Hollywood Sinners (35 page)

PART FOUR

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

Summer

L
ester Fallon jerked the car back in lane, narrowly missing an oncoming truck. He gave the bird to the vehicle behind him. Fucking moron.

With the engine purring beneath him and Vegas only an hour away, Lester was feeling good. Every mile he clocked brought him closer to the scene of his revenge. Imagining the look on their faces when he finally revealed himself was almost too much to bear. He’d had to pull over in a lay by twice already to relieve himself. Fear switched him on like nothing else.

He flicked on the radio, hoping to catch a tune.

‘Las Vegas, Nevada, is getting ready to roll out the red carpet for the premiere of Sam Lucas’s new movie,
Eastern Sky
. Tomorrow night the Orient Hotel will open its doors for an evening of Hollywood glamour as a host of stars arrive in the city this afternoon for the big occasion. Robert St Louis, owner of the Orient and co-hosting the evening’s event with Frank Bernstein of Parthenon Enterprises, said the city’s bid had been met with enthusiasm from the outset. “Not only can we stage the biggest and best premiere here in Vegas, but our guests will enjoy a truly unforgettable experience in a hotel inspired by China’s colourful history. The Orient was born for
Eastern Sky
.” The premiere takes place tomorrow night from eight until ten. Tune in then for our exclusive red-carpet report.’

At the mention of Robert St Louis’s name Lester nearly crashed the car. He swerved on to the side amid a cacophony of screaming horns and came to a halt in a cloud of dust. He realised he was shaking.

He loathed that sonofabitch. He loathed them both. They had it coming. First her, then him.

He grappled under the seat for the brown envelope. It was still there. As he fingered the cool, reassuring lines of the gun, he felt his heart slow. This time
he
was the one with all the power—nothing and nobody could stop him. He’d take them down, take everything they had, just as they’d done to him. No mercy.

For his slut sister and her murdering boyfriend, there would be no opportunity to run.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

Los Angeles

N
ate Reid woke on Friday morning from a dream that he was at sea. There had been a shipwreck, the old-fashioned kind, and the mast was bearing down upon him, the vessel’s white sails torn like shirts. His body was afloat and he was flat on his back, a bright sun scorching overhead.

As he surfaced, he realised he was moving on water. A water bed, to be precise. Squinting against the sunshine, he rolled over to view his sleeping companion, her arm thrown over his chest, heavy as wood. She was a pop sweetheart in her teens. He couldn’t think of her name but, then, it was early.

His phone beeped. It was a message:

Where are you?

Shit!
It wasn’t early at all. He had to get moving.

Nate tugged on his jeans, which were hard to the touch, crusted with some sort of spillage. His T-shirt smelled of smoke.

The girl moaned and turned over, pulling up the sheet so two small pink feet popped out the bottom. He moved quietly, grabbing his wallet and keys and heading for the door. Nate was well practised in the art of leaving girls’ beds before they woke up.

On the street he caught sight of a Hides billboard. It was huge, like the size of the biggest posters they pasted on the Tube back home. The four guys were brooding in leather, Nate second left with a guitar in his hand, even though technically he didn’t play. It was done in sepia, which gave them an old-school, dirty kind of look.

It was fitting, really, to stride past the band like that, leave them languishing in his wake. In a few months he planned to pursue solo projects, had already been in talks with Felix about it. Nate was receiving the bulk of the press attention and it wasn’t just down to the music: he was renowned for taking to bed a host of beauties, most of them with a good-Christian-girl image that was ripe for corruption. Nate Reid had found a groove and filled it: he was America’s most-love-to-hate rock star. He was the guy that parents had to keep their daughters from. Management wanted to strike while the property was hot.

Nate hailed a cab to his apartment. He’d shower first, collect the stuff he needed then swing by her apartment. He was running late, but so what. He owed her nothing.

In the car he keyed a quick response.

He had known she would call him, because he knew Chloe. He knew what she was like, the things she worried about, the fears and regrets that kept her up at night.

His ex-girlfriend had rung the previous week, asking to see him. She had sounded jumpy, on edge; more like her old self, the sweet Chloe she’d been last year, the one he much preferred. Wasting no time, she’d asked him to go over, said she needed to talk to him and it was important. Naturally he’d protested for a bit, it was part of the fun, before resolving to take a car over there.

