The Power Trip

Chapter One

Dateline: Moscow

The Russian billionaire, Aleksandr Kasianenko, admired his super-model girlfriend as she stepped, unabashedly naked, out of the indoor swimming pool in his luxurious Moscow mansion. Her name was Bianca, and she was known across the world.

God, she is a beautiful creature, Aleksandr thought, beautiful and sleekly feline. She moves like a panther — and in bed she is a wild tiger. I am a very fortunate man.

Bianca was of mixed race — her mother was Cuban, her father black. There was no doubt that Bianca had inherited the best of both her parents’ looks.

She’d been raised in New York, discovered at seventeen, and now at age twenty-nine was the most sought-after super-model on the planet. Tall, lean and agile, with coffee-coloured skin, fine features, full natural lips, piercing green eyes and waist-length glossy black hair, Bianca captivated both men and women. Men found her irresistibly sexy, while women admired her sense of style and raunchy humour — which she exhibited every time she appeared on the late-night talk shows.

Bianca knew how to handle herself in front of the cameras, and she certainly knew how to plug her brand. Over the years she’d created a mini-empire that included a fine jewelry line, exotic sunglasses, a stunning makeup collection for women of colour, and several best-selling scents.

Bianca had mastered the art of the sell, making a fortune doing so. Then at the age of twenty-nine she’d finally decided that rather than be a one-man-band who worked hard for her money, she was looking for a powerful man who would take care of her and parlay the money she’d earned into super-rich status.

Aleksandr Kasianenko was just such a man, for Aleksandr was not only a super-rich businessman, he was also tough and rugged with a steely reserve.

Bianca was sick of the long list of pretty boys she’d dated over the years. Movie stars, a clutch of rock stars, a half-dozen sports heroes and a politician or two. None of them had really satisfied her — in bed or out. She’d always been the dominant force in whatever relationship she’d been trapped in. The movie stars were all insecure and fixated on their public image. Rock stars were mostly into drugs and getting fucked-up, not to mention totally vain. The sports stars were publicity-crazy and never faithful. And as for the politicians — sexually incorrect. All horn and no blow.

Then, at exactly the right time, she’d met Aleksandr. And she’d fallen for his silent strength.

Only one problem.

He was married.

They’d met on Aleksandr’s home turf. She was in Moscow doing a cover shoot for Italian Vogue, and since it happened to be her twenty-ninth birthday, the flamboyant photographer, Antonio — an Italian gay man who knew absolutely everyone who was anyone in Moscow — had decided to throw her a massive party.

The party was a blast. And then she was introduced to Aleksandr.

The moment she saw him, he took her breath away with his brooding dark looks and aura of control and power. He was big and strong, and there was something magnetic about him, something incredibly masculine. One look and she was hooked.

He didn’t tell her he was married.

She didn’t ask.

An hour after their first encounter they were making fast, ferocious love on the floor in her hotel suite. Their lovemaking was animalistic in its intensity, so overpowering that they’d never made it as far as the bedroom. It was all clothes off and straight at it.

After their one night of unbridled passion they were both swept up and addicted to each other. And so began their steamy affair, an affair that had them meeting all over the world.

Now, after one year, and in spite of Aleksandr’s marital status, they were still very much together.

Aleksandr had assured Bianca that he was in the throes of divorcing his wife, but due to several massive business deals that could affect his wife’s settlement, it still had not happened. He also had children to consider. Three daughters. ‘The timing has to be right,’ he’d informed her. ‘However, it will happen, and it will happen soon. You have my word.’

Bianca believed him. He was separated from his wife, so that was a promising beginning. Still, she couldn’t help wanting more. She wanted to be Mrs Aleksandr Kasianenko, and the less time wasted the better.

In the meantime Aleksandr wished to celebrate his love’s upcoming thirtieth birthday in a big way. He’d recently taken delivery of a new luxurious 400-foot super-yacht, and to christen their maiden voyage he planned on throwing Bianca a once-in-a-lifetime special event that she would never forget. The celebrations would include inviting several of their friends on a week-long cruise to enjoy the best of everything. What could be better?

When he informed Bianca of his plan she was excited, and immediately started thinking about who they would invite on this very exclusive trip.

‘How many can your new yacht accommodate?’ she enquired.

‘Many,’ Aleksandr replied with a dry laugh. ‘But I feel we should invite only five couples.’

‘Why only five?’ Bianca asked, slightly disappointed.

‘It’s enough,’ he told her. ‘You make your list, I make mine. Then we will compare and decide who gets invited.’

Bianca grinned. ‘This is gonna be fun,’ she said, already planning her list.

‘Indeed it will,’ Aleksandr agreed.

Chapter Two

Dateline: London

Ashley Sherwin stared at her image in the ornate mirror above the vanity for a full ten minutes before her husband, Taye, entered their streamlined bathroom with the marble counters and fancy rock-crystal chandelier — designed by Jeromy Milton-Gold, one of London’s most sought-after interior designers.

‘Whatcha lookin’ at, toots?’ Taye asked cheerfully, taking the opportunity to lean over her shoulder and check out his own image, which was, as usual, totally fine.

‘New makeup,’ Ashley muttered sulkily, annoyed that he’d caught her, wishing she’d locked the door.

Taye had no concept of the word ‘privacy’. Well, he wouldn’t, would he? He was a super-star footballer used to stripping off and basking in all the glory (not to mention the women) that came his way. Cheap and nasty little tarts, ready and willing to chase any famous man. She hated them all.

‘Well,’ Taye said, stretching his arms above his head, ‘you look right fit, an’ sexy as hell.’

Ashley had no desire to look hot and horny; her aim was to look like an elegant fashion icon, a fashionista with style to spare. Taye simply didn’t get it. He thought he was tossing her a compliment, but as far as she was concerned it was exactly the opposite.

She sighed. After six years of marriage Taye still had no clue who the person was that she aspired to be. Didn’t he realize that she was no longer the pretty blonde, twenty-two-year-old TV presenter he’d married? She was now the mother to their six-year-old twins, Aimee and Wolf. She was older, more mature. She knew what she wanted, and it was certainly not enough to be known as Taye Sherwin’s trophy wife.

They’d had to get married because she was pregnant — never the best of ideas, but better than being a single mother. Taye was a major catch. Black and beautiful. A sports hero. A money-making machine, what with all his various endorsement deals and super-star status.

They’d met on a TV show she’d been co-hosting with Harmony Gee, a former member of the girl group Sweet. Harmony was all over Taye, but it soon became obvious to everyone that he only had eyes for Ashley.

Before long they were a staple in the UK newspapers, billed as the new celebrity couple. They were even given a nickname by the press — Tashley. It had a ring to it.

Ashley was thrilled; she revelled in the attention. For six months she’d been pushed into the background while Harmony scored most of the big interviews; however, with all her newfound PR, her bosses at the TV station were suddenly regarding her with new respect, while Harmony was staring at her with daggers in her eyes.

Then Taye had managed to impregnate her, and that was that.

Goodbye, career.

Hello, marriage.

Taye was a super-star in all respects. The moment he found out she was pregnant, he’d insisted that they got married. Never mind about his playboy past, Taye was all about doing the right thing. Besides, he loved Ashley. She was perfect for him — a true English peach with her widely spaced blue eyes, flawless skin, long blond hair and curvy figure.

Taye’s mother, Anais, a heavy-set Jamaican woman, was not so pleased. ‘Yo should be marryin’ one of yo own kind,’ she had complained, her accent heavy with disapproval. ‘This Ashley gal’s nothin’ but a fancy show-pony. She not gonna make yo a satis-fyin’ wife.’

‘Yo’ mama’s right, son,’ Taye’s dad had agreed. ‘Yo wanna grab yo’self an island woman — more meat on dem bones. Juicy dark meat. Delicious!’

The last time Taye’s parents had visited Jamaica was forty years ago, so Taye chose to ignore their sage advice. Instead he forged ahead with elaborate wedding plans.

Ashley’s mother, Elise — a faded blonde who worked behind the makeup counter in a department store — was torn. The good news was that Taye was rich and famous. The bad news was that he was black.

Elise tried not to think in a racist way, but unfortunately she’d been raised to regard black people as inferior beings.

Fortunately, Ashley had never harboured any hang-ups about Taye being black. He loved her more than any man ever had — in fact, he kind of worshipped her, which she didn’t mind at all. Being worshipped by a very famous man whom every other woman lusted after was quite a kick.

Their lavish marriage made headline news. So did the birth of their twins three months later. Taye bought them all a magnificent house near Hampstead Heath, and everything was well in the world, except shortly after moving into their new home, Ashley suffered a bad bout of post-partum depression, and refused to go near the twins for the first six months of their lives. This forced Taye into moving his parents and Ashley’s mother into their house, which turned out to be a big mistake. The two grandmothers soon discovered that they loathed each other — especially when Anais accused the thrice-divorced Elise of making a play for her husband, an accusation Elise hotly denied.

The Sherwin household was not a happy one. Ashley, locked up in the master bedroom refusing to come out. The twins demanding attention day and night. And the mothers-in-law at war.

Taye attempted to keep the peace, although it wasn’t easy. And since Ashley shied away from any sexual contact, he was becoming increasingly frustrated.

So it came to pass that Taye cheated. And as luck would have it, the girl he cheated with (a page three model with outrageous boobs) couldn’t wait to run to the tabloids and sell her story for a ridiculous amount of money.

The headlines were relentless:

MY ENDLESS NIGHT OF LUST WITH TAYE SHERWIN

HE’S A STAR IN BED TOO!

IS TASHLEY OVER?

Oh, the humiliation! The fury! The shock that Ashley experienced. She’d hauled herself out of hiding and confronted her husband in a simmering rage.

His excuses were weak. No sex for months. A depressed wife. Crying babies. Warring mothers-in-law. And a buxom babe throwing herself at him during an aftershave commercial he was shooting.

Taye wasn’t made of stone. He’d fallen into those giant tits like a man starved for sustenance. He’d wallowed in them. Then after wallowing, he’d screwed the random girl, immediately regretted it, and run for his life.

The newspaper story had galvanised Ashley into action. She’d hurriedly hired two maternity nurses, banished both mothers-in-law to their own homes, and set about getting herself back in shape.

Meanwhile, Taye presented her with a ten-carat diamond ring, assured her his indiscretion would never happen again, paid for the boob job she demanded, and normal life resumed.

Only it wasn’t that normal. Ashley forgave, but the problem was, she had no intention of ever forgetting.

As the twins grew, Ashley began to think about her future, and what she could do to become more than just another footballer’s wife. She’d started by informing Taye that any ads or endorsements he did in the future should include her. He’d agreed. Having rocked the boat once, he damn sure wouldn’t be doing it again. Ashley meant everything to him, and he wasn’t about to risk losing her.

So, adwise, they gradually became a team. The Taye and Ashley Show. He with the shaved head, muscled body and killer smile. She with the baby-blue eyes, lush body, amazing boobs and tumbling blond curls. They got together with the best photographers and soon created a partnership brand.

Ashley worked hard on her body, toning and tanning, losing any excess fat and gaining muscle — until she looked almost as fit as Taye, only in a womanly way.

She adored her new breasts, they gave her so much more confidence, and Taye loved them too.

Would he ever cheat again?

He’d better not, because if there was a next time, she’d leave him, take the twins and make his life pure hell.

Eighteen months previously, Ashley had decided that appearing in ads with Taye was no longer enough for her — it was time she had her own career. The twins were getting older and she’d been thinking about doing something that was all hers. Since she’d always fancied herself as an interior designer, she’d approached Jeromy Milton-Gold, the designer who’d worked on their house and asked him if she could be part of his team. Jeromy, the older boyfriend of Latin singing star, Luca Perez, was always looking for ways to up his profile, and he’d told her that it was a fabulous idea. If Taye was prepared to invest in his business, he said, they could definitely work something out.

Ashley went to Taye and asked him to put up some money.

To keep Ashley happy, he’d obliged, in spite of his business manager telling him he was nuts.

Ashley was delighted that Jeromy wanted her to work alongside him.

Before long there was a new hot show in town. The Ashley and Jeromy Show, interior designers to the stars. Both with famous partners. Both with endless ambition.

It had started out as a winning combination. Lately, things were not so good.

‘I’ve got somethin’ to show you,’ Taye said, waving a large cream envelope in the air.

‘What?’ Ashley asked, moving away from the mirror and drifting into the bedroom.

‘Wouldn’t you like t’know,’ Taye said, following her.

Taye enjoyed teasing his wife — it gave him a feeling of power. And he was holding power in his hand, for in the envelope with the embossed gold border and exquisite calligraphy was an invitation that, if he knew his wife, would positively make her come!

‘Don’t mess about,’ Ashley said, still slightly irritated.

‘Give us a kiss, then,’ Taye said, putting his arms around her from behind.

‘Not now,’ she said, wriggling out of his grasp.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Taye complained. ‘The kids are at me mum’s. Nobody’s around. It’s the perfect time.’

‘No, it’s not,’ Ashley argued. ‘We’re about to go out to dinner, and I don’t want to ruin my makeup or my hair.’

‘I’ll make it a quickie,’ Taye promised.

‘Don’t be disgusting,’ Ashley responded. ‘If we’re going to do it, then we should do it in our bed like normal people.’

Taye shook his head. Sometimes Ashley acted like a total prude. Normal people! What was that all about? Made her sound like her racist mother whom he barely tolerated.

‘I suppose a blow-job’s out the question then?’ he ventured, edging closer.

Ashley’s look of disapproval informed him that indeed it was.

Whatever had happened to the girl he’d married? Free and easy, up for all kinds of sexual adventures. They’d had sex here, there and everywhere. Now he had to practically plead to get any sex at all. It wasn’t right. He still loved her, though. She was his wife and nothing would ever change that.

‘Later?’ he asked hopefully.

‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘Now go get changed — and hurry up. We’re meeting Jeromy. He’s off to Miami tomorrow and we can’t be late. You know how punctual he always is.’

‘Jeromy’s such a borin’ wanker. Do we have to go?’

‘Yes, Taye. In case you’ve forgotten, I work with him, so stop moaning and go and get ready.’

‘Okay, okay.’

Since she appeared to have forgotten about the envelope, Taye decided not to show it to her until they came home. He knew it would put her in an excellent mood — that, and a couple glasses of wine, and he’d have no trouble getting a piece of what was rightfully his.

Yes, Taye knew how to handle his wife.

Carefully.

That was the secret.

Chapter Three

Dateline: Paris

There was never enough time in the day for Flynn Hudson to achieve all the things he wished to accomplish. As a respected, somewhat maverick, freelance journalist and writer, he was always on the move, travelling wherever the latest disaster took him. Over the last year alone he’d been in Ethiopia, Haiti, Indonesia, Japan and Afghanistan. He’d covered tsunamis, earthquakes, floods, wars.

Flynn was always front and centre of the action, reporting on events, government corruption, human rights. He was an activist who answered to no one except himself, with a website that had almost a million followers, for when Flynn wrote one of his essays, his faithful readers knew they were getting the real deal, not the fake bullshit that most news stations fed the gullible public.

Yet Flynn preferred to keep a low profile. He turned down TV interview requests and avoided being photographed, while home was a small apartment in Paris, where he lived alone.

He did have girlfriends. Several. Although none of them had ever gotten close.

Flynn Hudson was a loner. That was the way he liked it.

Born in England thirty-six years ago to an American mother and British father, he’d been educated across the world as his father was a diplomat. They’d travelled extensively, until at the age of twelve his parents were killed by a terrorist car bomb in Beirut. Miraculously he’d survived the tragedy, and he had the scars to prove it.

After the death of his parents he’d led a double life — spending half his time with his American grandparents in California, and the other half with his British kin who resided in the English countryside. He didn’t mind flying back and forth; it was an adventure.

After attending a university in the UK for a year, he’d switched to UCLA in L.A., before dropping out when he was twenty-one and setting out to roam the world.

He backpacked across Asia, mountain-climbed in Nepal, learned martial arts in China, joined the crew of a fishing vessel in Marseilles, worked as a bodyguard for a Columbian billionaire who turned out to be a drug lord, until finally at the age of twenty-five, he’d sat himself down and written a successful book about his travels.

