Rock Star

by Jackie Collins

  Was there no end to her desire to turn him on? Tomorrow she would pay for her teasing, oh how she would pay!

  ‘Coming?’ she called innocently, surfacing with a lethal crawl.

  ‘Naw. I’m gonna work out.’

  He made his way into the luxurious pool house where there was a fully equipped gym. He’d been working with a body trainer and weights for almost two years and the difference was amazing. Whereas before he’d been wiry and naturally athletic, never a slouch when it came to moving around on stage, now he was in incredible shape – fitter than he’d ever been. Thirty-eight was the age when some rock stars began to think about winding down. Not Kris – he had a new energy; a steely strength. Whatever he was doing it worked for him – plus he was performing better than ever.

  Twenty minutes of punishment and he was ready for a swim. The pool was empty. Cybil had moved on to other activities.

  Churning up and down for thirty lengths he emerged fit and refreshed.

  Waiting poolside was his manager, Hawkins Lamont – an American usually known as the Hawk.

  The Hawk was fashionably dressed in white duck pants, a white polo shirt, white loafers and a pale beige crocodile Gucci belt. A tall man in his forties with a George Hamilton tan, the Hawk radiated an air of supreme confidence. And so he should: he was one of the most successful and sought-after managers in the business, with a stable of first-class talent. Kris had been with him for three years, ever since leaving his former manager – the notorious Doktor Head.

  ‘You seem to be in excellent shape,’ the Hawk said, settling himself at a patio table under a yellow striped umbrella.

  Kris nodded. ‘I feel great – I mean we’re talkin’ really great.’

  And he meant it, only too aware of the fact that he couldn’t have made that claim a few years ago.

  The Hawk smiled. A Hollywood smile made entirely of porcelain. ‘I just came over to convey a personal message. Marcus Citroen is delighted you’ve agreed to appear at his wife’s function tonight.’

  Wrapping a towel around his waist Kris sat down. ‘I didn’t have much choice, did I?’ he said dryly.

  ‘You made the right choice,’ the Hawk replied pointedly. ‘Tonight is special. Marcus wanted the three hottest recording stars in the business, and he got them. I wouldn’t have been pleased to see your place taken by Springsteen, would you?’

  Kris stared at Mabel walking across the lawn bearing a tray with tea and toast for him, and a lead crystal glass of Perrier decorated with a slice of lime for his guest. ‘As long as I’m in an’ out,’ he said dourly.

  ‘We agreed on that. You’re appearing last, after Bobby Mondella and Rafealla. That was one of my conditions to Marcus, the star spot or nothing.’

  ‘Sure’, Kris said listlessly. He hated the whole deal.

  ‘Is Cybil coming with you?’ the Hawk asked smoothly.

  ‘I dunno. Haven’t asked her.’

  ‘It’s going to be quite an evening.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not stayin’, am I?’

  ‘You might change your mind.’

  ‘Naw.’

  The Hawk took one sip of Perrier and rose. ‘I’ll check with you later. The limo will be here at three thirty. I’d like to plan on leaving at the latest by four.’

  After the Hawk had departed, Cybil reappeared. Luckily she had dressed, although her ensemble left little to the imagination. A skimpy tank-top – under which she very obviously wore no bra. Crotch-hugging shorts, and white ankle socks worn with nifty Reeboks. She looked like an over-developed cheerleader.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ he asked.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ she said, wide-eyed. ‘I’ve got a shoot with a vereee randy photographer. He’ll probably want to ravish my girlish body – what shall I do?’

  ‘Make ’im wear a condom!’

  She frowned. ‘Kris! That’s not funny. You wouldn’t like it if I did sleep with him, would you?’

  ‘I’ll tell you something, luv. You wouldn’t be around to tell the tale.’

  ‘No?’ she said challengingly.

  ‘Nope. You’d be out, kiddo. Bags packed an’ on the doorstep.’

  Cybil was unamused. Suddenly she was all grown up. ‘You’re such a chauvinist. I suppose you think I don’t know about that Danish hooker you keep in London.’

