Hollywood Wives--The New Generation

by Jackie Collins

  “Can you organize it for me?” she asked hopefully.

  “If you tell me when he’ll be away.”

  “He’s supposed to be recording with a new producer all day Friday.”

  “That’s two days down the line. You certain you can hold it together until then?”

  “I’m an actress,” she said confidently. “Gregg will never suspect a thing.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Michael said. “Living in the same house, pretending nothing’s going on. It won’t be easy.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I am worried,” he said, frowning. “What if you can’t hold back and get into a fight?

  “I won’t do that,” she promised.

  “Has he ever been violent toward you?”

  “No,” she lied, conveniently forgetting two extremely disturbing incidents she preferred to block out.

  “If you say so,” Michael said reluctantly.

  “I do.”

  “Okay. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Thanks,” she murmured.

  “All you have to do is call me when he leaves the house on Friday.”

  “That’s it?”

  “We’ll make it smooth and easy.”

  “You’re very nice, Michael.”

  His look was direct and disconcerting. “That’s because I’m dealing with a very nice lady.”

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  NICCI’S WEDDING PLANS were progressing well, which was good news, because Evan was coming home soon, and she couldn’t wait to see him.

  She had finally gotten everything together, with a great deal of help from the woman at the venue, who’d been most obliging when she’d given her Evan’s mother’s list. And since Saffron was in charge of the bridesmaids’ dresses, all she had left to do was find a dress for herself. Lissa had suggested that she fly to New York and order something expensive from Vera Wang. Instead, she explored Robertson, discovering a shop next to The Ivy, where she came across the romantic gown of her dreams. Ivory satin with floating panels of chiffon—so beautiful she was certain Evan would love it.

  Today, she decided, she was going to do something she’d been putting off for weeks, and that was phone her father. She’d called Lissa and tried to talk to her about it, but all her mom had said was a noncommittal “It’s your call.”

  “Do you mind if Antonio comes?” she’d asked.

  “Why would I mind?” Lissa had answered, cool as ever.

  “Are you sure?” she’d persisted.

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  She’d never gotten her mom to say much about Antonio, he was more or less a closed subject, and whenever she brought him up, Lissa went on to something else.

  Oh, well . . . maybe one of these days she’d get her to open up about him.

  She flitted around the house, making sure all was in order for Evan’s return. He was extremely anal about his house. It was stark white and modern, with minimal furniture, and several highly expensive pieces of art hanging on the walls. Nicci figured that once they were married she’d change everything and make it more homey and comfortable.

  Finally, with nothing left to do, she picked up the phone and called Antonio.

  Fortunately he answered the phone himself, because she’d been dreading talking to her stern grandmother. “Antonio!” she exclaimed. “Guess who?”

  There was a short silence before he spoke. “As if I can’t guess,” he said at last. “Two years and no word, now my Nicci calls. This stubbornness you inherited from me.”

  “You always like to take credit for everything,” she teased, delighted to hear his voice.

  “Not always.”

  “How come you haven’t called me?” she demanded. “Doesn’t that make you the stubborn one?”

  “We’re both stubborn,” he admitted. “However, I am pleased to speak to you, my cariño.”

  “Really?” she asked, feeling like a little kid again.

  “Of course. How are you?”

  She hesitated a moment before blurting out. “I’m . . . uh . . . getting married.”

  “You are doing what?”

  “Getting married,” she repeated, wondering what he’d say.

  “You’re too young,” he said sternly.

  “I’m almost twenty,” she countered.

  “That’s too young.”

  “Look at you and Mommy.”

  “Yes, look at us,” he said dryly.

  “Anyway,” she added quickly, “I’m marrying this like really cool guy in five weeks, and I’d love you to come to my wedding and give me away.”

  There was another short silence. “I must tell you something,” Antonio said, clearing his throat.

  “What?” she asked impatiently.

  “I am getting married myself.”

  “Adela is letting you get married again?” she said disbelievingly. “No way.”

  “Adela is happy for me,” he said, quite affronted. “And my desire is that you will be too.”

  “When are you doing this?”

  “Next week.”

  “Oh, that’s great, isn’t it?” she said, trying not to sound whiny. “At least I call and invite you. You weren’t even going to tell me.”

  “Eventually.”

  What kind of father was he? It suddenly occurred to her that she was stuck with parents who basically didn’t give a crap about anyone except themselves. “Who are you marrying?” she demanded. At least she was entitled to know that.

  “A wonderful woman,” he answered smoothly.

  “Woman?” she said, needling him, because since Antonio always referred to women as girls, this one must be older. “Hmm,” she continued. “That sounds suspicious. Is she older than you?”

  “Well . . .” he said, hesitating for a moment. “Just a trifle.”

  Nicci jumped on that one. “How much older?”

  “Merely a few years.”

  “How many?” Nicci persisted.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Fifteen!” she exclaimed. “Holy shit! That means when you’re fifty she’ll be like sixty-five!” A beat, because she knew her father only too well. And then a sly—“She must be mega rich.”

  “That’s not the reason we marry,” he said, offended.