Flynn could have been a media star, he was certainly handsome enough. Six feet two, strong and athletic, with longish dark hair, intense ice-blue eyes and a permanent stubble on his sharp jawline.

Women loved Flynn. And he loved them back, as long as they expected nothing permanent.

Once upon a time he’d made a lifetime commitment. It hadn’t turned out the way he’d expected. No more commitments for Flynn. He was done.

As an alpha male he respected women, enjoyed their company on a short-term basis, and never tried to control them. He wanted what was best for them, especially women in third-world countries who had to fight every day for their very survival. He helped out when he could, writing about the places he went to, exposing corruption, using whatever resources he could get his hands on to assist the not-so fortunate.

Money had one meaning to Flynn, and that was helping others.

The girl crawled on top of Flynn like a particularly energetic spider-monkey, all long gangly legs and arms, small breasts, cropped hair and enormous khol-outlined eyes. He thought her name was Marta, he wasn’t sure. Sometimes he felt he wasn’t sure of anything any more, not after some of the atrocities he’d witnessed. He’d recently returned from Afghanistan, where he’d watched a photographer colleague get caught in the crossfire between border guards and a car carrying two suicide bombers. The guy had had his head blown off — literally — by getting too close to the bombers simply to catch the best shot.

The image of the car blowing up was embedded in Flynn’s mind, and the headless body of his friend lying in the mud. It was a photograph he couldn’t erase.

After returning to Paris, he, who didn’t drink much, had gotten hopelessly drunk two nights in a row. Marta, or whatever her name was, happened on night two, and he wished he’d never picked her up and brought her home.

After reaching an unsatisfactory orgasm he managed to slide her off him.

‘Comment c’est fini?’ she said indignantly.

‘Not tonight,’ he mumbled. ‘Go home.’

So she did. Reluctantly.

In the morning, nursing a massive hangover, he discovered she’d taken his wallet with her.

No more drinking.

No more random sex.

It was his own fault, he should’ve known better.

Lately, things were getting on top of him. His recent visit to China, where in some places it was deemed acceptable to drown baby girls at birth. Another trip to Bosnia, attempting to give aid to women who’d been raped. And then to Pakistan, to write a story for the New York Times about an American citizen who’d been drugged by a prostitute and had one of his kidneys cut out and stolen.

Flynn needed a break.

Sorting through his mail, mostly bills, he came across a fancy envelope addressed to:

MR FLYNN HUDSON & GUEST

Extracting the invitation, he scanned it quickly.

It wasn’t his kind of thing, but then the thought occurred to him — why the hell not?

Maybe this was exactly the break he’d been looking for.

Chapter Four

Dateline: Los Angeles

Being the girlfriend of a huge movie star did not sit well with Lori Walsh’s ego. Oh yes, in one respect it was all strawberries and cream. Her name was out there — people were exceptionally nice to her — important people. Her photo was in all the magazines, frolicking on the beach in Malibu, or walking her significant other’s two large black Labradors. She was always included in the endless red-carpet interviews at premières and award shows, hovering beside the famous one, looking like the adoring, albeit slightly awkward, girlfriend.

But why was her name out there? Why were influential and powerful people nice to her? What was it all about?

Because…

Because she was the live-in girlfriend of Cliff Baxter. The Cliff Baxter — the man with the George Clooney charm, Jack Nicholson acting talent, and irresistible good looks. Mister Movie Star. No mistake about that.

Mister — ‘I get my ass kissed every time I fart.’

Mister — ‘Everyone wants to be my friend.’

Mister — ‘Even when I’m full of shit, you’re still gonna love me.’

Lori, an actress herself — although much to her chagrin she was constantly referred to as ‘former waitress’ — had been Mister Movie Star’s girlfriend for the past year. ‘A record,’ his friends had informed her, as if she’d won some kind of amazing race. ‘You must have something special,’ his friends’ wives had whispered in her ear with slightly puzzled expressions, because in their minds surely Cliff could do better?

Yes, she had something special all right. Patience. And the knack for pretending not to know when her famous boyfriend ordered in a late-night call girl for a midnight snack in his pool-house office, or spent time on his computer watching porn.

Apparently his former girlfriends had objected. And with the objections came banishment, then after they were gone it was onto the next.

However, Lori was smarter than all of them. She was going for the prize. The ring on the finger. She was one canny girlfriend who was sticking it out.

Cliff Baxter was heading full-tilt towards fifty, and he’d never been married.

Lori was twenty-four, half his age — which was the perfect Hollywood age difference. Besides, she loved him in a kind of screwed-up way. She felt safe and protected with him — and sometimes, she even felt loved.

The truth was that she wanted to be Mrs Cliff Baxter even more than she wanted a career, and that was saying something as she’d always harboured an ambition to be the next Emma Stone. She and Emma even looked a little alike. They had the same athletic body and slightly toothy grin, although Lori considered herself to be a sexier version of the talented actress. Cliff was very into Lori’s amazing mane of red hair, although what really turned him on was her matching pubes. She’d offered to do a Brazilian for him, but he was having none of it. ‘I like a woman to be natural,’ he’d told her. ‘Enough with the shaved pussies, they’re not sexy. Keep it real, babe.’

So be it. Whatever Cliff wanted, Cliff got. It was quite a relief not to have to go through the agony of having the hair ripped from her crotch by a harassed Polish woman with a penchant for inflicting pain.

However, being just the girlfriend was risky. A year was a long time. What if Cliff got bored with her? What if he discovered the porn and the call girls were enough to keep him satisfied?

She didn’t care to think about it. She dreaded going back to being just another Hollywood starlet begging for a job. Oh no, that was not about to be her future.

To protect herself she’d made it her mission to find out all of Cliff’s dirty little secrets — facts that nobody knew about him. She was determined to discover the real Cliff Baxter, not the adored icon with the starry image and self-deprecating charm.

Lori was extremely adept at underground activities; she’d learned from her mom, Sherrine, at an early age that it was useful to dig out people’s secrets and use them to advantage. That’s how they’d gotten by after her dad had done a midnight runner. They’d survived because Sherrine had known how to manipulate people — such as their randy landlord who was cheating on his wife, the supermarket checkout clerk who was padding customers’ bills and pocketing the cash, and the cable guy who was into making money on the side.

Free rent. Free food. Free cable. They got by. While her mom juggled a series of boyfriends who also contributed to their survival.

Lori hadn’t spoken to her mom in eight years, ever since Sherrine had caught her making out with one of her transient boyfriends. At the time Lori was sixteen. Sherrine’s boyfriend was twenty-five and a total stud. And Sherrine was thirty-five and beyond pissed. She’d thrown Lori out along with the boyfriend, who’d allowed Lori to camp out at his place for a few weeks until she’d run into Stanley Abbson, an elderly gentleman who drove a Bentley and was very partial to underage girls.

Stanley Abbson was seventy-five years old, but thanks to Viagra he was still able to get it up. They’d met on the boardwalk in Venice when Lori had skateboarded into him and almost knocked him flat. He hadn’t minded at all, and after a couple of lunches he’d invited her to move into an apartment where he kept two other teenage girls. It was a decent apartment overlooking the ocean. Lori could hardly believe her luck.

Stanley — who she’d found out lived elsewhere in a large house — gave the girls a generous allowance; all he asked in return was the occasional girl-on-girl show, which was doable — until he started bringing along a few of his pervy old business acquaintances to watch and sometimes participate. That’s when Lori decided it was not the life for her, so she’d packed up and left, taking with her Stanley’s solid gold watch and the stash of cash he’d kept hidden in the apartment. The money was enough to pay six months’ rent on a rundown beach shack in Venice, where she lived for the next four years, taking acting classes, working as an extra, waitressing, doing some escort jobs that did not involve sex, and generally getting by.

Boyfriends came and went. A car salesman. A burned-out comedian. Several out-of-work actors. And a low-rent showbiz manager who offered her a career in porn, which she politely declined.

At twenty-two Lori had realized she was getting nowhere fast, so she’d decided to move to Vegas.

Because she was a pretty, fresh face, with luxuriant red hair, long legs and a winning smile, she immediately scored a job at the Cavendish Hotel as a cocktail waitress. The pay wasn’t great, but the lavish tips made up for it.

The customers loved Lori, as did the manager, for she could persuade almost anyone to order the best champagne, the most expensive cocktails, and the high-priced caviar hors d’oeuvres.

It wasn’t long before the manager promoted her to chief cocktail hostess in the VIP lounge, and that’s where she’d met Cliff. He’d come in one night pleasantly drunk, accompanied by an entourage of six, and a skinny, model-type girlfriend, who kept crawling onto his lap and tongue-kissing his ear.

Lori tried not to look impressed at the sight of such a famous man, although she remembered Sherrine taking her to see one of his movies when she was eleven, and she clearly recalled Sherrine stating at the time that Cliff Baxter was the sexiest man on two legs. Lori reckoned that even though he must be in his forties now, he still looked pretty hot.

She played it cool.

He flirted.

His girlfriend gave her the stink-eye.

She ignored the skank.

When Cliff and his entourage left, he slipped her a thousand-dollar cash tip.

She shoved the money down the neckline of her skimpy outfit and didn’t share with the other staff, even though she was supposed to.

He came back two weeks later, sober and alone. He sought her out and asked if she had a boyfriend. She said no, although at the time she was living with a hunky barman who worked at The Keys.

He invited her to dinner.

She said no.

He invited her to visit him in L.A.

She said no.

He invited her upstairs to his suite.

She said no.

Instinctively she’d known that Cliff Baxter could be her big break, and that to make it happen she had to play hard to get. So she’d strung him along for several months, and each time he made the Vegas trip she’d continued to play it cool. Then just when she’d sensed he was about to give up on her, she’d accepted his dinner invitation.

That night they’d ended up in his suite where she’d given him the blow-job of his dreams.

Just a blow-job. Nothing else.

Two weeks later, she was living with him in his L.A. mansion.

‘Mr Baxter. They’re ready for you on the set,’ the young Second AD called out, peering into Cliff Baxter’s trailer after knocking on the door twice.

When the star didn’t respond, she tentatively ventured inside and saw that he was asleep on the comfortable couch, snoring loudly, wearing nothing but a robe that had fallen open revealing solid tanned thighs and chocolate-coloured underwear.

The girl squinted at the sleeping movie star and wondered what she should do. She was new on the job and intimidated by being in the presence of such a big star. Fortunately, she was saved by the arrival of Enid, Cliff Baxter’s personal assistant, a fierce, older woman, clad in a no-nonsense Hillary Clinton-style pantsuit and Nurse Ratched running shoes.

‘What’s going on here?’ Enid enquired, taking in the nervous young girl and her boss’s half-exposed torso.

‘Mr Baxter is needed on the set,’ the girl said, an agitated quiver in her voice. ‘I’m supposed to tell him.’

‘Then I suggest you wake him,’ Enid said briskly, placing a large messenger bag filled with papers on the table.

‘H-how should I do that?’ the girl stammered.

‘Like this, dear,’ Enid said, leaning over and giving Cliff a vigorous shake on his shoulder.

The girl took a hurried step back as Cliff sat up. ‘What the fuck?’ he mumbled. ‘Where am I?’

‘You’re at the studio,’ Enid announced. ‘You’re wanted on set, so shift your ass.’

‘For a rehearsal, Mr Baxter,’ the girl said, bravely joining in.

‘Must’ve dozed off,’ Cliff announced with a big yawn. ‘Friend’s bachelor party last night. It ended late, had my driver bring me straight here.’

‘And how did little Miss Live-In like that?’ Enid said caustically.

‘C’mon, Enid,’ Cliff said, standing up and laughing. ‘What did Lori ever do to you? She’s a sweet kid. Why do you always have to put her down?’

Enid pulled a face, and began extracting papers and mail from her messenger bag and piling them on the table.

‘Shall I tell Mr Sterling you’re on your way?’ the young AD asked, trying to avert her eyes from Cliff’s open robe.

‘Yeah, yeah, tell Mac I’ll be there in five. And next time I’d appreciate a fifteen-minute warning. You can go get me coffee now. Black. Plenty of sugar. Have it waiting on the set.’

‘Yes, Mr Baxter.’

Cliff threw her a jaunty wink. ‘Run along, unless you’re planning to witness me bare-assed naked.’

The girl blushed, and hurriedly backed out of the trailer.

Cliff chuckled. ‘They get younger every day,’ he ruminated, shrugging off his robe. ‘And you know what, Enid? Here’s the crap part — I get older.’

‘We all do,’ Enid said crisply. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself and for God’s sake put some clothes on. I’ve seen better packages at the post office.’

‘You can be such a mean old bag,’ Cliff said, seemingly unphased. ‘Mean and ornery. Dunno why I put up with you.’

‘Because,’ Enid answered matter-of-factly, ‘I have worked for you for almost twenty years, and I am one of the few people who can break your balls without getting fired. And speaking of balls, yours are hanging out.’

Cliff grinned. ‘Surely you know that hanging out’s my thing?’

‘If you’re not careful, your thing will be out too.’

Cliff grabbed his pants from the back of the couch, and pulled them on. ‘Don’t you wish,’ he said, still grinning.

‘No, Cliff,’ Enid said sternly. ‘I am one of the few women in this world who has no desire to see your cock, your balls, or anything else you might have to offer.’

‘Dyke!’

‘Yes, dear. And I’m proud to say that I enjoy pussy almost as much as you do.’

‘Except Lori.’

‘She’s not pussy, she’s a predator,’ Enid said sharply. ‘Not good enough for you.’

Cliff shook his head. ‘For crissakes…’

‘Just don’t marry her, that’s all.’

‘Marry her!’ Cliff exclaimed with a throaty chuckle. ‘When did the M word raise its ugly head?’

‘You should get going,’ Enid said, folding her arms across her chest. ‘It’s unprofessional to keep people waiting.’

‘No shit?’

‘And when you have time, there are a few things I need your answers on,’ Enid added, waving an expensive-looking envelope in his face. ‘This is an invitation you might like.’

‘Not another black-tie event?’ he groaned. ‘I’ve attended enough of those to last me a lifetime. This is Award Show City. No more. I’m over it.’

‘This invite is something different,’ Enid said. ‘I’ll show you when you get back. Now it’s your turn to run along.’

‘And she talks to me as if I’m twelve,’ Cliff said, shaking his head again.

‘And sometimes he acts as if he is,’ Enid retorted.

‘I might be forced to fire you when I return,’ he threatened, reaching for a shirt and putting it on. ‘You have no respect.’

‘Later, Mr Baxter,’ she drawled sarcastically. ‘Is that enough respect for you?’

‘Fuckin’ A!’ And with another wide grin, Cliff exited his trailer.

Chapter Five

Dateline: Miami

Luca Perez stretched out on a striped lounger wearing a barely there powder-blue Speedo, his well-toned thirty-year-old body oiled to perfection, not an inch of flesh spared. On the table next to him stood a tall glass containing a Mojito. Next to his drink was a Lalique dish filled with ripe red cherries, a pile of the latest entertainment magazines, his iPhone, his platinum diamond-encrusted Chanel watch, and several crucifixes attached to thin leather straps.

Luca, his eyes covered by Dolce & Gabbana shades, was almost asleep, but not quite. He enjoyed lying there in a half-drowsy state, allowing his mind to run riot. Nothing to disturb him. No one to bother him. Just a lazy day of doing nothing except perfecting his tan. And what a beautiful day it was, with hazy sunshine, a light breeze. He’d recently returned from a demanding world tour, so life at his Miami mansion was good.

Tomorrow, his significant other, Jeromy Milton-Gold, would return from London, which meant goodbye peace and quiet. Jeromy was a social animal. He always wanted to go out and be seen at leather bars and gay clubs — something Luca preferred not to do, even though they’d met at a notorious rubber fetish club in London two years ago. Meeting Jeromy had changed Luca’s life. Before Jeromy he’d been firmly closeted, living a secret gay life lest his legions of female fans found out, for Luca was a huge Latin heartthrob, a singer women worshipped and adored.

And he was married. And he had a son.

At the time.

He still had a son, Luca junior, who was now nine years old. But he was no longer married to the larger-than-life Latin superstar — Suga — the woman who’d discovered him as a teenager, nurtured his talent, married him, had his baby, and made him the star he was today.

