by Joanna Rees
At first Peaches had tried to wriggle out of the whole thing, but Wallace had been insistent. He’d told her categorically: if Peaches wanted to find out any more, then this was her last chance. And so she’d agreed to go to Texas.
And now she wanted to tell Ross that she was scared. Because the past twenty-four hours had set her alarm bells ringing. First Valentin teasing her that she must have Russian blood – and on the very same day being contacted by a Russian gangster’s attorney. It was all just too much. Peaches had a hunch – just a crazy hunch – that the sickle-shaped scar could mean . . .
But could mean what, exactly?
She knew the sickle was the Russian emblem. But her scar being that shape was surely just a fluke? It couldn’t really mean that a Russian had put it there. It was more likely that Albert Rockbine or some other sick bastard from her past right here in the States had done it to her.
Either way, she’d made a decision late last night and had booked her flight to Texas for tonight. She happened to know an oil-company chief who would pay handsomely for an hour or two of her company. And then, tomorrow, she’d see this Gorsky guy and find out what the hell this was all about. But until then, she was just clutching at straws.
‘It’s nothing,’ she told Ross, looking away from his familiar gaze. ‘It’s just someone commented on it. And I’d feel better if it wasn’t there.’
Ross took a look at the scar again. ‘It’s very defined and your skin is very supple there. I’m not sure that surgery will really make it any better. I guess I could do a skin graft.’
‘I don’t care what you do. Just get rid of it.’
‘OK. If you feel that strongly about it. But are you sure?’ Ross signalled for her to get dressed again and drew away to his large desk. ‘I have to tell you, I kind of like it. It’s sexy.’
‘It’s not,’ Peaches said, more harshly than she meant to. ‘Besides,’ she added teasingly, to make up for her tone, ‘how would you know?’
Ross smiled at her. ‘I know sexy when I see it.’
‘You couldn’t afford me, baby,’ she said, as she buttoned up her blouse. The she raised her eyebrows at him. ‘And anyway, aren’t you forgetting that you’re the biggest secret queer in Hollywood?’
Ross’s sexuality was a constant source of banter between them. Peaches had flaunted many of her most beautiful girls under Ross’s nose, but he hadn’t shown even a flicker of interest, so she’d convinced herself that Ross was gay. There was no other explanation. But it wasn’t something she felt she could ask him seriously, without risking offending him.
And his expression gave nothing away now – apart from the twinkle of amusement in his soft hazel eyes. Not for the first time, Peaches realized that he knew something she didn’t.
‘You really think I’m gay? Me?’ he said. Peaches gave him a look that said she knew the idea was preposterous. ‘I’m just celibate, that’s all. Something you should try one day, Peaches. It has its rewards.’
Peaches pulled a face at him. ‘Bullshit. Do yourself a favour, get laid. You could have anyone, Ross. And you know it.’
Ross shrugged. ‘I know. But I’m just the way I am,’ he said, his enigmatic smile making Peaches laugh. ‘Besides, hasn’t it occurred to you that I may be saving myself for you?’
‘If only that were true,’ she said.
Just why Ross Heartwood was single and celibate was a mystery to her. She wondered whether he had problems with sex. Was he impotent? Surely not. And if he was, there were a whole host of treatments that he would be aware of.
Well, she’d find out one day. Nobody could keep a secret for ever. Particularly not a man. And particularly not from her.
‘So you still up for lunch?’ Peaches asked, after Ross had scheduled in an appointment for her scar to be removed.
‘Of course, I’ll pick you up in two hours. Your place. I’ve got a new toy I want to show you. It’s going to drive you wild.’
Exactly two hours later, Peaches was sitting on the veranda of her Santa Monica beach house, drying her last coat of nail polish, after a long and relaxing shower. She loved the secluded white and pale blue clapboard house with its minimalist interior and stunning views over the ocean. Today, the tide was way out, making the long expanse of wet sand shimmer, reflecting the blue sky and wispy white clouds above. In the distance, she could see that the surfers who came in the early morning had given way to the dog walkers and joggers.
Then came the unmistakably deep rumble of an expensive sports car coming down the private road behind her house and Peaches smiled to herself. She should have known. So that was Ross’s surprise. She stood up, shading her eyes, as Ross drew level with the porch in a silver Aston Martin DB5. He smiled up at her and threw out his arm to the empty passenger seat next to him, beautifully upholstered in maroon leather. How typically James Bond of him, Peaches thought, grabbing her bag and running down to join him. And if she wasn’t mistaken, he was wearing a brand-new Omega watch, just to complete the image.
‘It’s wonderful, Ross,’ she said, running her hand over the immaculate paintwork.
‘Get in, I’ll take you for a spin,’ he said.
Peaches laughed as the engine roared and they wheel-spun back out into the road and headed in the direction of the highway into town.
With Ross, Peaches felt that the world was a good place. That it was full of sunshine and possibilities and fun. Anyone watching them race by might easily have mistaken them for a happy pair of newly-weds. Peaches felt a momentary pang of regret at the sheer otherness of such a concept. Her and marriage: it was something she’d hoped for as a kid, the same as every little girl. But now it seemed impossible, fantastical – even absurd. She’d seen too many married men cheating on their wives ever to be able to trust one of her own.
‘I booked Larry’s,’ Peaches shouted over the roar of the engine and the state-of-the-art sound system. Ross’s musical taste, like his taste in art, was anglophile. The current MP3 selection was trippy and very louche. Peaches preferred all-American rock.
‘Great.’ Ross flashed her a perfect smile. With the sun glinting on the ocean between the palm trees behind him, Peaches thought he looked as if he should be on a movie poster.
