Lovers & Players

by Jackie Collins

  After Mrs Barley had appraised him of the situation, Max had opted to see him. And what a tale he had listened to regarding his dear ex-wife.

  The man, Vladimir Bushkin, claimed that Mariska–whose real name he informed Max was Paulina Mari Kuchinova–had entered America with a false identity and a false passport. And how did Vladimir know this? Well, apparently he was her legal husband. And her marriage to the poor hapless American accountant, and to Max, were both acts of bigamy.

  At first Max hadn’t believed him: the man’s story was beyond preposterous. However, when Vladimir produced photos and documents, including a marriage licence, Max had realized that it was more than likely he was telling the truth. The woman in the wedding photos was certainly a younger, not at all polished Mariska, and the name on the wedding licence was indeed Paulina Mari Kuchinova.

  ‘She was prostitute,’ Vladimir announced casually, as if this was not particularly interesting news. ‘I was her pimp.’

  ‘Christ!’ Max exploded, already imagining the headlines if this ever got out.

  ‘She double-crossed me,’ Vladimir continued. ‘Picked up stupid American at hotel bar in Moscow. Gave him good sucking and got him to marry her. She already had false papers in place. The scheming sow had been planning to get out of Moscow for a while. One day I woke up, she was gone. I vowed to track her down. It wasn’t easy task, but here I am.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Max had asked, his stomach churning.

  ‘Plenty,’ Vladimir had replied, with an evil laugh. ‘Whatever I deserve to keep mouth tightly shut.’

  And Max had realized he was caught in a devastating trap.

  After a good night’s sleep Chris was up early, ready to rock ’n roll and face his father. He was pleased, because usually he didn’t sleep well in hotels. He had an ongoing fear of being trapped in a burning building, and a high-rise hotel in Manhattan seemed just the right venue for that to happen, especially after 9/11. He still couldn’t shake the images of those poor souls jumping from the windows of the towering buildings. It was his recurring nightmare.

  After watching Jonathan do his I’m-just-a-regular-guy act with Matt Lauer on the Today Show, he had breakfast downstairs while reading the newspapers, which was quite relaxing until he came across an item about one of his clients on Page Six in the New York Post. Lola Sanchez, Latina diva supreme, had supposedly been spotted making out at Gatsby’s with her latest co-star, a young blond hunk.

  This was not a good thing because Lola was currently engaged to Oscar-winning film director Russell Savage, and Russell would not take kindly to his so-called fiancée hanging out with another man, especially a sexy macho actor.

  Chris sighed. Knowing Lola, she’d deny everything and insist that he sue the newspaper, which he would not advise because it was probably all true. Lola Sanchez was a man-eater–she simply couldn’t help herself–show her an attractive co-star and she would gobble the man up for lunch, dinner and morning coffee.

  It was too early to phone his office in L.A. and alert them to expect her call, so he decided not to worry about it for now.

  Further down in the column there was a blind item, which he was sure referred to Birdy Marvel.

  Which singing teen with all the right attributes recently got a piercing in a very private place indeed? And which singing teen’s biker boyfriend filmed the entire event in graphic detail?

  Nice. How long before that particular movie turned up on the Internet?

  Didn’t these girls ever learn? Although he knew exactly what Birdy would say: ‘It didn’t do Paris Hilton or Pamela Anderson any harm, did it?’

  He tried calling Birdy on his cell, just to warn her that if there was a video she should make sure it was kept under lock and key and that nobody could get their hands on it–especially Rocky.

  Her road manager informed him she was asleep, and couldn’t be disturbed.

  He finished his egg-white omelette, signed the check and left the hotel. It wouldn’t do to keep Big Daddy waiting.

  As Jett strode along Park Avenue heading for his father’s house, his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t stop thinking about last night and the girl with the silky blonde hair. When he’d worken up she was gone, vanished. And he hadn’t even asked her for her name. She was amazing, and he was in love or lust or something along those lines.

