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He laughed. ‘Sorry.’
‘And?’
‘Says he’s got some news–I’m gonna want to hear it, apparently.’
Elisabeth rolled her eyes. She turned the shower on. ‘I’ll bet he has,’ she muttered.
As Elisabeth stepped under the pounding water, she reflected it was a good job she loved Robert like she did–as daughter of the legendary Vegas hotelier Frank Bernstein, Elisabeth had her future in the city cut out from the start. She was destined to marry a businessman, someone of her father’s choosing. It had always been that way–Bernstein made the decisions and there was no argument. Elisabeth was thirty-two now, she had a residency on the Strip and a loving, committed relationship, but still he had the power to make her feel like a bullied little girl.
Robert called something from the bedroom.
‘What?’ Elisabeth yelled over the rush of water. She ran a gloop of shampoo through her blonde hair.
The door slid open. ‘I said: Any ideas?’ He stepped in behind her. ‘Bernstein couldn’t keep a secret from you if he tried.’
‘None whatsoever,’ Elisabeth said primly. ‘It’s probably another attempt to hurry the wedding along. I wish he’d butt out. Just because he introduced us doesn’t give him carte blanche to interfere in every aspect of our lives.’
Robert knew not to press his fiancée on the sensitive subject of her father.
‘Come on,’ he said instead, helping her rinse her hair, ‘or we’ll be late.’
The Orient Hotel, Robert St Louis’s multi-billion-dollar baby and the heart of his hotel empire, was a breathtaking project. He and Elisabeth arrived an hour later in a blacked-out car, the main attractions at tonight’s charity gala event.
Two soaring towers, each peak like a closed flower, flanked a colossal central pagoda. Little square windows lit with gold travelled up as far as the eye could see, thousands of feet into the sky, until they became stars themselves. Dragons crouched at the entrance, fire screaming from their open mouths. Sparking fountains and flaming torches circled the majestic structure.
Robert’s doorman greeted them like royalty. ‘Good evening, boss.’ He dipped his head, always nervous when the top gun was in the house. ‘Ms Sabell.’
Elisabeth nodded.
‘Evening, Daniel.’ Robert knew every last one of the Orient’s staff–he had hired them all personally, from pit boss to restroom cleaner. ‘How many for the gala?’
‘Six hundred. They’re waiting for you both in the Lantern Suite.’
Robert checked his watch. ‘Frank Bernstein here yet?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Make the most of it,’ Elisabeth muttered drily as they stepped into the foyer.
Robert chuckled. ‘Come on, he’s not so bad.’
Elisabeth loved the Orient. It was, in her opinion, the greatest hotel in the city. She’d grown up on the Strip, knew them all like the back of her hand, but the Orient was special, it was different. Huge china urns, big as cars, squatted in the five corners of the pentagonal lobby, overflowing with jade stalks and huge leaves sprayed in gold. Gilt-edged mirrors lined the walls beneath glowing red paper lamps. Below, the marble of the floor gleamed clear as water, like standing on the surface of a silver pool, so that your reflection made it difficult to tell which way was up and which was down. It thrilled Elisabeth to know that soon, once she and Robert were married, she would be its queen.
They swept past Reception to the waiting elevator. As they rose to the sixteenth floor, Robert took her hand.
‘I’m proud you’re on my arm,’ he told her.
‘You’re on mine, St Louis.’ She winked as they alighted.
At news of the couple’s arrival, a reverential hush fell over the assembled investors and Vegas notables. Jowly men with ruddy cheeks and fat wallets stood next to their glamorous wives, whose priceless gems dripped from their fragrant, powdered skin.
The women watched enviously as Elisabeth let the fur drop from her shoulders, revealing a glittering kingfisher-blue gown that matched her eyes. Every last one of them wanted Robert St Louis and, seeing Elisabeth now, understood why they never would.
Her fiancé took easily to the floor. ‘I’m pleased to see so many of you here,’ he said, clapping his hands together and approaching the waiting lectern. ‘It’s a special night. The Orient has been working closely with the causes here this evening …’
Elisabeth smiled, quietly greeting one of the wives with a brief air kiss.
As she watched Robert, she felt powerful. No longer was she merely Frank Bernstein’s daughter: she was part of a team that had nothing whatsoever to do with him, a team that would lay the foundations of a new Vegas dynasty. This was hers alone–she didn’t have to involve her father at all.
Nothing could come between her and Robert.
If ever it did, she would fight it to the death.
3
London
Chloe French held her expression as she reclined on the leopard-print chaise longue and followed the photographer’s instructions.
‘That’s gorgeous,’ he told her, clicking away. ‘Anyone ever told you you’ve got the face of an angel?’
