was plastered to a slightly perspiring forehead and his lips were fleshy and pink.
‘I’ll get out here,’ Lana said, testing him. They were only a hundred yards from the house, but to her it was a matter of principle.
‘Boss says different,’ the driver grunted, his flinty eyes meeting hers in the rear-view mirror. ‘I ain’t pissin’ him off.’ The partition slid back up as her husband’s black-bottomed infinity pool came into view. It winked in the sunlight.
Lana slumped in her seat. She thought briefly of Parker Troy and craved the heat of his body, remembering how good it had felt when he’d touched her; the thrill of it in front of the crew. Rebellion was what kept her going.
They rounded Cole’s stone water feature, a giant, staggered structure modelled on the Trevi Fountain, and pulled up next to his silver Bugatti. The car was the jewel in Cole’s crown. He’d spent a million dollars on it–to Lana, who had grown up in extreme circumstances and was still, even now, acclimatising to the extravagance of her lifestyle, it was a shocking amount of money. She could tell he was torn between housing it in the garage with his assortment of Bentleys and his much-loved tangerine Lotus Elise, or leaving it here for everyone to admire. In the end, as usual, vanity had triumphed.
Two sleek black Dobermans, still and silent as her husband, crouched like sentries on either side of the mansion door. The dogs panted when they saw her, recognising her scent, their tongues pale pink in the heat. One of them came too close and emitted a low growl, perhaps smelling another man on her skin. She hurried inside.
Silence. Lana dropped her bag and walked across the empty hall, her footsteps echoing round the vaulted ceiling. Paintings of Cole adorned the walls–his most cherished, an abstract piece entitled The Moment I Met Myself, was suspended above the main stairs.
‘Hello?’ she called out. Her own voice winged back at her.
It was the quiet she couldn’t stand–it made the loneliness that much more acute. She craved a visit to the staff quarters, where she could have a proper conversation with somebody, and it galled her to think that they must consider her a grade-A bitch. And why wouldn’t they? She was married to the most powerful man in Hollywood. She’d fallen for the fame and she’d chased the money, just like they all did.
Or at least that was how it looked.
Lana fixed herself a drink at the bar. She listened to the ice tinkle against the glass.
‘You’re home.’
Cole was at the foot of the stairs, watching her carefully. How did he approach her so quietly? It gave her the creeps.
‘Drinking in the afternoon?’ he demanded, unable to help himself. Cole didn’t like his wife enjoying alcohol, even in such small quantities.
Lana took a breath. Just because he drove his ex-wife to drink doesn’t mean he’ll do the same to you.
‘I’ll do what I like, when I like, Cole,’ she told him evenly.
Abruptly his handsome face broke into a winning smile. He took the stool next to hers.
‘You know I’m just teasing,’ he said in an artificially playful way that made her feel queasy. ‘I wanted to catch you while I could, I’m aware we haven’t spent much time together recently.’ He paused. ‘We’ve got a mutual appearance next week—’
‘Kate diLaurentis’s party.’ Lana nodded, keeping her eyes down. ‘It’s under control.’ She stopped herself saying ‘I know the drill’ and drained the last of her vodka.
Cole extended a white, moisturised hand and settled it self-consciously on his wife’s leg. She tried not to look at him–on camera he was a handsome man but in real life he was plastic on a good day and on a bad one plain bizarre. Lana knew he’d had a filler done recently and regretted it–as a result his skin had taken on an unnerving sort of sheen, like rubber. He looked sticky, like someone had taken him out of a box and polished him.
Trying to ignore the contact, which seemed uncalled-for given the circumstances, Lana ran a finger across the solid oak bar.
‘Do you ever get tired of it?’
His eyes were blank, unreadable. ‘What?’
Lana shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She hadn’t expected an answer. Cole Steel was as closed to her now as he’d been when she was growing up, watching his movies.
He placed his glass on the bar, using both hands to position it squarely. When he was satisfied, he turned and pinned his wife with a stare.
‘It’s our job,’ he said hollowly. ‘You’ll wear the green dress at Kate’s, the off-the-shoulder Gucci. Open-toe sandals and that diamond necklace I bought you. Make sure we show them your left side if that blemish hasn’t cleared up.’
Lana touched the soft skin under her eye, feeling the tiny scratch that had appeared there. She nodded. The conversation was over and, as always, Cole had ended it.
Armed with her instructions, she headed up the back staircase to her private quarters. The quiet was deafening. It was married life.
6
Las Vegas
‘What a voice!’ exclaimed Elisabeth’s stage manager, his jauntily positioned trilby almost slipping off with the excitement of it.
Elisabeth Sabell smiled as she swept into the wings, rapturous applause filling the Desert Jewel auditorium. Her heart was racing.
‘It was good?’ she breathed, fully aware it had been.
‘It was magnificent,’ he told her, kissing both cheeks. ‘We had a full house tonight.’
The crew rushed over, showering Elisabeth with compliments. Somebody trod on the skirt of her scarlet gown but she was too euphoric to care.
‘Thank you!’ she cried, graciously accepting armfuls of gifts: bouquets of sweet-smelling flowers; notes from well-wishers; and on top of that an assortment of soft toys, a couple of bug-eyed ones clutching felt hearts that she could have done without.
Her PA rushed forward. ‘Mr Bellini would like to see you, ma’am.’
Elisabeth bit her lip. I’ll bet he wants to see me. Alberto Bellini was General Manager at the Desert Jewel, the second of Robert St Louis’s epic hotels, and worked under her fiancé’S supervision. He was an Italian in his sixties, a born Lothario, drinker and gambler, and one of her father’s cronies.
‘Thank you,’ she said, offloading the gifts into her assistant’s arms. One of the toys squeaked in protest. ‘I’ll be there.’
As Elisabeth made her way to her dressing room, charming admirers along the way, she hoped Alberto Bellini wasn’t about to give her a lecture. Some crap about how she should quit singing–that it had been her mother’s thing, not hers–and get to grips with Bernstein’s hotel legacy. Over and over everyone tried to fit her into her father’s pocket. What about her own ambitions?
She’d earned her right to sing tonight. All through her twenties Elisabeth had worked long and hard to make a name for herself, and now she had she sure as hell wasn’t getting swallowed up by her father’s empire. Bernstein considered her whimsical, that music was just a phase born out of longing for her dead mother. But she’d proved him wrong. For years she’d performed in smoky bars on the Strip, hauling her way to the top, and now she’d made it she sure as hell wasn’t letting anyone bring her down.
Smiling to herself, she pulled open the door to her dressing room. As soon as she saw Alberto Bellini, she knew he hadn’t come to lecture her. On the contrary, in fact.
‘Bellissima,’ he crooned in a thick accent, standing to greet her. ‘You were sensational tonight.’ He presented her with the hugest bouquet of roses she had ever seen–whites, yellows, reds, pinks, all bound up with a violet