Temptation Island

by Victoria Fox

  Was it any wonder they both sought refuge elsewhere? Rebecca, searching endlessly for fervour in another that could come close to matching her own, and JB for the thing in whose existence he doubted but nonetheless whose possibility he would chase to the ends of the earth.

  She hadn’t been so reconciled when she’d first found out about the others. Maybe that was from where the lie had sprung. In any case, it did little to ease her conscience.

  For years they had tried for a child of their own. In her mind it would be the switch in JB, the event that would change him. But Cacatra Island was poisoned in more ways than one. The child she had longed for had never arrived.

  Terrified of losing him, grasping at ways to make him stay, Rebecca had blurted the fallacy: that it was he who was unable to conceive. She’d wanted to hurt him, make him see the result of his inability to love. And once the lie had been told, there was no way to unpick it. It was a vicious, evil mistruth—and tonight, finally, it would be revealed.

  Hate that sprang from love was the very worst kind.

  I’m one of them … The truth comes out …

  Rebecca met her reflection in the closet mirror. She nodded, an assurance.

  How could she have stayed silent, knowing what she did? And to whom, exactly, did she owe her allegiance?

  The Spanish girl had been a shock, and like all shocks it had shifted the landscape. JB had sourced so many over the years but none had affected him as she did. At first, Rebecca had felt only disbelief at their working together—after what he had meant her for—but now she understood that Lori, and the secret she carried, was the only way out for any of them.

  Once, Rebecca Stuttgart had been a powerful woman. Perhaps she still was. If knowledge was power, then she was mightier than them all.

  Book Three

  2010-11

  29

  Lori

  Over the summer, with the launch of the new Valerie Girl and Mac’s latest sought-after cosmetics range, Lori Garcia became the most in-demand model on the fashion circuit. She graced billboards across the country, into Europe, out to Japan. Sexy, sultry, shy in her beauty—the market went crazy for her look. Each day was packed with photo shoots, magazine interviews, radio and TV appearances, red carpet events and lunches with the movers, shakers and heartbreakers of LA. Lori was growing into America’s sweetheart. In the eyes of the press, she could do no wrong. She’d been a poor, struggling Spanish girl from the wrong side of the tracks, rescued into a world of wealth and stardom by the guiding light that was La Lumière.

  In many ways fame was how she’d imagined, in many ways it wasn’t. It was hard work. There were barely minutes to eat or sleep and her time was no longer hers. Little was permanent: gigs came and went, countless hotel rooms a place to crash; friends were made and drifted away.

  Her virginity became an enduring fascination. It was the combination of wide-eyed virtue and a glint that promised something more, and it was one of the first things Jacqueline Spark had raised when discussing publicity angles. She promised it would secure the fans’ devotion. It did. Lori became an example for young girls, not in a square, this-is-a-role-model-my-parents-think-I-should-have way, but in a way like an idolised older sister, a sharer of dreams and secrets. To guys she was irresistible, the suggestion that she was saving herself—just for them—in a celebrity world where innocence was a rare commodity.

  But Lori wasn’t the innocent. She felt further from innocence than ever she had.

  It wasn’t that she’d kissed a married man. That was part of it, of course—but it was more. It was that she had been forced to harden, to develop an exterior that was toughening by the day like the rind on a piece of soft fruit. To Lori’s nascent heart, the deceit she had suffered at the hands of JB Moreau was the most profound betrayal imaginable.

  She thought back to that terrible lunch at La Côte with a cringing sort of ache. How his wife had approached the table, so elegant, so poised: secure in the knowledge that he was hers. Rebecca Stuttgart, daughter of the late Crawford Stuttgart, billionaire financier and owner of an American banking corporation, was, at forty-two, a decade older than her husband. She was ravishing in a classic, screen-siren way, with sleek, plum-coloured hair and pale, flawless skin, everything about her expensively immaculate, from her delicately drawn make-up to the gems that glinted on her wrists and fingers. Lori recognised her from the Frontline event in Vegas, the solemn woman at JB’s right-hand side. How could she have been so blind?

