Hollywood Sinners (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A
lberto 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 your heart is 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.’ 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 this new territory, 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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Santa Barbara

T
he 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 gleaming glass ceiling hundreds of feet above and pillars soaring high into the vaults. It was like Daddy Warbucks’ 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, ‘can I have 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 purple 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 proper 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?’ she asked. 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. 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.’