  There it was, out in the open. It was the first time in the months they’d been living together she’d ever dared to mention Astrid.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ he said calmly. ‘I never pretended I was perfect. The only thing is – I do expect you to be.’

  ‘You’re an asshole!’ she blurted out. ‘All my friends keep on telling me what a two-timing rat you are. Why should I put up with it?’

  ‘Nobody’s tying you to the bedpost, are they?’

  ‘I hate you, Kris Phoenix. One of these days I won’t be around when you get back, then you’ll really be sorry.’

  She flounced off.

  He sighed deeply. It wasn’t going to be a good day.

  * * *

  Maxwell Sicily – alias George Smith – piled into the first of the special buses hired to transport the waiters and entire catering staff of Lilliane’s to the rambling Novaroen estate in preparation for the most exclusive party of the year. The chefs, waiters, and busboys talked excitedly among themselves. This was one event nobody wanted to miss. The press had been headlining it for weeks, it was the hottest ticket around. Fifty couples at one hundred thousand dollars per couple was some shot.

  Maxwell settled back in a window seat, staring out as the convoy of buses set off along Sunset – a winding, twisting route which would take them all the way to the Pacific Coast Highway, where there would be a further twenty-five-minute drive along the scenic coastal road.

  Humming softly to himself he tried to blank out the conversations going on all around. Snatches reached him anyway, mostly about money, because everyone was anxious to get a load of the people who could afford to pay such an unbelievable price for one evening’s entertainment.

  ‘I wanna see Rafealla sing,’ said a young busboy to nobody in particular. ‘She’s the greatest.’

  ‘Nali. Give me Whitney Houston any day,’ argued an assistant chef. ‘Now there’s a real sexy broad.’

  ‘So what? They all fuck,’ sniffed a skinny waiter with eyeglasses and a permanent sneer.

  Yes, Maxwell thought, it’s true. They all fuck, and they all lie, and they all spend your money and run out on you.

  He should know. His father had taught him at a very early age. Which is why he stuck to hookers.

  Pay, and you know exactly what you are getting.

  Pay, and you’re the boss. No argument.

  Women were inferior creatures. Keep them on their knees where they belong. Let them know who’s in charge. Never take any of their garbage. Never.

  He thought about Vicki Foxe for a moment. A lot was riding on her involvement. If she screwed up . . .

  Stop! No negative thoughts. Vicki might be a woman, but she came highly recommended, and if he wasn’t certain she could do her part he wouldn’t have hired her. The same with Speed.

  Usually Maxwell preferred to work alone. Who needed the headache of depending on other people? But this job was too big. He had to have help, and Speed and Vicki were it. Already Vicki’s inside information had proved invaluable. She was good. He’d had no doubts really. She was a woman used to getting paid for her services, and therefore she knew how to deliver.

  He wasn’t so sure about Speed. The man was a weasel, crafty and devious. But when it came to driving he was supposed to be one of the best. And that’s all he had to do. Be in the right place at the right time. And just drive. Maxwell felt sure everything was under control.

  He was on his way to a fortune, and nobody was going to stop him.

  * * *

  The moment Rafealla entered her suite at L’Ermitage, Marcus Citroen was on the phone.

  ‘Are you comfortable?’ he asked.


  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Do you have everything you need?’

  ‘Yes, Marcus, I do.’

  ‘I’m going to try and come over.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ she said quickly. ‘Not today. I’m tired and I have the concert to think about. I’ll see you tonight.’

  He didn’t sound too pleased. ‘Very well. I’ll phone you in an hour.’

  She had an hour’s grace. An hour to unpack, soak in a long hot tub, lie on the bed and chain-smoke while flicking the channels on American television.

  She found herself on MTV. Rafealla, doing what she did best. Looking sultry and moody, her long dark hair a lush curtain framing an exquisite face. Her smoky voice evoking erotic thoughts in all who heard it.

  Rafealla.

  Sophisticated.

  Worldly.

  Knowledgeable.

  Sensual.

  What a phoney! She hadn’t been to bed with anyone for a year.

  Career first.

  Life second.

  Her choice.

  Dear Marcus Citroen, make me a star and I will be yours.

  Well, he had kept his part of the bargain, and now the day of reckoning was here.