  It had taken every ounce of will to respond to his admission, like talking through mud.

  ‘I—I didn’t realise you were married.’

  It became horribly clear why he’d blanked her. The married man found out.

  Stupid stupid stupid!

  Every taunt, every insult her sisters had ever thrown her way she now pitched at herself—for once, apposite. Whore! Tramp! Slut!

  She was furious with herself. JB had taken her for a ride and she had fallen for it. He was a cocksman, everyone said so: she understood now that he probably dropped in on legions of teenagers in the poorer parts of town, delivering his smooth come-ons, whatever he needed to, playing the hero, all for the sake of a kiss, maybe more. It was probably a turn-on for a man like him, knowing he could have anyone but choosing to slum it once in a while—bored with his wife’s attentions, looking for something a little rougher round the edges.

  He must have had the surprise of his life when Desideria brought her back from Spain, a girl he’d written off as too insignificant, too poor and wretched, to ever darken his door. But any small comfort she felt at that was quickly overshadowed by the realisation she was now working for him, entirely under his power, and to walk away from this opportunity, because of the impossible position he’d put her in, was not a sacrifice she was prepared to make.

  Whatever had passed between them that day at Tres Hermanas, it clearly meant nothing.

  She hated JB Moreau. Where once she had nurtured adoration, she now tended loathing, growing it from the soil, a tangled vine she was eventually able to bind herself in, and in that containment instruct herself to set him free.

  Hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, and gradually she learned to forget. Each time he emerged in her memory, she concentrated on holding him down, like someone pushing an adversary underwater and waiting for them to drown. She trained herself to let go and found she had a greater capacity for it than she knew. She stopped replaying every second of the altercation with Diego Marquez and his crew. She stopped thinking about how it felt in the interior of JB’s car. She stopped trying to conjure his voice in the lonely hours of the night. The kiss shivered in her memory until finally it became still.

  The mansion was enormous, more space than Lori would ever need. With tennis courts, a basement gym and a huge infinity pool, it was excessive: she would never use half the stuff, and when she crawled, exhausted, between the sheets at the end of another long day, she felt the vastness of her new home around her. Everyone assured her this was fitting for a model in her position—she couldn’t live in that crummy downtown apartment for ever.

  In August, she called her father. She’d been putting it off. It wasn’t for lack of wanting to see him, it was because she no longer felt like the girl he’d known and was afraid that would make them strangers.

  The sight of him pained her. Tony had dressed for the occasion in a jacket and trousers and smelled of astringent cologne. Lori hugged him at the mansion door, where he presented her with a limp bunch of flowers. In the kitchen she ran a basin of water and positioned the bouquet so the stems were submerged.

  ‘Let’s sit outside,’ she said, sensing his discomfort at her new surroundings. She gave him a look between pride and apology, didn’t want him to think she was showing off but aware that was how it might look. ‘Want to try the pool?’

  Tony smiled. ‘Aren’t you going to give me a tour?’

  She led him upstairs, through the guest suites with their adjacent bathrooms an
d walk-in closets, then her own bedroom, its stripped floors and mammoth white-silk bed and the views of downtown Hollywood that stretched to the skyline.

  He stood at the window, hands in pockets. ‘You took a chance, Loriana.’

  ‘Some days I feel like it was chance that took me.’

  His face relaxed and she caught a glimpse of the father she used to know. ‘Your mama would be proud.’

  Lori thought of her mother’s treasured salon, the place in which she’d endured the greatest misery of her years—and, just once, the greatest joy. But she turned her back on that.

  ‘Did you receive the money?’ she asked.

  Tony nodded. ‘You shouldn’t have sent it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s yours. You earned it. I don’t want you bailing me out, Lori. It’s not your responsibility.’