Suga was twenty years older than Luca, yet still a voluptuous beauty with a huge following in South America. She’d accepted the fact that her husband was gay with humour and understanding. Divorce — no problem. ‘Ah, but Suga had you at your best,’ she’d joked. ‘Go do what makes you happy, Luca. My heart goes with you.’

Suga was an amazing woman, and to Luca’s delight they’d remained close friends, sharing custody of their handsome young son, who’d inherited the best of both his parents.

So, against the advice of everyone else — his agents, managers, record producers and label bosses — Luca had made the leap into gaydom. If Ricky Martin could do it and survive, why couldn’t he?

And survive he did. His fans were fiercely loyal; they adored him. Gay or straight, it didn’t matter to them. He was Luca Perez. He was their god. Now he was their gay god.

Still, Luca didn’t wish to flaunt his coming out. No threesomes or kinky goings-on in public, although once in a while he allowed Jeromy to throw a wild party at the mansion — no cameras allowed.

Jeromy Milton-Gold was not the partner people would expect Luca to choose. Jeromy was a tall, slim, very English Old Etonian, with patrician features, floppy brown hair, and a somewhat snobbish attitude. At forty-two he was twelve years older than his sun-kissed, blond-haired, buff-bodied, famous boyfriend. They made an incongruous couple; however, it seemed to work for them.

The envelope addressed to Luca Perez and Jeromy Milton-Gold looked like it contained something interesting, for it was of excellent quality, with intricate embossed gold calligraphy, and most of all it appeared tasteful and expensive.

Sitting at his David Armstrong Jones desk in his London showroom adjacent to Sloane Square, Jeromy Milton-Gold pried open the envelope with a silver letter-opener and extracted the enclosed invitation.

He read it carefully. Twice.

A satisfied smile crossed his face. This was one invitation they were not turning down.

He slid open the centre drawer of his desk, carefully placed the invitation back in its envelope, and put it next to his passport. Tomorrow he would show it to Luca and insist that they accept.

Sometimes Luca could be stubborn, only this time Jeromy refused to take no for an answer. This time it was a done deal.

Chapter Six

Dateline: New York

The politician and his lovely wife were invited everywhere — they were one of the most popular couples in the city. He, so honest-looking and upstanding with his regular features, well-cut brown hair and an ‘I will do everything I can for my people’ attitude. She, both delicate and strong at the same time, slender, with shoulder-length honey-coppery hair, a beautiful face, and widely spaced warm brown eyes.

Her name was Sierra Kathleen Snow. His name was Hammond Patterson junior, although — much to his father’s chagrin — shortly after getting into politics he’d dropped the junior. ‘It doesn’t sound right,’ he’d muttered.

‘I’ll tell you what sounds right,’ his father had raged. ‘Using the family name and the family reputation. That’s what sounds right to me.’

Hammond Patterson junior wasn’t so sure. His father had been a Congressman for many years, and that was not the role Hammond was planning to play. Instead, after college he’d gone straight to law school, then pursued a career as an attorney, and in time he’d parlayed that career into becoming — at thirty-six — one of the youngest Senators in the house.

Representing New York as the junior Senator, he was full of ambition. He had high hopes that eventually he would become Governor of the State, then after that, possibly make a run for the White House.

Why not? He had all the right credentials. And most of all he had supreme confidence.

Hammond was an extremely driven man. Nothing was about to stop him.

Sierra, on the other hand, possessed a warmth and candour that attracted men and women alike. She was smart and compassionate with a generous soul. As far as Hammond was concerned she was the perfect political wife, an asset to have by his side at all times, which is exactly why he’d picked her.

Recently Hammond’s climb to the top had come across an unexpected stumbling block. And that stumbling block was the disturbing realization that he’d fathered a daughter in his younger years. Apparently he’d gotten some girl pregnant, and that girl had gone ahead and given birth to a daughter named Radical.

Radical had arrived at his office one day, fifteen years old and determined to meet her father.

Hammond was furious and shocked. When the girl finally got in to see him and announced that she was his daughter, he didn’t believe her. This couldn’t be happening to him. It was impossible.

But Radical produced a birth certificate with his name on it, and informed him that her mom had recently died from a drug overdose, and that she had nowhere else to go.

Two paternity tests later, Hammond was forced to admit that this strange unruly teenager with streaks of green in her dyed black hair, multiple piercings, and a snotty attitude was indeed his.

Sierra, being the kind and thoughtful person that she was, had insisted that Radical join the family.

‘We have to take her in,’ Sierra had lectured him. ‘She’s your daughter. You have no choice. Think of your public image if you don’t.’

Finally Hammond had agreed, terrified that the sudden appearance of an illegitimate teenage daughter would wreak havoc with his carefully projected image.

The public, it turned out, still loved Hammond and Sierra. They were accepting of Hammond’s youthful transgression. Sexual scandals involving politicians were nothing new, and with Sierra next to him, Hammond could do no wrong.

Radical turned out to be a nightmare. Rude and wilful, she caused trouble wherever she went. She hated her father, and he hated her right back.

Angry that he was stuck with her, Hammond soon packed her off to boarding school in Switzerland, even forcing Sierra to agree that it was for the best.

Radical went. But not without a fight.

When Hammond’s assistant, Nadia, entered his office and showed him the fancy invitation, he didn’t hesitate. Without checking with Sierra, he instructed Nadia to immediately accept.

Hammond smelled big money, major campaign contributions when the time came for him to run, for he was well aware that important connections were everything. Plus this was a fine chance for him to start planting the seeds of his unstoppable ambition.

Yes, Hammond knew a viable opportunity when it came his way. He was no fool.

Sierra Kathleen Snow was born into great privilege. Her father was the well-respected Pulitzer Prize winner Archibald Snow, an academic and renowned writer of history tomes, while her mother, Phoebee, was a true New York society beauty whose family dated back to the Founding Fathers.

Sierra had an older sister, Clare, who was married to a pediatrician and had written a series of best-selling books about parenting. Clare and her husband had three young children, and resided in Connecticut. Sierra also had a brother, Sean, who lived in Hawaii with a woman he’d picked up on the beach.

Clare was the darling of the family, while Sean was the dark side. Sierra was somewhere in the middle.

At thirty-two, Sierra was still not sure where she fitted in.

She was Archibald and Phoebee Snow’s daughter. She was Hammond Patterson’s wife. She was Clare Snow’s sister. But who was she really?

Every morning, upon waking, she asked herself that question.

Who am I today?

Am I the politician’s wife?

The dutiful daughter?

The loving supportive sister?

Who am I?

It was a question that haunted her, because she honestly didn’t know the answer.

Her illustrious parents disapproved of Hammond; although they’d never actually said it out loud, she knew that they did. When Radical had appeared on the scene, the expression on her mother’s face had said it all: we always suspected that Hammond was a rogue. Now we know for sure.

A rogue who harboured aspirations to eventually become President of America. With her by his side.

The very thought made Sierra shudder. She’d been married to Hammond for eight years and didn’t love him. She’d started off thinking that she did, but after a while she’d realized that she’d married him to get over a broken heart, and that he’d married her because of her impeccable pedigree and family connections.

Hammond was not the man he’d pretended to be.

He was a psychopath. A very clever psychopath.

To the world he presented a smiling honest face, a nice-looking man filled with empathy and caring. With his brown hair, regular features and captivating smile, he seemed like such an open book. However, Hammond’s public persona was way different in private. Sierra knew for a fact that he was a bigot, a misogynist, and hated gays. He had a cruel tongue and a nasty sadistic streak. He talked about everyone in a disparaging way, including her family, and he loathed his own father. He was forever voicing his wishes that the man would drop dead of a sudden heart attack.

At first she’d tried to dig into his psyche, discover where all this anger came from. It was a lost cause. The charming attentive man she’d married had turned into a secret monster who actually scared her, which was why she hadn’t left him.

Two years into their marriage she’d realized what a fraud he was, and she’d threatened to divorce him. Very calmly he’d informed her that if she ever left him, he’d arrange to have her entire family killed, and that he would make sure she was maimed for life.

Shocked and horrified, she’d considered going to the police. But who would believe her story? She was Sierra Patterson, wife of the up-and-coming politician, Hammond Patterson, a man who fought for everyone’s rights — including those of gays and women.

It was an impossible situation, and to make it even worse, Hammond was continually unfaithful, sleeping with any woman he could get his hands on.

When she confronted him about his indiscretions, he’d sneered at her. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ he’d said with cold indifference. ‘Fucking you is like fucking a dead fish.’

Sierra knew she should leave, but Hammond’s threats were all too real, and she simply couldn’t summon the courage to get out. What if he went through with them and actually harmed her family? She knew without a doubt that he was capable of anything.

So Sierra stayed and threw herself into helping people. She visited children’s hospitals, formed a rape prevention group, rallied for battered women, and did everything she could to take her mind off her miserable life at home.

Hammond was pleased. He’d been right about Sierra, she was the perfect politician’s wife. A beautiful and gracious woman who was also a do-gooder.

What could be better for a man on his way to the top?

Chapter Seven

Bianca reached for a towel, wrapping it around her smooth gleaming body as she moved closer to Aleksandr.

He seized a corner of the towel and roughly pulled it away from her. The towel fluttered to the ground.

‘You are so beautiful,’ he said, his voice a throaty growl as he began rubbing his thick fingers against her extended nipples. ‘Such a fine woman, and all mine.’

Bianca experienced a shiver of delight and responded accordingly. Whenever Aleksandr wanted her, she was ready.

Early on in their relationship she’d learned from Aleksandr that his wife was a sexually cold woman who’d informed him shortly after they were married that his very touch repulsed her.

Apparently his money hadn’t.

Bianca didn’t care that he was so enormously rich. She genuinely cared about the man, and the way he was able to turn her on with nothing more than a glance. His dark eyes were deeper than a glacier, she could never tell what he was thinking. His touch was strong and manly. As for his equipment — perfection. Long and thick and solid, the best she’d ever experienced. Plus he knew what to do with it — a true bonus after a series of famous men who considered erectile dysfunction totally normal.

Aleksandr pushed her to the ground and dropped his pants. He never wore underwear, something they had in common.

The cold tile against her skin made her shiver even more as she spread her long legs for her lover. Glancing up, she noticed the red light on the security camera and wondered if they were being watched or filmed.

It didn’t matter. Aleksandr controlled everything; he would never allow anyone to use her or anything bad to happen.

His solid body crushed her beneath him as he entered her. He was a big man, big and powerful. She took a deep breath, inhaling his overpowering masculine scent.

‘Oh… my… God…’ she murmured. ‘You feel so amazing, so damn hard…’

‘Only for you, my little Kotik. Only for you.’

‘Yes,’ she sighed, shifting her body to accommodate him. ‘You know, Aleksandr, you’re the only man who has ever truly satisfied me.’

He was heavy on top of her. She didn’t care, the sex was that exciting. She got off on the way he thrust himself inside her as if he was determined to own her.

Nobody had ever owned Bianca. She was a free spirit. Yet with Aleksandr she had no desire to be free. She yearned for him to possess her in every way, and possess her he did with his strong arms, full body weight and hard penis.

At the beginning of their relationship she’d tried to assert herself in the bedroom. Aleksandr was having none of it. He expected total control. Sex would take place his way or not at all.

Bianca was cool with that. She was so used to calling the shots with men, it made a refreshing change to allow someone else to be in charge.

Groaning with pleasure, she flexed her thigh muscles, causing Aleksandr to grunt his appreciation.

He made her feel like a little girl, a naughty little girl. It turned her on in a big way.

Chapter Eight

Sometimes Taye Sherwin’s mind wandered, especially when Ashley was in one of her haughty moods — a personality trait that seemed to emerge every time they had dinner with Jeromy Milton-Gold. It pained Taye to watch his wife try so hard to act as if she’d been born in Mayfair as opposed to the modest seaside city of Brighton. Ashley tried desperately to shrug off her roots, even though everyone knew she was not to the manor born. On the other hand, Taye was proud of where he came from: the Elephant and Castle. He’d done well for himself, and was happy to tell anyone and everyone about his not-so-fancy beginnings.

Taye had no clue where Jeromy Milton-Gold had originally sprung from, but he was well aware that the man was not averse to dropping names and carrying on as if he was the King of the Castle. Or Queen. Yeah, Taye thought with a wicked grin. Shouldn’t that be Queen?

‘What are you smirking at?’ Ashley asked, catching him mid-smirk.

‘Just thinkin’ about a joke one of the lads came up with today,’ Taye said, quick as a flash.

‘Do share,’ Jeromy said, tapping the side of his wine glass with long elegant fingers.

‘You wouldn’t find it funny,’ Taye retorted, wishing they could get the hell out of the pretentious restaurant and head for home where he planned on showing his wife the coveted invitation before banging her brains out. Man, he was feeling so-o-o-o randy.

‘I can’t stand jokes,’ Ashley said with a slight sniff of distaste. ‘They’re always so sexist and never funny.’

‘I must say I’m forced to agree with you,’ Jeromy drawled. ‘Un-amusing, and yet some people feel as if they’re obliged to laugh.’

‘I think people only tell jokes when they run out of conversation,’ Ashley snapped, shooting Taye a mean look. ‘It’s as if they have nothing else to say.’

‘That’ll never happen to you, toots,’ Taye retorted. ‘You’re a world-class gossip.’ He nudged Jeromy. ‘Never off the phone, this one. Always got a girl chat-chat goin’ on.’

Jeromy curled his lip, a habit he’d developed when he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

Ashley glared at her husband.

‘Luca and I are going on a simply marvellous trip,’ Jeromy said at last, filling the sudden silence.

‘That’s nice,’ Ashley said, taking out her compact and applying more lipstick. ‘Where to?’

‘Somewhere hot and exotic, I suspect,’ Jeromy said with an airy wave of his hand. ‘We’ve been invited by Aleksandr Kasianenko on the maiden voyage of his new yacht.’

Ashley’s eyes widened. ‘How fabulous,’ she sighed. ‘Lucky you.’

Taye was speechless. Dammit, Jeromy was messing with his surprise. What was he supposed to do now? Blurt out that they were invited too, and risk a tongue-lashing from Ashley, who’d be livid that he hadn’t told her.

‘I can certainly use the break,’ Jeromy said with a patronizing smile. ‘I’m expecting that you’ll keep an eye on things in the London showroom, won’t you, dear?’

Ashley bobbed her head and turned to her husband. ‘You know Aleksandr whatever his name is, don’t you?’

Taye nodded. ‘Yeah, we met a couple of times. He’s a big football fan. There’s a rumour goin’ around that he’s thinkin’ of buyin’ one of the clubs.’

‘Bianca is a dear friend of Luca’s,’ Jeromy allowed, once more sipping his wine. ‘They met years ago at a fashion show in Milan. Luca was singing for a paltry million euro, and Bianca was busy strutting her stuff. They have a history.’

‘Nice,’ Ashley said wistfully. ‘I bet it’ll be a fab trip.’

‘Yes,’ Jeromy agreed. ‘I am sure it will be.’

The couple left the restaurant and drove home in silence — an uncomfortable silence, finally broken by Taye who couldn’t stand it when Ashley slipped into one of her moods.

‘What’s up, toots?’ he said, one hand on the steering wheel, the other patting her on the knee. ‘You’ve gone all broody on me.’

‘Why do you always try to put me down in front of Jeromy?’ she complained, her cheeks flaming. ‘I’m in business with the man, and you do your best to make me look like a fool.’

‘What’re you talkin’ about?’

‘You know full well.’ And then, attempting to imitate him, she added in a mock-up of his voice — ‘“This one’s always on the phone gossiping”.’

‘I’m not makin’ it up,’ Taye said, withdrawing his hand from her knee. ‘You are always on the blower, carrying on to your mates about this an’ that.’

‘I am so not,’ she said in an uptight voice. ‘I do not gossip. And even if I did — that’s no reason for you to announce it to the world.’

‘C’mon, toots,’ he pleaded. ‘Let’s not make this into a fight.’

‘No. You come on, Taye,’ she said crossly. ‘I hate it when you disrespect me. It’s not right.’

‘I’m sorry, sunshine,’ Taye said, anxious to placate her. ‘Look — I’ve got a big surprise waitin’ for you when we get home.’

‘I’m not interested in surprises,’ she said, staring out of the window.

‘You will be in this one,’ Taye assured her.

