The A-List Collection: Hollywood Sinners / Wicked Ambition / Temptation Island. Victoria Fox
in anticipation of her response.
Kate refused to look at him. She swallowed back her tears. If only she knew how to deal with all this … frustration. She hadn’t been sleeping. She was depressed, anxious, jealous. She needed her pills–they were the only things that calmed her. But that would only give her husband something else to grumble on at her about.
Slumping on to a lounger, she put her head in her hands, waiting for him to come and comfort her. It wasn’t the first time she had hurled something at him.
Moments later she felt him sit down next to her and, sure enough, a gangly arm came to rest across her shoulders. ‘What is it?’ he asked gently.
Oh, how she was tempted to tell him all she knew. Just the other day she had found proof he was at it again. Tucked down the back of the bed was a pair of lilac panties she could have flossed her teeth with.
‘Jimmy, I …’ She shook her head, it was no use. Despite his extra-marital activities she couldn’t tolerate the thought of losing him–she absolutely refused to suffer the humiliation of becoming a divorcee twice over. And then there were the children to think about …
Jimmy patted her back as he might a friend’s and said swiftly, ‘Forget it, it’s no big deal.’ He stood up. Phew, that was a lucky escape.
Kate nodded and gazed up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Had she been so naive as to imagine she deserved her own love affair? After the arranged marriage to Cole Steel, the dreadful enforced celibacy, she had hoped for a second partnership based on trust, respect, but most of all passion. Hadn’t she earned it? The trouble was she just didn’t feel sexy any more: she felt old and ugly and stupid.
As if reading her mind, he held out a hand. ‘Come inside,’ he said throatily.
Weakly she got to her feet, took off the one remaining wedge and trailed after him. Maybe it would be better this time, she thought grimly, as they mounted the grand staircase.
In the bedroom, Jimmy pulled the blinds and tried not to think about the blonde actress-slash-model he’d been shagging. Long gone were the days when Kate would arrange herself into those ambitious positions.
Kate sat down on the edge of the bed and removed her bikini top. She crossed her arms over her breasts to cover them and lay back, rigid, looking blankly up at the ceiling.
‘Talk about the undead!’ As soon as the words escaped he knew it was the worst possible thing he could have said. Still, once upon a time she would have found it funny and teased him about being a terrible comedian.
Instead she gasped and sat up. ‘Fine, forget it, then.’ She reached for her bikini.
But he was on her in an instant, leaning her back against the pillows, finding her lips with his. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, ‘that was a grave mistake.’ And thought he saw the trace of a smile.
Trying to relax, Kate arched her back as Jimmy planted kisses on her neck, then lower, past her collarbone, and finally he reached her nipples. Though she’d had an augmentation and a lift she still felt crinkly and unattractive. Instinctively she tensed.
‘Jimmy, I …’
‘Just take it easy,’ he soothed, his hand moving ever lower until it arrived at the band of her bikini briefs. As he sneaked a finger in and felt the brush of hair there, she pulled away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, rolling on to her side and pulling a sheet up to cover herself. ‘I just don’t want to.’
There was a brief silence, and before Kate could stop herself she spilled, launching into a monologue about how she thought the problem was that he didn’t make her feel wanted, loved, all those things that mattered. She talked about how she felt old and washed-up and how she knew he preferred a younger model and how was she supposed to compete? Still she couldn’t bring herself to raise the issue of his affairs, but it was the next best thing to air what was on her mind. They said the bedroom was the place for intimacy, and right now this was exactly the kind of intimacy she needed.
Minutes later she wound to a halt, feeling exhausted but definitely lighter.
‘Well?’ she said softly. ‘Does that make sense to you?’
A moment passed before he began to snore.
‘Jimmy?’ She turned over to see his prostrate form, mouth hanging slack, a rivulet of drool escaping down one side.
‘Oh, fuck it!’ she fumed, swinging her legs off the bed. Was this what her marriage had come to? It was almost as much of a joke as the years she’d spent with Cole. At least that hadn’t involved any … expectation.
Wrapping a towel around her, she slipped from the room, closing the door quietly. She would use a guest bedroom to bring herself the pleasure she knew, deep down, she deserved. These days it was the only way.
St Tropez
Elisabeth Sabell stood from the table and tucked in her chair. She and Robert were dining with investors at La Parisienne, an exclusive harbourside restaurant favoured by the rich and famous.
‘Everything OK, puss?’ asked Bernstein, firing Robert an accusing look.
‘Fine,’ said Elisabeth, ‘if you’ll just excuse me.’ She made her way through the tables and into the cool marble of the bathroom. She felt queasy. Pushing open an empty cubicle, she closed the door and leaned back, breathing deeply.
The trip had been extended. Stupidly she hadn’t brought next month’s Pill. She’d been ready to tell Robert that they’d need to use other precautions, before thinking at the weekend, Why should we? They both wanted kids, they’d discussed it before. Since arriving in France conversation had been so scant that sex was the only real communication they were sharing. Perhaps a baby would help get things back on track.
Now her period was late.
She extracted the test from her purse.
For the first time since she and Robert had got engaged, she wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted it to say.
Robert St Louis was trying to ignore the fact that one of his investors’ wives, a sharp-featured English woman with a tightly drawn chignon, had been giving him the come-on all night. Earlier, on the way to the restroom, she had pushed herself up against him and promised in a husky upper-class voice, ‘Later.’ Somehow he knew that later would never come.
The waiter came to take their order. It was a big table: as well as Robert, Bernstein and his two daughters, they were dining with three key financiers and their immaculately groomed wives. But what was taking Elisabeth so long?
‘Here she comes,’ droned Jessica, stirring her martini.
Elisabeth, her cheeks flushed, resumed her seat. She took the menu. ‘Are we ready?’ she asked in a strained voice.
While the others ordered food, Robert caught his fiancée’s eye and she gave him a wobbly smile. She looked radiant tonight in a bronze figure-skimming dress, her blonde hair piled high on her head. He smiled back, made a face that enquired if everything was OK. She nodded briefly.
‘So I say to them, it’s all about the vision.’ Bernstein tore off a hunk of ciabatta, dunked it in oil and threw it into this mouth. ‘Time an’ again we’ve proved it, it’s not all about the casinos, the gaming enterprises–I’m talkin’ development of conference space, shopping facilities—’
‘Time spent in our hotels,’ interjected Robert. ‘We know what people want before they know it themselves. It has to be about our guests. Everything in this business is.’
Bernstein pointed a chunk of bread at him. ‘Exactly.’
‘And growth into Europe,’ noted Jerry Gollancz, an elderly man with pink-tipped