the champagne glass and handed it back to him.
‘A boyfriend?’
‘A girl friend, actually,’ she nodded in the direction of Allegra, who was making her way back towards them from the bar, fresh mojitos held like trophies in the air as she weaved through the bobbing masses, trying not to spill any of the precious liquid.
Marco surreptitiously surveyed his prey, enjoying the electricity that crackled and fizzed between them.
‘You and your girlfriend fancy coming to a pool party later? Me and some friends have got a villa just up near San Lorenzo.’
Tess nodded as if she knew where he was talking about, though really she didn’t have a clue.
‘Where are you girls staying?’
‘At the Ushuaia Beach Club,’ she replied coolly, adding for good measure, ‘the Presidential Suite.’
He looked impressed, just as she had anticipated.
‘So, how about it then, Tess?’ Marco said, eyeing her miniscule Pucci bikini top with expertly hidden lasciviousness. She had the most amazing set of tits he’d ever seen. Everything about her reeked of wealth; the glossy hair, the natural tan, the designer ensemble and expensive jewellery … he’d struck gold.
‘Here’s my number,’ Marco said, placing something in her hand with a sly wink. ‘Call me. We’ll have a car come pick you up.’ Tess gave a nonchalant nod, though privately she was ecstatic. There was something irresistible about the sexy-looking Italian, an air of danger that instantly intrigued her.
Having successfully navigated the crowds, Allegra approached, handing Tess a Mojito as she eyed the stranger a little cautiously.
‘We’ll see,’ Tess smiled coquettishly, lowering her eyes at him. She had every intention of calling him and suspected he knew as much.
‘Ladies,’ Marco dipped his head before disappearing back into the buzzing throng.
‘Who was that?’ Allegra asked.
‘Marco … Marco DiMari,’ Tess said looking down at his glossy, black and gold embossed business card. ‘Director of Photography by all accounts … Picasso Films.’ It was then that she noticed the little wrap of white paper behind it and felt a frisson of excitement ripple the length of her body. Was that what she thought it was?
‘He’s invited us to a pool party later,’ she added, quickly closing her hand lest Allegra see what was in it. A party girl she might be, but Tess had never been into drugs. Truth was, she’d always been scared of them.
‘We gonna go?’ Allegra asked tentatively. Hot or not, she sensed there was something seriously shady about that Marco character, something that had made her feel instantly uneasy.
‘Babes,’ Tess raised a finely arched tattooed brow as she surreptitiously slipped the small wrap of powder into her sparkly Mui Mui clutch. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
CHAPTER 7
‘Stand back! I said stand back!’ Loretta Hassan’s bodyguard snarled menacingly as he opened the door to the chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce and attempted to navigate his client through the swarm of awaiting journalists and paparazzi that were buzzing like wasps around her, flashes popping like champagne corks.
‘Mrs Hassan!’ A bespectacled man pushed his way to the forefront of the gathering throng. ‘Peter Phillips, LA Daily. Is it true that your husband was responsible for Miranda Muldavey’s botched surgery? Was that why she turned up at his funeral?’
A TV camera zoomed in on Loretta’s face and she half-heartedly attempted to shoo it away.
‘I’m afraid I cannot possibly comment,’ she purred demurely in her thick Italian accent, turning away from the camera for dramatic effect. She couldn’t afford to let the grieving widow act slip. Not with the beady eyes of the nation’s press all over her.
Ramsey’s gloriously A-list funeral had taken place the previous week in Malibu and Loretta, dressed head to toe in black McQueen couture, her creamy breasts spilling out of her tight corseted dress like boiling milk, had made for a tabloid feeding frenzy. Under normal circumstances, she would’ve relished such excessive media attention, but on this occasion she had been seething by such intrusion; she had personally assured her husband’s celebrity mourners of a complete press blackout. After all, Hollywood was all smoke and mirrors. Everyone wanted to give the illusion that their youthful good looks were down to impressive genes alone and not the skilful handiwork of her husband.
However, the journalist had been misinformed: Miranda hadn’t shown up at the funeral. Not even a glimpse. Loretta had thought it odd that the actress had yet made no formal statement to the media. After all, now that Ramsey was in his box what was to stop her from naming and shaming him?
Loretta reached the top of the stone steps towards her attorney’s Bel Air office but just as she was about to disappear inside, her path was blocked by an attractive female journalist.
‘How concerned are you about Miranda Muldavey’s private lawsuit, Mrs Hassan?’ she inquired, displaying an all-American white smile.
Loretta felt her cheeks flush and her heart skip a beat. Lawsuit? What lawsuit?
The astute journalist’s eyes widened. ‘Oh! So, you didn’t know!’ Her glee was almost palpable.
‘That’s enough! Stand back, or one of yous is gonna get a serious clump,’ Loretta’s lump of a bodyguard’s patience had finally run out as he pushed his client through the revolving doors of the imposing gothic building.
*
Loretta threw her studded leather Valentino clutch onto Randy Mumford’s desk with such force that it bounced. ‘If this is a joke, Randy, it is not a very fucking funny one.’ She was incandescent; her cheeks flushed crimson, her ample chest heaving up and down with an influx of adrenalin.
‘Please, won’t you sit down?’ he gestured to the vintage leather Chesterfield opposite. ‘A brandy perhaps?’
‘I don’t want a fucking brandy, Randy,’ she snarled, though in all honesty she could murder a drink. In fact, she could commit murder, if what that bitch journalist had said was true. Randy fixed her one anyway. The word ‘no’ invariably meant ‘yes’ where women like Loretta Hassan were concerned. It was little wonder old Ramsey’s heart had given out in the end. Poor bugger.
As an attorney to some of the Platinum Triangle’s richest and most famous there was little he hadn’t seen and heard when it came to tales of excess and debauchery. In a few years’ time when he retired, Randy planned to write a tell-all book on his years of digging celebrities out of the murky holes they invariably dug for themselves; sell them all out for a fat publishing cheque and then fuck off to Thailand to see the rest of his days out in the sun getting pleasured by ladyboys.
Ramsey and Randy had been golfing buddies, and as genuinely remorseful as he was about his friend’s sudden demise, it had crossed his mind that with him out of the picture he might be in with a shot at this year’s club trophy and a chance to get to know his formidable wife. He wasn’t sure which idea appealed most.
‘You mustn’t let them get to you, Loretta,’ he instructed, pulling at the collar of the new Armani shirt he had worn especially for their meeting, wishing he’d gone up a size now. ‘Those hacks will say anything to get a rise out of you.’ Truth was, he had half hoped she would drop the whole grieving widow façade and they might crack open the bottle of Krug he had chilling on ice in advance of her arrival. He had even indulged in a little fantasy of fucking her over his desk. After all, Ramsey had managed it. And what had Ramsey done that he hadn’t, aside from a handicap of five and last year’s club trophy?
‘I want you to give it to me straight, Randy,’ Loretta demanded, chin raised