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

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?’ 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 here. 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.’

      Cole gritted his teeth. Lana was his prize, no one else’s. And certainly not Michael Benedict’s. ‘I’ll pass on your regards.’

      And, without meeting the director’s eye, Cole was gone.

30

       Las Vegas

      ‘What’s wrong with you anyway? You’re meant to be relaxing.’

      Jessica Bernstein adjusted her position on the spa table to face her sister. The two women were enjoying a hotstone massage at the Spa Bellagio, the room decked out in eucalyptus-scented candles and rose petals. For Jessica it was the perfect way to spend yet another lazy afternoon; for Elisabeth it was giving her more time to think–something she didn’t need.

      ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, trying to focus on letting her muscles go.

      ‘Trouble with Robert?’ asked Jessica, in that way she had of fishing for scandal.

      ‘No, everything’s fine.’

      ‘Liar.’

      Elisabeth closed her eyes as the masseuse worked around her shoulders. They felt knotted and tense. Memories of that fateful night with Alberto Bellini played constantly in her mind in vivid, breathtaking detail, like the reel of a blue movie. She had to get herself together–she and Robert were due at the MGM Grand later for the big fight.

      The thought of Robert made her heart ache. She loved him. What the hell was she doing?

      ‘And you’ve been having hot sex,’ continued Jessica. ‘I can tell.’

      ‘What?’ Elisabeth snapped.

      ‘You’ve got that … thing. I don’t know how to describe it, like you keep thinking about all the sexy fucking you’ve been doing and then getting embarrassed about it.’

      Elisabeth was appalled. ‘Jessica!‘ she scolded, indicating the masseuse, who was sure to be taking everything in. On top of that, she was shocked by the accuracy of her sister’s diagnosis.

      ‘So? Is it true?’

      ‘I’m not talking about this.’

      ‘It is, then.’

      Elisabeth refused to speak any further until they had some privacy–one word in a Vegas hotel about what had happened with Alberto and it would spread like wildfire. Yet strangely she did feel compelled to talk to Jessica about it. Jessica was the only one who understood Bellini’s attachment to their family and who knew what a Lothario he really was. Besides, keeping it to herself was driving her crazy. In her way of cutting brutally to the point, her sister might even be able to dispense some useful advice.

      Twenty minutes later the women pulled on their towelling robes and slippers and padded towards the meditation room. Fortunately it was empty.

      ‘Spill,’ said Jessica as soon as they were inside. ‘I want to know everything.’