The Power Trip

by Jackie Collins

  Cliff had filled her in about the amazing trip they were to take; he’d even sent her out with his personal stylist to purchase a few suitable outfits.

  The thought of the Kasianenko yacht intimidated her. Everyone would either be very old, obscenely rich, or at the very least horribly famous. And there she’d be, just the girlfriend, for it was common knowledge that Cliff Baxter was a confirmed bachelor, who had no intention of ever getting married. He said so in every interview he ever gave, hammering the point home.

  Being just the girlfriend was starting to get old. It occurred to Lori that he could dump her anytime, exactly like he’d done with the string of girls before her. It was a scary thought. What would she do? Where would she go?

  Although Cliff paid for anything she wanted, he didn’t give her actual money. He had given her a Visa card with a five-thousand-dollar limit, and knowing Cliff, if they split, he’d cancel it immediately. Basically that meant she’d be as broke as when she’d entered into the relationship. He’d presented her with a few pieces of jewelry, nothing too expensive. Even the car she drove was only a lease – registered in his company’s name.

  What could she do to secure her position?

  Nothing much, except continue to please him.

  Lately she’d been thinking about the young man who’d rescued her on the hike. Chip, with his strong thighs and rippling muscles. What a hunk. Was it wrong to fantasize about him while Cliff was on top of her?

  Funny really, here she was getting boned by a man who millions of women lusted after, a man she’d once thought she’d loved, and her excitement level hovered at zero. What was wrong with her?

  Nothing. She simply wasn’t into a man who was almost twenty-six years older than her and treated her like an accessory.

  Why didn’t anyone ever mention the age gap when they were busy writing about them?

  Because nobody wanted to get on Cliff Baxter’s bad side, that’s why.

  * * *

  It occurred to Cliff that Lori had not been as thrilled about going on a magnificent yacht as he’d expected her to be. He’d been prepared for fireworks and raging excitement. Instead he’d gotten a half-hearted, ‘Sounds great.’

  Hmm . . . was Lori starting to take the good life for granted?

  Was she getting blasé?

  No. Impossible. She was living a life she could only have dreamed about. She was with him, and he knew without a doubt that most women would give their left tit to be in that position. After all, he’d been voted Sexiest Man Alive in People two years in a row. He had an Oscar and an Emmy. A red-hot long-standing career. Three cars. A New York apartment. A mansion in Beverly Hills. A house in Tuscany. No ties to hold him down.

  In short, he had the perfect life.

  Or did he?

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  A resounding trio of yeses. He had enough married friends to convince him that staying single was the only way to go. He’d worked hard for his money, and how many poor schmucks had he seen lose half of what they’d earned to some greedy soon-to-be ex who demanded everything.

  He could understand if there were kids involved, since child support was a given. Other than that – forget it.

  Was Lori reaching that all too familiar stage in their relationship where she wanted more?

  Commitment.

  The dreaded word.

  No, thank you.

  Cliff made a decision. He’d take her on the trip, make sure she had a wonderful time, and then when they returned to L.A., he’d ever so gently cut her loose.

  Cliff Baxter would soon be back out there. Single and ready for the next adventure.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They went shopping. They spent a lot of money. Or rather Luca spent and Jeromy encouraged. They bought clothes and shoes and luggage from the designer stores, then finally they stopped by Cartier, where Luca gifted Jeromy with a black Seatimer Pasha watch for everyday use. At nighttime they both wore their gold Rolexes, but Jeromy had his eye on a more expensive model.

  Luca didn’t get the hint. Instead, he bought Suga a diamond-encrusted bracelet as a consolation prize for her cut-short tour.

  Jeromy tried not to look pissed off, although he was. When would Luca stop spending money on the fat cow? Would that magical day ever come?

  The previous night they’d had dinner with Suga and Luca junior. Today Jeromy’s facial muscles hurt from the big phony smile he’d had plastered on his face all night. Luca junior was annoying, but Suga was an embarrassment, and Jeromy hated being seen out in public with her.

