Lovers & Players

by Jackie Collins

  Lately she had questioned her feelings for Max even more. Was she really in love with him? After all, he came with major baggage–an ex-wife, a child, and he was twenty-three years older than her, a fact that seemed to bother no one except her.

  When she’d voiced doubts to her mother, Nancy had raised an elegant eyebrow and said, ‘You couldn’t make a better match, dear. At least we know he’s not a fortune-hunter. He’s an extremely eligible bachelor, and you’ve got him. Isn’t that nice?’ It would be so great if her mother was the kind of woman she could actually talk to. But no–Nancy wasn’t that person. Nancy Scott-Simon was controlling and critical, and an expert at pressing all of Amy’s buttons.

  So that was that. One wedding coming up.

  Chapter Four

  Arriving back in New York, Jett was hit with a strong wave of nostalgia. New York, with all its frenetic activity and dirty sidewalks, was home: he’d grown up in the city, screwed up in the city, experienced many things–good and bad. Riding in a cab over the bridge, he realized how much he’d missed it, even though he’d left under a black cloud. Two arrests for drunk driving, an ex-girlfriend who’d called the cops on him because he’d given her a black eye–which she’d deserved, although he’d never have done it if he hadn’t been stoned out of his head; a bad drug problem; a fight over money with his mom’s then current boyfriend–an amateur boxer who’d beaten the crap out of him; and finally a vicious argument with Edie, his emotionally unbalanced mother.

  Lady Jane Bentley had sent him a ticket but she hadn’t mentioned where he was supposed to stay, so before he’d left Milan he’d called Sam Lucas, a black actor friend of his, and asked if he could sleep on his couch for a few days.

  ‘You can have the whole place,’ Sam had told him. ‘I got a TV gig in L.A., so I need someone to bring in my mail an’ water my plants. Make it yours, bro’.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Jett had said, psyched that he didn’t have to waste money on a hotel.

  Although his modelling assignments paid quite well, he wasn’t as flush as he’d have liked to be. Living with Gianna was expensive–she enjoyed hanging out at all the hottest restaurants and happening clubs, and there was no way he was letting her pay. As it was, she paid the rent and picked up all of their living expenses. He’d offered to contribute, but Gianna was having none of it. She was a highly paid supermodel and a bit of a control freak. Sexy too. What more could any guy ask?

  Sam was a good friend who’d basically saved his life by staging an intervention and putting him on a plane to Italy, making sure that when he’d stepped off the plane there were people to meet him and get him into rehab. He owed Sam plenty, and one day, when the old man dropped, he hoped to be able to repay him big-time. Because who else did Red Diamond have to leave his billions to except his three sons? The old man was too tight to leave it to charity. And since Red Diamond considered all women inferior beings, Lady Jane stood no chance.

  Not that Jett was desperate to inherit his part of the Diamond fortune. But he knew it was inevitable that one day he was destined to be very rich indeed. And who was he to fight it?

  Hell, if he tried hard enough he might even learn to embrace it.

  When it came to business, Max Diamond was obsessive. He arose every day at five a.m., worked out with his trainer until six-thirty, then read all the newspapers, checked out the stock market, and made numerous phone calls. He was at his desk by seven-thirty, alert and ready to handle anything.

  Running a real-estate empire took time and smarts. There were always problems, crises to fix, things to be dealt with. He could’ve delegated more than he did, but he believed in being hands-on–it was imperative that he was available twenty-four hours a day. Especially now he was in the middle of a crisis with the banks. It was not a healthy situation, yet he felt quite confident that he could solve it. The Japanese were likely to jump in and save the day. Two important bankers were flying in from Tokyo especially to meet with him. At the suggestion of Clive Barnaby, his key executive, they had been invited to his bachelor party, which was one of the reasons he couldn’t cancel it, much as he’d like to. Bachelor parties were hardly his style: he considered them a pathetic excuse for drunken married men to get their rocks off as they sat around hoping for a titty show–or, even better, a girl-on-girl sex scene.

  Work was Max’s passion. He’d always been determined to show his father he was no hapless loser–like Red had always told him he was.