* * *

Chloe had answered the door looking pretty in a metallic miniskirt, black vest and electric-blue pumps, her hair hanging loose.

‘Come in,’ she’d said, not altogether friendly. She’d looked nervously past his shoulder.

‘Hey, babe.’ He had pushed past without invitation. Things were back on his terms now.

While she had fetched him a drink, he’d inspected the living room. It was shambolic, with tiny bottles of nail varnish everywhere, sticks of mascara and lipstick, and a hairdryer coiled up on the floor.

‘What’s going on?’ he’d called, wanting to cut to the chase. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

She came back in and opened his beer can with a
schlook
.

‘Come to Vegas,’ she said.

He baulked. ‘What, now?’

‘Don’t be a dick. For the premiere.’

‘Are you kidding?’

‘No.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘It’s an opportunity. The press will go crazy when they see us back together.’

This was better than he’d imagined. ‘Is that what you want?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘No, Nate, hard as it may be for you to believe, that is not what I want.’

‘Then what is?’ he’d spluttered, annoyed.

‘This could be a huge deal for both of us, the hugest we might ever have.’ She gave a cynical laugh. ‘It doesn’t matter if we’re in a relationship or not, it doesn’t even matter if we like each other, it’s beside the point. Don’t you see? As long as we turn up together and play the part, that’s job done. We’ll be front-page news.’

Nate frowned. He’d not been expecting this. Where were the tears, the desperation, the begging?

He narrowed his eyes. ‘What’s the big secret?’

She resisted the bait. ‘There isn’t one. I’m trying to do you a favour.’

That was too much. ‘Ha!’ he hooted. ‘Hardly.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Nothing.’

‘Do you want in or not?’

‘Sorry, babe, I’m confused. Last time we were out in public you shat all over me from a great height. Why would I want anything to do with you?’

‘Like you didn’t shit on me.’

‘Whatever.’ He swigged his beer.

‘Come on, Nate, exercise some maturity. People split up all the time.’

‘Yeah, but they don’t shout about it like some fucking banshee then come running back six months later asking for a last date.’

Chloe closed her eyes. ‘That’s not what this is.’

‘What is it, then?’ He raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response.

There was a brief silence. ‘Forget it,’ she said, heading for the door. ‘I don’t need you anyway.’

Nate thought quickly. He needed to backtrack before he blew it altogether.

‘Hang on a minute,’ he’d said, as if she’d totally misread his intentions. ‘I haven’t said no, have I?’

She opened the door. ‘Well?’

He toyed with the beer can. ‘At least be honest, babe.’

‘I am being honest.’

He could see she was lying. Briefly he experienced a pang. She’d become a good liar.

‘It’s a pity about you, Chloe,’ he said. ‘You’ve changed.’

She sighed loudly. ‘Get on with it. Yes or no.’

A beat. ‘I think you’re afraid to go on your own.’

There it was. A flicker of fear, gone as soon as it had appeared.

‘Think what you like.’

It was as much as he’d get. He took a moment of mock-contemplation. ‘Fine, I’ll come.’

She tried to disguise her relief. ‘Good,’ she said. He could see the hand on the door was trembling slightly as she closed it. ‘You won’t regret it.’

Nate had crunched up the can. ‘No, I know I won’t.’

* * *

Now, as Nate recalled the conversation, he once again felt a rush of satisfaction at how neatly things had worked out. He’d have liked a bit more pleading but you couldn’t have everything.

The cab pulled up outside his apartment and he jumped out, tipping generously.

When his phone rang, he snatched it up. Of course it was Chloe.

‘Hurry up,’ she said, clearly wigging out. ‘The car’s due in half an hour.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Their first night out as a couple since the break-up and they already hated each other’s guts. It was inspired.

Inside his apartment he showered and threw on some clothes. He hoovered up three pieces of toast then packed a small bag, not worrying too much about what he tossed in—these Vegas hotels had everything you wanted and then some.

Checking his pockets a final time, Nate left the apartment with a smile on his face. Fate had intervened and he wasn’t about to mess things up. A little taste of retribution was about to come Chloe’s way and, when it did, he’d have the best seat in the house.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

L
ana remembered the last time she had been on Cole’s jet. Then she had been searching for purpose, escape, a new direction. Now she was on the cusp of a fresh beginning, whatever that would be. The best thing was the novelty of not knowing.

