by Victoria Fox
She spent ages deciding what to wear. It was strange having this much choice—her wardrobe now consisted of gorgeous clothes she would never have dreamed of owning but had been told to keep after shoots—and while every one was beautiful in its own way, none was quite right. It looked as if she was trying too hard. That’s because I am.
In the end she plumped for a cream vest top, silk highwaisted trousers and shoe boots, her hair tied back in a ponytail.
They were lunching at exclusive LA eaterie La Côte. In the car, Lori spritzed fragrance in the hollows behind her ears and attempted to slow her breathing. She was so accustomed to JB in pieces, fragments she would take away with her and turn over in her hands and her memory—glimpses of him at the agency, at parties, facts people told her—that the realisation of him in his entirety was difficult to fathom. What would he say to her? What would she say back? Would there be a chance to talk alone?
La Côte boasted an ocean view of Venice Beach, the glittering green of the Pacific carving a line through the hot sands of her anxiety. She asked the car to drop her a block away. Her heart was thrumming wildly. Several times she started towards the restaurant then turned back, walked the avenue and gathered herself.
This is so dumb! He’s just a guy! Only, he wasn’t. He was something else.
Passers-by regarded her strangely. They seemed so carefree, enjoying the LA sun, the beach and the shimmering blue as they bladed waterside, caught a tan and licked ice cream.
Remember the way he kissed you. He meant it, he meant it …
She took a deep breath. Do it before you change your mind.
As Lori had imagined, he was seated on the terrace with Desideria, Jacqueline and Mac. She spotted them straight away, made as if she hadn’t, so Desideria had to wave and gesture for her to come on over. The walk to that table was the longest of her life.
JB stood to meet her. In seconds she had absorbed every detail, attraction honing her powers of observation to something animalistic. Loose white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, open at the neck; hair darker than she remembered, but those on his arms were lighter, bleached by the sun; a smile that lifted, just a fraction, the groove of his scar. She recalled kissing it, the strange pleat that had felt against her lips that much more pronounced, like a tongue probing a missing tooth.
‘Lori.’
He made her name sound like a marble he was rolling around inside his mouth. He kissed her on both cheeks—properly, not one of the air kisses to which she was getting accustomed—and the smell of him was achingly clean and new, like something just born, but at the same time steeped in the experience of vast ages, as if a part of him had been living for ever.
‘Sit down, please, we were waiting to order.’
‘Thanks.’ She was amazed it came out as steady as it did. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
JB leaned back in his chair, reaching behind to a chilled wine bucket. A waiter dashed over to assist but was dismissed with a subtle gesture.
‘You’re in time for champagne.’ She loved the way he said ‘champagne’.
‘A Valerie Girl should always be a bit late.’ Jacqueline smiled, lifting her glass for JB to fill. ‘Isn’t that right, Mac?’
Mac Valerie winked, his squat dark head protruding out of a garish shirt. ‘Nothin’ like makin’ an entrance.’ He tossed an olive into his open mouth. ‘An’ I should know.’
‘To the new Valerie Girl,’ proposed JB, raising his own glass. As he drank he watched Lori over the top of it. ‘And to all she will become.’
Lori peeled her eyes away. She couldn’t look at him. He made her feel naked. How could the others fail to notice the effect he was having? She felt like a quivering schoolgirl, all the confidence and courage she’d willed back at the apartment evaporated like steam.
The women fell into conversation with Mac. JB signalled their waiter and ordered oysters as an appetiser. At last, he turned to Lori.
‘Was it a surprise?’ he asked.
His question threw her. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I said: Was it a surprise?’
From his tone Lori didn’t think he was asking about the Valerie contract. Then again, maybe he was. ‘Yes,’ she answered.
‘It was for me, too.’
The blue eyes shone and she remembered what Desideria had told her: All he has to do is snap his fingers and they come running … The next day, they’re history …
Groping for something to say, Lori noticed the extra place set at the table.