  ‘It’s both our responsibilities.’

  He appraised her, searching for something. When he found it, he said, ‘Thank you.’

  Back downstairs, they settled by the water. Tony appeared awkward, too heavily clothed for the heat, and removed his jacket and loosened his shirt.

  ‘How are the girls?’ Lori enquired. She couldn’t care less for Rosa and Anita, but was prepared to acknowledge this was the only common ground she could tread with her father. What she wanted to ask was how they felt about her new-found fame—Angélica, too. But Tony wasn’t saying, and her pride didn’t allow her to ask.

  ‘The same.’

  ‘And you? How are you?’

  ‘Apart from missing my daughter, I’m getting by.’

  ‘Oh, Papa.’ She touched his arm but he waved away her concern. ‘Now I’m settled we can see more of each other. I’ll make sure of it.’ But the promise was faint.

  ‘Are you happy?’

  She considered the question. ‘I think so.’

  ‘This is a big place for you to live all by yourself …’

  ‘It feels it.’

  Tony licked his lips, clasped his hands together. ‘And our place is small … for the four of us. What I mean to say is, Angélica feels we might …’

  She could tell where this was going. The thought appalled her. She stood up. ‘I’m sorry, the answer is no.’

  Tony reached out, caught only the tips of her fingers as she moved away. ‘Angélica wanted me to ask you. She said there was no way you could need all this to yourself—’

  ‘And what has it got to do with her?’ Lori bit her lip to stop her anger escaping. She’d spent the past few months convinced she’d moved on from that downtrodden girl at Tres Hermanas, the unhappiness of her life with her stepfamily, and couldn’t tolerate the notion that all those sensitivities were still there, waiting beneath the surface.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I told her it was unreasonable.’

  ‘Couldn’t she have mentioned it herself?’ Lori folded her arms.

  ‘She didn’t feel she was welcome.’

  ‘But she feels welcome enough to invite herself to live in my house, is that it?’

  Tony glanced to the ground. Here was the father she had become so exasperated by. What was he now, merely Angélica’s puppet? This was the reason she had got out in the first place. If he thought for one second she could return to that scenario, he was dead wrong.

  ‘Papa.’ She came to him, her voice softening. ‘You know there is always a place for you.’ Her omission was clear.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It was wrong of me.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’ She wanted to add, It was wrong of Angélica, but didn’t. Her conscience buckled. If Tony was her responsibility and they, in turn, were his, where did that leave them? She had this whole mansion to herself, while he was cramped in his old age in a tiny house barely big enough for one. Guilt pawed at her. What would her mother tell her to do?

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she told him, sick in her soul at the glimmer of hope in his eyes.

  ‘I have a proposition,’ said Jacqueline, stirring mint tea. ‘His name’s Peter Selznick.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘From No Husbands Needed.’ Her publicist cited a mega-hit year-old sitcom. ‘Getting into movies. Tipped to be big.’ She winked. ‘And very good-looking.’

  The women were at a café on Melrose Avenue. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since the Valerie deal without the women talking, and while Jacqueline had started in a junior, apprentice-type role at One Touch, with her first client’s stratospheric rise to fame she had swiftly been promoted. Though Lori knew little of the ins and outs of the PR machine, she could tell that Jacqueline was extremely good at her job.

  Lori frowned. ‘OK …’

  ‘It’d do wonders for your profiles to be seen out together. Even better, to take it to the next level.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She was confused. ‘You’ll have to slow down. The next level?’

  Jacqueline smiled triumphantly. ‘Weren’t you saying Bay Heights was too big for you?’

  Lori never used the mansion’s formal title—it made it sound like a hotel. ‘Yeah, so.?’

  ‘So, Peter’s ready to move in!’ She shrugged, as though it were obvious. ‘Everything’s been finalised and we’re all on board. Now we just need your OK.’

  Lori was shocked. ‘Hang on: you want a complete stranger to move into my house?’