  Sure, Nicci thought. Then she sighed and said, “I guess that means you can’t make it to my wedding.”

  “I will be there.”

  “Promise?”

  “E-mail me the details. I would not miss giving my one and only beautiful daughter away.”

  She felt a sudden surge of deep affection. “Uh . . . Antonio?” she said softly.

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll mean a lot to me.”

  “To me also, cariño.”

  She put the phone down in a state of bemusement. Antonio was getting married again, and to a woman fifteen years his senior. The only good thing about it was that Adela must be throwing a blue fit!

  And what would Lissa say?

  She couldn’t wait to find out.

  •

  “SHIT!” Taylor exclaimed.

  “Wassup?” Oliver muttered, rolling over on the mattress they’d been sharing for the last few hours.

  “I fell asleep,” Taylor said, panicking as she consulted her watch. “And now it’s almost five and I’ve blown out my appointment at the beauty shop, not to mention my shrink, who’s probably called the house to find out where I am. Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  “Chill,” Oliver said unconcernedly, stretching his sinewy body.

  “You fucking chill,” Taylor snapped, groping for her bra and panties, which were lurking somewhere under his decidedly suspect sheets. “Larry’s being honored tonight, and we have to leave the house by six.”

  “Didn’t he get honored two weeks ago?” Oliver asked, jumping off the bed, naked.

  Taylor couldn’t help noticing that in spite of their earlier marathon sex session, he was hard again. Oh, the advantages of youth!<
br />
  Finding her panties, she put them on. Then she continued the search for her bra, which she couldn’t locate in the tangled sheets.

  “Damn!” she muttered, running into the living room to recover the rest of her clothes.

  Dressing quickly, she realized they hadn’t even discussed her script. On her last visit she’d handed Oliver fifteen hundred dollars in cash, and for that he was supposed to read through the script and come up with some brilliant suggestions. If his ideas were any good, she was planning on hiring him at a proper fee to do a polish.

  No time to get into it now. She had to get home as fast as possible and come up with a good excuse on the way.

  Oliver was standing by the bedroom door watching her. He was still naked and still erect.

  She had an urgent desire to stop and admire his young, hard body, maybe even make love again. But she didn’t dare. Larry would be beside himself wondering where she was, and there was no way he could reach her because she’d switched off her cell phone.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, rushing for the door. “We’ll discuss my script then. Okay?”

  “Whatever,” Oliver mumbled. And since she was already out the door, she didn’t hear him add under his breath, “It won’t do any good, your script stinks.”

  •

  QUINCY HAD ASKED MICHAEL to call him as soon as Lissa Roman left the office. Instead, Michael decided to drop by and see how old Quince was doing. He felt unsettled after spending time with Lissa. She might be extremely famous, but she was also a vulnerable woman going through a tough time, and watching her face while she was listening to the tape had been quite an experience. They’d dealt with celebrity clients before, and Michael had always been able to separate the job from the person. This time something was different.

  Do not get personally involved. Rule one of being in the private investigation business.

  Yeah, sure, but how many times did a woman like Lissa Roman walk into the office?

  He drove up to the Robbins house in the valley, Lissa still on his mind.

  Amber, Quincy’s pretty wife, answered the door. A plump woman, with glowing ebony skin and a warm smile, she gave him an all-enveloping hug, her huge bosom pressing against his chest.

  “Always a pleasure to see you, Michael,” she said. “Q’s in front of the TV.”

  “Big surprise,” he said, grinning.

  “And I am fixing him a snack. Can I get you something? You’re looking damn skinny.”

  Not a visit went by unless Amber remarked that he was looking skinny. At six feet two and a hundred and eighty pounds? He didn’t think so.

  “No, thanks,” he said, shaking his head. Amber was a great cook, but Michael tried to avoid her cooking, because a person could gain ten pounds just by glancing at her cakes and pies and freshly baked corn bread. Every time he ate dinner at their house he had to put in an extra two hours at the gym.

  Once, long ago, when Amber was an exotic dancer; she’d weighed one hundred and fifteen pounds. Now, after three children and nine years of marriage to Quincy, she was hovering at two hundred. Standing beside her husband, she still looked petite.

  Michael entered the cozy family room, where his partner was happily ensconced on the couch, his cast-covered leg propped in front of him on a foot stool.

  Michael indicated the cast. “How long?”

  “How long what?” Quincy said. He was a large, over-weight man, with surprisingly soft brown eyes, bushy hair, and extra-large hands and feet.

  “How long are you shirking work and leaving everything to me?”

  “You’re capable,” Quincy said with a big smile. “An’ I deserve a rest.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “C’mon, man,” Quincy said plaintively. “I’m gettin’ up there. If I take a few weeks off, you can run things.”

  “How many cases do you think I can cover by myself?”

  “Shit!” Quincy complained. “I’m an old man. At least lemme take a few days.”

  “You’re fifty-three, Quince. That’s forty if you go by today’s standards.”

  “Yeah, an’ you, my friend, are forty-four, so what does that make you?”

