She was fed up with his attitude, not to mention disgusted with Merrill. Screw her movie; she wanted out. The old man was a pervert, and she was not about to put up with his crap.
“If you don’t let me get the hell off this fucking boat,” she said, green eyes blazing, “I’m sure you realize that keeping me here against my will could be construed as kidnapping. And you’d be an accessory.”
“Then I guess you’d better consider yourself kidnapped,” Jonas said. And he got up and walked inside.
• • •
Linc Blackwood awoke with a major hangover. “Jesus!” he groaned, rolling off the bed. “I gotta stop doin’ this to myself.”
He staggered into the bathroom, where he peered at his reflection in the mirror and did not like what he saw. Bags under his eyes, blotchy skin, and thick eyebrows screaming out for the talented attention of Anastasia—the best little plucker and waxer in Beverly Hills. “Crap,” he muttered, stripping off his crumpled clothes. Then he yelled out his wife’s name. “Shelby? Shelby, where are you, sweetie?”
He didn’t expect her to answer. He knew that she had a shitload of interviews to get through, so it was highly likely that she’d left early.
He glanced at his watch, noting that it was half past twelve. His mouth felt like a birdcage that hadn’t been cleaned in a week, and his head throbbed as if a jackhammer was busy doing double duty. Reaching for a bottle of mouthwash he tried recalling the events of the previous evening. He could just about remember seeing Shelby’s movie, hitting the after party, and that was it, although he did recall that watching his wife on the screen had been a most uncomfortable experience. He’d seen a rough cut of Rapture earlier, and it hadn’t bothered him that much when she’d taken off her clothes for the extremely graphic sex scene. But sitting in an audience filled with his peers, he was incredibly pissed. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling sharing his naked wife with the world.
Oh yeah, he knew he was probably being unreasonable, Shelby was an actress and it was part of her job. But he still couldn’t help feeling disturbed.
Shit! Maybe it was time he gave her the baby she was always carrying on about. Knock her-up. Keep her off the screen. Show the world she was his and only his.
A baby. That was a big responsibility. Children always got in the way. However, if it’s what she really wanted, then he should do it for her.
He loved his wife; she had so many amazing qualities apart from being talented and beautiful. The quality he appreciated most of all was the way she watched his back at all times, refusing to let him get out of control. Before they’d married, he’d spent endless nights out with the guys, nights where he’d get piss-faced and end up with a stripper or a semihooker in a hotel room, thoroughly regretting it the next morning. He’d always been petrified of commitment; women were there for the taking. He was a movie star for crissakes. He could have his pick, so why make it more than a one- or two-night stand?
Then along came Shelby, and her inner strength and kindness completely changed his world. With Shelby by his side he felt safe and protected. She wouldn’t allow him to get into trouble, she loved him too much. And he loved her, although sometimes he needed to let loose, and booze always helped.
Today she’d be mad at him, he knew it. He’d ruined her special evening, and he couldn’t blame her for being angry. Had to do something about that.
He wandered back into the bedroom, picked up the phone, and spoke to the concierge. “Call Chopard and arrange to have some pieces sent up to my suite. Diamond bracelets, earrings, something expensive.”
“Certainly, Mr. Blackwood,” said the concierge obligingly. “I will speak to the manager at Chopard, and they will send you a magnificent selection.”
“Make it soon.”
“Yes, Mr. Blackwood.”
• • •
“Morning,” Matt said, stroking Lola’s smooth-as-satin back, hoping she was in a responsive mood.
Lola opened her eyes slowly. For a moment she lay there imagining she was in bed with Tony Alvarez, until she realized that if it was Tony, she would be awakened with far more than just a stroke. Tony was an extremely virile Latino man, a very powerful and skilled lover. Matt was just the opposite. He was a white-bread puppet with no raging passion, a one-minute man with a distinct lack of technique, although she had to admit that he did have a big cock. It was his one major asset.
