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Hollywood Sinners
Victoria Fox
POWER Marriage to Hollywood heartthrob Cole Steel secured Lana Falcon a glittering place on the red carpet. But running from a wicked past she has trapped herself in a gilded cage the price of freedom. . . her soul?REVENGEKate diLaurentis s career is fading as quickly as her looks. . . What could be worse than discovering her husband s latest mistress is Hollywood s hottest starlet? Her only option the most shocking revenge.LUSTChloe French s innocent beauty has captured a million hearts, but no one s warned her of the dangerous, dark temptation of rock star Nate - will lust destroy her? GREED Las Vegas King, Robert St Louis s fairytale wedding to Sin City s richest heiress is tabloid gold. . . But scandal circles like a vulture - dirty secrets are about to be exposed!BETRAYAL From the deepest desires come the deadliest deeds. . . and these four couples are about to pay for their sins. . .Sexy. Sensational. . . Sinfully good. If you love Jackie Collins, then you ll devour Victoria Fox!‘Jackie Collins for the modern gal’ – Grazia
About the Author
VICTORIA FOX lives in London. She was born in 1983 and grew up in Northamptonshire with her parents, sister and cat Thomas. At thirteen she went to boarding school in Bristol, where she learned what you can get up to when your parents aren’t around, liked English best and avoided games lessons at all costs.
From there she went on to study English and Media at Sussex University, where she made her first attempt at writing a bonkbuster novel. It was titled The Hardest Part and was truly dreadful.
Victoria worked as an editor in publishing before leaving to write full-time. Hollywood Sinners is her first novel.
www.victoriafoxwrites.com (http://www.victoriafoxwrites.com)
Hollywood Sinners
Victoria Fox
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to my agent, Madeleine Buston, for her commitment, faith and brilliance. To the fabulous team at HQ, especially Kim Young, Maddie West and Bethan Ferguson. To Sophie Ransom and Tory Lyne-Pirkis at Midas PR. To Emma Rose for her excellent notes. Special thanks to Rebecca Saunders for her early advice and encouragement.
For friendship, support and ideas, thanks to Victoria Stonex, Chloe Setter, Sarah Thomas, Laura Balfour, Kate Wilde, Jo Oakley, Caroline Hogg, Emily Plosker, Suzanne Fowler and Penelope Skinner. Thanks to Simon Oxley for helping me with industry-related queries: any inaccuracies are my own.
Finally, to my parents for giving me every opportunity; and to Mark Oakley, for living every day of this book with me, thank you for everything.
For Toria
PROLOGUE
The Parthenon Hotel, Las Vegas, Summer 2011
The woman studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. To an onlooker she was flawless, but close, much closer, there was an uncertainty in her eyes that gave her away. Fear was a dangerous thing. However hard you pushed it down, it always found a way back.
Turning her head to one side, she attempted a practised smile and almost convinced herself. She was a professional–it was her job to make people believe.
In a white toga-style dress amid the stylised opulence of one of Vegas’s most renowned hotels, the woman resembled a Greek goddess. Tomorrow morning her image would appear in magazines all across the world. Fashion editors would appraise her gown. Reviewers would dissect her performance. Gossip columnists would speculate on the man she was with. Fame. Celebrity. Stardom. She had imagined this moment for a long time, and now she had arrived.
It’s one night, she told herself. Nobody knows.
The woman stood back. Blood rushed to her head and she struggled to focus. A hot wave of sickness washed over her.
It was karma. Everybody had to pay for the mistakes they made.
This is what you deserve.
She touched the palm of one hand flat against the marble wall. It felt cool.
‘Just not tonight,’ she begged, her lips cracked and dry. ‘Please, not tonight.’
‘Are you OK?’
The woman jumped, less at the shock of remembering he was out there as at the concern in his voice. But the second time he spoke it was with the familiar bitterness.
‘Limo’s here in five. Let’s move.’
She breathed deeply, smoothed down her dress for a final time and reached for the lock on the door. It was show time.
The Parthenon Tower Suite was vast. Four lavishly designed bedrooms backed on to a sprawling living area complete with champagne bar and wall-to-wall plasma television, a private games room and sumptuous spa. Floor-to-ceiling windows boasted a panorama of the glittering Vegas Strip, its pink and gold lights laid out below like a chain of jewels. On both sides multi-billion-dollar hotels stood shoulder to shoulder like giants, each one more impressive than the last. The Mirage, the Luxor, the Palazzo, the Desert Jewel. Fountains of fire and water set the night sky ablaze and billboards dazzled with news of the hottest show in town. In the casinos, players and hustlers vied for the big time. This was Sin City, the pounding heart of the desert. Everybody was working a game of chance.
And in the middle of it all, the man she was supposed to be in love with. He was standing at the panorama, adjusting his tie.