They had, actually. At nineteen Chloe French was the sweetheart of London’s fashion circuit–a raw, unaffected beauty and a fledgling star on her way to the top. She was tall, nearly six feet, with a sheet of jet-black hair that fell to her waist and glittering slate-grey eyes.
A make-up girl wearing too-tight denim hot pants rushed over and reapplied pink lipgloss, fanning Chloe’s hair out around her and repositioning the vintage clutch.
‘Thanks,’ Chloe called when she scurried off.
‘Stop saying thanks,’ instructed the photographer, an Emo guy with thick Elvis-Costello-style glasses, ‘you’re disrupting the shot.’
‘Sorry,’ said Chloe, cringing. The camera popped as she pulled the face.
Chloe French had been spotted four years ago outside Topshop on Oxford Street, feeling rough amid a horrible winter cold and wearing an old hoody with a ketchup stain down the front. She’d been modelling ever since. Over that time she had worked with some of the biggest names in fashion, but she still couldn’t shake the little knots of self-consciousness that accompanied a shoot like this. There just seemed to be so much fuss.
Consulting his assistant on the stills, the photographer grinned. ‘That’s the one.’ Chloe’s slight awkwardness, so unlike the other models he was used to working with, came off brilliantly on camera as coy vulnerability.
‘Have you got what you need?’ she asked, sitting up. ‘I’m meeting Nate.’ She beamed at the mention of her rock-star boyfriend.
‘And all the world’s press?’ The photographer made a face, remembering the last time Nate Reid had come to the studio. He’d been trailed by a troop of devoted paparazzi, supposedly unintentionally, though nothing about Chloe’s boyfriend appeared to be without intention.
She laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Nate’s discreet.’
‘He is?’ The photographer raised an eyebrow. ‘I can’t open a London paper without seeing you two.’
Chloe shrugged. ‘For a musician.’
‘Yeah, the Pied fucking Piper,’ he muttered, remembering the cameras dancing at Nate’s heels.
On cue the studio door opened and a rakish figure appeared in the doorway, a wiry silhouette crowned with artfully tousled hair.
‘Nate!’ cried Chloe, jumping up and running over.
‘Great,’ the photographer said with a roll of his eyes, ‘just what we need.’
Nate Reid, frontman with The Hides, held out his arms to embrace her. Nate was the epitome of rock and roll–or at least he liked to think he was. As the hottest property in British music, he wasn’t conventionally good-looking, a little on the rangy side and quite short, but what he lacked in stature he made up for in charisma. With piercing green eyes, a fuck-you attitude and an anarchic reputation, he was, in Chloe’s eyes, everything that was wonderful in the world.
‘Hey, babe,’ said Nate, kissing her deeply. She tasted of cherries.
Chloe smiled down at him–she tried not to let the height difference bother her.
‘Are you done yet?’ he asked, a tad irritably. ‘I’ve been waiting.’
Chloe gave a hopeful expression to Emo-guy.
‘Yup, we’re done,’ he said, busy with the stills.
When she turned back she was just in time to catch Nate scoping out one of the other models, before his eyes slid swiftly back to her.
‘Let’s go,’ she said, linking his arm tightly.
Unsurprisingly, the press had caught wind of Nate’s arrival. As the couple emerged on to the street, a circus of shouting and flashing bulbs erupted. Nate held up a hand as they bustled through to the waiting car, as if the whole thing was a massive inconvenience. He parcelled Chloe away and turned to the paps, treating them to a couple of clean shots.
‘You heading out tonight, Nate?’ one of them asked. ‘Chloe going with you?’
‘Classified information, boys,’ said Nate, editing out the tip-off he’d fed through earlier. He turned to get in the car.
‘Is it true Chloe’s moving to LA?’
Nate gritted his teeth. ‘Not true.’
‘There’s talk that—’
He climbed in and slammed the door.
An army of lenses swooped in on the windows, clicking insistently, aimlessly, in the hope of catching a killer shot. The car moved off.
‘You’re so patient with them,’ Chloe said, tying her hair back. ‘I can never be arsed.’
‘’S no big deal.’
She kissed his cheek. ‘Come on, I’ve got the house to myself this afternoon.’
Nate brightened. He was a little worn out after a marathon bedroom session that morning, but he’d never been able to resist Chloe. ‘Sounds good, babe.’
Chloe gazed across at her boyfriend and felt her heart swell. Nate Reid was her hero–the night they’d met was proof of that.
So what if she caught him checking out other girls from time to time, it didn’t matter. It was her he was committed to and that was the important thing. Right? Relationships required work–she knew that from her own experience. You couldn’t just give up if you loved someone. And she loved Nate Reid. Nothing, and no one, was going to change that.