As the jet soared off the runway, she watched her husband. That famous Hollywood profile, his composed, contained expression. He gave nothing away, not even to her. Since their last conversation, during which she’d seen more of Cole than she ever had throughout their marriage, he had reassembled his armour, retreating back to a place she couldn’t reach him—and no longer had the right to try. They had barely spoken over the past weeks, had deliberately avoided contact. And yet she had no concern that their red-carpet appearance would be anything short of perfection.

Lana felt a stab of nerves when she thought of tomorrow. Following an early start it would be an endless, exhausting chain of press conferences and photo ops, all executed and scheduled in uncompromising detail. She was used to it: it was like buckling in for a ride over which you had to completely relinquish control. All you had to do was let go. With a hand on her belly, she realised it was harder with someone else to think of.

Fortunately she wasn’t showing in an obvious way—she had a modest bump but it would be easy enough to conceal. She had a number of gowns to choose from ahead of the red carpet and had insisted on dressing herself before hair and make-up took over—the papers would speculate on the fluid dress style, one that nipped below the bust and fell in a straight line to the floor but, then, any decision she made would be scrutinised in unnecessary detail.

She was glad they were staying at the Orient. Press would be camped outside the Parthenon tonight waiting for the influx of A-listers—unless they’d had a tip-off they wouldn’t know that she and Cole were being accommodated elsewhere. Management would take them direct to their suite for an early night and, knowing Robert was nearby, she felt sure she’d sleep deeply and her dreams would be sweet.

Tomorrow would be good. It was the start of the rest of her life.

* * *

Kate diLaurentis kissed her children goodbye, stopped once in front of the entrance-hall mirror for a final consultation then followed her husband out to the waiting limousine.

Their driver stood erect by the car door like a sentry, opening it smoothly as Kate approached, her white-blonde hair whipping out behind; Jimmy trailing after with a collection of cosmetics bags. She slipped into the dark leather interior, managing her outfit carefully so as not to give the chauffeur any added perks. These days that was for her husband’s eyes only.

Jimmy clambered in after her, hot and noisy as a dog. As the car moved off she gave him a secret sort of smile, sealing the partition. Sliding closer, she took his hand and drew it to the base of her skirt, where it cut across her knees in a straight line. They still had unfinished business from that morning.

Kate leaned back as Jimmy’s hand moved higher, hearing his breath quicken as he realised she hadn’t bothered with underwear.

Oh, she had him back now. Jimmy knew when he was on to a good thing, and the past month had shown him his wife was the
only
thing he needed.

As Kate moved with him, she wondered what tricks that bitch Chloe French had employed to get her husband going. Whatever they were, they hadn’t worked.

Stifling her climax in Jimmy’s kiss, she rode the waves of pleasure. He pulled away, adoration in his eyes.

‘Vegas, here we come,’ she breathed.

* * *

Chloe thought Nate looked more nervous than she felt.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked as their car pulled up outside the Parthenon’s grand entrance.

‘Yeah, course, babe, why?’ He sounded twitchy. She put it down to the weirdness of them being here together. To be honest, she was surprised he had agreed to come—after all she’d severely damaged his ego. But then, she figured, there was enough of Nate’s ego to bounce back relatively unharmed. With Nate there she had back-up. She was safer as two than as one.

‘No reason.’ She spotted Brock and waved, suddenly feeling excited. Kate had probably been bluffing anyway—she’d never risk tarnishing her own image at an event like this. Everything would be OK.

The door opened and a throng of paparazzi surged forward, scarcely believing their luck at Chloe French and Nate Reid arriving together. Word would spread like wildfire.

* * *

In his office on the thirtieth floor of the Orient, Robert St Louis straightened his tie. Downstairs was a frenzy of activity in preparation for tomorrow’s screening.

He thought of Bernstein and hoped the man would be able to refocus and regroup—since the day of Elisabeth’s revelation he hadn’t spoken to his daughter or to Alberto Bellini. Robert was surprised—he’d never seen Bernstein like it before. He was disconnected, remote, refused to discuss anything other than business. Sure, the affair had been a shock, but it seemed to have affected her father more than it had him.

As long as Bernstein could hold it together for the event, Robert was a happy man. This evening the Parthenon would be the centre of attention as celebrities arrived in their masses, preparing for a weekend of hard work and hard glamour.