‘You’re so annoying,’ she said irritably. ‘Why do you always have to try and change the subject?’

‘’Cause I love you, toots, you know that. An’ I can’t stand seein’ you upset.’

Ashley seized the opportunity to say something that was always lurking in the back of her mind. ‘I suppose you really loved me when you were having sex with that big-titted slag,’ she spat, her voice filled with venom.

‘Ashley,’ he said, groaning. ‘That was years ago. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry? That girl meant nothin’ to me. I’ve told you a million times.’

‘A million times isn’t enough,’ Ashley muttered, still holding onto a major grudge. ‘How would you like it if that had been me in bed with some bloke? How would that grab you?’

‘You wouldn’t do it. Anyway, I trust you.’

‘Yes,’ she snorted. ‘And I trusted you, and look where that got me.’

How had their conversation veered so off-track? Every so often, Ashley brought up the one time he’d been unfaithful, but why was she doing it tonight?

Best to stay silent and let her vent.

Which she did.

Non-stop.

All the way home to Hampstead.

Chapter Nine

Flynn Hudson had a few things to take care of, two or three hard-hitting pieces to write, several follow-up calls, and a decision to make.

Aleksandr Kasianenko — an old friend from back in the day — had invited him on what seemed like it might be a spectacular trip. He’d been invited with a guest, and therein lay the problem. Who to bring with him? And even more importantly — did he want to bring anyone at all?

Certainly not one of his casual girlfriends who were available for light relief and nothing else, which was one thing he always made clear up front before he slept with them. Flynn did not care to have any broken hearts on his conscience. He knew what a broken heart felt like only too well. He’d experienced the pain, abandonment and downright misery that came with heartbreak, albeit a long time ago, but the feeling of loss had never really left him.

Yes. True heartbreak existed. And Flynn knew all about it, so he was always careful to warn women that if they were after anything more than a casual fling, he was not the man for them.

As he thought about who to take, one name came to mind — Xuan — an exquisite Asian, who was quite beautiful, strong-minded and conveniently more into women than men.

Xuan would definitely get a kick out of such a trip, and he would enjoy her company — he always did.

Xuan was a fellow journalist who’d escaped from a Communist regime when her parents were accused of being spies, then taken away and brutally murdered for their supposed crimes.

Xuan had arranged to get herself smuggled out of Communist China eleven years previously, and like Flynn, her special talent was writing about the injustices in a world gone crazy. They’d bumped into each other over the years in many different countries, and formed a close non-sexual friendship, a friendship which suited both of them.

Flynn knew many of her stories, how she’d been gang-raped on her way out of China, then rescued by a man who’d kept her locked up and beaten. After a devastating miscarriage, she’d made another daring escape, going months with hardly any food — begging for sustenance along the way — until eventually she’d reached Hong Kong where she’d been taken in by distant relatives.

The difficulties of trying to make a life for herself had not been easy. But Xuan was strong: she’d prevailed and finally forged a career for herself as a fearless journalist.

After mulling it over, Flynn sent her a text inviting her. Together, exploring the extraordinary lifestyles of the rich and overly privileged could be an extremely memorable experience, one from which they might both benefit.

Or not.

It didn’t matter. At least it would be a welcome change from the horrors of the world they’d both seen up close.

Flynn waited for Xuan to respond. He hoped it would be a resounding yes.

In a small hotel room in Saigon, Xuan and her sometime lover, Deshi, lay on the bed fully sated, a ceiling fan whirling noisily above them. The sex had been satisfying, although not mind-blowing by any means. However, Xuan found Deshi to be an intelligent man with — even more important — interesting tidbits of information about government activity that he let slip her way. Conveniently, Deshi happened to work for the government.

Sexually Xuan preferred women, although when the occasion called for it she was not averse to bedding down with a man. Information was information, and Xuan gathered it any way she could.

Her cell phone bleeped, indicating a text. She leaned across Deshi to reach it, her small breasts grazing his chest.

Deshi took this as an indication that maybe there was more sex in his future. To his disappointment it was not to be.

Xuan read Flynn’s message. She was pleased to hear from her friend. Of all the knowledgeable and attractive men she knew, Flynn was number one. A solid guy with admirable values and an adventurous spirit.

The first time they’d run into each other, she’d told him she was bi-sexual, leaning towards the female sex. She was determined there would be no sexual tension messing up a friendship that she’d sensed could be quite precious. She was right. Sex had never interfered with their close relationship.

Now Flynn was inviting her on a trip.

How nice.

With rich people. Insanely rich people, because she knew who Aleksandr Kasianenko was. Everyone knew who Aleksandr Kasianenko was — the Russian billionaire steel magnate with the famous super-model girlfriend, Bianca.

How intriguing.

To go or not to go? She would have to think about it.

‘Anything important?’ Deshi enquired.

‘Nothing that cannot wait until later,’ Xuan said.

In a few hours she would respond. It was not something she felt obliged to make an instant decision about.

Chapter Ten

Cliff Baxter happened to be a much-loved movie star. He had his faults, but overall he was the consummate professional, very aware of the people who worked on his movies, always making sure they were well taken care of. He considered his stand-in, Bonar, a loyal friend — they’d worked together for a solid twenty-five years, ever since Cliff’s first big break in the 1987 movie Fast Times on the Fast Track, a film about a marathon runner and his dysfunctional family.

Cliff had hit pay dirt on that one. At the time he was young, virile and hot — very hot. Plus he could really act. The director had liked him and pushed him to do some great work. To his delight and surprise he’d gotten his first Oscar nomination. He hadn’t won, but what else was new?

He’d been nominated three times since then, only won once. Better than not winning at all.

Bonar was his stand-in on Fast Times on the Fast Track, and they’d remained close ever since. They were the same age, both creeping close to fifty. Only Bonar had a wife and three kids, while all Cliff had was an amazing career.

He didn’t mind. He had no desire to be trapped in an institution called marriage, a soulless place from which there was no escape unless you were prepared to part with half of your hard-earned assets.

Cliff liked knowing that basically he was a free man who could go wherever he wanted, do anything he cared to do, and that there was no one around to stop him. Only his agent and his manager could tell him what to do, and usually he didn’t listen.

Cliff considered most of his male friends totally pussy-whipped, or if not whipped, then miserable divorced fathers paying alimony and only getting to see their kids every other weekend.

He was well aware that they all envied him. They should envy him. In their eyes, he was the one living the life.

Over the years he’d had a series of live-in girlfriends, and he’d learned exactly when it was time to move them out. There was always that moment in time when they started becoming overly clingy and needy — he knew the signs only too well. Suddenly they started talking marriage, and marriage was strictly not on his agenda. It never had been.

So far, Lori had lasted longer than the others. She was a fun girl and he was quite fond of her. Plus she gave the best head ever. He often thought that she must’ve studied at the famed ‘Academy of Deep Throat’ — if there was such a place. And if there wasn’t, there should be.

The truth was, he couldn’t get enough of Lori’s expert oral skills.

Usually he counted on professionals to do the things his girlfriends baulked at, but since Lori, the midnight call-girl visits were getting fewer and fewer, and Internet porn failed to grab him.

Lori, it seemed, was up for anything.

Lori had a thing about running, and not through the staid streets of Beverly Hills. No, she liked exploring the hills, finding a hiking trail, and hitting it hard.

There were no paparazzi where she went. No spying eyes with cameras affixed to them.

Sometimes she took the dogs, sometimes she didn’t.

Today she was on her own, high up in the mountains running like a crazy woman, ear-buds and iPod in place, Drake and Pitbull keeping her well entertained.

Then it happened. She went flying over a log and hit the ground with a sharp thud.

She sat there, stunned, feeling like a fool, finally realizing that fortunately there was no one around to witness her embarrassment.

After a few moments of pure dizziness she attempted to stand. Her ankle immediately gave way and she fell back down with a yelp of pain.

Now what was she supposed to do? Call her movie-star boyfriend to rush to her rescue? He wouldn’t come — he was currently on the set filming, which meant he’d send people. One of them might tip off the paps, then she’d be trapped not looking her best. Wouldn’t want that.

Her eyes filled with tears. Why was this happening to her?

She fished out her cell phone from her shorts pocket, and just as she was about to call for help, she saw it and froze. ‘It’ was a raggedy coyote emerging slyly from the bushes, standing stock-still and staring at her with haunted red eyes.

She met the animal’s malevolent stare right on and felt fear course through her body. Recently she’d read about a pack of coyotes savaging a couple of German Shepherds. If they couldn’t defend themselves, how could she?

Then a second coyote came loping out of the bushes, and she knew for sure that she was done for.

After rehearsing his upcoming scene, Cliff returned to his trailer where Enid had made herself quite comfortable stretched out on his couch, shoes off, TV on, soap opera in full swing.

‘Make yourself at home,’ Cliff said caustically. ‘Can I get you anything? Coffee? A drink?’

Unphased, Enid sat up, slipped on her Nurse Ratched shoes and said, ‘It took you long enough. I almost fell asleep.’

‘So sorry my rehearsal kept you waiting,’ Cliff said, full of sarcasm.

‘I’ve got to get back to the office,’ Enid said, thrusting a sheaf of papers at him. ‘Sign these.’

‘What am I signing?’

‘For God’s sake, if you want me to explain I’ll be here all day. Your business manager sent them over. They’re for your recent real-estate acquisitions.’

Cliff knew he could trust Enid, she would never try to put anything past him.

‘If I sign, will you give me my couch back?’

‘My pleasure,’ Enid snorted. ‘This trailer smells like feet.’

‘You’re not supposed to speak to movie stars like that. Our feet do not stink. Besides, you’re the one who had her shoes off.’

‘Oh, please!’ Enid said, waving an invitation at Cliff. ‘What do you want me to do about this?’

Cliff took the elaborate invitation and scanned it quickly. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t miss it. Go ahead and accept.’

‘Just for you?’

‘Put your bitch back in the bag, Enid,’ he said. ‘Answer for me and Lori, she’ll get a kick out of a trip like this.’

Enid sighed. This one was lasting longer than the others. Lori must have hidden talents that only Cliff knew about.

‘Whatever pleases my lord and master.’

Cliff chuckled. ‘Get the fuck outta here before I kick your crusty old ass to the curb.’

Enid packed up her papers and left.

After a few minutes Cliff put his head outside his trailer to see who was around. Sometimes he was able to pull together a bunch of the guys and they used their downtime playing softball.

Today there was nobody around. Except… who was that approaching?

Oh shit, it was his co-star in the movie. Billy Melina, a hot young movie star with naked ambition eating away at him. A ready-to-rock stud at the top of his game. Exactly like I used to be, Cliff thought wryly.

They’d only had a few scenes together, so they were hardly friends.

Cliff watched Billy approach. He couldn’t help wondering if Billy was headed for an almost thirty-year career like his. He doubted it. Everything was different today. The paparazzi ruled. The magazines printed anything they felt like. There were no studio heads and powerful managers around to protect their clients. TMZ ran riot on any star who left the sanctuary of their home.

No. In ten years when Billy hit forty he’d be long forgotten, while Cliff would still be in the game, for he had no plans to retire. He was an up and at ’em kind of guy. Like Redford and De Niro he had no intention of ever quitting; he was in the race until the end.

‘Hey,’ Billy said, all bronzed hard body and dirty-blond surfer hair. ‘Wassup?’

‘Nothing much,’ Cliff responded. ‘You?’

‘Same old crap,’ Billy said, flexing his muscles. ‘Just tryin’ t’stay outta the rags.’

‘Yeah,’ Cliff said, thinking that Billy Melina was one handsome son of a bitch. ‘I know the feeling.’ He hesitated for a moment. Should he invite the younger actor into his trailer to shoot the shit, or should he let it go?

Let it go, his inner voice warned him. Do you really want to hear all about Billy’s divorce from the very famous Venus? Or the Vegas murder scandal the kid had been vaguely involved in?

No. He had better things to do.

‘See you on the set,’ he said, retreating back into his trailer.

‘Yeah, man,’ Billy said. ‘Later.’

Cliff hit the couch again and reached for his cell. Might as well see what Lori was up to. Maybe even invite her to visit him on set.

Yes, he’d do that, tell her about the invitation.

Little Lori was going to be so excited.

Chapter Eleven

‘Aha!’ Suga exclaimed, descending on Luca like a full-blown cyclone, all mountains of blond curls, bouncy breasts and jiggling hips encased in a bright orange and green low-cut jumpsuit, with sky-high gold Louboutins on her tiny feet — the only small thing about her. ‘How’s my favorite Baby Daddy?’

Suga was an over-the-top voluptuous diva with a steamroller personality. She looked exactly like her fans would expect her to look, and they adored her for it.

Luca rolled off his sunbed and stood up, allowing his ex-wife to envelop him in her generous curves. He got a whiff of her strong signature perfume and many fond memories came flooding back. Ah yes, the day she’d discovered him and plucked him from obscurity. The day they’d first made love. And most important of all, the day he’d stood in her recording studio and cut his first single.

Suga hugged him so tightly he could barely breathe, showering him with wet jammy kisses as was her way.

Luca was glad Jeromy wasn’t around to witness his ex-wife’s display of affection. He knew it pissed Jeromy off that Suga was still such a big part of his life. Too bad. As far as Luca was concerned, it was something that would never change. He owed everything to Suga. Without her there was no way he would have risen to become the star he was today — the blond, blue-eyed Latin singing sensation that Suga had introduced to the world.

‘You’re back early,’ he remarked, gently extracting himself from her clutches. ‘Thought you weren’t due home until next week. What happened?’

Suga pulled a face. ‘My manager — he cancelled the Sao Paulo concert. The ticket sales — they were not so fantastic.’

‘Must be the economy,’ Luca said without taking a beat. ‘Ticket sales are down across the board.’

Suga patted his cheek affectionately. ‘Not for you, mi amor.’

‘For everyone,’ Luca assured her, although he suspected it wasn’t true. On his last concert tour, ticket sales had hit an all-time high.

He hated the fact that Suga’s star was starting to fade. What could be do about it?

‘Where is my other tesoro?’ Suga demanded, hands on ample hips. ‘I have to hug my little Luca junior.’

‘He’s out playing soccer with some of his friends.’

‘Too bad,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘I must go fetch him.’

‘No way,’ Luca said, hurriedly shaking his head. ‘The kid’s nine, he’ll be embarrassed if you descend on him, you know what he’s like.’

‘Embarrassed! Ha!’ Suga snorted. ‘I am his mama. I could never embarrass my little baby.’

‘Let’s get together for dinner tonight, just the three of us,’ Luca suggested, knowing that Luca junior would be mortified if Suga turned up at his soccer game in all her glory. ‘We’ll have fun.’

‘Si?’ she said, raising an artfully pencilled eyebrow. ‘And where is Mister Stick Up His Ass?’

‘If you’re talking about Jeromy, he’s in London, back tomorrow.’

‘Ah,’ Suga sighed. ‘Me vuelves loco! You have so many beautiful boys to choose from, an’ yet you stay with someone so… dry.’

‘You need to get to know him better,’ Luca said calmly. ‘We should hang out, spend more time together.’

‘I don’t think so, mi amor,’ Suga said, shaking her curls. ‘He doesn’t like me. I don’t like him.’

‘Why can’t you two get along?’

‘Because Jeromy is not the man for you.’ A meaningful pause. ‘You will see. You will learn.’

Luca shrugged. ‘Nothing to learn. I know everything there is to know about him.’

Suga smiled before leaning over and lightly caressing her ex-husband’s package. ‘Do not waste what you have, carino. You are far too young and far too beautiful.’

Luca couldn’t help grinning. ‘You think?’

‘Ah, mi tesoro, Suga knows,’ she cooed. ‘An’ you know that Suga is always right.’

Jeromy Milton-Gold groaned as he reached orgasm. When he was done, he roughly shoved the boy’s head away from his crotch.

The boy — a sulky eighteen, if that — wondered aloud if Jeromy would now like to suck him off.

‘No,’ Jeromy snapped, as if the very thought disgusted him. ‘You can take your money and go.’

‘But I thought—’

‘Don’t think,’ Jeromy said sharply. ‘I am not paying you to think. Pick up your filthy money and get the hell out.’

‘Fucker!’ the boy muttered under his breath.

Unfortunately, Jeromy heard him. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes.