  The truth was that he couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off his face, and that indicated she wasn’t just another one-night stand. God knew, he’d had enough of those.

  He had a strong suspicion that this could turn out to be the real thing, so if he was serious and really wanted her, there was no way he should crowd her. That meant that even though he was hot to hook up with her again, experience told him it was probably better to wait a day or two, give her space, let her think about him and wonder.

  It occurred to him that he might have taken advantage of her because, even though she’d denied it, she had been a virgin, he had no doubt about that.

  Then he thought, hell, no. She’d wanted him as much as he’d wanted her. Besides, he’d acted like a gentleman, offering to stop, only she hadn’t wanted him to.

  Now what? She shouldn’t be too hard to track–someone from the club would know who she was. And if they didn’t, Beverly would soon find out for him, because Beverly knew everyone. He called her on his cell and left a message. After that, he thought about contacting his mother, then decided to put it off until after he’d met with Red. Who knew what the old man would have to say? And Edie–if she was sober enough–would want to know every detail. Besides, Edie had no idea he was back in town, so there was no hurry to reach her. It wasn’t as if they shared a traditional mother-son relationship, and last time he’d seen her they’d parted on really bad terms.

  Thinking about his mom was a real downer. She had been so vibrant and beautiful, but Red had made her into a neurotic, needy drunk. Not that he could criticize: in his own way he’d been worse than her, but at least he’d allowed his friends to save him. Edie didn’t care. Once her life with Red was over she’d moved to an ocean-front house in Montauk where, over the years, she’d entertained a series of younger boyfriends and existed on a steady diet of cigarettes and vodka, which had soon killed her exquisite looks.

  Jett had been thirteen when his parents split. Like his brothers before him, he’d been packed off to a strict military school, which he’d hated. He’d run away a couple of times, been caught and severely punished by Red, who’d sent him off to a tough-love camp in Arizona for difficult boys. Two years of that and he was ready to explode. College was never even an option: he’d wanted his freedom and, since Edie didn’t relish the thought of him living at home, she gave it to him. On his seventeenth birthday she granted him an allowance and told him to go do his thing. Which was exactly what he did. New York was waiting, and he was ready.

  Sex, drugs and rock ’n roll. Until his rescue, Jett had been the master.

  Right now he didn’t want to think about Edie–he’d do that later. He preferred to dwell on the girl from last night.

  Things had a way of happening fast. Here he was, back in America for only a few hours, and he’d met someone very special. How out there was that?

  Then he got to thinking that maybe this was the way it was supposed to be. Fate. Yeah, fate. He was meant to be in the club last night, just like he was meant to go to Italy and clean up his drug and booze-addicted ways.

  Not that he was religious, but maybe this was God’s way of saying, ‘You did good, so here’s your prize. Handle her with care.’

  Now all he had to do was find her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Opening her eyes, Amy was overcome with a hangover from hell and, even worse, she was filled with an overwhelming feeling of guilt. What had she done? What totally insane thing had she done?

  Lying in bed, the covers pulled tightly to her chin, she began to go over the chain of events that had led her to cheat on her fiancé. First there was the bachelorette party, then the drinking
and taking a few hits on a joint. Followed by more drinking and slow-dancing with a guy who was so enticing and attractive that she’d ended up going to his apartment and having sex. Great sex. Mind-blowing sex. The kind of sex she was supposed to have with Max on their wedding night.

  Oh, God, she’d slept with a total stranger. Given up her virginity to a man she’d just met. And as far as she could remember, she’d actually enjoyed it!

  Why had she allowed herself to do it? How could she have betrayed Max in such a way? It was so wrong.

  Suffused with even more guilt, she got up and made her way into the shower, thinking about how she’d woken at four a.m., grabbed her clothes and hurried from his apartment. Downstairs in his building she’d taken a quick peek at the mailbox. Apartment 10A. S. Lucas.