  “Overworked,” Michael said. “I expect you back behind your desk in a week.”

  “Yes, sir!” Quincy joked. “You got it, boss man!”

  “Screw you,” Michael said good-naturedly.

  They had too long a history to ever get mad at each other. They were friends first, business partners second.

  “So,” Quincy said, clicking off the TV with the remote that never left his hands. “What’s goin’ on that I should know about?”

  “Everything seems to be under control,” Michael said. “The personal-assistant case went down this morning, there’ll be a new hearing in six weeks. The gardener on the Merron estate was fired, and they’re not pressing charges. And uh . . . oh, yeah . . . Lissa Roman came in. I played her one of the tapes. She wants us to take care of removing her husband from the house.”

  “Ah . . . Lissa Roman . . .” Quincy sighed, a gleam in his eye. “Some looker, huh?”

  “Didn’t really notice,” Michael said, keeping it casual.

  “Bullshit you didn’t notice!” Quincy roared. “She’s the foxiest piece of—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, Amber entered the room carrying a tray loaded with goodies.

  “Piece of what, honey?” she asked. “Go ahead, spit it out. Don’t mind me, I’m only your wife.”

  “An’ what is my lovely wife bringin’ me?” Quincy said, quick to turn on the charm.

  “A punch on the jaw if you don’t clean up your bad boy talk.”

  “Ouch!” Quincy said. “I was merely testin’ my man here t’see if he got a hard-on in the presence of Miz Roman.”

  “You’re disgustin’!” Amber exclaimed affectionately. Then she turned to Michael. “Did you?”

  “Jesus Christ!” Michael said. “The two of you are as bad as each other.”

  “Did you?” they both chorused in unison.

  Michael shook his head as if he couldn’t believe they would ask such a thing. “She’s a lovely woman who happens to be going through a difficult time,” he said. “The guy she’s married to has to be the world’s biggest moron.”

  “Oh dear,” Amber sighed. “Our Michael is definitely smitten.”

  “ ’Fraid so,” Quincy agreed. “Shame he can’t do nothin’ about it.”

  “Will you two quit with this shit,” Michael said abruptly. “In case you’ve forgotten—I have a perfectly nice girlfriend.”

  “Which one is it this week?” Amber asked innocently. “Letetia? Carol?”

  “Man, I can’t keep up with this Casanova,” Quincy chortled. “He got pussy fever!”

  Michael shook his head again, he was in no mood for their antics. Since breaking up with his steady girlfriend, Kennedy, three years ago, they were always on his case. The truth was that he hardly dated at all, because women somehow or other always managed to let him down. He knew women considered him exceptionally handsome, and he accepted that as a simple fact. But good looks were not what he was all about, and he resented that most women never saw beyond his looks. Currently he was dating Carol, a failed actress, now a real estate broker. She was nice enough, but it was painfully obvious that she needed more than he was prepared to give.

  He always warned them up front that there was no way he was interested in a serious relationship. They always agreed, said neither were they. And then they fell in love and he was stuck. The survival instinct had taught him to get out just in time.

  “I’m heading back to work,” he said. “Glad to see you’re not lacking in the smart-mouth department.”

  “Thanks, bro,” Quincy said, reaching for a chocolate cookie. “I’ll be walkin’ before you know it.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  Michael left their house, stopping for a hamburger on his way to the office. Lissa Roman was still on his mind. It worried him
that she’d be alone in her house with a man she knew was cheating on her. Would she be safe? Could she handle it?

  Yes. Of course she could. She was rich and famous, she could probably handle anything.

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  AFTER RETURNING the rental car to the Saks parking lot, Lissa hurried back to Barneys, entering through the front entrance and exiting through the back, where Chuck waited with her car.

  As she walked through the makeup department, she couldn’t help wondering if one of the girls working behind the counters was Gregg’s lover. They were all attractive, young, and stylish.

  She glanced around, her eyes hidden beneath her dark glasses.

  Which one was Gregg’s choice? The Chinese girl with the glossy black hair? The pretty blonde in the unsuitable-for-work skimpy top? The languid redhead who seemed to throw her a malevolent glare?

  Who knew? Who cared? Gregg Lynch was soon to be history.

  Arriving home, she found Gregg lying out by the pool, putting in time on his year-round tan.

  Gregg Lynch. Thirty years old. Handsome in an all-American, dirty-blond, football-hero way.

  Songwriter—talentless, in spite of her valiant efforts to steer him in the right direction.

  Lazy—she supported both of them.

  Charming—when he cared to turn it on.

  Sexy—sometimes.

  Was that why she’d married him? Because he was good in bed?

  Oh God, she hoped not. She’d married him because he’d seemed so easygoing, was fun to be around, and quite frankly, in spite of all the glamorous trappings, she’d been lonely; and after husband number three—a Washington businessman who’d refused to commute—she’d needed a man to share her life with. A man who would be there for her all the way, supporting her in everything she did.

  Wrong again, dammit.

  “Hi, babe,” Gregg said, sitting up and flexing his considerable muscles. “How’s my hardworking little movie star with the big tits?”