The boy grabbed his money from the table and made a run for the door.

Jeromy thought about chasing him and teaching him a lesson, then he thought, why bother? The boy might be a fighter, and the last thing he needed was to arrive in Miami with a nasty black eye.

If only he could curb his desire for random satisfaction.

No, that would be asking the impossible. Besides, after a night out with Ashley and her boring (although admittedly gorgeous) husband, surely he was entitled to some light relief?

And what Luca didn’t know…

Jeromy was excellent at burying any guilt he might feel. Besides, he’d never promised Luca that he would be faithful, and allowing some random boy he’d ordered off the Internet to give him oral was hardly being a slut. It was more like he was taking care of business in a purely uninvolved way.

Yes, that was it. No emotion. No connection. Merely a swift sexual transaction for money. In the morning he’d be on a plane to Miami, then straight back into the arms of his super-star boyfriend.

He hoped that Luca’s fat ex-wife, Suga, wasn’t around. The woman was a joke with her huge floppy breasts, loud voice and ridiculous blond curls. It was surely time that Luca disassociated himself from her.

The thought of his young partner ever having been with Suga made Jeromy physically sick. Although he tried not to think about it, there were times he couldn’t stop himself from imagining them together. Suga, rolling on top of Luca, crushing his perfect body with her outrageous tits, opening her legs for him, sucking his delicious cock. The images were unbearable.

What he couldn’t understand was why Luca encouraged the cow to still be in his life. True, they had a son together, Luca junior. But why couldn’t Luca start putting some distance between them? Suga’s Miami mansion was five minutes away from Luca’s mansion. In Jeromy’s eyes it was not a happy situation.

Jeromy had made up his mind that when they were on the Kasianenko yacht, he would insist that they sell the Miami mansion and move far away from Miss Suga Tits — the title he’d bestowed on Luca’s ex.

Ah yes, perhaps acquire a house in London’s Belgrave Square, a house that he could decorate and transform into an amazing palace for his young lover.

Jeromy gave a thin smile at the thought of how envious all his London acquaintances would be if he persuaded Luca to move to London. With his prince in tow, he could lord it over everyone. He could certainly lord it over the affluent gay brigade who’d dismissed him as an old man when he’d hit forty.

Old man indeed! Meeting up with Luca had been a lifesaver. He’d shown every one of his so-called friends that Jeromy Milton-Gold still had it.

Jeromy Milton-Gold had scored the perfect prize, and they could all go fly a kite. He had a rich famous boyfriend, a revitalized business, and he was on top of the world. So fuck ’em all.

Chapter Twelve

Hammond waved the invitation in Sierra’s face as if it were a weapon. ‘We’re taking this trip,’ he said brusquely. ‘And you’d better be sure to look your best. Aleksandr Kasianenko is an extremely rich and influential man, and in case you’re too stupid to realize it, I need to have people like him on my side. Aleksandr can help us a lot.’

‘You mean he can help you,’ Sierra muttered, wishing she were somewhere else. She hadn’t wanted to visit Hammond at his office; however, he’d insisted she come, and as usual she’d complied.

She had a dull throbbing headache, which lately was becoming a daily occurrence.

‘You’re such a miserable bitch,’ Hammond snarled. ‘My God, you’re starting to look your age too. For Christ’s sake, get yourself together.’

‘Maybe you should get rid of me,’ Sierra replied with a flash of her former self. ‘Find yourself a newer model — I’m sure there’s plenty of fresh meat around to accommodate you. How about the young intern I saw in the office when I came in? She seems a likely candidate.’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Hammond said with an icy glare. ‘You’re my wife. Try to act as if you deserve the position.’

Sierra was about to respond, when Hammond’s chief aide, Eddie March, entered the office. Eddie was the complete opposite of Hammond. A genuinely nice man, excellent at his job and full of boyish enthusiasm. Eddie was the real deal.

As soon as Eddie appeared, Hammond’s attitude changed. Suddenly he became Hammond Patterson, the smooth and charming man of the people.

‘You should run along now, darling,’ he said, turning to his wife and kissing her on the cheek. ‘I want you to buy anything it takes for you to be the most beautiful woman on our upcoming trip. Here,’ he added, fishing in his pocket and producing a black American Express card. ‘Buy whatever you deem suitable. I know your taste is impeccable.’

Sierra nodded. She was married to Jekyll and Hyde. She was married to a man of many faces.

‘That’s generous of you,’ Eddie said with an admiring chuckle. ‘If I gave my girlfriend a card like that she’d zip out of town and never come back!’

Sierra smiled politely, while thinking, I wish I could leave town and never come back. Only she knew that escaping from Hammond’s clutches was impossible. Somehow or other he’d make good on his threats — she had no doubt at all about how far he would go.

‘You look beautiful as always,’ Eddie said, smiling at Sierra. ‘Morning, noon and night. How do you do it?’

‘You’d be wise to stop flattering her,’ Hammond said with an affectionate glance at his wife. ‘Too many compliments will go straight to her head. And that’ll cost me.’

Sierra couldn’t take any more. Hammond’s Mister Nice Guy act in front of people sickened her.

‘I’d better get going,’ she said.

‘Always a pleasure,’ Eddie said.

Sierra plastered on an empty smile and exited. She’d taken two Xanax in the morning to dull the pain of her false existence. Now she needed another pill to get her through the day.

The outer offices were full of people who worked for Hammond. His supporters, his team, most of whom had helped get him elected.

She wondered what they’d think if they knew the real man who lurked beneath the façade. Would they ever find out?

No. Because Hammond was too adept at concealing his real self.

Nadia, Hammond’s main assistant, stopped her on the way out.

‘Mrs Patterson,’ she said. ‘Our newest intern is such a huge fan. Would you mind if I introduced you? It would absolutely make her day.’

‘Not at all,’ Sierra said graciously as Nadia ushered the girl over to her.

The girl was ripe and young, slightly overweight with large breasts and a toothy smile.

‘This is Skylar,’ Nadia said. ‘She’s joining the team for the summer.’

Yes, Sierra thought, exactly the way Hammond likes them, enthusiastic and naïve. He’ll soon ruin all her illusions.

‘Hello, Skylar,’ she said with a warm smile. ‘Welcome.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Patterson,’ Skylar replied, totally thrilled to be meeting the Senator’s popular wife. ‘It’s an honour to be working for Senator Patterson. I feel so lucky.’

I’m sure, Sierra thought. And will it still be an honour when he grabs your ass and asks you to go down on him? Will you fall in love with him like a legion of foolish girls before you?

‘Enjoy your summer,’ Sierra murmured. Enjoy giving the Senator head and getting nothing in return. It’s inevitable. A fact of life. Poor little girl, you’ll be powerless to resist his honest brown eyes and ready smile. Tread carefully, for he will use you and then abandon you like all the others.

She made it outside and fell into the town car waiting for her, Hammond’s black Amex card still clutched in her hand. What to do with that?

Go shopping, of course. Infuriate him by spending more money than he intended. He’d only handed her the card to look like the generous husband in front of Eddie; it was all for show.

‘Barneys,’ she said to the driver. ‘After that we’ll make a stop at Bergdorf’s.’

‘Yes, Mrs Patterson,’ the driver said, starting the car.

Sierra leaned back against the leather upholstery. What was she going to do about her life? How was she ever going to get away from Hammond?

The answer always escaped her.

Chapter Thirteen

The invitations were sent, and Bianca waited impatiently for the replies to come in. She’d left Moscow and Aleksandr for a Vanity Fair cover shoot in Madrid. It wasn’t the perfect situation, leaving her man by himself, but the Vanity Fair photos were to accompany a lengthy story commemorating her successful career and thirtieth birthday. Such excellent and prestigious coverage was very special.

Bianca had been a top model for almost thirteen years, ever since being discovered at the age of seventeen by a legitimate modelling agent, who’d noticed her waitressing at her parents’ deli in Queens, New York. The man had told her she had potential, then slipped her his card.

It had taken her two months to get up the courage to phone him. And when she’d set off for her initial interview, she’d asked her Latino gang-banger boyfriend to go with her. This did not please the agent, who’d insisted her boyfriend stayed in the waiting room, a move that didn’t sit well with her boyfriend at all. He’d scowled all the way back to Queens, and they’d broken up a few weeks later.

The day she did her first test shots, she’d taken her mom with her. Her mom was an attractive if slightly work-worn Cuban woman, who’d always kept secret her own ambition to be a model.

Bianca was a natural in front of the camera. Instinctively she had it down, posing this way and that, making love to the camera.

And so began her brilliant career. A career that hadn’t been without its ups and downs.

When Bianca started modelling she was young and striking, with a strong personality. It didn’t take long before she became the favourite of several top designers. This infuriated some of the older models who felt she was a pushy girl with way too much attitude for such a newcomer.

Her rise especially angered the small but tight Ethnic group of models. One in particular, Willow, did everything she could to sabotage Bianca’s photo shoots and modelling gigs. Willow was a great beauty herself, also of mixed race, and she didn’t feel there was room for the two of them. However, the more Willow tried to sabotage her, the more Bianca fought back. Eventually, when Willow realized Bianca was not going away anytime soon, they reached a truce, and after a while they became friends, even doing a cover shoot for Vogue together, posing side by side.

Along with Naomi Campbell, Tyra Banks and Beverly Johnson, they were the most famous women of colour in the modelling world.

Bianca embraced her new life. She soon got into drugs and men and parties, sleeping with whomever she felt like, doing whatever she pleased. They were fun times which included snorting cocaine for breakfast and clubbing the night away.

It didn’t affect her work. She was a star in her own world, and she enjoyed every minute of the decadent life-style she’d so readily embraced.

Her various affairs with rich, powerful, famous and sometimes titled men were the stuff the tabloids loved. She used men for her own pleasure, and when she was bored with them, she moved on.

In her late twenties she’d gotten hooked on heroin thanks to a world-famous rock-star boyfriend, who didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything. Her family and friends — including Willow — conducted an intervention, and she’d ended up in rehab for a torturous six months.

It was while she was in rehab that she’d taken a long hard look at her life and decided it was time to think about what would really make her happy. It wasn’t fame — she had that in spades. It wasn’t all about money — she was quite comfortable in that respect. It was something more. She finally desired a real relationship that didn’t take place on the front pages of the tabloids.

Yes. She needed someone who cared about Bianca the person, not the fantasy image.

Then along came Aleksandr, and it was as if she was reborn.

Ah… Aleksandr. She smiled every time she thought of him.

Aleksandr had never touched drugs and he couldn’t care less about seeing his photo in a magazine — in fact, he hated it. He preferred to stay out of the limelight, although he’d had to get used to the fact that being with Bianca meant constant attention.

Aleksandr was a real man in every way. He cared about her for her own self — not the icon she’d created.

Now he’d invited a select group of people to join him on his new luxurious state-of-the-art yacht for a trip to celebrate her upcoming birthday, and she was excited.

Of course they’d argued about who to invite, until eventually she’d given way to Aleksandr’s suggestions. He didn’t want any of what he referred to as ‘trashy people’. He insisted that they invite only the crème de la crème.

So be it. Whatever Aleksandr wanted, he got. Although she had insisted on inviting her best gay friend from way back, Latin singing sensation Luca Perez. And she’d also invited Ashley Sherwin, who’d helped decorate her London apartment.

Aleksandr hadn’t argued about Ashley, for he was a longtime admirer of her footballer husband, the very handsome Taye Sherwin.

With a slight flash of guilt Bianca remembered hooking up with Taye some time ago, long before he’d met and married Ashley. It was a one-nighter at an out-of-control party in London. She doubted if Taye would even remember, and she’d certainly never mentioned it to Ashley or Aleksandr. God forbid!

Aleksandr’s choice of guests was more sedate. They included the movie star, Cliff Baxter, and his current girlfriend. Renowned Senator Hammond Patterson and his wife, Sierra. And Flynn Hudson, a writer whom Bianca had never met, although Aleksandr spoke highly of him.

It promised to be quite a stellar group. Bianca was all set to make this one special trip to remember.

Chapter Fourteen

Ashley could not stop gazing at the invitation. It was so elegant and simple, yet at the same time it reeked of money and class. She couldn’t wait to tell Jeromy that they too were on the guest-list. Mr and Mrs Taye Sherwin. Jeromy had tried to one-up them as was his way, only now they had a legitimate invitation of their own.

She wished Taye had given her the invitation last night before they’d had dinner with Jeromy. For some unknown reason he’d held back, not showing it to her until they got home. Then he’d had the nerve to expect sex.

Too bad. She wasn’t in the mood.

Sometimes Taye could be too demanding when it came to sex. She’d discussed it with some of her girlfriends and to her surprise they’d all said the same thing. ‘You’re lucky he gets it up at all.’ It seemed that most men who’d been married for over five years allowed their sex-life to slip. Or at least their sex-life with their wives.

Ashley did not consider herself lucky at all. Taye’s never-ending pawing at her in bed was an irritant, one she could well do without.

Actually, Ashley did not find sex that appealing these days. It was messy and dirty, a chore she forced herself to do every so often simply to satisfy her husband. As far as she was concerned, Taye was insatiable. However, he was also a famous footballer, so she knew that if she didn’t oblige, there were plenty of women who would.

Football groupies. They were everywhere, with their shorter-than-short skirts skimming their tight little bottoms, skimpy tops, ridiculously high heels, over-the-top makeup, and a burning desire to hop into bed with one of ‘the boys’ as they referred to their prey.

Yes, Taye was one of the boys all right. He was Top Boy. The big prize.

Ashley sincerely doubted he’d cheat on her again, not after the last time. The incident with the page three girl had almost cost him his marriage, and one thing she was sure of — he adored her and the twins, and he wouldn’t risk it, for she’d warned him countless times that if he ever cheated again, they were over. Finito. Goodbye. She’d take the twins and half his money too. She meant it, oh yes, she certainly meant it.

After turning the invitation over in her hands, she decided that it must’ve cost a pretty penny to print. She wondered how many people were invited, and who they were other than Luca Perez and Jeromy.

Maybe royalty might be on the list. Kate and William. What a coup that would be, sailing the high seas with bloody royalty!

Perhaps she’d text Bianca and enquire who else was going. Or was that bad manners?

Probably.

There was a reply card enclosed, stamped and ready to go. No cheesy Evite for this couple.

Bianca had landed herself a winner, and Ashley was pleased for her. They’d become vaguely friendly when she’d been involved in helping to decorate Bianca’s London penthouse a couple of years ago. They’d found that they had something in common. Bianca was famous, while Ashley was married to fame.

Sharing a few gossipy lunches, Bianca had regaled her with stories about some of the men she’d bedded. It was exciting stuff, and although Ashley hadn’t seen Bianca since the supermodel had hooked up with the Russian billionaire, she was obviously still on her radar, hence the invitation.

Ashley picked up the phone and called her mum; she had to tell someone about the invite. Besides, she didn’t want Taye’s annoying parents moving into the house while they were away. It was better that her own mother was in residence to keep an eye on the twins, even though they had a live-in nanny.

Elise was less than thrilled to hear from her. ‘You only call me when you need something,’ she whined.

So? Ashley thought. Isn’t that what mums are for?

‘Take a look at this,’ one of Taye’s fellow players said, thrusting a mobile phone at him. ‘Get a load of those knockers.’

Taye took the phone and stared longingly at the photo of a naked, extremely busty brunette, sitting in a chair facing the camera with her legs spread. She was pretty in a tarty way, but it was her tits that caught his attention. They were huge, with dark extended nipples, so very different from Ashley’s — although since she’d had the boob job, hers were pretty spectacular. He couldn’t complain.

Taye felt the rise of Mammoth (a name he’d given his penis when he was twelve) and attempted to hide his embarrassment at getting a hard-on simply from checking out some random woman’s tits.

‘Who is she?’ he muttered.

‘A fan,’ his fellow player replied. ‘Sends me a new filthy photo every week. Nice pair of bazangers, right?’

‘Better not let your wife see ’em.’

‘My wife wouldn’t give a fast shit. You’re the one who’s under the cosh.’

‘Watch it,’ Taye warned.

‘C’mon, mate,’ his teammate said with a knowing chuckle. ‘Everyone an’ their dog knows Ashley’s got you by the bo-jangles.’