Unfortunately there were times size simply wasn’t enough. Lately she was beginning to realize exactly how much she missed Tony, especially his presence in her bed.
Matt began making another move. She hurriedly rolled away from his eager hands.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, sounding hurt.
She was tempted to say, “You.” Only this was not the time or the place to tell him it was over. Besides, she planned on having her lawyer do the dirty deed. She’d been thinking about it a lot, and divorcing Matt was definitely the right move. He was a big boy, he’d soon get over her. And to sweeten his departure she was prepared to pay him a healthy sum of money to walk away quietly, as long as he agreed not to sell his story to the tabloids.
God! How she hated the tabloids. They were always making up scummy stories about her—calling her a demanding diva and all kinds of other things. She often threatened to sue. Her lawyers always talked her out of it, assuring her that getting involved in a lawsuit was more trouble than it was worth.
“My hair and makeup people will be here any minute,” she said, stretching languidly. “I’m lunching with Merrill at the Hotel du Cap.”
“We are?” Matt said, perking up.
“No. I am,” she corrected.
“What about me?”
“You’ll find something to do,” she said, sitting up and stretching again. “Do me a favor, Matt, call room service and order orange juice, croissants, and coffee for six. Faye will be here soon, so you’d better get dressed.”
Matt was not giving up easily. He had a major hardon and a gorgeous wife. What was wrong with a quickie? He started with the stroking again.
“Matt!” she scolded sharply. “Aren’t you listening to me? There’s no time.”
“Yes, there is,” he said sulkily, thinking how much she’d changed from the warm and loving woman he’d married only months ago.
“No, Matt, there’s not,” she replied.
Lola Sanchez was a busy woman. Even though she did not have a movie showing at the festival, she was very much in demand. There was nothing like being a hot commodity, with everyone wanting a piece of her. She loved all the attention; it suited her just fine.
How different from her first visit to the famous Cannes Film Festival. How very different.
Flash Back Five Years
“You gotta change your name, kiddo,” Lou Steiner said, slurping down a cappuccino.
“Why?” Lucia Sanchez demanded, her big brown eyes scanning the crowded Croisette, secretly thrilled that she’d been transported to such a magical place.
“Too ethnic.”
Oh man! If she only had a dollar for every time she’d heard those words.
“I’m not changing anything,” she said stubbornly.
“Who’s the boss here?” Lou said rudely. “I say change—you change.”
Who did he think he was? She wasn’t his girlfriend; her roommate, Cindi Hernandez, was. Cindi, now known as Cindi Heart—thanks to Lou’s name-change fetish—had been sleeping with Lou for several months.
They’d both met Lou at the same time. He used to come into the diner where they worked as waitresses. Every day he arrived promptly at eight ready for his breakfast, a skinny man with pale yellow hair carefully arranged across his scalp in a crossover style designed to hide the fact that he was rapidly going bald. Lou favored tight suits, striped shirts, and featured a large diamond ring on his pinky. He soon informed them he was a personal manager and dropped many famous names, including Pamela Anderson’s and Carmen Electra’s, both of whom he claimed he’d discovered.
&
nbsp; Lucia didn’t believe him; she thought he was a boastful creep. Cindi was convinced he had career-advancement potential, especially when she found out he drove a Rolls-Royce—even though it was twelve years old.
Now the three of them were at the Cannes Film Festival, thanks to Lou and a deal he’d made with a cheapo hotel and American Airlines.
Before leaving the States he’d taken them to Frederick’s of Hollywood and bought them a series of sexy and revealing outfits. Then he’d asked them both to sign ten-year contracts giving him exclusive management rights and twenty-five percent of any future earnings. Lucia flatly refused. Cindi went for it. He took Lucia to Europe with them anyway, because two girls were better than one, and Lou wanted to put himself back on the map. His plan was to parade Cindi and Lucia along the beach where all the photographers gathered. When he gave them the signal, the girls would begin posing, attracting plenty of attention.
