The A-List Collection: Hollywood Sinners / Wicked Ambition / Temptation Island. Victoria Fox
For seconds she stayed clinging to its trunk, before catching her breath and carefully dropping to the ground. A spray of water caught her off guard, a lawn sprinkler, and she bit hard to stop herself crying out. Realising what it was, she unzipped her bag, slid on her sneakers and ran, half laughing, half stumbling, away from the grounds.
By the time Cole realised she was gone she’d already be on a plane, halfway across the Nevada desert.
Cole Steel lowered himself into the soothing bubbles–there was nothing like a soak after a burn in the gym. He ran his hands along the marble flanks of the tub and lay back, reaching for his cucumber face mask. Closing his eyes, he used both hands to apply the cream.
Pumping iron was a necessity. He’d just signed for a blistering action role that involved hanging in a series of mid-air shots: scaling a rock in Australia; dangling from a skyscraper in Tokyo; swinging from a helicopter over Manhattan. It was about time he showed the world he still had twice the balls of a younger actor. Not literally.
Cole felt the skin on his face tightening under the mask. Looking after himself was paramount: the role of Cole Steel was his most demanding to date.
If only Lana applied the same degree of dedication. He needed to talk to her. She’d been ill most of this week, hadn’t come out of her rooms much. Time was of the essence if they were to put this pregnancy plan into action–he vowed to corner her that afternoon.
Hell, he wasn’t stupid, he knew she was already thinking about the end of the contract, couldn’t wait to be free so she could hop into bed with any old Z-list bit-part actor. Wasn’t there more to life than sex? He himself was testament to that. He fished a hand under the water and felt for his penis, soft and flaccid as a mollusc on a rock. Wearily he considered a thousandth attempt, then thought better of it. Gone were the days of tugging uselessly at it like someone milking a cow. There were other ways of getting to the top and getting a good woman–and Cole Steel had managed to achieve both.
Against all odds. Michael Benedict had made sure of that.
Cole shuddered.
‘No!‘ he yelled out to the empty room, the lone word echoing round the white walls, a horrible, insistent taunt.
He held his nose and sank under the bubbles, forcing himself to forget. He’d been so young when Benedict had signed him up for his first starring role. He’d thought everyone had to do it, you know, to keep the director happy. When Benedict had first invited him round to his house, he’d thought everyone had to do it; when Benedict had led him to his bedroom, decked out in black silk and dark, twisting candles, he’d thought everyone had to do it; when Benedict told him to lie flat on his front …
‘I thought everyone had to do it!‘ Cole cried out, surfacing in a crash of water. Ripples spilled over the sides of the tub and washed on to the floor. He sank back, exhausted. To his eternal dismay his cock was rock-hard. Michael Benedict was the only thing. Even after all these years, even after how he hated that man with all that he was and ever would be, the memory of those agonising, exquisite days with Benedict was the only thing that could do it for him.
Fiercely Cole rubbed some cuticle-boosting shampoo through his hair and rinsed it off, clearing his mind, wiping it clean, refusing to think once more of the name. He was disgusted with himself.
Climbing out, he dried his now deflated body. He started at the feet, between the toes, and worked up to the ankle, calf, shin, thigh. Order made things make sense. He threw on a robe and headed downstairs.
In the lobby an army of cleaners was out in force, touching his things and moving them around in a way that was impossible to watch. He took his seat for a late lunch and checked his watch. Still no sign of Lana.
After a light spread of sashimi and mineral water, Cole cleaned his teeth twice, harder than usual so that his gums bled. Then he called round his drivers to see if anyone had taken his wife out that morning on an urgent work matter. They hadn’t. Nobody had seen her.
Cole found his housekeeper out on the terrace.
‘Louisa, have you seen Lana today?’
The dark-haired woman paused in mopping the tiles, thought a moment then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I haven’t.’
Cole ran a smooth hand over his chin. ‘When did you last see her?’
Louisa wrung her hands in her apron. ‘Yesterday, Mr Steel.’
Cole watched her carefully. ‘That’s all.’
He went back inside and stood for a while, hands on hips, thinking what to do. A flicker of anxiety danced in his gut. Something was the matter.
If his wife didn’t want to come to him, he’d simply have to go to her.
At the top of the back stairs Cole knocked gently and waited. There was no answer. He buzzed, listening for movement.
‘Lana?’ he called. Perhaps she was in the bathroom, couldn’t hear.
‘Lana.’ He said her name more forcefully. ‘Open this door.’
Still nothing.
He leaned his face against the wood and tightened his jaw against the cool, hard surface. Only quiet.
After a moment he dropped to his knees and drew to one side the gold leaf covering the keyhole. It was just possible to glimpse the fabrics of her bedroom, the apricot florals of a bed that was perfectly made. And perfectly not slept in.
Like a leopard, he pounced.
Turning from the door he flew down the stairs at startling speed, his bathrobe flying out behind him like a cape. In his own quarters he pulled aside a Man Ray print, reached into a narrow tunnel that could just accommodate his arm and drew out a plain, dark brown box. Inside was a collection of keys, each individually labelled. One was bigger than the rest and it was this he extracted: the skeleton key. He had never had cause to use it before.
He returned to his wife’s rooms with shaking hands and inserted the key into the lock. As it turned, he closed his eyes. He had never accessed Lana’s private space–it was as alien as unlocking a stranger’s house.
Inside, he was surprised at how neat she kept it. There was very little about the place that was personal, no photographs or pictures, no diary at her bedside, nothing that said who she was. The surfaces were clear except for a number of ragged books stacked together on a far shelf. They were all fiction; paperback novels whose pages were well thumbed. He scanned their spines. Mostly classics, none of which he’d read himself.
He yanked open her bedside drawer. Inside was a notebook with nothing written in it, though it looked like several pages had been torn out, then under that was a large white envelope. He lifted one corner and saw a face he recognised. It was a copy of the Las Vegas Reporter, with that hotelier St Louis on the cover. With grim satisfaction he applauded her: she was a hard worker, his wife, reading up on her premiere before sleep.
‘Lana?’ he called again, just to be safe. It wouldn’t do if she discovered him.
In the bathroom he warmed to his cause, fancying himself the private detective. The window was open a crack and he pulled it shut, securing the latch. Her cabinet yielded little–just a handful of half empty tubs of face cream, some packs of aspirin and a tube of toothpaste. There was a stout brown glass bottle with the lid screwed on tight. He turned it round in his hand, finding no label. Removing the cap, he tipped out a couple of white tablets and touched his tongue to their surface. Painkillers. For some reason he felt disappointed.
Then, just as he turned to go, the trash can caught his eye.
With a bare foot he pressed on the cool metal lever and the top eased open. Inside, screwed up tight, only just visible from where it had been hidden under a drift