‘Do me a favour an’ give it a rest,’ Taye mumbled, glaring at him.

‘Go have a wank,’ his teammate sniggered. ‘Looks like you need one.’

Mammoth was definitely on course. Taye made it into the men’s toilet, locked himself in a stall, and helped Mammoth do its thing.

Balls! This wouldn’t be happening if Ashley ever let him within ten feet of her precious pussy. She was depriving him of his conjugal rights, and that wasn’t fair. He needed sex. He craved sex, but what was a guy supposed to do when his wife’s thighs were locked together tighter than David Blaine’s handcuffs?

Fuck! It was a shitty situation.

He loved his wife, that was for sure. But did she honestly think that he was going to sit back and accept her once-a-month sex rule?

Bullshit. He was Taye Sherwin. Women lusted after him. They wrote him adoring and explicit letters, flooded his fan Facebook and Twitter, hung around outside every match hoping to get lucky. He could get laid twenty times a day if he so desired.

Things would have to change, and what better time and place to sort everything out than on the upcoming Kasianenko trip.

Yeah, it was confrontation time, and Taye was finally ready.

Chapter Fifteen

Xuan sent Flynn a terse text. Of course, it read. Where and when?

In ten days’ time, he texted back. Meet me in Paris, we’ll go together.

Flynn was pleased that Xuan had agreed to come with him on the trip. He found her company stimulating, and he had a feeling that Aleksandr would too. For once he had something to look forward to that didn’t involve work. It made a welcome change — he badly needed the break.

He’d first crossed paths with Aleksandr several years previously when he was in Moscow investigating a notorious criminal gang. The mastermind of the group, Boris Zukov, resided in a luxury apartment just outside Moscow with his French stripper girlfriend, who wasn’t averse to giving anonymous interviews in exchange for money to feed her secret drug habit. Flynn had a contact who put him in touch with her, and during the course of an extremely interesting and informative one-on-one, he’d discovered that apart from drugs and arms-running, there was a kidnap plot afoot to abduct one of Aleksandr Kasianenko’s three daughters for an enormous ransom. Six months previously, another rich man’s daughter had been kidnapped, and even though that ransom was paid, the child had ended up brutally murdered.

Flynn absorbed the information, and instead of going to the police, he’d done what he considered to be the right thing, and gone straight to Kasianenko. It was the smart thing to do, and it turned out to be a wise move, for the Russian oligarch had handled things in his own way and no kidnapping had taken place.

Twenty-four hours later, Boris Zukov had accidentally fallen to his death from a fourteenth-floor window in his tony apartment building.

Nobody seemed too concerned about the ‘accident’ — nobody except Boris’s younger brother, Sergei, who’d been outraged that the police had done nothing. It appeared that they didn’t care. To them, the death of Boris Zukov was a bonus. One less vicious criminal to deal with.

It occurred to Flynn that although Aleksandr was a legitimate businessman, he was also a man who knew how to take care of things in a don’t fuck with me kind of way. Flynn admired him for that.

They’d met several times over the following years, and bonded as only two strong men can. Neither wanted anything from the other, and that suited them fine.

It had been a couple of years since they’d last got together, and Flynn was looking forward to seeing Aleksandr again. He still admired the man. Ruthless but honest. An interesting mix.

He’d been surprised when he’d read about Aleksandr hooking up with the famous super-model, Bianca, since he’d been under the impression that Aleksandr was a happily married man. Apparently things were different now.

The last time he’d seen him, the Russian had taken him to a fancy club around the corner from his hotel, and offered to buy him one of the gorgeous women lounging on bar stools and sitting at tables. The place was full of stunning women and very few men.

‘Is this a brothel?’ Flynn had asked, faintly amused.

Aleksandr had chuckled. ‘If it was, it would’ve been shut down years ago,’ he’d said. ‘This is a private club, and if a man should rent a room upstairs for the night, then it’s between him and the lady in question.’

Flynn had laughed. ‘I’ve never paid for it, and I’m not about to start now,’ he’d said. ‘But you go ahead.’

‘Me?’ Aleksandr had replied, stony-faced. ‘I am a happily married man, Flynn. I do not cheat. Too expensive. Too complicated.’

And now it wasn’t so complicated any more.

Spending half her life on a plane was nothing new for Xuan. Besides, she enjoyed flying. One of her unfulfilled ambitions was to take lessons and obtain her pilot’s licence. It was something she had promised herself she would do sometime in the future.

Martha, a Dutch woman who resided in Amsterdam, had offered Xuan anything she wanted if only she would give up travelling the world and move in with her. ‘Including flying lessons,’ Martha had promised.

‘When I am seventy-five,’ Xuan had joked.

Martha was fifty, divorced, affluent and attractive, with acceptable bedroom skills. Xuan was not tempted, she relished her independence too much.

Finished with Deshi, she hailed a taxi and visited a group of impoverished women and their children who lived in nothing more than a jumble of run-down shacks on the edge of Saigon. She took food and clothes and as much money as she could spare, then spent several hours with them, playing with the children, laughing and chatting with the women who were — in spite of their circumstances — surprisingly upbeat.

Back at her hotel she thought seriously about Flynn and their trip. It was bound to be excessive and over the top. Spoiled rich people vacationing knee-deep in luxury.

Would she be able to stand it?

For Flynn’s sake she’d try. And if it all got too much she’d simply take off. That was the cool thing about having no roots — when it was time to go, there was no one and nothing to stop her.

Chapter Sixteen

Lori made a firm decision. She was not allowing herself to give in to fear; she was a survivor, she could deal with this. It wasn’t like she hadn’t dealt with enough crap in her life, so why be frightened of two mangy, red-eyed wild animals?

She stared the two coyotes down with a purpose, then — when they didn’t move — she started yelling and frantically waving her arms in the air like a crazy person.

‘Fuck off, you little monsters!’ she screamed. ‘Get the fuck outta here!’

It was as if she had an angel watching over her, for the two coyotes suddenly turned around and slunk back into the bushes. Just like that.

‘Holy shit!’ she marvelled. ‘I did it!’

Then, just as she was about to use her cell phone to call for help, a young jogger appeared. He was wearing board shorts, a cut-off UCLA tee, and a sweatband to keep his blondish hair from falling into his eyes.

For a brief moment she was mesmerized by his legs standing over her, tanned and strong, athlete’s legs. He couldn’t be more than eighteen, so she forced herself to shift her gaze.

‘I heard yelling,’ he said, jogging in place. ‘You okay?’

‘I am now,’ she said, relieved to see him. ‘Damn coyotes looked about ready to eat me for breakfast.’

‘Bummer,’ he said, scratching his chin. ‘You hurt?’

‘It’s only my ankle. I’ll live.’

‘You need help?’

‘I guess so,’ she said tentatively, attempting to stand.

‘Right,’ he said, holding out his hand to help her up. ‘You shouldn’t jog by yourself. I tell my mom that all the time.’

His mom! She was twenty-four, for crap’s sake. Why was he comparing her to his mom? Maybe Cliff’s advanced age was rubbing off on her.

‘I jog by myself all the time,’ she said, enjoying the intense smell of fresh sweat emanating from his armpit. ‘Usually I bring my dogs.’

‘Big dogs or little dogs?’ he enquired. ‘’Cause if they’re little, the coyotes gonna wolf ’em down.’

‘Big dogs,’ she said, leaning on him.

‘Big is good,’ he said.

She wondered how many girls had uttered those words to him, for his package in board shorts left little to the imagination.

‘Yes,’ she managed, holding onto his arm and wincing as her foot hit the ground.

‘I could carry you if you can’t make it,’ he offered.

Nice one. She wouldn’t mind at all. She could sniff his armpit all the way down to the car park.

‘You’re sweet,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind me hanging onto your arm, I think I can do it.’

‘Gotcha,’ he said.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘Naw,’ he said casually. ‘I was about to turn around anyway.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Chip. You?’

‘Uh… Lori.’

‘Okay, Lori,’ he said, placing her arm around his neck, and getting a grip on her waist. ‘Let’s do this thing.’

Lori did not answer her phone. Voicemail picked up. Cliff was not about to tell her that they’d been invited on the Kasianenko yacht until he could watch her quiver with excitement. She’d be so thrilled.

Where was she? What did she do all day when he was busy working?

Girl things, he supposed. Shopping, mani-pedis, Pilates, spinning, shit like that.

He knew she was desperate for him to get her a job as an actress, but it didn’t seem right for the star to put his girlfriend in the movie. Although he could’ve if he’d wanted to. He didn’t, had to be careful that she wasn’t using him in that way, besides — what were actresses? Nothing but egomaniacs with tits and stylists. He’d had a few, and they always ended up causing hysterical scenes and running to the tabloids with a totally made-up story.

No more actresses for Cliff Baxter. Hell, no.

Reaching for his cell, he called Enid and told her to book him a garden booth at the Polo Lounge for tonight. He’d tell Lori then, and later she could show him her appreciation in her own very special way.

Yes, Cliff Baxter didn’t do anything unless it suited him.

Chapter Seventeen

Once Jeromy was in the house, the staff scuttled around on red alert. Jeromy was a fierce taskmaster who expected perfection at all times. He was also a stickler for rules, his rules. Everything had to be just so, even the way the pots and pans were laid out in the kitchen. Every single thing had to be spotless, not a speck of dust to be found anywhere.

On the other hand, Luca was totally laid back. He couldn’t care less if the outdoor cushions weren’t arranged just so. It didn’t bother him if a painting was crooked or the bed wasn’t made to Jeromy’s strict specifications.

When Jeromy was away, all was mellow. When he was in residence — look out!

The staff adored Luca.

The staff loathed Jeromy.

After arriving from London and enjoying a Mojito on the terrace with his younger boyfriend, Jeromy flashed the coveted invitation and informed Luca that they simply had to go.

Luca checked it out and enquired who else would be on the trip.

‘How would I know?’ Jeromy said with a casual shrug. ‘Although you can rest assured that they will be people of quality.’

Luca wrinkled his nose. There were times Jeromy said things that didn’t make any sense. What did ‘people of quality’ mean exactly? It must be one of Jeromy’s strange English expressions.

‘Sure we can go,’ he said, leaning back on his lounger. ‘I’m not in the recording studio until September, so it works for me.’

Jeromy was delighted. ‘We should go shopping,’ he announced, eyes gleaming at the thought of an entire new wardrobe of clothes. ‘The Valentino leisurewear this year is divine. We must both get fitted out. Perhaps matching white tuxedos?’

‘Why not?’ Luca said.

Jeromy nodded, fantasizing about how great they’d look in matching tuxedos.

‘Maybe I’ll call Bianca an’ see who else is going,’ Luca said. ‘Could be they’ll have room for Suga and Luca junior.’

Jeromy sat up ramrod straight, almost spilling his drink. Had he heard correctly? Was Luca mad? Did he honestly think he could inveigle an invitation for Suga Tits and the child?

No. It simply wasn’t right. Luca had to be stopped immediately.

‘That’s not acceptable,’ he said, the words almost sticking in his throat. ‘It would… ah… make me most uncomfortable.’

‘Uncomfortable?’ Luca questioned, trying to ignore the fact that Jeromy couldn’t stand Suga. ‘How’s that?’

‘You were married to the woman,’ Jeromy said with a supercilious sneer. ‘Her presence on the trip would definitely make me feel awkward. Besides, it’s not etiquette to start adding guests. This is obviously a very special trip, and I am sure everyone who’s been invited was hand-picked by our host.’

Luca shrugged. ‘I thought it would be a welcome surprise for Suga,’ he said, not thrilled by Jeromy’s attitude. ‘She needs cheering up.’

Cheering up, my English arse, Jeromy thought with a bitter twist. The bitch could light up Picadilly Circus with her phony smiles.

‘Exactly why does she need cheering up?’ he asked through clenched teeth.

‘Her ticket sales are down,’ Luca explained. ‘Kinda a blow to her ego.’

Huh! Jeromy thought. It would take more than a blow to crash that woman’s enormous ego. It would take a nuclear explosion.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said tightly. ‘Surely you can think of something else to lift her spirits?’

‘Like what?’ Luca said blankly.

Like who gives a damn.

‘I don’t know,’ Jeromy admitted. ‘We should think about it. Between us we’ll come up with something.’

Luca nodded, although he wasn’t sure he trusted Jeromy to do the right thing.

Meanwhile, Jeromy had no intention of coming up with anything. The annoying diva wasn’t his problem.

Then, deciding a change of pace was in order, he leaned over, gently tweaking Luca’s nipple. ‘Did you miss me?’ he cooed. ‘Were you a well-behaved boy?’

‘Were you?’ Luca retorted. He might be the super-star in this relationship, but he more than suspected that Jeromy was the slut. It didn’t bother him, because he knew that Jeromy was into things he wasn’t. He simply hoped that Jeromy was careful and never came home with any kind of disease to pass on.

‘I would never cheat on you, my little pumpkin,’ Jeromy crooned, completely out of character, his long thin fingers caressing Luca’s oiled abs.

‘Sure you would,’ Luca said mildly, feeling the beginning of a hard-on. He stood up. It wouldn’t be cool to have Jeromy suck him off while there were staff lurking around. ‘Let’s go inside,’ he suggested.

‘I’m right behind you,’ Jeromy said, thinking of the young boy in London, the young boy with the talented tongue and surly attitude.

In Jeromy’s relationship with Luca he’d found that it was always he who had to perform fellatio on Luca, it was always he in the subservient position.

But that’s what Luca was into. And since the one with all the money held all the power, then ultimately it was Luca who called the shots.

Jeromy had yet to challenge him.

Chapter Eighteen

‘Surely you realize that you have it all?’ Clare, Sierra’s sister, said with an envious sigh. She was a pretty woman, but nowhere near as lovely as Sierra. Clare’s hair was brown, not golden-copper. Her eyes were quite close together, not widely spaced like Sierra’s. Clare had compensated by honing her intellectual skills, and creating a warm and wonderful family life. ‘And on top of everything,’ she went on, ‘you’re about to take off on an incredible trip.’

Sure, Sierra thought. Incredible.

‘I wish I was going,’ Clare said wistfully. ‘You’ll have to tell me all about it. Oh yes, and be sure to keep a daily journal. I need to know everything, all the details.’ Another long-drawn-out sigh. ‘You’re so lucky.’

No, you’re the lucky one, Sierra thought. You with your comfortable house in Connecticut. Your teddy bear of a husband and your three terrific kids. Not to mention a successful writing career.

‘Um, yes,’ Sierra murmured. ‘I will.’

‘Do you have any idea who else is going?’ Clare enquired, leaning across the restaurant table, agog for some juicy news.

‘Not a clue,’ Sierra said, taking a sip of her martini. A bold move for lunch, but what the hell — getting drunk could be exactly what she needed. Oh yes, Hammond would love that, she thought, stifling an inane giggle. A drunken wife on his arm. A wife dressed to impress and totally loaded.

‘What are you laughing at?’ Clare wanted to know.

The insanity of my so-called perfect life, she thought.

‘I don’t know,’ she answered vaguely. ‘Nothing. Everything.’

‘For God’s sake, please do not drift off into one of your weird moods,’ Clare begged. ‘And why are you drinking in the middle of the day? What’s that about?’

‘Because I am a political wife,’ Sierra retorted grandly. ‘We shop. We drink. We shake hands. We pick up babies. That’s what we do.’

Clare shook her head disapprovingly. ‘I don’t know what’s up with you today,’ she said, frowning. ‘You’re not yourself.’

‘I wish,’ Sierra murmured, sotto voce.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Nothing,’ Sierra said, taking another sip of her martini.

‘Any news on the baby front?’ Clare asked. It was the same question she’d been asking ever since Sierra had married Hammond.

‘I guess I’m just not fertile,’ Sierra said, unwilling to tell her sister that she and Hammond never had sex. He didn’t want her in that way, and she certainly didn’t want him.

‘Or maybe he isn’t,’ Clare suggested. ‘Sometimes it’s the man’s fault.’

‘May I remind you he already has a child?’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ Clare said, intent on getting her point across. ‘He should still get tested.’

‘I’m not sure I even want a family,’ Sierra murmured, gulping down the rest of her martini.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Clare said firmly. ‘Of course you do.’

