—for a start, she looked ten years younger.

Kate was chatting to a balding British actor, a renowned Lothario, who had been doing Shakespeare in the West End. Something about her face had changed, too—it was more animated, kinder, more composed. Either she had a very good surgeon, he reckoned, or she was finally getting some: the cure, in Nate’s world, for most ailments.

Nate threw back a shot, then another one.

Spencer held his hands out. ‘Oi!’

Peeling off both blondes, Nate ambled over. Once he would have felt weird approaching a Hollywood legend like Kate, but not any more.

‘Kate.’ He treated her to his most charming smile. ‘Good to see you again.’

She looked him up and down. ‘I didn’t think we’d met.’

The Brit actor melted away—Nate couldn’t be sure if he’d been trying to pull her, though he doubted it. Kate was attractive in a predatory way. Any man who took her on would have to have balls—and you’d think twice about putting them anywhere near her mouth.

‘Actually, we have,’ he said, undeterred, and signalled for a bottle of Cristal—her poison of choice, he guessed. ‘Drink?’

She sighed then said with zero enthusiasm, ‘Go on, then.’

Cute. He liked when birds played hard to get.

They settled into a booth. Kate looked uncomfortable. He imagined she was there to get photographed, nothing else. When she reached for her champagne he noticed her hands were big in contrast with the rest of her, quite masculine.

‘Did you catch the set?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ She seemed in a bad mood.

‘Why don’t you go if you’re not having fun?’

Kate looked at him. After a moment she said, ‘I want to get drunk.’

Nate shrugged, refilling her glass. ‘OK.’

‘Keep it coming,’ she instructed, chucking it back.

‘Any reason?’ he asked.

She shook her head briskly. ‘Not that I’m prepared to discuss with you.’

He held his hands up. ‘Suit yourself, lady.’ He pushed the bottle towards her. ‘Knock yourself out.’

Several drinks later and Nate had managed to find a weakness in her hard exterior—which, like a lot of hard things, was brittle.

‘My husband’s having another affair,’ Kate slurred. ‘He sickens me.’ Her mouth screwed up. ‘Of course you’re aware he can’t keep his dick to himself—everybody is.’

Nate thought it might not be the best time to extol the virtues of being a bachelor. ‘That sucks,’ he said instead.

‘It’s so fucking predictable,’ she snapped bitterly. ‘He thinks he’s hiding it—ha! He couldn’t hide a peanut in his asshole.’

Nate shrugged. ‘Maybe you should confront him?’
Not in front of half the city you live in
, he wanted to add.

‘And lose the father of my children?’ Kate laughed hollowly. ‘No chance. I’ve got a better plan.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Oh, yes. Hit her where it hurts.’

‘You know who it is?’

Kate ran a finger round the rim of her glass. ‘Oh, I know all right. Nanny walked in on them—Jimmy thinks she’s too timid to speak up, but she knows
exactly
where her loyalties are.’ She laughed sharply. ‘Poor girl was crying, said he’d even had his way with her!’ She raised her tumbler in a mock-toast and Nate refilled it. ‘Hardly a surprise, I should add. Introduce Jimmy to anything with two legs and a pair of breasts and it’s like feeding time at the zoo.’

‘My ex is like that,’ lied Nate, jumping at any opportunity to badmouth Chloe. ‘A real slag. In fact, all the time we were together—’

‘A lovely little home-wrecker, this one,’ Kate interrupted. ‘Saw it the first time I clapped eyes on her. And as we know, the public just
loves
one of those…’ Suddenly something seemed to dawn on her. She frowned. She looked at Nate.

Nate was mesmerised. ‘Who is she?’

Kate didn’t say anything. She was eyeing him with such concentrated interest that after a while he began to feel uncomfortable. A slow smile was spreading across her face.

‘What?’

‘
Now
I remember,’ she said, looking like the cat who’d got the cream. ‘I
have
met you before. In Santa Barbara.’ She licked her lips. ‘You were with that
darling
Chloe French. Am I right?’

Nate grimaced. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘Oh?’

‘Things didn’t end well.’ His voice was sour.

