The A-List Collection. Victoria Fox
her cheek.
‘Happy birthday, Sam.’
‘It is,’ he said, picking his teeth. ‘Woulda been nice if Chloe could’ve made it.’
Lana looked around. ‘Where is she?’
‘Not well. I spoke to Brock Wilde this morning.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘Sure is.’ He grinned. ‘The critics are getting pretty excited about her, I gotta say. She’s gonna make a splash in Vegas.’
The word punched a hole in Lana. She smiled as a tough-guy actor who’d worked with the director in the nineties slapped Sam on the back. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, moving away.
She needed something else to drink–and fast. A tray of champagne swept past and she plucked a flute from its surface, just in time to feel something large and hard bump into her back. She turned. It was Parker Troy.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, looking at his shoes. Handsome as ever, he was wearing a brown tux and open shirt, his muddy-blond hair falling over his forehead. If she concentrated very hard he could almost be someone else.
Instinctively she touched his arm. ‘It’s been ages.’
‘Yeah.’
They looked at each other. Parker felt intimidated, as he always did when he had to engage her in anything other than sex.
‘How have you been?’ asked Lana.
‘Good.’
Wow, we really don’t have anything to talk about.
Parker asked a couple of courteous, couldn’t-give-a-crap-about-the-answer-to questions. When he drew a Camel from his top pocket and said he was going outside for a smoke, she knew she would go with him. She needed it. Her body needed release.
They snaked their way through the swarm of guests and outside on to the terrace. A high-walled, secluded space, it was hidden from the street and safe from the paparazzi’s prying eyes. It was empty. They were alone.
Parker took her hand and pulled her round the side of the club, into the neck of a narrow alley that was entirely hidden from sight.
They didn’t say a word. Lana’s head was buzzing with the champagne. All she could think about was how this was a new beginning. Soon, after Cole, she would be free. Whatever she had with Robert, she knew now it was gone. The past was over and it wasn’t coming back.
Parker unzipped his trousers with fumbling urgency, grabbed her ass and hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around him.
One last time. That’s all this is.
As he drove into her, his breath hot against her ear, somewhere in the distance a weak alarm sounded.
Don’t be stupid, Lana. Tell him to stop.
She felt him move inside her and the rest was history.
Spring
New York
The man scraped the bottom of the saucepan with a knife. Brown shavings of scrambled egg peeled off the metal, curly like woodchips. Shit, he’d burned breakfast.
‘Nelson, honey, can you fix me some more coffee?’
The woman at the table looked older in the cold light of day. She was overweight with loose, pasty skin and a nest of black hair, stiff as wire. With his back to her at the stove, the man tensed, but responded to his alias all the same and refilled her cup. He’d been living under the name Nelson Price for ten years now. Ten long, long years. But the wait would soon be over.
‘Thanks, baby,’ the woman said in a whiny voice. She picked up the remote and started flicking channels on the TV. ‘Where’s breakfast?’
‘I’m doing it, aren’t I?’ the man snapped, thinking she could benefit from missing a meal or two. He couldn’t even remember where he’d picked this dyke up–she’d probably come into Club 44 and taken advantage of him when he was drunk.
At thirty-six, clad in his morning attire of stained beige jockeys, he was an alarmingly unattractive man. Years of drink had left him looking closer to sixty than forty, with ravaged skin stretched over pointed, rat-like features. His eyes were squinty, hard and pitiless. His thin brown hair clung stubbornly to the very back of his head, refusing to abandon him completely and concealing a deep, jagged scar that ran from one ear to the other. The front was completely bald and shiny as a wiped-down surface. Lean and crooked in frame, his sharp bones pushed at the skin so that when he was naked it was possible to count the knots of his spine. His nose had grown longer over the years, curved now like a beak.
He dumped the scorched eggs on to two plates and brought them to the table, where the mounds quivered brain-like. The only bread in the apartment was covered in mould, so they’d have to make do. This one, whatever her name was, obviously didn’t give a crap as she shovelled the yellowy-brown stuff into her mouth, chewing loudly and slurping her coffee.
Something on the TV caught his attention. A name, that was all it was. But it was her name. The name he hated beyond all others. Two dirty words.
Lana Falcon.
‘Go back,’ he ordered calmly. The egg on his fork balanced uncertainly before dropping to the plate in miserable defeat.
The woman ignored him and continued flicking channels.
‘I said, go back.’ He wouldn’t ask again.
‘What, baby?’ she said, distracted, her mouth full of food.
Lester Fallon snatched the control and punched at the buttons. Seconds later they landed on a celebrity news channel.
And there she was. His sister. It seemed she had an alias, too.
Liar, murderer, bitch.
She was rich, she was famous; she lived the life of a fucking princess like she hadn’t got a care in the world.
Like she hadn’t killed her own brother.
The injustice of it made him shake.
‘Nelson, honey, are you OK?’
Lester put down his cutlery. ‘I want you to leave.’ He could feel his rage boiling up inside, threatening to spill. He would warn her once more, but that would be the last time. The mere sight of his sister, the mention of her name unleashed the animal in him. He could not be held accountable for his actions if this lardy-ass broad got in the way.
‘What’s the matter, sugar-pie?’ she bleated. ‘Don’t you want me to suck that fine old dick of yours one more time?’
Under the table Lester wiped his palms on his hairy knees.
‘I said, leave.’
The woman took her time in clearing the last of her plate. ‘Fine.’ She wiped her mouth on the back of her arm. ‘You just give me what I’m owed and I’m outta here.’
Lester’s knuckles cracked beneath the surface. He hadn’t realised that was the deal.
‘I ain’t got no money,’ he snarled.
The woman made a face; she’d heard it all before. ‘That watch’ll do nicely,’ she said, her eyes darting to the cheap imitation Rolex attached to his wrist.
In a single swift movement, Lester’s hand shot up and slapped her across the face. She responded quickly, going for his head,