Sierra felt herself losing it. Why couldn’t Clare leave the subject alone? ‘You know what?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘I wish you’d do me a big favour and stop bringing it up all the time.’

Clare knew when to change the subject. ‘I got a text from Sean,’ she said, lowering her voice and glancing furtively around as if the middle-aged waiter standing nearby was even remotely interested.

‘What did he want?’ Sierra asked, thinking about their twenty-nine-year-old drop-out brother who lived in a run-down beach shack with a forty-two-year-old Puerto Rican divorcée in Hawaii.

‘What do you think he wanted?’ Clare said pointedly. Then answering her own question she added, ‘Money, of course.’

Actually, on reflection, Sierra realized that she quite envied Sean. How relaxing to do nothing but sit on a beach all day and beg for handouts from your family.

‘I sent him five hundred two weeks ago,’ she said.

Clare’s frown deepened. ‘I thought we agreed that we weren’t sending him any more money.’

‘He told me that he had a dental problem and was in horrible pain. I couldn’t ignore him. What was I supposed to do?’

‘Oh my God, Sierra, you’re so gullible,’ Clare scoffed. ‘How could you fall for that? You know he’s a blatant liar.’

‘Yes, I do know, but show some heart, Clare. He’s also our brother.’

‘I am not sending him one more red cent,’ Clare said, with a stubborn shake of her head. ‘I don’t care how much he begs. He’s a grown man, it’s about time he started acting like one. Furthermore, you should stop enabling him, because that’s exactly what you’re doing.’

‘I’m not enabling him,’ Sierra objected. ‘I’m helping him.’

‘No, you’re not helping him at all,’ Clare argued.

Sierra was too tired to fight with her sister. She had a strong urge to go home, crawl into bed and sleep. Depression was creeping over her like a black cloud, she could feel it coming on. Once life had held such shining promise. No more.

How had she allowed herself to reach such a miserable place?

Was it because she’d married Hammond?

They were all questions she could answer if she wanted to. However, it was simply easier to forget.

‘How old are you, dear?’ Hammond asked, leaning back in the chair behind his desk, his eyes inspecting every inch of the latest intern to join the staff.

Skylar blinked rapidly. She couldn’t believe that she was in Senator Patterson’s presence, that he actually knew she existed. It was all so exciting. Earlier that day she’d been introduced to Mrs Patterson, and now this!

‘Uh… I’m going to be nineteen next week,’ she said, fidgeting nervously. ‘And uh… may I say that it’s such an honour to be working here. I am a big admirer of yours, Senator, and of course your wife too.’

‘That’s nice,’ Hammond said, his honest brown eyes shifting into X-ray mode as he skilfully removed her clothes. He noted that she had large real breasts and wide hips. Not perfect like Sierra. Not a beauty, but attractive enough.

And she was young. He preferred them young.

As he sat behind his desk, he imagined placing his penis between her big breasts, then slowly moving up and coming all over her startled face.

After the initial shock, she would love it — they all did.

‘Well, Skylar,’ he said, pressing his fingers together, forming a little arc, ‘welcome to the team. We all believe in working together here. Sometimes late into the night.’ A long beat. ‘Does that bother you?’

‘Excuse me?’ Skylar said, still blinking.

‘Does working late bother you?’ Hammond asked patiently, thinking this one seemed a little slow.

‘No, no, not at all,’ Skylar said, full of enthusiasm. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

No, Hammond thought, what you’re here for is to satisfy me sexually. And you will. Oh yes, you will. Your turn will come. And soon.

Chapter Nineteen

Divorce is never easy, but Aleksandr Kasianenko was prepared to give Rushana, his wife of seventeen years and mother of his three daughters, whatever she wanted. Unfortunately, what Rushana wanted was to stay married to him, so she and her lawyer were making things as difficult as possible, unnecessarily so.

Aleksandr was beyond irritated. He had offered Rushana everything she could desire, and yet there always seemed to be another roadblock.

The divorce wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t planned on falling in love with Bianca, only it had happened, and Rushana should simply accept it.

Aleksandr was determined that on the forthcoming yacht trip he would propose to Bianca. He was doing it whether he was free or not. He’d already purchased the ring, a two-million-dollar rare emerald surrounded with diamonds. It was a ring fit for the woman he planned to marry. Bianca would love it, just as she loved him.

He’d never met a woman like Bianca before. So beautiful and yet so independent and strong. And passionate. In the bedroom she fulfilled him in every way.

Yes, Aleksandr enjoyed everything about her, although he could do without her fame. The pesky photographers who followed her everywhere. The annoying fans who had no sense of keeping their distance. The hangers-on who often surrounded her. And the Internet, where people made up ridiculous stories every single day.

After a year with his love, he’d learned to ignore the chaos around her. Bianca was his, and nothing could ever change that.

However, he would be lying if he said he didn’t relish the peace when Bianca was in another country. He could walk down the street unmolested, and be happy that there were no photographers trailing him.

His faithful bodyguard was always in attendance: Kyril, a solid brick of a man who watched his every move, for one could never be too careful. Aleksandr was well aware that he had enemies, it came with the territory. He was a billionaire businessman, who along the way had attracted his fair share of haters. People who were jealous of his wealth. Business rivals. His wife’s two needy brothers who felt that he should’ve done more for them. It wasn’t enough that he’d bought them both houses and given them jobs at which they’d both failed. Was he supposed to support their lazy asses forever?

No. With the divorce came freedom from Rushana’s clingy family.

The only regret Aleksandr had was that he was no longer living with his three daughters. They’d remained with their mother, and rightly so. He could see them whenever he wished to, but since they resided in his former home fifteen miles outside of Moscow, it wasn’t that easy to make the time.

He had yet to introduce them to Bianca, although in the following months he hoped to do so. It didn’t help that the last time he’d seen them, Mariska, his youngest, had said, ‘Mama told us you have an American whore girlfriend. What’s a whore, Poppa?’

Aleksandr was furious. Rushana had better learn to control her mouth. He would not stand for her insulting the love of his life.

After Madrid, Bianca headed for Paris and a full-out spending spree. She knew all the designers and they were delighted to accommodate her, because whenever Bianca was photographed in one of their outfits, sales soared. Bianca was adept at negotiating outrageous discounts, plus she also managed to get many things for free.

Her excitement was building about the trip. She had a feeling that something special was going to take place — she had no clue what, but knowing Aleksandr it would be major.

Bianca had legions of friends in Paris — mostly in the fashion business and mostly gay. She planned on flying on to Moscow the next day, but in the meantime she called several of her friends, and they all met up for drinks at the Plaza Athenée, before moving on for a decadent dinner at her favourite dining bistro, the well-established L’Ami Louis, where everyone pigged out on the heavenly potato cakes sautéed in duck fat, and the amazingly tender grilled beef. For dessert they indulged in dishes of wild strawberries piled high and topped with crème fraiche. It was a decadent feast.

Bianca ate everything. Usually she watched her diet, but tonight she felt like letting go.

After dinner her sometime hair stylist, Pierre, suggested they move on to a club. So they ended up at Amnesia, a mostly gay bar with incredible sounds.

Bianca danced the night away with no inhibitions. When she was out with Aleksandr she felt as if she had to behave herself, keep her wild side strictly for the bedroom. Tonight it was all systems go, and since the ever-lurking paparazzi had no idea she was in Paris, she was free to be herself.

Ah… freedom from prying photo lenses! Oh, how Bianca embraced it.

However, what she didn’t take into account was so-called friends with mobile phones. And while she was letting it all hang loose, one of them was capturing images that would soon be for sale.

Her friend, Pierre, might be gay, but did the rest of the world know it?

Absolutely not. So photos of Bianca hugging and kissing him, dancing in a skirt so short anyone could see she was not wearing panties, grinding on a stripper pole, and generally cavorting — well, those photos were pure gold. Soon they would hit the Internet with a vengeance.

In the meantime Bianca was blissfully unaware of the clandestine shots being taken. She danced the night away with a smile on her face, and had herself a fine old time.

Chapter Twenty

If there was one thing Ashley hated it was when her mother attempted to spew forth a mouthful of advice, as if Elise had any clue what she was talking about. Three failed marriages and a job in a department store at her age. Exactly who would listen to her?

Certainly not Ashley, for she considered herself streets ahead of her mum. She’d moved up in life, far far away from her humble beginnings. Not only was she married to a famous footballer, even more importantly she was part of a successful interior-design team. Partnering with Jeromy had been a clever move on her part. Jeromy had a stellar reputation, and now that they were working side by side, so did she.

Well, it was kind of side by side because they weren’t exactly equal partners, even though Taye had put money into the business. When she’d first started working with him, Jeromy had bestowed on her the title Creative Consultant. She’d been a bit miffed at first, but so far it had worked out. Whenever Jeromy had a celebrity client, he allowed her input. It was fun at first, but then she’d begun noticing that he always introduced her as Ashley Sherwin, Taye Sherwin’s wife.

It pissed her off. Wasn’t being Ashley Sherwin enough? Did Jeromy have to tag on that she was Taye’s wife? What was that about?

When this had happened a couple of times she’d brought it to his attention, pointing out that it certainly wasn’t necessary to give Taye billing.

Jeromy had gone all confused and gay on her. ‘I’m so sorry, sweet thing,’ he’d purred. ‘I would never do anything to upset you.’

After that he’d stopped bringing up Taye’s name in front of her, although somehow or other all the clients seemed to know.

Eventually she’d complained a second time, causing Jeromy to adopt a more frosty attitude. ‘Is it my fault that you and Taye are photographed wherever you go?’ he’d said with an imperious curl of his lip. ‘People recognize you, dear. Besides, it’s good for business. Get used to it, or may I suggest that you stay out of the magazines.’

It was true, she couldn’t argue with Jeromy’s logic. She and Taye were a staple in every magazine. Heat and Closer often featured them on the cover. And Hello and OK! had done numerous ‘at home’ pictorials with her, Taye and the twins. As for the Internet — their photos were everywhere. Taye’s Facebook page had millions of followers, plus he insisted on Tweeting himself, and occasionally posting intimate family shots he’d taken with his favourite Nikon camera — a birthday gift she regretted giving him. He was always trying to catch her unawares, then posting the stupid photos of her asleep or half-dressed.

The problem was that Jeromy was right, she was in all the magazines, and that was good for business, so eventually she’d stopped complaining.

The moment Ashley invited Elise to stay at their house while they went on their trip, Elise had moved in, even though Ashley had insisted it was way too soon. ‘We don’t leave for another week,’ she’d pointed out. ‘No need for you to be here this early, Mum.’

‘I know,’ Elise had responded, thrilled to get out of her tiny apartment, ‘but I want the twins to get used to having me around. And you don’t mind, do you, Taye?’ she’d added, simpering at her handsome son-in-law, who — once she’d got over the fact that he was black — she absolutely adored.

Taye had nodded. Anything for a peaceful life.

Now they were sitting at dinner in their dining room, and Elise was droning on and on about how they should conduct themselves on their upcoming trip.

‘You have to change outfits three times a day,’ she instructed. ‘Breakfast, lunch and dinner. I read that’s what these fancy people do on their yachts.’

‘Really?’ Ashley drawled sarcastically. ‘Where did you read that?’

‘On the Internet,’ Elise said, then spitting up further gems she added, ‘and don’t be taking any ripped or torn knickers. They have people to do your washing, and you wouldn’t want them talking about you behind your back.’

‘Bloody hell, they’ll have a right old time with my drawers,’ Taye joked, letting forth a ribald chuckle. ‘Skidmarks galore.’

Ashley threw him a disapproving glare. ‘Don’t encourage her,’ she said sharply. ‘And stop being vulgar.’

‘Lighten up, toots, I’m only jokin’,’ Taye said, wondering if there was any chance of him getting a leg over tonight.

‘Well, she’s not,’ Ashley hissed. ‘She believes every word of it.’

‘Fine,’ Elise said grandly. ‘Don’t take me seriously, but I know of what I speak. I read all about it.’

‘Where exactly?’ Ashley demanded.

‘I Googled yacht etiquette,’ Elise replied, straight-faced. ‘Are you aware that you’re supposed to tip the staff at the end of the trip?’

‘Good to know,’ Taye said cheerfully. ‘I’d better go raid me piggy bank.’

‘It’s no joke,’ Elise said, wagging a stern finger at the two of them. ‘The staff talk, and the last thing you need is a reputation as a cheapskate.’

‘Watch it, missus,’ Taye smirked. ‘Nobody’s ever accused me of bein’ cheap.’

Ashley had heard enough. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she sighed.

‘It’s not even nine, toots,’ Taye objected.

‘I’m tired.’

Too tired for a quick shag?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

‘I’ll join you then,’ Taye said, rising from the table.

‘What am I supposed to do?’ Elise whined.

‘I dunno,’ Ashley said. ‘Why don’t you go and Google some more useless information.’

‘All I’m trying to do is help,’ Elise said. ‘Although if you don’t appreciate it…’

‘You’re right, I don’t,’ Ashley said, before abruptly exiting the room.

Elise turned to Taye. ‘What’ve I done now?’ she asked plaintively.

Taye felt a bit sorry for her, because when Ashley was in one of her bitchy moods there was no stopping her.

‘I think she’s got one of her headaches,’ he said, making an excuse for his wife’s bad behaviour.

‘I don’t know why she thinks she can take it out on me,’ Elise grumbled. ‘I’ve done everything for that girl, made sacrifices you wouldn’t believe. And let me tell you, when her father walked out on us, Ashley was six, and I didn’t give up, I kept on going for her sake.’ Elise’s lower lip began to tremble. ‘My little girl never lacked for anything. Singing lessons, dancing, piano, she had it all. I used to drive her to all the auditions. And look how it paid off. If she hadn’t married you, she could’ve been a big star.’

‘I bet,’ Taye said, wondering how to make a quick getaway before Elise continued her story of sacrifice. ‘Anyway, you know what, luv — Ashley’s a big star to me, so that’s all that matters, right?’

And with those words, he was out the door.

Chapter Twenty-One

I’m coming to Paris early, Xuan texted Flynn. Please book me a hotel.

No way, he texted back. You’ll stay with me. Send details of your arrival.

Which is how he found himself at the airport waiting for her flight to arrive.

He got there early, spent some time perusing the magazine stands, picked up a copy of Newsweek and settled back to wait.

Xuan’s plane was an hour late. She emerged from the gate with a purposeful stride, attracting attention wherever she went. She might be petite, but she was certainly a beauty with her almond-shaped eyes, full cherry lips, and sweep of straight black hair that fell way below her compact bottom.

Men paid attention, so did women.

Well, they would, wouldn’t they? Flynn thought, waving at her. Lesbian signals are surely wafting in the air.

Xuan headed towards him with just an oversized shoulder bag filled with everything she might need.

‘Any more luggage?’ Flynn asked, giving her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.

‘Nope,’ Xuan replied, indicating her bag. ‘This is it.’

Flynn attempted to take it from her.

She shrugged him away with a caustic — ‘What? You think I can’t carry my own bag?’

He shook his head, amused. When it came to Xuan, nothing ever changed. She was fiercely independent. Whenever they’d been out chasing a story in war zones or other dangerous places, she’d always insisted on being treated like one of the boys.

So be it.

They took a cab back to his apartment. Flynn didn’t own a car; he was never in one city long enough to be bothered with the responsibility.

His apartment was a small one-bedroom. He’d already decided that Xuan could have the bed, and he’d bunk down on the couch.

When he told her, she laughed in his face. ‘No, Flynn. You can keep your bed, the couch suits me fine.’

‘Still as stubborn as ever.’

‘This is true,’ she answered with a slight smile.

Later they left the apartment and dined at a nearby bistro Flynn frequented when he was in town. Xuan drank red wine and regaled him with stories of her adventures in Vietnam. She told him about the children she’d visited and the women who’d had to put up with so many incredible hardships.

Flynn listened sympathetically. He understood. There was so much misery in the world, and it never saw the light of day unless someone dedicated — like Xuan or even himself — grabbed a platform to write about it.

‘Maybe you should write a book,’ Xuan announced, devouring a plate of spaghetti, the tomato sauce dribbling down her delicate pointed chin.

‘I wrote a book,’ Flynn reminded her, although he couldn’t remember if he’d ever mentioned it before.

Apparently not, for Xuan looked surprised. ‘What book?’ she asked.