  What did the S stand for? Steven? Sonny? Scott? It would have been nice to know his name.

  Out on the street she’d hailed a passing cab and huddled on the back seat until it delivered her home. Safely in her own apartment, she’d thrown off her clothes and crawled into bed.

  Now it was four hours later and she was experiencing a throbbing headache.

  I’ll never drink again, she vowed. Never! This is it for me.

  But she was well aware that it was too late to take back what had already happened.

  As soon as she emerged from the shower, Tina was on the phone, demanding to know exactly what had taken place.

  ‘Nothing,’ she responded weakly, clutching the phone with one hand and a towel in the other.

  ‘Liar!’ Tina said, sounding excited. ‘You left with that hot guy.’

  ‘I did not!’ she protested.

  ‘Oh, please.’ Tina snorted disbelievingly. ‘I saw you sneak out. I was worried.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you stop me?’

  ‘’Cause you’re a big girl, and we had that talk. Remember?’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ she said miserably.

  ‘So?’ Tina said, still pushing for information. ‘What’s the deal?’

  ‘He dropped me home, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m pregnant, not stupid,’ Tina said crisply. ‘I’ll pick you up at one, we’ll go to Serendipity for lunch and you’ll tell me everything.’

  ‘I don’t feel like eating, let alone talking.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m suffering from a massive hangover, thanks to all my so-called friends.’

  ‘Too bad,’ Tina said cheerily. ‘We’re having lunch anyway.’

  ‘Do we have to?’ Amy said, wishing she could crawl back into bed and forget about everything.

  ‘Yes, we have to. I’ll see you later.’

  Since Tina was about to give birth there was no arguing with her. It wasn’t worth the effort.

  Dressing slowly, Amy kept on going over the ramifications of what she’d done. It wasn’t a good thing. Oh, no, it wasn’t good at all. She’d been a bad, bad girl, and she deserved to be punished.

  So why was there a smile on her face? Damnit! Why the hell was she smiling?

  The second she walked into work, Yolanda was all over her pushing for details.

  ‘Details of what?’ Amy said weakly, heading for her desk, wishing everyone would leave her alone. ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘Sure,’ Yolanda drawled, pulling a disbelieving face as she followed her. ‘You’re glowing. Something must’ve happened.’

  ‘No, it didn’t,’ she said, switching on her computer, willing Yolanda to vanish conveniently.

  ‘Oh, yes, it did!’ Yolanda said, refusing to go away. ‘We all saw you leave with that hot guy.’

  ‘I don’t even know his name,’ she said, hoping Yolanda might give her a clue.

  But Yolanda’s cell rang, putting an end to the conversation.

  Hmm…not that she cared what his name was. After all, it wasn’t like she would ever see him again.

  The sexy stranger was her secret wild card–a lustful night of pre-wedding insanity she would never share with anyone, not even Tina.

  Max Diamond was the man for her.

  Everyone thought so.

  Jett was the first to arrive at the Diamond brownstone on 68th Street. The butler who answered the door was a new one. Not that Jett was familiar with his father’s staff, but there’d been an English butler who’d stayed around for a few years. This one was German and quite stoic as he ushered Jett into the panelled library, leaving him to contemplate the many shelves of ceiling-high leatherbound books.

  Wandering around the room, Jett noticed that, just as he remembered from his childhood, there was nothing personal. No photographs of family, no trophies or knick-knacks, no magazines, just a pristine copy of the Wall Street Journal folded on a side table next to a dark brown stiff leather couch.

  Nothing had changed. Red Diamond did not believe in personal mementoes. The room was a mirror-image of Red. Cold, musty and unwelcoming.

  After a few minutes, he sat down on the couch and picked up the newspaper. As he stared at the print, images of the girl from last night flashed through his head again. She was a peach. A beautiful, perfect peach. The kind of girl he’d always dreamed of.

  And he would see her again soon…very soon.