When he turned to her, his eyes were cold.
‘Is everything all right now?’ he asked quietly.
‘Everything’s fine.’ What was the point in telling the truth? They had gone way beyond honesty a long time ago.
The man took a step forward. For a crazy moment she thought he might kiss her.
‘Tonight matters,’ he said instead. ‘You understand why.’
She nodded. In a matter of minutes they would appear together at the Orient Hotel, host to tonight’s movie premiere. The world’s press would be gathered on the red carpet, everybody who was anybody in the business walking the runway, and they all wanted a super-couple at the top of their game. Paparazzi had camped out for days for their hundred-thousand-dollar shot. If they could expose what nobody else saw–the faltering smile, the glimmer of doubt in a moment of privacy–then they’d be looking at the big money. She imagined the flashing lights, the waiting crowd. For one night their performance had to be flawless; their kisses for real.
‘I’m ready,’ she told him.
‘Good. Don’t let me down.’
Unexpectedly her phone shrilled to life. Reaching to retrieve it from her clutch, she noticed a flash of unease pass across his face.
‘Who is it?’ he demanded.
It was a private number.
‘I’ll take it outside.’ She crossed to the sliding doors and stepped out on to the terrace. The fresh air was invigorating and she experienced a rush of hope.
It’s just one night. How much can go wrong?
She flipped it open. ‘Hello?’
At first, only silence. Then the voice began to speak. It was low and distinctive. She recognised it immediately.
Fighting a wave of panic, the woman gripped the balcony rail, her knuckles bleeding white in the darkness. Forty storeys below traffic throbbed down the Strip.
‘I know about you, sweetheart. Remember? I know everything. Get ready, baby–because now it’s payback time.’
PART ONE
Autumn One year earlier
1
Venice
‘Lana, over here! Lana, Cole! How’s the marriage?’
Lana Falcon adjusted her pose for the cameras, hand on hip, shoulders back, and delivered her trademark megawatt smile. She held it in place and counted the seconds, careful not to let it drop. Against the red carpet her midnight-blue gown trailed like dark water.
She took pity on the reporter, who was slightly overweight and sported a beard that looked like he had drawn it on himself.
‘You’re half of America’s most famous couple,’ he gasped, scarcely believing his luck as Lana came to the side. ‘How does it feel?’ The film festival was a hive of energy: paparazzi and TV crews lined the carpet in thick numbers; fans with arms outstretched reached helplessly for their heroes–catching these two together was the biggest coup of his career.
On cue Lana felt an arm slide round her waist, smooth as a snake. She turned to the man next to her, caught the familiar line of his profile and the gleam of his teeth, the charcoal-grey of his immaculate hair. Cole Steel. Her husband.
Cameras flashed and sparked in throbs of light. He didn’t blink.
‘It feels great,’ she told the reporter with a friendly smile. ‘We’re very happy.’
Paparazzi jostled for the best shot. ‘Cole! Lana, Cole, let’s see you together!’
‘Any plans to add to the family?’ The reporter was sweating now.
‘Watch this space,’ said Cole, with a startlingly white grin. He planted a dry kiss on Lana’s neck, just below her ear. The photographers went wild.
‘Let’s move on,’ he instructed, just loud enough for her to hear.
Lana obliged. The smell of Cole’s skin lingered–sweet, slightly minty. When he took her hand it was cold.
‘Tell us about your new movie!’ the reporter babbled, craning the mike after her, knowing he’d already lost them. ‘Tell us about Eastern Sky!’
Lana moved into her customary position on the carpet, a little in front of Cole, his hands at her waist, steering her forward. At twenty-seven she was Hollywood’s most desirable young actress. Regularly voted one of the world’s most beautiful women, she was, with her burnt-chestnut hair, wide green eyes and warm smile, a killer combination of sex siren and girl- next-door. Women wanted to be her friend. Boys wanted to take her home to their mothers. Men jacked off over her, torn between fantasies of white cotton panties and crimson-red lingerie–the fascination was that Lana Falcon could pull off either. And, boy, did they dream she did.
‘Cole, Lana, this way!’
Cole guided his wife into a series of poses, his hands moving round her body with the precision and grace of a dancer.
‘Beautiful!’ came the approving clamour.
Somebody shouted, ‘Could we get a kiss?’
Cole laughed with the press like chums. Lana observed as he shot at them with pretend pistols, firing from the first two fingers of each hand.
Lana followed direction. Tilting her chin to meet his, she saw her surroundings–the deep reds and pure, billowing whites; the rich, syrupy gold of the event’s majestic lions–taper sharply into her husband’s approaching features until her view was suffocated entirely by his face, and the sad rub of his lips.