  Of course the photographers and lurking paparazzi were all over them. Since Luca had emerged from the closet he was more popular than ever. His super-star ex-wife, Suga, and bright-eyed young son, added spice to a story that everyone loved to read about. Photos of them together were gold dust.

  When it came to attention, Luca lapped it up. He was so good-looking and charming. A blond Latin god who’d risen from nothing and conquered it all. His music reached out to everyone, and he’d never forgotten his roots and the sensual salsa sounds that were so much a part of his past. He recorded his songs in both Spanish and English, and they were always worldwide hits. His lyrics inspired people.

  Because Suga was still so much in the picture, Jeromy found himself to be the odd one out. The magazines, newspapers and gossip sites seemed to overlook the fact that he and Luca were partners; they rarely mentioned him, and he was nearly always cut out of press photographs. It infuriated him. How come David Furnish was always pictured alongside Elton John? How come everyone knew who David Furnish was? And how about Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi? Never apart in the press.

  Then it struck Jeromy.

  Of course. They were married. They were legal.

  So that’s what he had to do – persuade Luca to marry him.

  One thing he knew for sure, it would not be easy.

  * * *

  When Luca had come out to Suga she had not been surprised, for she’d always suspected that he preferred boys to girls. In spite of this she’d married him anyway. Why not? He was a beauty and he had a generous soul. Plus he was extraordinarily talented, and she’d decided it was her calling to nurture that talent and make him into a star. Which she’d done, very successfully.

  Getting pregnant was a bonus. Giving birth to Luca junior was the best day of her life. Forget about all the accolades and the gold records and the fan worship, having a healthy baby boy was the pinnacle. She’d relished sharing parenthood with Luca, while also watching his career rise.

  Then one day he’d come to her and told her he was living a lie, that he was a gay man, and could no longer keep it to himself. She’d understood and immediately set him free.

  Only he wasn’t free, was he? Slimy English Jeromy had somehow or other inveigled his way into Luca’s life and appeared to be here to stay. Suga did not like Jeromy. She did not trust him. And she sure as hell knew that he resented her as only an angry, jealous gay man can.

  Unbeknownst to Luca, she’d had Jeromy investigated, and the results of said investigation were not great. Jeromy’s design business was in trouble – in spite of the fact that he constantly boasted about how well he was doing. His personal life was also suspect. He was not at all faithful to Luca. In London he was a well-known figure at fetish and leather clubs, and he often used the Internet to trawl for fresh meat.

  Did Luca know any of this? Was it up to her to tell him? Or if she did, would he resent her forever?

  She knew that she had to tread carefully, and perhaps come up with a plan to get Jeromy out of Luca’s life once and for all.

  But how? It was something she had to think about.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ Hammond said as Skylar placed a mug of coffee on his desk. ‘I warned you there would be late nights.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ she said sweetly.

  ‘And are you absolutely certain you’re okay with it?’

  ‘Of course I am, Senato
r,’ Skylar replied, flattered that she was the only one he’d chosen to stay late. She’d only been working for him for a few days, and already she felt special. The offices were deserted except for a couple of cleaners who were busying themselves outside. Even his two assistants had left for the night.

  ‘I’ll be needing some papers copied shortly,’ he said, all business.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ Skylar offered.

  ‘Then you may as well wait in here,’ Hammond said, indicating the leather couch across from his desk. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

  ‘Are you sure, Senator?’ Skylar asked tentatively. ‘I could wait outside.’

  ‘No, no dear. Sit yourself down. I’m expecting a call, and until it comes through I’m stuck here.’

  ‘You work so hard,’ Skylar ventured, her tone full of admiration as she settled on the couch and crossed her legs.

  ‘Yes,’ Hammond agreed. ‘I suppose I do.’

  He noted that her thighs were a tad too heavy and her skirt much too short. She had on a pair of wedge-heeled shoes that all the young girls seemed to favour, not at all sexy. Her legs were bare though, which made up for the clumsy shoes. He imagined running his hands up her legs, starting at the ankle and slowly travelling all the way up until he reached her meaty thighs, then plunging his fingers into what lay beyond.