‘Is Val joining us?’ she enquired.
At this, Mac flipped open his menu, greedily eyeing its wares. ‘No, thank Christ. Which means I’m orderin’ a feast guaranteed to shoot my cholesterol to shit.’
Desideria made a face, which she concealed in her champagne glass.
‘Rebecca’s running late,’ she explained to Lori, with an expression of apology.
Lori was confused. Who was Rebecca?
But Desideria’s eyes switched to JB’s and in that moment she felt the light slip out of her, discreet as a door closing on a sleeping child.
‘Rebecca?’ she asked, in a voice too small.
The oysters arrived, pearlescent innards on a shell like rock. The smell of the sea.
JB gestured for them to begin. ‘I’m sure she won’t mind.’ He glanced at Lori, and before he even said it she knew.
‘Rebecca is my wife.’
28
Present Day
Island of Cacatra, Indian Ocean
Three hours to departure
‘Sonofabitch!’
Reuben van der Meyde exited the shower, cursing under his breath. Couldn’t a man get ten minutes’ peace ahead of a major event? It seemed not. No sooner had he digested his crisis meeting with JB than he got buzzed with news that one of his A-list guests had arrived early. The guy clearly deemed himself so important that he thought nothing of rocking up hours before he was due. Fucking stars!
Reuben charged down the stairs, stark naked and dripping with water. He favoured stalking about nude. Towels were a constraint.
‘Miss Jensen,’ he bellowed when he reached the hall. In moments, his housekeeper appeared, unsurprised by his nakedness but conscious that his young son was about.
‘Mr V!’ she chided, presenting him with the first thing that came to hand, one of Ralph’s comics. In truth she was disgusted by Reuben’s body—how dare he parade around in such a state? Was he playing with her, teasing her? Did he imagine she found him desirable? The sight of his shrivelled penis, hanging miserably in its greying fuzz of coppery pubic hair, revolted her. His pale, muscular thighs and short, bulbous calves … the picture was horrifying. She heaved at the memory of her own nakedness entwined with his all those years ago, the way, for he had been a skilled lover, she had enjoyed it and begged for more. Small comfort was the thought that his body had been different then, though whether it really had, or if it was just her view that had changed, she wasn’t sure.
‘I’m not available till seven, understood?’ he snapped, snatching the comic and tossing it to one side. ‘No matter who shows up.’
Margaret nodded. ‘Are you expecting an early arrival?’ She hoped her contact hadn’t fouled up before they were even out of the starting gates: after all, he was only young. The slightest whiff that Reuben suspected anything amiss sent her heart plummeting.
‘Already here,’ Reuben said bitterly, hands on hips. ‘And take a wild guess who?’
Margaret had no time to respond before they heard a commotion on the patio steps that sounded dangerously like a star with his entourage.
‘Goddamnit!’ Reuben turned and shot up the main steps, two or three at a time, like a bare-bottomed monkey mounting a tree. ‘Stall ‘em, you got it? I’ll be there in a minute.’
It was five minutes, in fact, till Reuben appeared out front, pristine in white shorts and a loose cotton shirt, reddish chest visible where the top buttons were undone. He spotted his guest straight away, a marvel of a man with his broad back t
o the house, clad in a vanilla linen suit as he faced the wide ocean. A crew of ten or fifteen hangers-on fussed around him.
‘Jax Jackson,’ Reuben boomed, extending his hand to greet the Olympic megastar, ‘this is an unexpected pleasure.’
Jax Jackson turned, his manner and bearing that of someone who knew there was a part of every man that wanted to be him—not be like him, but be him. It was a nice philosophy.
‘What’s up, Roob?’ He shook Reuben’s hand, who tried not to baulk at the crass abbreviation. ‘Not a bad place you’ve got.’ He leaned against the marble balustrade, tilting his face to the sun so it gleamed off his black skin. If Jax had been a painting, or a sculpture, he would have been hailed a masterpiece. At over six feet tall, he was a pillar of pure dark muscle, as strong and graceful as a stallion. His was the body of a god, a warrior, a titan: physically, he was nothing short of exquisite. He was also the fastest man on the planet, the World Record Holder for the 100-metre sprint. Jax’s Olympic training meant he was often booked into the rejuvenation spa for rest and recuperation, hence the over-familiar greeting, no doubt.