  She was surprised she’d managed to keep him waiting so long.

  * * *

  The girl behind the desk at the car-hire company studied the papers Speed handed her with a blank stare, as rhythmically her jaw decimated a piece of chewing gum.

  ‘The grey Cadillac limousine,’ Speed repeated patiently. ‘I took it out last Saturday, and the weekend before that.’

  Without saying a word she picked up a pen, scrawled authorization on the hire form, reached for the phone and mumbled, ‘Dan, grey Caddy limo.’ Then she nodded at a side door. ‘Pick it up in the alley. How’re you payin’?’

  He fumbled for cash. She counted it out, handed him his copy of the papers, and automatically mumbled, ‘Have a nice day.’

  ‘I will,’ he replied with a quick wink, knowing she probably thought he looked pretty ritzy in his smart grey chauffeur’s uniform with the jaunty peaked cap.

  Could he help it if women loved him? Even his ex-wife wanted to give him a roll every time he visited her – which, he had to admit, wasn’t often, on account of her residing in Las Vegas, a town he tried to stay away from, because every time he went back there he either got married or gambled away every last cent he possessed.

  Jeeze! Tits and gambling. His two passions.

  A mechanic brought the Cadillac around, and Speed climbed inside. He loved the smell of an expensive car. Once, he’d done a stint as private chauffeur to a rich Pasadena couple. The woman used to arrange for her maid to place a dozen white roses in the car every day. What an aroma! He’d fucked the maid, enjoyed the roses, and left after three months. Legitimate work was boring.

  The Cadillac handled nicely. And so it should. On the two weekends he’d taken it out he’d given it plenty of tender loving care. Under the hood throbbed an engine hot to trot. When Speed tinkered with an engine, miracles happened. It wasn’t that much different from handling a woman. A little delicate finger action; some rubbing and dipping and smearing on of lubricant. Searching for just the right spot to make that sucker purr.

  Speed chuckled to himself. Today was going to be easy. All he had to do was be in the right spot at the right time. And then fly.

  For ten grand he could manage that.

  * * *

  The smell of bacon woke him before Sara did, and Bobby Mondella lay on the bed lost in his own private world of darkness. Sometimes he got panic attacks, other times he was quiet and in complete control. Sara helped. She was always there for him, and suddenly he desired her with a force that surprised him.

  He heard her walk into the room with that special step he would recognize anywhere.

  ‘One bacon sandwich, one alarm call comin’ up,’ she said cheerfully.

  ‘Come over here, woman,’ he said, his voice thick with desire.

  She didn’t need asking twice. Sara knew everything Bobby wanted, sometimes before he knew it himself. Placing the tray on a table, she went to him willingly.

  His arms reached up, pulling her onto the bed beside him.

  She lay very still, her heart beating fast with the anticipation of what was to come, for Bobby Mondella was the greatest lover in the world.

  Slowly he began to feel her body through the clothes she wore. Lightly his sensitive hands roamed across her large breasts, rounded stomach and child-bearing hips. His fingertips barely touched, but soon she was longing for him to rip her clothes off.

  She moaned, a stifled sound, for Bobby liked her to remain passive until he indicated otherwise.

  With maddening restraint his hands leisurely found their way inside her blouse. He undid the buttons one by one, opening the garment.

  Her breasts strained to escape the confines of her bra. But he teased some more, playing with her swollen nipples through the material, tracing intricate patterns of intent.

  ‘Please, Bobby, please,’ she had to beg.

  ‘Be patient, momma,’ he crooned. ‘I’m gonna get there, all in good time. Just you be quiet.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Her face was flushed, he tortured her with the waiting, and yet it was sweet torture and she was addicted to every wonderful moment of it.

  At last he snapped the clasp, allowing her breasts to burst free. She almost climaxed there and then, that’s how good his touch was. But he didn’t allow her to – ignoring her newly liberated bosom he moved down to her thighs, feeling the inner flesh, caressing, teasing, lifting her skirt inch by inch, pulling down her panties at a snail’s pace . . .

  ‘Bobby, you are drivin’ me crazy,’ she managed to gasp.