4
Los Angeles
The man on top of Lana Falcon let out a low groan as he slipped a hand between her legs. She could feel his growing hardness, hot and thick against her skin. At the sudden quickening of his breath, a rhythm she knew so well, she could tell he was desperate to be inside her. ‘I want you now,’ he whispered hoarsely, his hand diving under her ass and pulling her up to meet him. Only when his fingers found the gusset of her modesty underwear and he momentarily slipped himself in did she bite down hard on his bottom lip.
‘Ow!’ Parker Troy pulled back, a hurt expression on his face.
‘Cut!’ the director called, not noticing. ‘Lana, that was perfect. Real authentic. It’s a wrap, people.’
Lana raised her arm and the wardrobe girl came rushing over, covering her with a gown. The crew made a polite attempt not to notice her knock-out body as she shrugged on the thin material. She had requested a closed set–as she did with all topless scenes–but even so every last one of the guys was fighting down a raging hard-on.
‘That was excellent,’ said Sam Lucas, striding over. The director was a rotund, shiny-headed bald man in his late fifties with thin, very round glasses. ‘You’re bringing something exceptional to this role–that was a hard scene to get right.’
It was certainly hard, Lana thought. She tried not to notice that Sam’s eyes, disconcertingly enlarged behind the lenses of his glasses, kept darting to her breasts. Gritting her teeth, she decided to forgive the transgression–Sam was one of the industry’s die-hard movie elite and thousands of actresses would kill to be in her position. Eastern Sky, a historical romance set in 1920s China and Sam’s directorial comeback, could earn her an Award.
‘Thanks, Sam,’ she said, wanting to get dressed. ‘It means a lot to have your support.’ When he didn’t respond she asked, ‘How are the dailies?’
‘Good,’ said Sam, meeting her eyes momentarily before they slid back to the main attraction. ‘Real good.’
Lana folded her arms, mortified that her nipples were standing to attention. Couldn’t they make these gowns a bit more substantial? She couldn’t tell if it was because she was under scrutiny or whether she was still hot from Parker’s touch, but whatever it was, Sam Lucas was drinking it in. He might as well be licking his lips for all his discretion.
‘Well, I’ll, uh, be with you first thing,’ she said hurriedly, relieved to see the wardrobe girl returning with a clipboard and an efficient smile.
‘Yeah,’ said Sam, back to business. ‘Call-time nine o’clock.’ And he headed off in the direction of his assistant.
Ten years in this town and she still wasn’t used to it. Men who thought she owed them something, thought her body was a kind of recompense. She’d had enough of it to last a lifetime.
‘Can I get you anything, Ms Falcon?’ the girl asked, noticing Lana’s anxious expression.
‘Thanks, I’m OK.’ Lana gave a friendly smile as they made their way back to base camp. It saddened her to think the girl was too afraid to continue the conversation, as if Lana belonged now to a world in which people couldn’t converse without fear of tripping up. Her marriage to Cole Steel was lonely. She missed friendship, especially the easy intimacy that women shared. It was why she had embarked on the reckless affair with Parker Troy: she craved the warmth.
Lana stole a quick glance over her shoulder and caught her co-star chatting to crew, his dirty-blond hair falling over his eyes. He had a slightly pug nose and his jaw was chunky in a Matt Damon-type way. At twenty, he was younger than Lana and somewhat airheaded, but she wasn’t in it for the conversation. This was a mindless, red-hot, dangerous romance–barely a month old–and one she had to conceal from her husband at all costs. Parker had been foolish, getting carried away on set today: never mind that she was fucking him in her own time–when they were filming it had to be on her terms. All it took was one witness to bring the whole thing crashing down, and nobody would pay a higher price than her.
At her trailer Lana showered, changed into sweat pants and drank a litre of water. She checked her watch, wondering if Parker would call. Come on, baby, she thought, I’ve got pick-up in five. When her cell buzzed, she snatched it up.
It was Rita Clay, her agent. Rita was legendary in Hollywood, a tall, strikingly attractive black woman in her late thirties and one of LA’s top ball-breakers.
‘Hey, movie star, how was the shoot?’
Lana ran a hand through her hair. It was good to hear a friendly voice that told it like it was. On a sea of bullshit, Rita was one who managed to stay afloat. ‘Good. What’s up?’
‘Come to lunch.’
‘I’ll have to check my schedule—’
‘It’s done. Friday, twelve-thirty, Campanile.’
Lana laughed. ‘Fine.’ Rita talked as fast as she worked.
It had been the same when they’d first met. Lana had been seventeen when she’d walked into Rita Clay’s downtown office, had possessed the poise and determination of someone unafraid to lose. If the place she was running from couldn’t break her, neither could this big, bad industry. She didn’t talk about the past and Rita didn’t ask–it didn’t matter where she’d come from; it mattered where she was going.