Unexpectedly she took his arm. When she leaned in he could smell the alcohol on her breath. ‘That sounds
very
interesting,’ she purred. ‘Nate Reid, you and I have got a
lot
to talk about.’

* * *

Later, at Kate’s Mayfair hotel, she fixed them both a nightcap, performed a little dance that he suspected was more for her amusement than his, then wasted no time in removing her clothes. Nate couldn’t believe his luck.

‘Sit back,’ she commanded huskily, stepping out of her lacy blue underwear. ‘I’m going to show you a magic trick.’ She pushed him back on to the bed, pushed his knees apart and deftly whipped out his cock.

He’d never had a woman Kate’s age. Her body was long and fluid, muscular like a wild animal. She raised her arms above her head, continuing the dance, her toffee-coloured tits high and proud on her chest; a streak of honey fuzz between her legs. Nate watched, transfixed, happy to be following the leader. Like a beast unleashed, she prowled around the bed, touching herself, shaking her assets in his face. It was a bizarre display but a major turn-on. He wondered if her husband knew she was this kinky.

Jimmy Hart probably had enough else to think about.

Eventually she sank to her knees in a twist ’n’ shout sort of manoeuvre—except she didn’t get up again. Ducking her head to meet his cock, she licked its tip like an ice cream cone and met his eye.

‘Relax, honey,’ she instructed. ‘The good stuff starts here.’

CHAPTER SEVENTY

Las Vegas

E
lisabeth raked her fingernails down the man’s back, gasping as he moved on top of her.

‘Make me come,’ she whispered in his ear, tightening her muscles and arching her back. At a renewed pace he went to work, kissing her lips, her forehead, her neck. She screamed out, grabbing his ass and pulling him closer, moving with him. Together they climaxed violently, their bodies bathed in sweat.

Middle-of-the-day sex: there was nothing better. They had snatched an hour at lunch. It had been her idea.

He rolled off and lay back, breathing hard. Elisabeth ran her fingertips over his chest.

‘That was amazing,’ she said.

He looked at her, the trace of a smile on his face.

She touched his cheek with her hand, leaned in and kissed him slowly, meaningfully.

‘What was that for?’ he asked.

‘I just wanted to.’

The man watched her. ‘You know what I want.’

She sat up, shook her head. ‘I told you. I can’t.
I can’t
.’

Alberto traced a line down her spine with his fingertips. ‘We can do anything, my love. Together, it is possible.’

She hugged her knees to her chest. ‘Do you think they’re watching now?’

‘Not here.’ They were safe in Alberto’s mansion. ‘I had the place checked out.’

She nodded. ‘This has got to stop,’ she said for what felt like the thousandth time.

‘Some things we cannot stop,’ he advised quietly. ‘They have an energy of their own.’

‘This is different. Other people are involved.’

He sat up. She looked in his eyes and saw a young stallion; she looked at his body, crinkled and sagging, and saw an old man.

What are you giving up Robert for?
she asked herself. It was foolish to walk away from marriage to one of the most eligible men in America. And for what? An ancient Italian with about six years left? But while her head told her one thing, her heart said another.

‘You must tell St Louis,’ said Alberto. ‘Before the premiere.’ He gazed at her a moment, a little sadly she thought, before he climbed out of bed and headed into the shower. The steady beat of water followed soon after.

The blackmailers’ ultimatum hung off her like a cross.
They’re bluffing
, she thought, knowing she was a coward.
They might not know anything. It’s an empty threat.

She put her head on her knees. Lana Falcon had been here for nearly two weeks and Robert was the happiest she had ever seen him. She had never made him that happy.

At least she had something she was keeping close to her heart.

With a flutter of reprieve she remembered the envelope she had found in her father’s office. It had to be from her mother, it just had to be. She’d seen Linda’s handwriting on things over the years and she’d recognise it anywhere. To think that her mother had left her this note, this little piece of her meant for Elisabeth’s eyes only, shone a bright light through the confusion in her heart. She’d hidden it away where no one could find it, savouring its potential, had nearly opened it several times before telling herself to wait—it was too good to rush.

Her father had no idea she’d taken it—maybe he was waiting till she was married to give it to her—and, in a situation over which she felt she was rapidly losing control, it gave her a thrilling sense of power.