  ‘My wife doesn’t understand why I have to work so late,’ Hammond said, playing the sympathy card. ‘The truth is, she doesn’t get it.’

  ‘Oh,’ Skylar said, thrilled that Senator Hammond Patterson was actually confiding in her, making her feel even more special.

  ‘Relationships have their ups and downs,’ Hammond continued, taking a sip of his coffee. He paused for a moment and gave her a long, lingering look. ‘And how about you, dear? Are you in a relationship?’

  ‘Uh . . . um . . .’ Skylar faltered, thinking of her football-playing boyfriend with whom she was always breaking up. ‘Sort of,’ she managed.

  Hammond’s honest brown eyes twinkled. ‘Sort of?’ he said. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, er . . . sometimes we’re together and sometimes we’re not,’ Skylar admitted, nervously tugging at her short skirt, wishing she’d worn something a little more circumspect. But how was she supposed to know that she’d end the day sitting in Senator Patterson’s private office? It was an honour she had not expected.

  ‘Boys,’ Hammond said with a meaningful chuckle. ‘Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.’

  ‘I totally agree,’ Skylar said, starting to feel more as ease.

  ‘This sometime boyfriend of yours,’ Hammond continued. ‘Does he push you to do things you might not feel comfortable doing?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Skylar said, startled.

  ‘I’m sure you understand what I’m saying.’

  ‘Uh . . . n-no, I don’t,’ Skylar stammered.

  ‘Sexual things,’ Hammond said, feeling a rising hard-on as he watched the girl squirm and blush beet-red. ‘No need to be embarrassed,’ he added, adopting his best fatherly voice. ‘I have a teenage daughter, you know. She tells me what goes on between boys and girls. She listens to me and I give her advice.’

  ‘Oh,’ Skylar said, filled with relief. For a moment she’d thought the esteemed Senator was about to come on to her, and how would she handle that?

  ‘Boys are only after one thing,’ Hammond said evenly. He was tempted to yell, Pussy! Young juicy pussy! However, he controlled himself. This one wasn’t quite ready, and it wouldn’t do to have her screaming rape if he touched her. ‘Anyway, Skylar – it is Skylar, isn’t it?’

  ‘Uh . . . yes, Senator.’

  ‘You can go now.’

  ‘But I thought—’

  Don’t think, you stupid little girl. Simply get out of my office before I change my mind and jam my cock into your dumb mouth.

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said easily. ‘Everything can wait until the morning.’

  Skylar jumped to her feet. ‘If you’re sure . . .’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Hammond replied, busying himself with some papers on his desk. ‘Good night, dear.’

  Slightly disappointed that she was being dismissed, Skylar slunk out.

  Hammond immediately hurried into his private bathroom and masturbated, staring at his well-put-together reflection in the mirror while thinking of how it would feel, the first time he came in Skylar’s mouth, the first time he stuck it into her, the rubbing and fondling of her big breasts naked against his bare chest.

  He could wait.

  Why not?

  He’d done so, many times before.

  * * *

  Sierra had shopped. Reluctantly. She’d bought clothes she knew would please her husband. Although why the hell she wanted to please him was beyond her comprehension.

  Oh yes. Of course. She’d given up. Given in to the threats and insults he hurled at her. She was his docile arm-piece. She was – to the general public – the perfect wife.

  Hammond had caught her in a trap, and the only way out would be to end it all.

  Or . . . she could run to her parents and tell them what a terrible monster her husband was, and hope and pray that he would not carry out any of his dire threats.

  However, that would be taking too big a risk. Hammond was a dangerous man, and as long as she went along with what he wanted – everyone would be safe.

  As each day, week, month passed, Sierra sought solace in a variety of pills. They kept her calm. They kept her going.

  They were gradually sucking the life out of her.