“How will that help our careers?” Lucia had asked.
“It’ll get you noticed,” Lou shot back. “From there you’ll leave it to me. It’ll be an all-win situation.”
Lucia was uncomfortable with the whole deal, but since she’d never been to Europe, Lou’s invitation was too tempting to turn down.
“At least you don’t have to sleep with him,” Cindi had grumbled. “I’m doing it for both of us.”
“How can you?” Lucia had replied. “He must be at least—I dunno—fifty?”
“Yes, but he certainly knows how to treat a girl,” Cindi had confided. “And he discovered Pamela Anderson.”
“So he says.”
Lucia was very fond of her best friend, only she didn’t think Cindi had the potential to be another Pamela Anderson—not even a Carmen Electra—because even though Lou had paid for Cindi’s makeover, including a nose job and large silicone breasts, Cindi did not have that special something that Lucia knew she possessed.
Lucia was quite disillusioned with her progress as far as breaking into show business was concerned. She’d been going out on audition after audition, and the only jobs she’d managed to score were a couple of walk-ons, playing maids. She’d been offered the role of a stripper in a Steven Seagal film, a part she’d turned down because it called for total nudity and she couldn’t bring herself to do that; her family would disown her.
Coming to Cannes with Lou and Cindi was an exciting diversion, especially as she’d never been out of America and it was an all-expenses-paid trip. Who knew what could happen? She certainly had nothing to lose.
Lou had his scenario down. He’d found out about a photo session that was to take place on the beach for an Italian starlet, and when the girl finished and left the scene, he planned for Cindi and Lucia to sashay past the photographers wearing the very briefest of thong bikinis.
“If you really wanna grab their attention,” Lou suggested with a sly smile, “you’ll take your tops off.”
“No way,” Lucia said firmly.
“Understand this,” Lou answered with a stern shake of a bony finger. “To be a star, that’s what you gotta do.”
Cindi was up for it; she wasn’t sleeping with Lou Steiner for the pure joy of sharing his bed. Like Lucia, being discovered was her constant dream.
The scene went exactly as Lou had promised it would. The moment the Italian starlet made her exit, Cindi and Lucia undulated into the picture. The photographers—spotting two pretty, scantily clad girls— began snapping away.
Lucia immediately experienced an addictive sensation of power. She’d never had this much attention and it was quite a kick.
Lou, standing on the sidelines, began waving his hands in the air, indicating to them that they should drop their tops. The photographers got into it, too. “C’mon, girls,” yelled a couple of the English ones standing at the front. “Show us your titties.”
Cindi unhooked her bra. Out tumbled her enormous new silicone breasts with huge, erect nipples.
Now the flashbulbs really started popping.
Lucia hung back, suddenly feeling quite shy.
“You, too,” yelled one of the photographers. “C’mon, darlin’. Show us your boobs.”
She wasn’t ashamed of her body, but the thought of her dad and the rest of her family seeing the photographs stopped her. “Sorry, this is all you’re getting, guys,” she said, still trying to pose provocatively like she’d seen in the magazines.
But their focus was no longer directed at her. Cindi was the one getting all the attention.
By the time the photographers lost interest and drifted off, Cindi had posed for hundreds of photographs.
Lou came running over as Cindi put her top back on. “You did it!” he said excitedly. “These photos will hit the front pages everywhere.”
“The front pages of what?” Lucia asked, a tad jealous.
“Magazines, newspapers,” Lou crowed. “You lost out, honey. Shoulda listened to me.”
Unfortunately—much to Lou’s chagrin—the photographs did nothing for Cindi’s career. Topless photos were no big deal anymore, so she and Lucia returned to America disappointed and undiscovered.
Lucia kept slogging away at her waitress job, going to auditions whenever she could, not dating much and having dinner at her family’s house every Sunday night, where her dad lectured her on the importance of giving up her dreams and getting a proper job in a bank like her sister Selma. He kept nagging her about making sure she had a secure future.