‘Trust you’ve been happy with your stay?’
‘Hell, yeah.’ Jax whipped a pair of shades from the pocket of his shirt and slipped them on. ‘I’m windin’ it down, man, takin’ it easy.’
Reuben wondered if he could palm Jax off on JB, or even Rebecca, while he had the chance to gather himself, maybe get a shot of brandy, try to stop thinking about the disaster of a morning he’d had. He just couldn’t shake the fear. Those words, they were too close to home.
I’m one of them …
There was no way. Not now. It couldn’t all come crashing down tonight.
‘Jeez! It’s hot.’ Jax raised his arms and sniffed both armpits in succession. It brought to mind a dog spraying a tree. ‘Fresh,’ he informed his entourage, all of whom nodded enthusiastically. ‘Hey, Roob, we was hopin’ for a grand tour before things kick off.’
Inwardly, Reuben groaned. This was the last thing he needed. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get rid of Jax. Honest to Christ, the number of celebrity asses he’d had to wipe over the last thirty years! Wasn’t he a celebrity himself? Who was wiping his goddamn ass?
He smiled. ‘Of course, I’d be delighted.’
Discreet as a shadow, Margaret Jensen slipped back inside the mansion. That was the beauty of being a nobody. You never got noticed.
Mr V wouldn’t be pleased at the Jax interruption. She had surmised he was upset, though about what she couldn’t fathom. There was only one person who knew about the plan and he wasn’t due for another hour. No, it had to be a different concern: one that had her boss disappearing into meetings with JB and prowling the place like a hunted man …
Her sole priority was getting him on to that boat, him and all the rich, arrogant devils that had set the island’s great misfortune in motion. For her vengeance wasn’t just about Mr V. She was taking revenge for all of womankind, for mothers everywhere. On top of her private injustice was a wider one: the vile enterprise she had watched unfold from the start. She’d experienced it first-hand, what it meant to be one of the mothers, lied to and exploited and cheated out of the most important thing there was, because Mr V told them one thing, he made out as if it were humanitarian, a kind of gruesome charity, when in fact he pocketed every dime himself. No wonder he was the rich bastard he was today. Stealing off the blind and stupid, couples who’d cough up any amount to protect their precious reputations, sleeping soundly at night as they imagined the women they were … helping. Margaret shuddered at the word. Those women had received no help. She’d been lucky, permitted to stay in the boy’s life because Mr V had decided he wanted an heir to his empire, and this one was as good as any.
Lucky. She didn’t feel it.
Would Hollywood’s elite have time to figure out what was happening? Would they have seconds to regret, to repent? Or would death come in a bright hot flash?
Margaret busied herself, laying out a Moreau couture suit for Mr V to change into when he returned from the tour with Jax. Minutes with the Olympic idol had been plenty enough for her. She’d met many famous faces in her time, but he had to be one of the most delusional. Who did he imagine he was, some sort of deity? He’d barely deigned to glance her way; his radar didn’t pick her up: she wasn’t rich or celebrated, and she wasn’t young or especially attractive. It was a universally known fact that Jax liked women. One of her colleagues at the island’s Reef Spa had told her he was, in fact, being treated here for sex addiction. Never mind this rest and relaxation foil, the donkey simply couldn’t keep it buckled. Oh, Cacatra saw it all. Only last month the spa had treated a global R&B star for his obsession with lifting heavy weights—at the height of his preoccupation he’d been attempting to lift anything he could get his hands on: tables displayed on a shop floor; strangers’ cars in the street … Never mind the weights at the gym, this guy wanted to lift the machinery. She’d heard how his therapist had been forced to nail office furniture to the floor in exasperation of them repeatedly being moved.