  ‘How was it?’ Max asked.

  Amy hung onto the phone, her palms slick with sweat. Had her fiancé found out? How was that possible? Oh, God, what was she going to say? How could she explain her one night of insanity? This was unbelievable!

  ‘It can’t have been that bad, sweetie,’ Max said affectionately. ‘Just you and the girls. Surely you had an enjoyable time?’

  Relief swept over her. Of course, he was asking about her bachelorette party. ‘I drank too much,’ she blurted.

  ‘That figures,’ he said understandingly. ‘They must have been pouring it down your throat, and there was nothing you could do.’

  ‘That’s about it,’ she managed.

  ‘It’s exactly what I’ll have to put up with tonight,’ he grumbled. ‘Bachelor parties are so goddamn dumb, I wish I didn’t have to go. So help me–if they haul in strippers, I’m out of there, and that’s a promise.’

  ‘You don’t have to promise me anything,’ she said, feeling more guilty than ever.

  ‘Why?’ he said, sounding amused. ‘You want me cavorting with strippers?’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ she said, almost stammering. ‘It’s just that…well…on a bachelor night you can do anything and it doesn’t count. Anyway,’ she added lamely, ‘that’s what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Sweetheart, I do love you,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘You too, Max,’ she said, on automatic pilot.

  ‘You’re the sweetest girl I ever met.’

  NO! I’M NOT. I CHEATED ON YOU WITH ANOTHER MAN AND THERE’S NO WAY I CAN TAKE IT BACK.

  ‘Thank you.’ She gulped.

  ‘I’m right outside my father’s house,’ Max said. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  She clicked off her phone. If he ever found out what she had done…

  Oh, God, it didn’t bear thinking about.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jett wasn’t alone for long–within minutes Max had arrived. Jett stood up, and they exchanged a somewhat stilted greeting.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ Max said. ‘Better than the last time I saw you.’

  Oh, yeah, Jett thought, he has to get a dig in, doesn’t he? ‘Last time you saw me I was sick,’ he pointed out.

  ‘No,’ Max contradicted. ‘If I remember correctly, you were drunk on your ass.’

  ‘Alcoholism is a sickness,’ Jett explained, wondering why his brother had to get on his case the moment he saw him. ‘I’ve been clean for three years.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Max said as if he didn’t believe him.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Jett retaliated, ready to defend himself.

  Before they became involved in a pissy little fight, Chris burst in. Chris. Mr L.A. with his deep tan and George Clooney smile. Wearing a lightweight Armani suit he looked fit and
well. ‘Guys!’ he said. ‘Long time. You both look great. Good looks run in the family, huh?’

  Jett felt a lot closer to Chris than he did to Max. There was something intimidating about Max, something he didn’t care to tangle with. Chris was warmer, nicer, although his two older brothers were somewhat alike with their dark good looks. Two traditionally handsome men, while Jett was the odd one out with his dirty blond hair and piercing blue eyes. When they were kids, Chris had always called him ‘surfer kid’ and ‘little runt’. Not that they’d seen much of each other, but when they had got together, Chris had always looked out for him.

  ‘Hey,’ Jett said, ‘anyone know why we’re here?’

  ‘Beats me,’ Chris said, shrugging. ‘I’m thinking the old guy might be sick and finally remembered he has three sons.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Max said grimly.

  ‘You doubt what?’ Chris asked. ‘That he’s sick, or that he remembers us?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out,’ Max said.

  A maid entered the room and asked if they required any refreshments. Chris requested coffee, as did Max. Jett asked for a bottle of water.

  After the maid left the room, Chris turned to his younger brother. ‘Where’re you staying? I would’ve called you last night, but I had no idea where to find you.’

  ‘A friend lent me his apartment.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ Chris said, sitting down on the couch, and stretching out his long legs. ‘When did you fly in?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘I hear things are going okay for you in Italy,’ Chris remarked, checking out messages on his BlackBerry.