Fame and Wuthering Heights. Emily Bronte

a big man, six foot plus in his socks, and with the sturdy, solid build of a labourer. At two hundred pounds, he was also almost twice the weight of his petite, gym-bunny wife. Even so, he struggled to contain Chrissie as she writhed, bit and kicked furiously beneath him, spinning herself around to face him so that she could claw his arms and back with her newly manicured talons.

      What the hell am I going to do with her? thought Dorian despairingly. Anyone watching them fight – or rather watching Chrissie fight, while Dorian struggled vainly to defend himself – would have assumed it was he who’d been caught cheating, and not Dorian who had walked in on Chrissie in soon-to-be flagrante with one of the estate carpenters. Dorian was leaving for Los Angeles today and had come home early from his little local office in Bihor to say goodbye to his wife and daughter and finish packing. Walking into the master bedroom, he’d discovered his wife already naked in their bed, and young Alexandru, a nineteen-year-old local joiner, hopelessly overexcited as he tried to free his rock-hard erection from his Abercrombie jeans. At least the boy had had the sense to make a swift exit, leaving his shirt and boots behind in his eagerness to get out of there. He was probably on the other side of the Carpathian Mountains by now. But, as always when she was in the wrong and cornered, Chrissie Rasmirez had come out fighting, hurling abuse at her husband as if he were the one who’d been caught with his pants round his ankles.

      Was it any wonder she had to take lovers, when Dorian was never here?

      What did he expect when he kept her locked up in this godforsaken castle like Cinder-fucking-rella, while he gallivanted off, living the good life in LA?

      She hated it here. She was bored, she was trapped, she was stifled. She was practically a single mother to Saskia, their adorable blonde-headed three-year-old girl. And so it went on. Before he knew it, Dorian found himself on the back foot, apologizing, comforting, explaining. He would get her more help with Saskia. He would make sure he came home more often. The thought of his darling Chrissie being touched by that boy, that kid, made him want to rip the guy’s throat out. But, at the end of the day, he blamed himself. I’m the architect of my own destruction, he thought miserably. I’m driving away the one thing I love more than anything else in the world.

      Eventually, too exhausted to struggle any more, Chrissie went limp. Overwhelmed with anger and wildly sexually frustrated – she’d been looking forward to bedding Alexandru for weeks – she burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed into Dorian’s blood-spattered shirt. ‘It’s just that … you never look at me like you used to. You don’t notice me any more.’

      Dorian was aghast. ‘Don’t notice you? That’s not true! How can you say that? I adore you.’

      ‘It is true,’ wailed Chrissie. ‘You leave me here all alone, day after day, with no life, no career, no escape. As if taking care of Saskia is all I’m good for.’

      Dorian did not point out that with three full-time nannies on twenty-four-hour call, it was debatable whether Chrissie did, in fact, take care of Saskia.

      ‘When Alexandru looks at me he sees a woman, not just a mom. He makes me feel alive, Dorian.’

      Dorian winced. ‘Stop.’ He pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t ever mention that kid’s name to me again. Understand? Never.’ His eyes flashed with jealousy, the alpha male protecting his territory.

      Chrissie responded instantly, her pupils dilating, her lips and thighs parting with naked, unconcealed lust. If she couldn’t have her teenage lover, her husband would have to do. ‘Show me you love me,’ she murmured.

      At forty-four, Dorian Rasmirez might not have his nineteen-year-old rival’s Adonis-like body but, unlike Alexandru, he knew how to get his pants off in a hurry. Wriggling out of his jeans while Chrissie yanked his shirt off over his head, he was naked in seconds, thrusting himself inside her with the same passion, the same desperate, all-consuming longing he’d had for her since the first day they met. ‘You’re my woman,’ he moaned, running his hands proprietorially over every inch of her taut, boyish body. ‘I love you Chrissie. I fucking adore you.’