When all this was over, perhaps she’d write a book.
An edited one, naturally.
Margaret consulted the time. Once Enrique Marquez showed up, a little under an hour from now, she knew there would be no turning back. Not that she’d considered it, but of course there was a small, scared part of her that clamoured to call the whole thing off. All those people perishing, suffering in the water. And what next? Sharks? They were rife in this ocean, she knew. She had seen their black fins slicing through the water, quiet and deadly, too close to the shore for comfort. She imagined beautiful bodies torn limb from limb, designer gowns shredded and pampered skin bloated, the screams that would pierce the sky…
This was no time for conscience. The word didn’t exist out here, in any case. It belonged to a vocabulary that had been swallowed up long ago, drowned on the seabed, rusted as a wreck. Mr V had created a game without rules, without mercy, without pity—and forgotten he wasn’t the only one with a piece in play.
She had to go through with it. For Ralph, for her, for their future. For all the women in her position. For the ones who weren’t so lucky.
She’d waited a long time, too frightened, too weak, to take action, believing Mr V to be the one with the power when, in fact, it was her. It had always been her.
At long last, Margaret Jensen was taking back what was hers.
On the opposite side of the island, in the villa where she spent most of her days, Rebecca Stuttgart watched her husband. She realised, with startling clarity, that she no longer hated him.
A long time she had hated JB Moreau, but not in the conventional sense. She had hated him because she adored him, had adored him from the moment they’d met, and yet through the course of their ten-year marriage she had been unable to make him feel the same way.
She observed his body in the pool below. Strong arms carving through the water, before a length, silent and still, beneath the surface, his shape fractured and fluid as a ribbon in air. He was a purposeful swimmer, fast and committed. Once, in a rare confidence, JB had told her that for months following the accident he had swum every morning. Miles and miles he would swim until his muscles gave in, then the same the next day, and the next, and the next after that. The sea became his obsession. It could not beat him.
Their courtship had been swift. JB had been twenty-three, she, a decade older. Her father had steered them into a union through a series of lunch invitations and industry parties. At the time Rebecca had turned a blind eye to the orchestrated romance. She had believed that despite her father’s machinations there was something real to pursue. There had been for her.
Moreau was the sexiest man she had ever known. He exuded sex like musk. Good looks were one thing; charm was another. But sex. It was in his eyes, those shades of blue that changed like an ocean storm. It was his mouth. His skin. His scent, as cool and clean as snow.
But more than that, and the cement to her inf
atuation, was her husband’s wounded soul. Rebecca had trusted she could reach him: whatever he needed, she could give. She wanted to access a new part of the man she loved, a place left cold and quiet from years untouched. She felt she understood him in a way nobody else did: his indifferent parents, distant at best and neglectful at worst. How he had never been cared for as a child or received affection in its purest, selfless sense, how he had never been made to feel wanted or valued or cherished, how he’d been pushed to the background, a mistake, an oversight. Despite the nature of their meeting, she believed in time he would grow to feel for her what she did, and always would, for him.
At the start, he had made love to her as if it were their last living hour.
Make love …
She thought of the words differently these days. For that was what JB had been trying to do. The urgency she had mistaken for ardour was an attempt to break through, to feel, to acquire the thing that should have been given freely. To make love that had been missing from the start.
Rebecca backed away from the window. She could look no more.
Time had taught her one thing. JB Moreau was like winter, and no sun she could conjure would ever be warm enough.
Tomorrow, after Reuben’s party, Rebecca would leave this island for good. She had never wanted to follow him here, but through the heady mists of her passion had tossed her scruples aside. Their marriage was over. JB treated her well, had shown her kindness in the past that even now it stung her heart to recall: when her father had died, the way he had held her tight and kissed her over and over till her body stopped shaking. But she knew he didn’t love her. She knew he had only entered the marriage because he didn’t believe there was anything more.