  ‘He’s not a complete stranger; he’s well-known—just not to you.’ Lori tried to make sense of this logic while Jacqueline took the opportunity to plough on. ‘And the house is plenty large enough to accommodate you both leading independent lives. Think of it like advertising for someone to share your apartment! People do that all the time.’

  ‘Hang on.’ She was struggling to keep up. ‘Why?’

  Jacqueline made a so-so face. ‘Think of it like you scratch his back, he scratches yours.’

  ‘I don’t want to scratch his back.’

  ‘Come on, you know what I mean. This is a fantastic publicity opportunity for you both, and like I said you’ll only really be roomies. There’s nothing to lose.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘But what? Who knows,’ she teased, ‘maybe after a while you won’t want to keep things so separate.’

  Lori blushed. She was conscious of a gaggle of girls on the sidewalk opposite taking her photograph. ‘I hope he wouldn’t be expecting—’

  ‘Of course not.’ Briskly Jacqueline shook her head. ‘Peter’s fully aware of your situation and the importance of, well…’

  ‘Keeping me intact?’

  Jacqueline smiled. ‘What do you say?’

  Lori thought about it. Reporters had been unremitting in asking about boyfriends and fiancés—a handsome guy on her arm could be just what she needed. Even better one who, at last, accepted her virginity.

  And it would show JB Moreau I’m over him.

  She ignored the voice that added: I hope it hurts.

  ‘I’d want to meet Peter first,’ she said.

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘And make sure I like him.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘And then …’ She recalled the conversation she’d had with her father. Angélica wouldn’t want to move in if she had a man living there, would she? ‘It could work. I guess.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Jacqueline glanced at her hand. ‘You’ll need to take that ring off for starters.’

  Lori followed her gaze. She had gotten so used to wearing Rico’s ring that she could almost forget it was there. Initially there had been speculation, before One Touch had assured the world it was a family heirloom.

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  Jacqueline sensed her hesitation. ‘If you’d rather not …’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ Lori twisted it. It caught on the knuckle then slid off with ease. The ring had been on her hand for over a year, and its absence left behind a thin whitish band of skin.

  Rico.

  It’s a promise …

  ‘Will La Lumière know about Peter?’ she a
sked.

  Jacqueline took a sip of her tea and set the cup down. ‘The fewer people are aware of the arrangement, the better—that’s how it works in this town. Though I’d imagine Moreau would back it. He’s tyrannical about his own press, or lack thereof.’

  Lori bit the inside of her lip. Of course JB would back it. He’d seen her in the first place as some kind of prostitute—why shouldn’t he pimp her out, invite others to have a go?

  The words were out before she could stop herself, a slight but satisfying stab at revenge.

  ‘Did I mention JB and I met before I was signed to the agency?’

  Jacqueline looked up, surprised. ‘No.’

  ‘He came into the salon where I worked. Some guys were giving me trouble and he stepped in to help.’

  ‘That’s odd. Are you sure it was him?’

  The idea of mistaking JB for anyone else was laughable. ‘Positive. But when we met again at La Lumière, he made like he didn’t know me.’

  Jacqueline raised an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t think you’re the first.’

  ‘That’s the conclusion I’ve reached.’

  ‘Then you’re catching on fast. He probably didn’t remember.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Between you and me, he’s an asshole.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Jacqueline sat back. ‘Oh no.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not you as well.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Look around, this city’s packed with hot guys; he isn’t the only damn one! The way you lot carry on, you’d think he was the last man alive. You’re best off out of it, Lori. I’m sick of seeing women being pathetic over him, he’s not all that.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Weren’t you ever …?’

  ‘Tempted? No.’ But Lori saw how her gaze flickered.

  ‘It’s irrelevant now,’ Lori concluded. ‘I’m over it.’

  ‘You’d better be,’ warned Jacqueline, pushing back her chair. ‘Because there’s more going on with that guy than you even want to know about.’