Secure future indeed. No thank you. One way or the other she was going to become a star.
The only good thing that came out of her brief encounter with Lou Steiner was his name-change idea. A few weekends later she was watching TV with Selma when on came a Barry Manilow special. “Can we switch channels?” she asked, preferring a more soulful kind of music.
“No way!” Selma protested. “This Manilow guy is so cute! You gotta sit still an’ watch him.”
So she did. And when Mr. Manilow—resplendent in a white suit and gold brocade vest—began singing his famous hit “Copacabana,” she suddenly sat up very straight. “Her name was Lola,” he sang; “she was a showgirl . . .”
Yes! That was it! Lola. Lola Sanchez. It had a certain ring to it.
The moment she changed her name from Lucia to Lola, good things began to happen. She landed a legitimate agent who thought she had potential, then a small role on a cable soap show, and finally a minor but pivotal role in a real movie. After that, her big break starring in Merrill Zandack’s film.
Stardom, when it came her way, was fast and furious.
• • •
Now, five years later, she was back in the south of France. Only this time she wasn’t staying in a cheap hotel desperately trying to get noticed. This time she was a star.
Lola Sanchez.
Superstar.
It had been some trip.
• • •
“Take your pick,” Linc said, indicating a treasure trove of exquisite diamond jewelry laid out in open black leather boxes lined with rich crushed velvet. “Or maybe you’d like to choose everything.” He grinned—the little boy grin she found so damned appealing. “Catch me while I’m in a generous mood, sweetheart. You know it doesn’t happen every day.”
Shelby sighed, happy to see him sober, yet still disturbed about the previous night. “You don’t have to do this,” she said.
“I know I don’t have to,” he said, still grinning. “I want to. There’s a big difference.”
She sighed again. Why did he feel he always had to overcompensate? A simple apology would’ve been enough. Or a promise that he would never do it again.
“What’s it gonna be?” he said, putting his arm around her.
She stared at the glittering jewelry, unable to decide on any of it.
“Personally I favor the pink diamond,” he said. “Got a feeling it matches my eyes.”
She couldn’t help laughing as he picked up the magnificent seven-carat ring and slipped it on her finger. “Perfect fit. Now I’m gonna hafta
marry you all over again.”
The ring was certainly beautiful, but she didn’t want him buying her expensive presents simply because he felt guilty.
“I hate it when you drink,” she said softly.
“I know,” he replied. “You don’t have to remind me—I turn into jerk of the year.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Ah . . . ,” he said ruefully. “Wouldn’t it be nice if I could come up with a simple reply?”
They both knew it wasn’t simple. Nothing about Linc was simple.
At least he realized he’d behaved like a jerk; that was something.
“How about making up your mind to quit?” she suggested. “That’s what would really make me happy.”
“It’s not that big a problem, sweetheart,” he said, anxious to move on.
“Yes, Linc,” she persisted. “It is.”
“No, baby,” he said, his voice hardening. “It isn’t.”
They’d had this conversation many times and nothing ever changed.
One of these days she had a nagging feeling that she’d have to leave him.
The sad thing was that he’d force her into it.
CHAPTER
* * *
8
“Mr. Zandack would like to see you in his stateroom,” Jonas said, catching Cat outside her cabin.
“Forget about it,” she answered brusquely. “I told you—I’m outta here.”
Jonas was on a mission, there was no way he was allowing her to escape. “You could show him the courtesy of explaining why.”
“Trust me,” she said, narrowing her green eyes. “He knows why.”
“Can’t you give him two minutes?” Jonas urged, well aware that Merrill had a nasty way of punishing the wrong people, and he was directly in the line of fire.
“Why?” she asked.
“For me,” he said. “I’ll be right outside the door. And if you don’t work it out with him, I promise I’ll personally put you on the tender. How’s that?”
Hollywood Divorces Page 8