Swinging her legs off the cotton sheets, Elisabeth slid open the bathroom door. Alberto’s naked form was just visible through the crystal glass.

She passed her reflection in the mirror, the back of her head a nest of sex hair. Brushing it out, she pinched her nipples to harden them and drew across the shower panel. Her lover’s white hair was sudsy and his body slick with water. She stepped in.

‘My darling, I—’

‘Shh.’ She put a finger to his mouth.

His cock hung sadly between them. Squeezing gel on to her palms she massaged till he was coaxed to attention, just about. She pushed him back on to the tiled seat and mounted him.

Whoever was threatening her had underestimated the strength of her armour. Her body was a weapon they could never defeat.

* * *

‘Breathe in; breathe out, and
now
deliver the note!’

Elisabeth delivered a note, but whether it was the right one or not was up for debate.

‘OK,’ said Donatella, her vocal coach, brushing back a thick mane that was more like fur than hair. Gold bangles, one in the shape of a snake twisted round her wrist, moved with her. ‘Claude, from the top, please.’

Claude, a mini-Liberace at the piano, raised his shoulders in an elaborate preparation for play then thundered down on to the keys like his life depended on it. He swayed from side to side as if he were caught in some dreadful musical tide.

Elisabeth attempted to keep up with Claude pummelling on the ivories, looking at her for accompaniment with eyes wild, and Donatella cueing her in like a demented maestro.

It was the same afternoon and they were gathered at Bernstein’s mansion to practise Elisabeth’s premiere piece. It was a song she had written herself—with a little help from Donatella, who’d been in the music business since the seventies—and was made up of a number of component parts, in the tradition of Queen’s
Bohemian Rhapsody
. It began quietly then built to a crescendo, before shying back to a pianissimo, then finishing with an operatic belt-out.

Donatella called time. ‘What’s wrong with you today?’ she frowned. ‘Your pitch is way off.
Concentrate
, Elisabeth
.
’

A fearsome woman in her late sixties, but from the back could have passed for forty, Donatella’s face was like tangerine peel, stretched by surgical procedures and swollen with Botox. In a black suit jacket and drainpipe jeans, with a good square foot of copper-coloured chest on show, her die-hard eighties style had finally come back in as a retro fashion choice.

‘Sorry,’ Elisabeth mumbled. ‘Can we start from “
Starry night
”?’

Donatella nodded briskly. Not many people could get away with telling off Elisabeth Sabell, but Donatella had been working with the family for decades: she had coached the great star Linda Sabell before her daughter. But while Elisabeth was the mirror image of her mother she had none of her vocal talent. She could hit the note—most of the time—but her voice was lacking something special. Still, it didn’t really matter these days, Donatella thought with a pang for the past industry. A good producer could work wonders, the voice was normally secondary.

Claude took it from verse two and the room erupted once more. Elisabeth felt like she was straddling a runaway horse, trying desperately to cling on to the notes as they swept past, galloping towards the money note that she knew she couldn’t hit.

‘Tell me a story, tell me a lie; if you tell me the truth I surely will die.’

Donatella marched on, her breasts shaking with the rigour of her direction. Elisabeth felt her mouth go dry, the notes shrivelling up in her throat.

Focus.

I can’t. I’ve got to tell Robert I can’t marry him.

Rushing towards the highest point, Elisabeth’s voice cracked and she delivered the final punch as more of a limp slap. The note escaped her mouth then died on the floor in front of them like a wingless bird.

‘
Ach!
’ Donatella shook her head. ‘You’ve got a lot of practice to do.’

Elisabeth looked at Claude, who was wearing an expression of such concerned pity that she wanted to smack him round his orange face.

‘I’ll do it,’ she said, out of breath.

‘I hope so,’ said Donatella, passing Elisabeth a glass of water, which she accepted gratefully. ‘The premiere is in less than eight weeks.’

‘I know,’ she mumbled.

‘You need to be ready,’ Donatella said, grabbing her purse. ‘Claudy!’

Claude sprang to attention like a dog.

‘This premiere will make you,’ she said sagely. ‘I’ve a feeling it’ll be a night to remember.’