  ‘Honey baby, you don’ know what crazy is.’

  And then he proceeded to show her with slow and sure expertise, bringing her to orgasm twice with his hands and tongue before finally consummating the sexual act.

  As he thrust in and out, Sara sobbed with a mixture of relief and pleasure. She loved the man so much, and yet she still wasn’t sure of his feelings for her. He needed her – oh yes, she was confident of that. But did he love her? He had never said so, although in moments of passion she told him all the time. In fact she was saying it now. ‘I love you, Bobby Mondella. Love you, love you, love you. Oh, how I loooove you.’ And again she was climaxing, just for him, the man she loved, the man she wanted more than anything in the world.

  His reply was no more than a long-drawn-out groan as he finally allowed himself release.

  Immediately he withdrew, rolling, across the bed, pulling a sheet over his nakedness as if he didn’t want her to see him in any other state except arousal.

  ‘Was it good for you, baby?’ She couldn’t stop herself from asking.

  The fires were vanquished, he was back in control. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said, abruptly changing the subject. ‘Did I hear talk about a bacon sandwich?’

  Dutifully she got off the bed, announcing, ‘It’s cold, I’ll make you another one.’

  ‘Cold is fine. Just hand it to me.’

  Without bothering to cover herself, she padded over to the table where she had left the tray, and took it to him. Normally she would have been self-conscious about displaying her body. She considered her legs too short, her ass too rounded, and her breasts too big, but with Bobby it didn’t matter, he couldn’t see her anyway. And if he could, he wouldn’t want her, she was sure of that. Because, in his time, Bobby Mondella had been with the most beautiful women in the world – black and white.

  Sara remembered the magazine stories, the scandals and the gossip. She also remembered the first time she saw him perform onstage back in 1980. She was eighteen years old and had just graduated from high school. Two girlfriends dragged her to a concert he was doing in Philadelphia. ‘He’s the sexiest man alive!’ they both assured her. ‘Wait’ll you see him! This man is pure horn!’

  And she’d had to agree they were right. When he walked out on t
hat stage in finely cut black pants and a white silk shirt, fifty thousand women began to wet their pants while screaming their lungs out. Bobby Mondella exuded sex. He was a walking, living, breathing phallic symbol. And what a voice!

  Sara became an immediate convert. She’d never dreamed that years later, soon after his terrible accident, she would be working for him as his personal assistant, and more.

  ‘I’m gonna take another shower,’ Bobby said, finishing the sandwich in a couple .of hungry bites. ‘Are my clothes ready?’

  ‘Everything’s set,’ she replied. ‘Your favourite black pants and white silk shirt.’

  ‘Thanks, babe.’ Yeah, they were his favourite clothes all right. His lucky outfit. Only his clothes hadn’t been so lucky for him on that fateful night two years ago.

  Oh, Jesus. Soon he would be in the presence of Nova Citroen. That seductive cold bitch.

  He didn’t know if he could take it.

  Sara held his arm, assisting him to the bathroom.

  He shook her hand away. ‘I know the lay-out,’ he said sharply. ‘You’ve got to stop takin’ every step for me.’

  Sometimes he wanted help. Sometimes he couldn’t stand it. Today he wanted to do everything on his own.

  ‘I’ll go get dressed,’ she said quickly, in that small, hurt voice he couldn’t stand.

  She was such a sweet kid, so warm and helpful. She’d brought him back from the brink, and he didn’t know what he’d do without her. And yet, there were times she got on his nerves.

  Lightening up, he said, ‘You mean you’re still walkin’ around bare-assed, girl? Shame on you! Somebody might see you.’

  Bobby’s idea of a joke. Sara didn’t find it very funny.

  * * *

  Nova Citroen prowled around her luxurious estate checking the details that had made her one of America’s number one hostesses, and aggravating the. hell out of everyone who worked for her. She had an eye for the smallest speck of dust, the slightest imperfection, everything had to be just so.

  Concentrating on the guest house, she ordered a collection of silver frames to be repolished. Insisted there were fresh rolls of toilet tissue in every one of the seven bathrooms. Made a manservant change every light bulb, and personally rearranged nine vases of garden-picked flowers.