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

he first pulled out the white box, he didn’t understand what it was. He opened it and shook its contents, knowing it was somehow significant but not being able to work out why.

      Then it dawned.

      Cole reeled backwards on to the toilet, his mind hot.

      It was a joke, it had to be, a practical joke. His head darted this way and that, like a bird’s, searching the room for the set-up, thinking he must have been Punk’d.

      He knew he hadn’t.

      How had she …? It wasn’t possible. This was some kind of sick mistake.

      Hopelessly he attempted to process it, flipping through a catalogue of possible explanations, looking for something, anything. But there was no getting away from it-the facts were right here, heavy in his hand.

      Cole dropped the box with a light smat that belied its significance. He sat very still, his chest rising and falling, his breath strangled.

      How could she have done this to him? How could she?

      Cole picked up the box and calmly returned to his rooms, locking the door quietly behind him. He got dressed in a series of thick, methodical movements.

      After that he made two phone calls. The first was to Lana: he was a fair man, he would give her a chance. Her cell was switched off. Calmly he hung up and placed a second call.

      ‘Marty, it’s me. My wife is gone.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘Find her.’

58

      Lana had chosen to fly direct from LAX. She boarded an ordinary plane, with no entourage, no security or bodyguards. In a baseball cap and dark glasses she was something of a conspicuous figure, but moved quickly through the airport so that by the time she was recognised, it was already too late. The aircraft was only half full, so she was able to sink into her seat, look out the window and go, for the most part, unnoticed.

      On the plane she slept, plunging so fast into a deep, sudden unconsciousness that each time she woke it felt like hours had passed, not minutes.

      She sipped a bottle of water and tried not to over-think what she was doing. It was foolish; a hasty, ill-considered, selfish plan. But she didn’t know what else to do. Every time she reached for a solution it was like running trapped in a dark grid of streets, every avenue a dead end. This was her only lifeline.

      Placing a hand on her stomach, Lana tried to connect with the person inside. It didn’t seem possible that life had caught on–a chance thing, tiny but strong and wanting to fight, accepted by her body without her consent. She felt like she was walking around in someone else’s skin, like she had borrowed a coat that didn’t quite fit.

      A flight attendant offered her coffee, clearly star-struck. When Lana declined, she put down her tray and produced a paper napkin and pen.

      ‘Would you mind?’ she asked excitedly, keeping her voice hushed, holding them out.

      ‘Of course.’ Lana scribbled her name and the woman beamed, stuffing it in her uniform pocket. Lana wondered if she could tell, like every female she encountered instinctively knew.

      The plane dropped through an air pocket and Lana gripped one hand to her seat, the other to her belly. She felt a violent, visceral surge of protectiveness. There were two of them in it now; she wasn’t alone.

      It was cowardice, running away when the going got tough and there was no one else, disturbing the life of a man whose heart she had no rights to.

      She closed her eyes. For years she had kept her distance with people, it was safer. Friends, colleagues, lovers–since Lester died she had kept them all at arm’s length. People got hurt when they got close, it had always happened that way. After her brother’s death she had lost contact with her foster mom: it was entirely her choice, she had felt too ashamed, too much of a liar to continue writing, and when she moved from Belleville it hadn’t occurred to her to pass on the new address. All she’d ever done was cut people out; shut herself away when they wanted to help. She thought of Arlene with regret and wondered if it was too late.

      This child deserved an honest start, and a mother with the courage to face up to her past. There was only one person she could go to. Only one person she could trust.

      Briefly Lana turned on her cell as they began their descent into Vegas. A missed call from Rita–shit, she wouldn’t be pleased–and one from Cole. His single attempt spoke volumes. With a heavy heart she knew he had detected her absence. Her thoughts darted to the pregnancy test that she’d stupidly left in the trash–thank God she was the only one with a key. It would be safe there until she figured out what to do.

      She had lost enough family to last ten lifetimes. Whatever the outcome, she was keeping this baby.

59

       Las Vegas

      ‘The house always wins. You never heard that, punk?’ Frank Bernstein gave a short nod to his boys and they slammed another punch into the man’s stomach. A red jet of blood shot from his mouth.

      ‘You dumb motherfucker. You think we ain’t been watchin’ you since you walked into this joint?’ Another slam. ‘Think again, you dumb piece of shit.’ He took a strike himself.

      Bernstein wiped his brow, signalled for the man to be brought to his feet. He was young, with sandy-blond hair and a drooping moustache. He wore a red and brown checked shirt and fringed boots, the toes of which were now spattered with crimson. Bernstein sat down opposite, pushing up his shirtsleeves like he was about to conduct a business meeting. The man hung limply between the two goons, a gurgling sound escaping from his throat.

      Bernstein lit a cigar. ‘You want a smoke, wise guy?’

      Over the past year a number of hotels on the Strip–the Parthenon and the Orient among the worst hit–had been the target of a slot scam, a clever operation involving a device that tricked machines into thinking they were receiving hundred-dollar bills. Bernstein’s surveillance had picked this guy up hours before. His partner–from their gaming pattern there were definitely two–was still at large.

      The man heaved for breath.

      ‘Tryin’ to give it up, I gotta admire you.’ Bernstein lit his own and released a thick cloud.

      ‘Y’see,’ he said, sitting back, ‘I got a job to do. This is my casino. I got a family; I gotta make a living. You got a family, pal?’

      Blood darkened the man’s lips. One eye was swelling, weeping like a piece of old fruit.

      Most of the trouble they encountered in the casinos was with crude, low-stake hustlers–it was easy to spot a marker or a counter a mile off. But these days you had to know your way round a computer if you wanted the big money. This guy knew exactly what he was doing.

      ‘Sure you do. Sure you got a hot broad waitin’ back home, waitin’ on all that beautiful dirty money, ain’t that right? Except for one problem, you fuckin’ motherfucker: that money belongs to me. And guess what? As of right now, you belong to me. You and everything you fuckin’ have. Because if I ever see your ugly fuckin’ face—’

      Bernstein was interrupted by his security. A thick-set man approached and bent to speak in his ear. Bernstein nodded. ‘Bring him in.’

      He ground out the cigar, then, standing to deliver a final, crushing blow, said quietly, ‘If you ever set foot in my place again, I’ll tear both your balls off and send ‘em so far up your tight white ass you’ll have a sore throat for a week.’ He jerked his head towards the street door–the heavies would escort him, where they’d have a last go. ‘Now get outta my sight.’

      The man gone, Robert appeared, looking put upon. He shrugged