Wicked Ambition. Victoria Fox

Scotty her treasured Prince Charming.

      The golden couple was ushered off the carpet. Away from the cameras Scotty’s smile wavered. He still looked peaky from the helicopter.

      ‘Are you OK?’ she asked, concerned.

      ‘Yeah. Feel a bit sick, that’s all, all the adrenalin…’

      ‘You poor thing.’

      Scotty allowed himself to be comforted.

      ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she whispered, inhaling his scent.

      He took her arm. ‘Do we have to stay for the whole thing?’

      ‘Why?’ Kristin asked, disappointed. ‘Do you have someplace else to be?’

      ‘Of course not!’ It came out a touch sharply, before he corrected himself. ‘I mean, forget it, baby; it’s fine. It’s just that whole act out there, it’s kinda exhausting.’ He consulted his reflection in a gilded drinks font. ‘Do I look OK? Not too pale?’

      ‘We’re sitting in a theatre,’ Kristin teased, ‘in the dark. Does it matter?’

      In the event Scotty fidgeted all the way through the boy-meets-girl romance to which Kristin had arranged the score: he never had possessed a long attention span. The movie starred two of Hollywood’s most coveted teen actors; the pretty-faced guy was plastered across every bedroom in Young America. Maybe that was why Scotty got jittery whenever the shot lingered on the actor’s face. He didn’t like it when a challenger arrived on the scene.

      It didn’t matter. Kristin would never notice another guy while he was around.

      The arrangement sounded good and she was pleased with how they had fed it into the final take. At the reception she was congratulated by a mob of industry players.

      ‘Talk about making an entrance!’ they flattered. The retelling of the helicopter story, from which he omitted the finer points of his anxiety, cheered Scotty. Kristin loved seeing him in his element, smiling and charming, her favourite boy in the world.

      She was chatting with the director when Cosmo Angel, A-list action hero whose wife had taken the part of the young mom in the movie, collared her with an alligator smile.

      ‘You really write all those songs yourself?’ he leered.

      ‘I sure did.’

      Cosmo was ridiculously hot but there was also something dangerous, almost unpleasant, about him. Some women liked that, but Kristin wasn’t so sure. Cosmo was of Greek descent, hairy like a wolf, with a full mouth, and thick, bristling eyebrows that met in the middle. His presence was massive, oppressive, looming. He looked as if he could hook an arm around your waist and crush you to death like a snake.

      ‘Well—’ Cosmo stepped closer and she noticed how musky and exotic he smelled, an aroma that matched his brooding looks, sort of smoky, not like Scotty, who was vanilla-clean like freshly washed laundry ‘—you know how I like to see young talent emerge…’

      ‘Thank you,’ she said carefully, ‘I appreciate that.’ She wasn’t about to tell him that twenty-two years felt like longer when every waking hour as far back as she could remember was spent in preparation for How To Be a Star. Hence learning to play three instruments by the time she was eight and taking her Grade 9 piano before any of the other kids in her class had learned their times table. No wonder The Happy Hippo Club had snapped her up.

      Scotty joined them. He and Cosmo shook hands and Kristin watched them talk, for a second feeling dislocated from everything and everyone around her, as if she were a stranger to her own life and looking in through a window. Some days she felt fortunate. Others she didn’t know how she had ended up here or even if it had been her choice at all.

      It was crazy, but this was her world. She had never known anything else.

      Thank God for Scotty. So long as he was around she’d be just fine.

       3

       ‘Baby, you know what I am; I’m a wild girl, wild girl…’

      Turquoise da Luca, undisputed queen of the US charts and in possession of the goddess-like status that meant she was known only by her first name, ground to the pulse of her latest single. They were shooting the video for ‘Wild Girl’ in a downtown Los Angeles warehouse, an army of hot male dancers mirroring Turquoise’s every move.

       ‘Honey, you can’t tame me, I’m a wild girl, wild girl…’

      The wind machine picked up and Turquoise’s silky mane of ebony hair blew about her face, relinquishing flashes of the pale emerald eyes that had inspired her name. She could feel the energy of the troupe at her back, the force coming off each choreographed routine as the guys relied on her lead, surrendering to the next arrangement and powerless to stop the rush. Every movement was executed with the slickest measure, every twist and step in sync, and as Turquoise sang to the recorded track she counted the metre in her head like a dual heartbeat. When she fell into the final position she knew it was nailed.

      ‘That’s the one!’ The director incited a celebratory round of applause and Turquoise joined in, congratulating her team. Performing was her ultimate. When she was up onstage, in front of a camera, giving it her all, she was liberated. She was somebody else.

      Shrugging on a robe, she disappeared into her dressing room. Several of the company gazed longingly after her, bathing in the residual mist of intoxicating perfume. Not only was Turquoise one of the most renowned chart-toppers in the world, she was also one of its most staggeringly gorgeous women: a vision of never-ending honey-tanned legs and a waterfall of liquid jet hair that descended to the impeccable swell of her ass. She attracted stares wherever she went. Of supermodel-height but with the curves of an exotic Amazonian princess, Turquoise wasn’t just beautiful; she was astonishing. Lithe and graceful, supple as a panther, she was that rare thing: more radiant in real life than she was on film.

      She’d just had time to kick off her stilettos when there was a knock at the door.

      ‘Hey.’ Her visitor rested one arm against the frame. ‘I had to see you.’

      It was Bronx, her principal dancer. Originally trained in ballet and tap, Bronx had a soaring frame that combined polish and poise with sheer brute strength. They had met on her first video, before she’d hit the big league, and after every encounter, even now, she berated herself. Turquoise knew she couldn’t give him anything more. If Bronx found out about her, if he knew what she’d done and who she really was, he would never want to see her again.

      ‘Aren’t you gonna invite me in?’

      ‘My schedule’s off the wall,’ she replied. It wasn’t a lie: she had a fashion gala still to make and an industry party in New York tonight; there was a flight to catch.

      Bronx was undeterred. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, ‘but all that sweat and grease back there left me feeling kinda hot…’

      ‘We’ve talked about this,’ she told him. ‘It’s not going to—’

      Bronx kissed her, finding her tongue with his and flattening his body against hers. His dick was rock-hard. For an instant she responded, unable to resist the promise of his body.

      ‘You’re gorgeous,’ he whispered, trailing his hands across her contours, from her shoulders to her breasts to the dip of her hips, ‘so damn gorgeous. I can’t help it, being with you all day like that and wanting you every second—’

      ‘Don’t.’ Turquoise pulled away.

      ‘When’re you gonna see you and me are made for each other,’ he murmured, ‘that it’s meant to be?’ She pushed against him but he didn’t stop.

      ‘I said, don’t!’ Turquoise bit down hard, tasting blood. It had been a dumb idea to fall into bed with one of her performers, indiscreet and unprofessional and not at all what she was