Except Lana and Cole. They would be at the Orient in a matter of hours. Robert knew that as soon as he saw Lana again everything would seem so simple. Tomorrow’s premiere was no longer the most important night of his career: it was something he was doing for the woman he loved.

But for now it would stay hidden. He and Elisabeth had agreed to maintain their relationship this weekend for press purposes. A break-up drama was the last thing they needed—it would only draw focus away from the main attraction.

Robert looked down at the magnificent Strip and adrenalin coursed through him. He knew how to use it—it was what made him perform.

Checking his watch, he prepared to enter the fray. It was beginning.

* * *

Frank Bernstein had already fired two people and it was barely past lunch. They were just kids, new on the job, but he wasn’t in the mood for fuck-ups.

In the Parthenon’s ground-floor bar he ordered himself a stiff drink. His nerves were shot to shit. He swore he was on the verge of a goddamn heart attack.

She’d have read Linda’s note by now, surely she would—and she’d come to him when she was ready. Oh, he knew Elisabeth had taken it that day in his office: it couldn’t have been anyone else. On reflection he’d decided it could work out better that way, if she heard it from her own mother—Linda would have found the words he couldn’t. His plan was to tell her once she was married, felt a bit more secure, but if she wanted to find out the truth sooner then that was her decision. For once he wasn’t going to interfere, just like Elisabeth wanted.

Obviously she hadn’t read it. Maybe she hadn’t even taken it. And now it was too late.

What the hell have I done?

He couldn’t face either of them. Shame, guilt and revulsion writhed like a pit of snakes.

His concierge appeared. ‘Boss, you’re needed out front.’

Bernstein knocked back the thick poison in one and headed into the foyer. Sam Lucas’s new muse Chloe French had just arrived with her rock-star boyfriend, some long-haired kid with black-clad legs like an insect. They were both posing for photographs, a beefy blond guy hovering close by.

He braced himself.

* * *

Elisabeth felt weak. She had been drinking nothing but liquorice tea and eating almonds for what seemed like for ever—as Donatella kept telling her, the voice was an instrument that needed maintenance. To her horror she had woken yesterday with a scratch in her throat. Thank God for Alberto, who had rushed to her bedside. He looked so romantic with a bandage over his broken nose, if a little pathetic.

All morning she had been at the Orient’s function space, aware she was getting in the way of the organisers but deciding not to care. She had to focus on tomorrow night—it was what was keeping her going.

Back at the mansion she had a quick sleep, a shower and tried not to think about her father. She knew her relationship with Bellini was difficult to come to terms with, but she couldn’t imagine he hadn’t faced worse in his time. Now he was making her feel like an outcast, refusing to speak to her, look at her, nothing. She was surprised at how much it upset her. Her father’s meddling had once been what caused her pain, now it was his neglect.

She looked round the bedroom. Robert had moved out to one of the other suites until after the premiere and the split was announced. She closed her eyes, thinking how irrevocably things had changed.

And then she remembered.

Springing to her feet, Elisabeth crossed to her dressing table. With all the drama of the past few weeks, she’d almost forgotten about her mother’s note. Glad, in the end, that she’d saved it—with her father’s lack of support she needed it now more than ever—she slid open the top drawer and reached in.

There it was. The crisp, clean lines of its edges. An envelope untouched since her mother had sealed it thirty years before.

Elisabeth

She ran her nail along its seal and opened it.

* * *

Jessica Bernstein threw down a beautiful AW dress on her bed in disgust.

‘I can’t wear
this
!’ she squealed at a pitch only dogs could hear. Her stylist recoiled, frantically fumbling for something that might tick all of Jessica’s impossible boxes.

‘Christie, hair up or down?’ She stood in just her underwear, gathering up her thin blonde hair in an alarmingly tight knot before letting it loose again.

Christie Carmen looked up from picking her fingernails. ‘Up,’ she said, as enthusiastically as she could. ‘Up looks hot.’

Jessica turned round. ‘Good, that’s what I thought.’ She enjoyed having a faithful, adoring puppy trailing after her all day.

Christie got up to visit the bathroom.

‘Where are
you
going?’ Jessica demanded, eyes flashing as her stylist attempted something different. ‘I need you here.’

‘I just wanted to—’

‘Sit!’ Jessica ordered, and Christie did as she was told.