‘Bullshit travel stories,’ he replied, slightly embarrassed. ‘When I was younger.’

‘I want to read it.’

‘Not your style.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You wouldn’t like it.’

‘Why not?’

‘I wrote it when I was very young.’

‘Ah,’ Xuan said, her eyes shining bright. ‘And now you’re so ancient.’

Flynn laughed. ‘You’re the one who should write a book,’ he said, leaning across the table and dabbing the sauce from her chin with his napkin.

She stiffened, and snatched the napkin from him.

‘Okay, okay,’ he said, throwing up his hands. ‘I know you don’t like to be touched unless it’s sexual.’

‘You and I, we’re never going there,’ Xuan stated, as if it was a well-known fact.

‘You’re so right,’ he retorted.

The bistro-owner’s daughter, Mai, who was waitressing, approached their table. Mai was a pretty girl who could not understand why Flynn had never invited her out. Tonight she was not pleased to see him with a woman, for he usually dined alone.

‘Can I get you anything?’ Mai asked, shooting Xuan a dirty look.

‘More wine,’ Flynn said. ‘And maybe a look at the dessert menu.’

‘Oui, monsieur,’ Mai said, suddenly going all French and formal on him. ‘Tout de suite.’

Flynn caught her attitude. So did Xuan.

‘She likes you,’ Xuan said with a knowing smile as Mai walked away.

‘And I like her,’ Flynn responded. ‘What’s not to like?’

‘Ah yes,’ Xuan added. ‘Only you like her as simply another girl. She likes you to jump into bed with.’

‘No way,’ Flynn objected. ‘We’re friends.’

‘You’re so naïve when it comes to women,’ Xuan said, shaking back her long hair.

‘Not naïve, merely careful,’ Flynn replied. ‘Haven’t you heard the expression — don’t crap where you eat?’

‘You mean shit,’ Xuan said succinctly.

‘I’m being polite.’

Another knowing smile. ‘After all we’ve been through together you’re being polite? I’m one of the boys — remember?’

‘Sure,’ Flynn said, deftly switching subjects. ‘However, has it occurred to you that maybe she likes you?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Why? You’re not feeling the vibe?’ Flynn teased.

‘No,’ Xuan said with a casual shrug. ‘I am not.’

‘I told you,’ Flynn said, continuing to tease. ‘Feel free to take the bedroom whenever you want, it’s all yours.’

‘It seems to me that you’re very evasive when it comes to women,’ Xuan said.

‘How’s that?’ Flynn answered vaguely.

‘I’ve observed that wherever we are in the world, you might allow yourself one night with a woman, only never more than one night.’

‘And you’re so different?’ he retaliated.

‘I’m a loner, Flynn, I always have been.’

‘So am I.’

Mai returned and thrust menus at them.

As Flynn studied the menu, he realized it was the most personal conversation he’d ever had with Xuan, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like anyone poking around in his so-called love-life. It was nobody’s business but his.

‘Dessert?’ he asked stiffly.

‘Coffee,’ Xuan relied. ‘Black. Nothing fancy.’

‘It’ll keep you awake,’ he pointed out.

‘My problem, not yours.’

Standing by the table, Mai tapped her foot impatiently.

‘One black coffee, Mai,’ Flynn said, glancing up at her. ‘And do you have any of that delicious pie you keep for special customers?’

Mai softened as she sensed there was nothing going on between Flynn and the Asian woman. ‘For you,’ she said softly, ‘bien sûr.’

‘Thanks, Mai.’ And he couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to sleep with the young French woman. She was certainly pretty enough, and from what he could tell she had a nice personality.

No — it wouldn’t work out. After a few weeks he’d end it and she’d be upset and hurt. Random hook-ups were not worth the trouble. Besides, he planned on still frequenting the bistro when he was in town, and like he’d told Xuan — do not shit where you eat. A firm rule to believe in.

Chapter Twenty-Two

‘Did you come?’ Cliff asked as he rolled over to his side of the bed. He wasn’t that concerned; on the other hand, he was not averse to a rave review.

‘Oh my God, did I!’ Lori responded, full of fake enthusiasm. She didn’t believe in lying unless it was absolutely necessary, only why tell one of the biggest movie stars in the world that once again he hadn’t hit a home run?

Cliff was okay in bed, although he was certainly no Superman. He was almost fifty years old and a textbook lover. Five minutes of foreplay, followed by a quick fuck, followed by her going down on him until he came in her mouth and woe betide if she didn’t swallow — that really pissed him off.

She knew why. He’d once relayed the story of a famous tennis player who’d allowed a random date in a restaurant to slip under the table and suck him off. But Random Date was smart: she hadn’t swallowed, she’d spat his sperm into a paper cup and rushed it to a friendly doctor who’d inseminated her, and voila! One successful paternity suit.

Cliff Baxter had to know exactly where his precious sperm was headed. And who could blame him?

It was almost a week after the coyote/sprained ankle incident. Lori was fully recovered, for that’s all it had been, a light sprain.

Cliff had filled her in about the amazing trip they were to take; he’d even sent her out with his personal stylist to purchase a few suitable outfits.

The thought of the Kasianenko yacht intimidated her. Everyone would either be very old, obscenely rich, or at the very least horribly famous. And there she’d be, just the girlfriend, for it was common knowledge that Cliff Baxter was a confirmed bachelor, who had no intention of ever getting married. He said so in every interview he ever gave, hammering the point home.

Being just the girlfriend was starting to get old. It occurred to Lori that he could dump her anytime, exactly like he’d done with the string of girls before her. It was a scary thought. What would she do? Where would she go?

Although Cliff paid for anything she wanted, he didn’t give her actual money. He had given her a Visa card with a five-thousand-dollar limit, and knowing Cliff, if they split, he’d cancel it immediately. Basically that meant she’d be as broke as when she’d entered into the relationship. He’d presented her with a few pieces of jewelry, nothing too expensive. Even the car she drove was only a lease — registered in his company’s name.

What could she do to secure her position?

Nothing much, except continue to please him.

Lately she’d been thinking about the young man who’d rescued her on the hike. Chip, with his strong thighs and rippling muscles. What a hunk. Was it wrong to fantasize about him while Cliff was on top of her?

Funny really, here she was getting boned by a man who millions of women lusted after, a man she’d once thought she’d loved, and her excitement level hovered at zero. What was wrong with her?

Nothing. She simply wasn’t into a man who was almost twenty-six years older than her and treated her like an accessory.

Why didn’t anyone ever mention the age gap when they were busy writing about them?

Because nobody wanted to get on Cliff Baxter’s bad side, that’s why.

It occurred to Cliff that Lori had not been as thrilled about going on a magnificent yacht as he’d expected her to be. He’d been prepared for fireworks and raging excitement. Instead he’d gotten a half-hearted, ‘Sounds great.’

Hmm… was Lori starting to take the good life for granted?

Was she getting blasé?

No. Impossible. She was living a life she could only have dreamed about. She was with him, and he knew without a doubt that most women would give their left tit to be in that position. After all, he’d been voted Sexiest Man Alive in People two years in a row. He had an Oscar and an Emmy. A red-hot long-standing career. Three cars. A New York apartment. A mansion in Beverly Hills. A house in Tuscany. No ties to hold him down.

In short, he had the perfect life.

Or did he?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

A resounding trio of yeses. He had enough married friends to convince him that staying single was the only way to go. He’d worked hard for his money, and how many poor schmucks had he seen lose half of what they’d earned to some greedy soon-to-be ex who demanded everything.

He could understand if there were kids involved, since child support was a given. Other than that — forget it.

Was Lori reaching that all too familiar stage in their relationship where she wanted more?

Commitment.

The dreaded word.

No, thank you.

Cliff made a decision. He’d take her on the trip, make sure she had a wonderful time, and then when they returned to L.A., he’d ever so gently cut her loose.

Cliff Baxter would soon be back out there. Single and ready for the next adventure.

Chapter Twenty-Three

They went shopping. They spent a lot of money. Or rather Luca spent and Jeromy encouraged. They bought clothes and shoes and luggage from the designer stores, then finally they stopped by Cartier, where Luca gifted Jeromy with a black Seatimer Pasha watch for everyday use. At nighttime they both wore their gold Rolexes, but Jeromy had his eye on a more expensive model.

Luca didn’t get the hint. Instead, he bought Suga a diamond-encrusted bracelet as a consolation prize for her cut-short tour.

Jeromy tried not to look pissed off, although he was. When would Luca stop spending money on the fat cow? Would that magical day ever come?

The previous night they’d had dinner with Suga and Luca junior. Today Jeromy’s facial muscles hurt from the big phony smile he’d had plastered on his face all night. Luca junior was annoying, but Suga was an embarrassment, and Jeromy hated being seen out in public with her.

Of course the photographers and lurking paparazzi were all over them. Since Luca had emerged from the closet he was more popular than ever. His super-star ex-wife, Suga, and bright-eyed young son, added spice to a story that everyone loved to read about. Photos of them together were gold dust.

When it came to attention, Luca lapped it up. He was so good-looking and charming. A blond Latin god who’d risen from nothing and conquered it all. His music reached out to everyone, and he’d never forgotten his roots and the sensual salsa sounds that were so much a part of his past. He recorded his songs in both Spanish and English, and they were always worldwide hits. His lyrics inspired people.

Because Suga was still so much in the picture, Jeromy found himself to be the odd one out. The magazines, newspapers and gossip sites seemed to overlook the fact that he and Luca were partners; they rarely mentioned him, and he was nearly always cut out of press photographs. It infuriated him. How come David Furnish was always pictured alongside Elton John? How come everyone knew who David Furnish was? And how about Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi? Never apart in the press.

Then it struck Jeromy.

Of course. They were married. They were legal.

So that’s what he had to do — persuade Luca to marry him.

One thing he knew for sure, it would not be easy.

When Luca had come out to Suga she had not been surprised, for she’d always suspected that he preferred boys to girls. In spite of this she’d married him anyway. Why not? He was a beauty and he had a generous soul. Plus he was extraordinarily talented, and she’d decided it was her calling to nurture that talent and make him into a star. Which she’d done, very successfully.

Getting pregnant was a bonus. Giving birth to Luca junior was the best day of her life. Forget about all the accolades and the gold records and the fan worship, having a healthy baby boy was the pinnacle. She’d relished sharing parenthood with Luca, while also watching his career rise.

Then one day he’d come to her and told her he was living a lie, that he was a gay man, and could no longer keep it to himself. She’d understood and immediately set him free.

Only he wasn’t free, was he? Slimy English Jeromy had somehow or other inveigled his way into Luca’s life and appeared to be here to stay. Suga did not like Jeromy. She did not trust him. And she sure as hell knew that he resented her as only an angry, jealous gay man can.

Unbeknownst to Luca, she’d had Jeromy investigated, and the results of said investigation were not great. Jeromy’s design business was in trouble — in spite of the fact that he constantly boasted about how well he was doing. His personal life was also suspect. He was not at all faithful to Luca. In London he was a well-known figure at fetish and leather clubs, and he often used the Internet to trawl for fresh meat.

Did Luca know any of this? Was it up to her to tell him? Or if she did, would he resent her forever?

She knew that she had to tread carefully, and perhaps come up with a plan to get Jeromy out of Luca’s life once and for all.

But how? It was something she had to think about.

Chapter Twenty-Four

‘Thank you, dear,’ Hammond said as Skylar placed a mug of coffee on his desk. ‘I warned you there would be late nights.’

‘Yes, you did,’ she said sweetly.

‘And are you absolutely certain you’re okay with it?’

‘Of course I am, Senator,’ Skylar replied, flattered that she was the only one he’d chosen to stay late. She’d only been working for him for a few days, and already she felt special. The offices were deserted except for a couple of cleaners who were busying themselves outside. Even his two assistants had left for the night.

‘I’ll be needing some papers copied shortly,’ he said, all business.

‘I’ll wait,’ Skylar offered.

‘Then you may as well wait in here,’ Hammond said, indicating the leather couch across from his desk. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

‘Are you sure, Senator?’ Skylar asked tentatively. ‘I could wait outside.’

‘No, no dear. Sit yourself down. I’m expecting a call, and until it comes through I’m stuck here.’

‘You work so hard,’ Skylar ventured, her tone full of admiration as she settled on the couch and crossed her legs.

‘Yes,’ Hammond agreed. ‘I suppose I do.’

He noted that her thighs were a tad too heavy and her skirt much too short. She had on a pair of wedge-heeled shoes that all the young girls seemed to favour, not at all sexy. Her legs were bare though, which made up for the clumsy shoes. He imagined running his hands up her legs, starting at the ankle and slowly travelling all the way up until he reached her meaty thighs, then plunging his fingers into what lay beyond.

‘My wife doesn’t understand why I have to work so late,’ Hammond said, playing the sympathy card. ‘The truth is, she doesn’t get it.’

‘Oh,’ Skylar said, thrilled that Senator Hammond Patterson was actually confiding in her, making her feel even more special.

‘Relationships have their ups and downs,’ Hammond continued, taking a sip of his coffee. He paused for a moment and gave her a long, lingering look. ‘And how about you, dear? Are you in a relationship?’

‘Uh… um…’ Skylar faltered, thinking of her football-playing boyfriend with whom she was always breaking up. ‘Sort of,’ she managed.

Hammond’s honest brown eyes twinkled. ‘Sort of?’ he said. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Well, er… sometimes we’re together and sometimes we’re not,’ Skylar admitted, nervously tugging at her short skirt, wishing she’d worn something a little more circumspect. But how was she supposed to know that she’d end the day sitting in Senator Patterson’s private office? It was an honour she had not expected.

‘Boys,’ Hammond said with a meaningful chuckle. ‘Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.’

‘I totally agree,’ Skylar said, starting to feel more as ease.

‘This sometime boyfriend of yours,’ Hammond continued. ‘Does he push you to do things you might not feel comfortable doing?’

‘Excuse me?’ Skylar said, startled.

‘I’m sure you understand what I’m saying.’

‘Uh… n-no, I don’t,’ Skylar stammered.

‘Sexual things,’ Hammond said, feeling a rising hard-on as he watched the girl squirm and blush beet-red. ‘No need to be embarrassed,’ he added, adopting his best fatherly voice. ‘I have a teenage daughter, you know. She tells me what goes on between boys and girls. She listens to me and I give her advice.’

‘Oh,’ Skylar said, filled with relief. For a moment she’d thought the esteemed Senator was about to come on to her, and how would she handle that?

‘Boys are only after one thing,’ Hammond said evenly. He was tempted to yell, Pussy! Young juicy pussy! However, he controlled himself. This one wasn’t quite ready, and it wouldn’t do to have her screaming rape if he touched her. ‘Anyway, Skylar — it is Skylar, isn’t it?’

‘Uh… yes, Senator.’

‘You can go now.’

‘But I thought—’

Don’t think, you stupid little girl. Simply get out of my office before I change my mind and jam my cock into your dumb mouth.

‘That’s all right,’ he said easily. ‘Everything can wait until the morning.’

Skylar jumped to her feet. ‘If you’re sure…’ she said hesitantly.

‘I’m sure,’ Hammond replied, busying himself with some papers on his desk. ‘Good night, dear.’

Slightly disappointed that she was being dismissed, Skylar slunk out.

Hammond immediately hurried into his private bathroom and masturbated, staring at his well-put-together reflection in the mirror while thinking of how it would feel, the first time he came in Skylar’s mouth, the first time he stuck it into her, the rubbing and fondling of her big breasts naked against his bare chest.

He could wait.

Why not?

He’d done so, many times before.

Sierra had shopped. Reluctantly. She’d bought clothes she knew would please her husband. Although why the hell she wanted to please him was beyond her comprehension.

Oh yes. Of course. She’d given up. Given in to the threats and insults he hurled at her. She was his docile arm-piece. She was — to the general public — the perfect wife.

Hammond had caught her in a trap, and the only way out would be to end it all.

Or… she could run to her parents and tell them what a terrible monster her husband was, and hope and pray that he would not carry out any of his dire threats.

However, that would be taking too big a risk. Hammond was a dangerous man, and as long as she went along with what he wanted — everyone would be safe.

As each day, week, month passed, Sierra sought solace in a variety of pills. They kept her calm. They kept her going.

They were gradually sucking the life out of her.