Hollywood Sinners (23 page)

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 swim 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 bleating 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 14th 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.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Los Angeles

K
ate 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 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 together.
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 trrudged 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 linen—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’d 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? I’ve never heard of them.’

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.’

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

W
ith 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 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 a 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 balled her fists. ‘I’m reading it today—um, I had something else I needed to take care of.’

‘You only just got to it? Lana, we’ve got 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 knew she was about to be caught.

You’re done for.