      ‘Show me,’ sighed Chrissie. She was already close to climax, eyes rolled back in her head, lost in some wild fantasy of her own. She’d been horny as hell for the hot little Romanian carpenter all morning. Being denied him, followed by the panic of discovery and the thrill of the fight with her husband (sparring with Dorian always turned her on) had propelled Chrissie’s already overworked libido into the stratosphere. Dorian always pulled out all the stops sexually when he was scared. When he wanted to, he could fuck like an Olympic champion, playing her body like Nigel Kennedy with a Stradivarius. Right now, stroking and teasing her, bringing her to the brink time and again and then pulling back, Chrissie knew she wanted him more than she’d ever wanted Alexandru, or any of her other lovers.

      When he finally came, having brought her to orgasm twice, Dorian pulled her into his strong, bear-like arms and held her so tightly she could barely breathe.

      ‘I’ll do anything to keep you, Chrissie,’ he whispered. ‘Anything. You know that.’

      ‘Good,’ Chrissie purred, stroking his back. ‘Well, you can start by leaving me your Centurion card. I’ve decided to take a little trip to Paris while you’re away. Distract myself with a bit of culture. Lilly can take care of Saskia for a few days.’

      Dorian’s heart sank. He fought back the urge to remind Chrissie that they lived surrounded by culture, and that she never showed the slightest interest in any of it. In this bedroom alone, apart from the Velásquez portrait above the bed and the exquisite Byzantine vase she’d just destroyed in a fit of temper, there were bookshelves stuffed with first-edition classics in English, Italian and French, a Dutch, hand-painted dresser that had once belonged to Marie Antoinette of France, and two framed folios of Handel’s Messiah, signed by the composer himself. The entire castle, this ‘prison’ that Dorian had ‘dragged’ Chrissie to, prising her away from her beloved LA, was a veritable Aladdin’s cave of treasures, with a collection of art and manuscripts to rival some of the greatest galleries and libraries in Europe. And it was all theirs. Not theirs to sell – the treasures could not legally leave Romania – but theirs to cherish, to appreciate, to pass down to the next generation. To Saskia, and perhaps one day – if Dorian could ever persuade Chrissie to try again – to a son, a little boy to carry on the family name.

      The reality was that the only thing Chrissie Rasmirez was interested in in Paris were the overpriced clothes stores on the Avenue de Champs-Élysées. Last time she went to the flagship Louis Vuitton there she’d dropped over $100,000 in a single morning. If she tried that again this time, AmEx would demand Dorian’s cards back. But he was too scared to deny her, particularly after today’s close call.

      ‘Sure honey,’ he sighed, defeated. ‘I’ll leave the card. You go and enjoy yourself.’

      Chrissie smiled triumphantly. ‘Don’t worry, darling. I intend to.’

      Three hours later, as the Airbus A360 juddered and rattled its way up through the clouds, Dorian closed his eyes and tried to remember the relaxation techniques his therapist had taught him. Imagine yourself on a deserted, sandy beach. Waves are softly lapping at the shore. Listen to the rhythm of the tide. Let it soothe you. Feel the warm water caress your toes …

      He opened his eyes. It wasn’t working. Reaching into his hand-luggage bag, he pulled out a Xanax and slipped it into his mouth, knocking it back with the dregs of his pre-takeoff champagne. The pill would take a while to kick in, but the alcohol was instantly soothing, as was the knowledge that he was leaving Chrissie and their problems behind him for five whole days. Not that this trip to LA was going to be some sort of vacation. On the contrary, the real battles would only start once he landed. But for the next ten hours at least, he had a chance to relax. If only he could remember how to do it.

      A heavy-set man in his mid-forties, with dark hair greying at the temples and a warm, open face – not handsome exactly, but appealing in a rough-round-the-edges sort of way – Dorian Rasmirez was one of the most acclaimed film directors in the world. With his intelligent hazel eyes that narrowed into tiny slits when he laughed or got angry, his strong jaw