  During his marriage to Mariska she’d complained that he was never around when she needed him.

  ‘To do what?’ he’d asked. ‘Escort you to the opera, the ballet, and every boring dinner party in town?’

  ‘It is excellent business for you to be seen out with your stunning wife,’ Mariska had responded. Modesty was not a quality she held in high regard.

  ‘Mariska, I’m working,’ he’d informed her. ‘Working to keep you in the style you’ve so easily become accustomed to.’

  ‘Donald Trump works too,’ she’d argued, ‘and he is seen everywhere.’

  As usual he ignored the Trump comparisons, which Mariska was fond of making. Donald Trump lived life his way in a very public fashion, and that was his prerogative. Max had no desire to be part of the busy New York social scene, enduring endless mentions in the gossip columns and a successful TV show. Publicity did not interest him. In fact, he did everything he could to avoid it.

  When he’d first encountered Mariska six years ago, she’d struck him as a simple girl who’d come to America from Moscow to pursue a dream. She already had her green card, thanks to what she assured him was a marriage of convenience to an accountant. She was divorced, working as a massage therapist and dating a business associate of his.

  On their first meeting at a dinner party he’d sat next to her, and during the course of the evening complained of a pain in his right shoulder.

  ‘I can fix that for you,’ she’d said, slipping him her card. ‘Call me, Max Diamond. I will make you feel like a new man.’

  A few days later he picked up the phone and made an appointment.

  Mariska’s massage technique consisted of heady scented oils and strong European fingers. She certainly did his shoulder a power of good, and it wasn’t long before he invited her for lunch. Her Slavic features, straight white-blonde-hair and charming accent captivated him, not that he had much time for women–work always came first. But Mariska was intriguing, and he found himself making another lunch date with her. Later that week they met for dinner. Soon he was seeing her every night.

  She treated him like a king, always putting him first, complimenting him, never asking for anything.

  Max was not a very sexually adept man–until he began sleeping with Mariska, the missionary position suited him just fine. But Mariska was having none of it: in bed she took him places he’d never been before, and he didn’t object.

  Within months he’d asked her to marry him and she’d readily accepted.

  It was only after the ring was on her finger that he’d realized what a conniving, devious, money-grabbing social-climber she really was.

  Too late. He’d married her, and by the time he caught on to her real personality, she was pregnant.

  He stayed in the marriage for the sake of Lulu, but when his little daughter reached the age of four he knew he couldn’t take it anymore. It was imperative for his peace of mind that he escape.

  Mariska did not want a divorce. She fought it every way she knew how, speaking to the press, his friends, business associates, hiring the best lawyers, which he’d ended up paying for, and generally making his life as difficult as possible.

  Eventually he’d had to pay her a huge settlement. He considered it worth it just to be rid of her.

  Now he’d met a wonderful girl, and soon he’d be married again.

  This time he was sure it would work out.

  ‘What’re you doing tonight?’ Chris asked Jonathan, as their plane landed.

  ‘Going to bed as soon as I can
,’ Jonathan replied, yawning. ‘I start off tomorrow with Matt Lauer on the Today Show. Then there’s the press junket, followed by Letterman. I’ll probably end up doing thirty interviews.’

  ‘Thirty-five,’ his P.R. woman murmured, sotto voce.

  ‘That’s heavy,’ Chris said, not envying the life of a movie star.

  ‘Gotta do something to cover your exorbitant bills,’ Jonathan joked, flashing his boyish grin.

  Chris let it slide. Yes, his bills were exorbitant but, damn, he was worth it: none of his clients had any complaints. He was on call twenty-four hours a day and they all took advantage.

  ‘What are your plans?’ Jonathan asked, still being polite.

  Chris shrugged. He hadn’t really thought about how he’d spend the night before meeting with his father. A man needed to be at the top of his game when he sat in a room with Red Diamond, so maybe the hotel and Room Service was the best idea.

  On the other hand there were clients in town he should call, and since he was in New York, he might as well take care of business.

