The A-List Collection: Hollywood Sinners / Wicked Ambition / Temptation Island. Victoria Fox

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