Cole Steel. Hollywood’s highest grossing actor and a giant of the American film industry. Cole Steel. At the top of his game after nearly thirty years and tipped here to take a Volpi Cup. Cole Steel. The husband with whom Lana Falcon lived, attended parties, posed for photographs, but had never, had never …
All around, bulbs popped and flared. As Lana pulled away she searched her husband’s eyes. As a good actor he could fill them with every emotion a role required–he was at his most convincing when assuming a character. As a man, as himself, he was blank. Cole’s eyes were like a shark’s: flat and empty. When she looked into them, Lana saw nothing.
‘Let’s get on the line,’ said Katharine Elliot, Lana’s publicist, discreetly ushering her client forward. ‘They’re queuing for a word.’
‘We’re not done here yet,’ snapped Cole through gritted teeth. His smile didn’t move.
Katharine stepped back. Cole was a man she did not want to piss off.
Together he and Lana refreshed their poses, the jewel in the crown of megastars gracing the Venice carpet, floating like creatures from another world, delighting with a look or a smile.
‘Assholes,’ muttered Cole, clapping eyes on a young, handsome actor and his Mother Earth wife. Cole claimed not to like the man because he’d beaten him to a part last year, though Lana suspected it was more because the couple paraded a soccer team of children, a brood to which they were still adding. It was something she and Cole could never achieve.
Beyond the press pit Lana caught sight of a young female fan, her desperate face streaked with tears as she was pushed and shoved amid the throng of people trying to catch a glimpse of the action. Lana took care to catch her eye, smiling warmly and giving her a wave.
Toughen up she thought, remembering herself at that age. It’s the only way to survive. Trust me. She blinked against the memories. Too often they kept her awake at night.
‘It’s time,’ Cole told her, placing a small, pale hand on her back. The cameras followed every move. Together, husband and wife were the ultimate American love story. He, one of the greatest actors of his generation; she, the girl who had come from nothing, from tragedy, to having it all.
Linking her arm with his, Lana walked alongside, nodding and smiling her way into the Palazzo del Cinema. She glanced at her wedding ring, a great cluster of diamonds that weighed heavy on her hand. In the frenzy of snapping bulbs it winked back, as if they shared a terrible secret.
2
Las Vegas
Elisabeth Sabell, legs wrapped tight round her fiancé’S waist, examined with satisfaction the ten-carat antique engagement ring on her third finger.
‘Fuck me!’ she gasped, clasping his muscular shoulders. ‘Fuck me fuck me fuck me!’ The ring caught the light as they moved together, the sheets of their mammoth four-poster bed damp with sweat. As he pounded deeper, his rhythm quickening, the marvellous jewel came towards Elisabeth’s enraptured face in shuddering frames, a glorious, insistent reminder that she would, before long, be Mrs St Louis.
‘Tell me what you want, baby.’ The man grabbed her ass, pulling himself in further. ‘Tell me what you want.’
‘I want you to fuck me hard, Robert St Louis!’ she cried in abandon, raking livid-pink lines down his bronzed back, lifting her foot and trailing with her big toe the dip where his spine met his ass. ‘Fuck me like you’ve never fucked me before!’
In one deft movement he hooked an arm beneath her, flipping them round, holding on for the ride. Elisabeth, on top, ran her hands across his broad chest, wondering at the strength of his arms, the gentle slope of his biceps and the hard muscle of his stomach. Tightening her grip, she pinned him beneath her.
‘Strap in, baby,’ she told him, throwing her head back to gaze at the trompe l’oeil ceiling. ‘This is as close to heaven as it gets.’
Elisabeth began to rock, grabbing his hands, reaching higher, faster, like her life depended on it. Her golden mane fell in waves down her back, her pearl-white neck tilted to the ceiling. She could feel Robert’s hands on her tits, her waist, her thighs; on her throat, pressing those points beneath her ear lobes that made her knees go weak. She howled out, the pinnacle in sight.
With a final thrust they both climaxed, their bodies slick with release. Elisabeth rode the swelling tide, blinking back stars, her chest rising and falling, the pulse within her a steady, exquisite, delicious beat.
Robert St Louis moved on to his elbows and gave her a lopsided smile. He brought her face towards his and kissed her slowly, tasting her mouth.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he told her, planting a kiss on her chin, her nose, her forehead.
Elisabeth kissed him back. Together, she knew they made a staggering couple. Robert St Louis had been the most eligible bachelor in America. Now, two years on, he was hers.
Billionaire owner of two of the city’s most infamous hotels, the Orient and the Desert Jewel, he was the most handsome, and the most powerful, man in Vegas. With his dark hair, almost-black eyes, warm as melting bitter chocolate, and wicked, honest grin, he was the most devastating man she had ever laid eyes on.
‘I know,’ she told him, peeling herself off the bed and heading for their palatial en suite.
He watched her go. ‘Your father called,’ he said.
‘Do you have to tell me that right after we’ve had sex?’