  Before leaving L.A. he’d promised his youngest client, Birdy Marvel, that he’d try to attend her concert. Birdy Marvel was an eighteen-year-old singing superstar, who was steadily veering out of control. If she stayed on the path she was boozing and partying her way down, she could easily end up like Jett–who last time he’d seen his self-destructive half-brother, was a total wreck. So bad, that Chris had contacted Jett’s friend, Sam, and begged him to do something. A few days later Sam had staged an intervention and put Jett on a plane to Italy. Unbeknownst to Jett, Chris had financed the trip, including Jett’s eight-week stay in rehab.

  ‘I might drop by to see my client, Birdy Marvel,’ he said. ‘She’s got a show tonight.’

  ‘How delicious!’ exclaimed Jonathan’s gay stylist, overhearing. ‘She’s so…bountiful! I simply adore the way that little girl jiggles her pom-poms!’

  ‘Fake tits,’ said Jonathan’s manager, joining in. ‘I got a real hang-up about fake tits. Hate ’em.’

  Chris nodded, although he’d never given it much thought. But he had to agree–there was nothing like the real thing.

  Later, after checking into the Four Seasons, he decided against sitting through the concert. He’d seen Birdy perform a dozen times–he almost knew her moves better than she did. If he showed up at the after party full of compliments, she wouldn’t know the difference.

  Yes, that’s what he’d do. Take a shower, make a few calls and go out later.

  Chapter Five

  ‘This isn’t how it should be,’ Liberty wailed, perched on the over-stuffed brown couch in the living room of her mom’s small apartment, tucked away in the basement of Red Diamond’s brownstone.

  ‘You just gotta get down with it,’ Cindi said, fussing around the place, arranging magazines in a pile next to her, and fluffing up the cushions. ‘I can’t look after you ’cause of work, Kev’s away, an’ the doc wants the dressin’ on your arm changed every day–you got burned, girl. It ain’t no joke.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Liberty said gloomily.

  ‘An’,’ Cindi added sternly, ‘you gotta stay off that ankle. Now, I ask you, who better to watch you than your mom?’

  ‘I can think of plenty of people,’ Liberty muttered, furious with herself for no other reason than she’d had the bad luck to take such a disastrous fall.

  ‘A coupla days,’ Cindi said, ‘An’ you’ll be zoomin’ outta here.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ Liberty said ominously. ‘That’s if I survive that long.’

  ‘Tell your mama to fix you those honey ribs you suck the crap outta,’ Cindi suggested, licking her lips at the thought. ‘You’ll not only survive, it’ll put some meat on your skinny self. How many times I gotta tell you? Guys get off on a handful.’

  ‘Now you sound like Mama,’ Liberty said grimly. ‘And I’m not skinny.’

  ‘You got no booty, girl,’ Cindi teased. ‘Men are into booty!’

  ‘I’m down with it, cousin,’ Liberty said tartly, ‘’cause you’ve got enough for both of us.’

  ‘Ha ha!’ Cindi said, grinning. ‘An’ don’t that make me the popular one.’

  Even though she weighed over two hundred pounds, Cindi was blessed with an abundance of confidence, especially when it came to her effect on the opposite sex.

  ‘Okay, so I’ll tough it out.’ Liberty sighed.

  ‘I’ll come by every day,’ Cindi promised, preparing to take off.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Liberty said, her face glum.

  ‘Girl, I’m gonna try.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Liberty repeated, knowing there was no way her cousin would give up her active sex life to babysit. To Cindi, making out was like scoring a home-run at baseball–she even kept her own personal score-card. And this weekend she had plans with Moose, a six-foot-four-inch-tall security guard, whose big claim to fame was that he’d once worked the security detail for a Britney Spears concert.

  ‘Don’t forget to leave out food for the Ragtags,’ Liberty instructed. ‘Just ’cause I’m not around doesn’t mean they should go hungry.’ The Ragtags was her name for a small band of homeless people who regularly came by the back of the coffee shop to pick up leftovers.

  ‘I don’t get why you encourage those stinky losers to hang out in the alley,’ Cindi complained, turning up her nose.

  ‘They don’t hang out,’ Liberty explained patiently. ‘They come by at seven every morning to collect stuff that would normally get thrown in the garbage. And they only smell ’cause they got no place to shower.’