  Book Two

  The Trip

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Six months after the murder of his older brother, Boris, Sergei Zukov had moved to Mexico City, where over the years Boris had built many solid connections in the arms and drugs world. Sergei was finished with Russia. Even though the Zukov gang supposedly had people in high places on their payroll, those people had done nothing about finding and prosecuting his brother’s murderer. It seemed to be too sensitive a subject, with no one prepared to do shit.

  And why was that?

  Because Boris Zukov was a known criminal, and even though he’d never spent more than one night in jail, it was a well-known fact that Boris was capable of monstrous crimes. Kidnap, murder, torture, drugs, arms running.

  Neither the authorities nor the public cared that a violent criminal had been thrown from a fourteenth-floor window to his certain death.

  Sergei cared. Sergei cared deeply. His brother was everything to him. Boris had raised him when their mother had run off with a local car salesman, leaving them with their drunken, violent father, Vlad.

  When their mother left, Boris was sixteen and tough as an old boot. Sergei was six, and scared.

  Over the years Boris had protected him from everything, making sure that he attended school, watching out that nothing bad happened to him. Boris had acted more like his father than Vlad.

  Vlad was a heavy-set lazy oaf of a man, who couldn’t care less about raising his two sons, although he certainly didn’t mind living off the money Boris brought home, never once asking where it came from.

  Boris hated him. He taught Sergei to feel the same.

  When Sergei was ten, Vlad had arrived home one afternoon and flown into a drunken rage when he’d discovered that Sergei had finished the paltry amount of milk left in the empty fridge. He’d beaten the boy badly, cut his cheek with a razor blade, then settled back to watch TV, nursing a full bottle of vodka.

  That night, Boris returned to their small apartment late. He was already creating a fierce reputation selling street drugs and making sure he was available for any other jobs that might come his way.

  Collecting debts.

  No problem.

  Stealing cars.

  A pleasure.

  Even a little murder on the side if the price was right.

  Yes, at twenty, Boris Zukov was an up and coming man.

  After he’d gotten home, hav
ing had a rough night of sex with a randy local girl, he’d walked in to check on his younger brother, only to find Sergei crouched in a corner, whimpering and covered in blood from a gash on his cheek, his eyes blackened, his nose broken, and his skinny body full of welts from his father’s heavy belt.

  It wasn’t necessary to ask who’d done it. Boris had no doubt that it was Vlad.

  With a mask-like face he’d marched into the bedroom all three of them shared, taken a pillow from Vlad’s bed, and returned to the family room.

  His father was passed out in an armchair in front of the TV, still clutching the bottle of vodka he’d been swigging from earlier. It was empty.

  Stealthily, Boris positioned himself behind the chair, placing the pillow firmly over his father’s face, ignoring the old man’s muffled cries of shock.

  Boris kept the pillow in place until there was no breath left in the drunken man.

  Suffocation. Vlad deserved it. He was a sorry excuse for a father – they were better off without him.

  * * *

  When Sergei was eighteen, Boris had packed him off to a college in the UK. Sergei had liked it, what with all the pretty girls and available sex. Mastering the English language had come easy for him; learning economics and book-keeping was also a breeze. When he’d returned to Moscow, Boris had put him to work organizing the financial records of his various so-called legitimate businesses, most of which were merely a front for his criminal activities.

  It was tricky. Two sets of books, sometimes three – but Sergei had turned out to be a master at manipulating numbers.

  Everything was going smoothly until Boris’s untimely death. It was then that the problems had started. Sergei had attempted to take over, but there were men in the organization who did not want him seizing control. Men who were older and more experienced. Men with more clout, who thought they were entitled to replace Boris Zukov. These men blocked Sergei at every turn, although they were happy to keep using his book-manipulating skills.

  Sergei had burned with fury, for he knew that as Boris’s brother he was the one who should’ve stepped into his shoes. But no – he was deemed unworthy to fill that role. It was disappointing because Boris had been so proud of him. ‘My brother, the smart one,’ he’d often boast to whoever would listen.