  ‘Ha!’ Cindi snorted. ‘If you had your way, all those wackos would be crowdin’ into our crib an’ showerin’ there.’

  Liberty put on her pious face because she knew it irritated her cousin, and why should Cindi be having a good day? ‘Just don’t forget, that’s all,’ she said sternly. ‘Those people depend on me.’

  ‘Got it,’ Cindi said, heading for the door. ‘Now, don’t go doin’ nothin’ crazy. Stay cool an’ no fightin’ with your ma.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Liberty scoffed. ‘Like that’s gonna happen.’

  ‘Read magazines, watch TV an’ don’t give her no sass,’ Cindi ordered, bossy as ever. ‘You know how the two of you get when you’re together.’

  ‘Sure,’ Liberty said, although they both understood that it wasn’t going to happen. She and her mom, Diahann, shared an extremely acrimonious relationship, a classic love-hate deal.

  Liberty loved Diahann because she was warm and beautiful and, well…just because she was her mama.

  She hated her because for the past ten years her mom had worked as Mr Red Diamond’s housekeeper and sometime cook, and it infuriated Liberty that the woman had given up on her career as a jazz singer to become some cranky old white man’s freakin’ maid. It was totally beyond her comprehension. Why? That was the question that screamed in her head every time she thought about it. Why? Why? WHY?

  Diahann’s explanation was simple: ‘We needed the money, child, and a place to live where I didn’t have to struggle to make the rent every month. Singin’ was takin’ me nowhere, so I did the smart thing an’ quit.’

  ‘What about my daddy?’ Liberty had asked. ‘Why can’t he look after us?’

  As usual, Diahann stonewalled her, refusing to talk about who or where her father was. After a while she’d given up asking, and accepted the fact that she obviously didn’t have a daddy.

  Liberty was nine when they moved into Mr Red Diamond’s house. Tall for her age and gawky, she hated leaving all her friends behind in Harlem, where they’d lived in a crowded housing complex.

  It might’ve been crowded, but at least it was home, and she’d cried when they left. She’d been especially sad to say goodbye to Tony, the twelve-year-old Puerto Rican boy in the apartment next to theirs. Tony had helped her with her homework, taught her to pick at a guitar, and sometimes he’d taken her roller-blading in Central Park. She was only nine, but she’d known a good man when
she saw one.

  Moving to the heart of Manhattan had thrown her into a totally diverse environment. Everything was different, and although they had their own space–cramped as it was–they were living in someone else’s house. A big old miserable dark house inhabited by a big old miserable rich man who had her mom running around like a chicken on crack. It was a disturbing change of lifestyle, especially when she attended her new school–a school filled with rich snobby white kids from affluent families, who treated her like crap because she wasn’t the same as them. They soon let her know she had three strikes against her. Strike one: her mom worked as a housekeeper. Strike two: she had no father. Strike three: even though she didn’t look it, she was black.

  The kids at school never let her forget who she was and where she came from.

  She rarely saw Mr Diamond, and when she did it was from a distance. Mama had warned her that he didn’t want children around, so she was always to use the basement entrance and never venture upstairs. Which–being a curious child–she did, but only when she knew everyone was out because, apart from Mama, there was a butler–Mae, the cook–Kirsti, the laundress–and three maids who took care of cleaning the floors and all the other heavy work. At least Mama didn’t have to do that.

  Over time she’d explored every inch of the big dark house, starting with the huge kitchen filled with copper pots and pans hanging above two enormous granite islands, and the walk-in cupboards crammed with several different sets of delicate china. There was a walk-in pantry stacked with dozens of jars, cans and packets of food–enough for an army.

  Next she’d moved onto the dining room, a stately expanse of carved wood furniture, crystal chandeliers, and a sideboard containing a pirate’s booty of silver. Candlesticks, dishes and cutlery abounded in the felt-lined cupboards.

  After a while she’d headed upstairs and inspected Mr Diamond’s bedroom, another big dark room with two fireplaces and cold, hardwood floors. A large four-poster bed dominated. It was covered with fine linens and cashmere blankets.