Peaches knew that the restaurant was a mischievous choice – and one that Ross would love. Only someone as attuned to social nuances and body language as Peaches could have detected the frisson of scandal they caused when they were seen out together, and today was no different. As the valet sped away happily with Ross’s car and Peaches and Ross walked up the steps between the manicured box hedges and entered the exclusive Hollywood haunt arm-in-arm, Peaches felt all eyes on them.
Half the women in here – mostly actresses – knew exactly who Ross Heartwood was, and most of them would rather die than have him acknowledge them in public. And half the men in the restaurant – studio bosses, agents and producers – knew exactly who Peaches Gold was and were similarly terrified of her bestowing any public attention on them. Most of their numbers were stored in her phone and in her closely guarded little black book of contacts. She held her head up and tapped her purse with her manicured hand, so they’d know she knew it. Peaches was well aware that with just one look, or a word, she could make or break a dozen reputations.
‘Between us, you and I know more guilty secrets than anyone else in Hollywood,’ Ross said as they were seated at the shaded corner table, the best table in the house, beneath the trellis of pink bougainvillea.
‘You read my thoughts.’ Peaches smiled, pretending to look at the menu, although she already knew she’d be eating the house salad. Her oil-company chief in Texas, Joel Woodrow Hawkins III, would no doubt want to feed her steak as they barbecued later on tonight by his enormous hot tub. Joel owned a dozen restaurants and casinos and had often talked about them going into business together, setting up a brothel franchise, but Peaches never would. She valued her independence way too much for that. And much as she liked the straight-talking oil baron, he wa
s as slippery as a gallon of his finest crude.
‘So let’s talk about fun things. Like your party,’ Ross said, a gossipy twinkle in his eyes.
Peaches had been hosting the party of the Hollywood calendar for three years now. Dubbed ‘Depravity Night’, it had started when Eddie Roland, the famous studio boss, had suggested that she throw an altogether different sort of party. Not a product launch, or a party attached to the Oscars or Grammys. Not a party where people went to be seen, or were paid to be seen, but a party where people went to have fun.
And not just any people. The rich and the famous. People so used to a life of utter luxury, people so bored of normal celebrity-packed parties and inured to the entertainment on offer that only a night of sheer hedonism would excite them. In other words, a party where Eddie and his friends could let down their hair (not that Eddie had much to let down) and partake of some of the finer pleasures that Peaches’ girls had to offer at the same time. And Peaches, who knew a sound business suggestion when she heard it, had immediately set the wheels in motion.
The word had spread like wildfire. Everyone who was anyone had wanted a piece of the action. The élite group of men that Peaches’ girls serviced had made no secret of the fact that they would pay almost any price for an invite. A-list actors, studio heads, producers and directors had all fallen over themselves to get on to Peaches’ secret guest list.
The resulting party had become the stuff of Hollywood legend. Peaches had heard vastly exaggerated stories of what had happened that night: stories that made her smile, because of their sheer sexual ludicrousness – and in some cases direct contravention of the laws of physics and biology. And yet she’d never denied them, because she was smart enough to know that such salacious word-of-mouth advertised her services better than any Madison Avenue agency ever could.
The second year – last year – had been even more outrageous, and Peaches had really splashed out on security. It seemed that the real draw of the event was its total secrecy. Everyone could party without the fear of being papped, or their names being bandied about in gossip columns. Or, most importantly, being collared by the cops.
This year expectations were running higher than ever. Since the budgets in Hollywood had dropped, people were crying out for a good party. Just to feel – even temporarily – a blast of the good old days of glitz and glamour and downright naughtiness. And that’s exactly what she was going to give them. Which is why, if the press had just one sniff of what she was planning, she’d be ruined. But that’s why Peaches enjoyed hosting the party so much. It made her feel like she ran Hollywood. Like she was flaunting herself right underneath everyone’s noses.
‘So who’s on the guest list?’ Ross asked. ‘Anyone in here?’
Peaches nodded and discreetly flicked her eyes in the direction of the table behind Ross.
‘Really?’ Ross said, clearly scandalized.
‘Oh yes,’ Peaches said, smiling and tossing her newly trimmed hair over her shoulder.
The producer sitting behind Ross was famously and happily married and his daughter was in a successful TV mini-series, but Peaches had had to buy a studded collar, a lead and a diaper especially for one session with him. She wondered what his wife, a leading socialite and Democratic candidate, would make of her husband’s real sexual desires.
‘So . . . ?’ Ross asked. ‘Location . . . dare I ask?’
The way she ran it, invitations to the party were sent out by courier less than an hour before with a special number for the recipient to call. Only after Peaches or Angela had vetted them for authenticity by asking them a strictly coded series of questions would the caller get the details of the party’s location.
Peaches leant forward. She knew she could trust Ross. ‘I’ll have to whisper,’ she said. ‘You know everyone says this place is bugged.’
Ross smiled and half rose to lean across the table, so Peaches could whisper in his ear. She was aware of the whole restaurant watching them.
‘I’ve got the Clover Hill mansion,’ she whispered.
‘You haven’t!’ Ross exclaimed, before clamping his hand over his mouth and sitting back down in his seat. ‘That’s incredible. And brilliant. Nobody would even think of it being there.’
‘I know,’ she said smugly. The Clover Hill Mansion was the Buckingham Palace of Beverly Hills. Since it had been built in the 1900s, only Hollywood royalty had lived there – most recently the Seagram-Cohens. Since screen legend Jessica had died last year right after her lifetime achievement award at the Oscars, old Murray Seagram-Cohen had been rattling around the vast mansion all by himself. The gossip magazines were full of talk about how Michael, Murray and Jessica’s equally famous son, would be moving in with his young family to carry on the family dynasty, but Peaches had, as usual, got her timing spot on. Michael was renovating the whole building before he downgraded his father to the palatial annexe next door. For the night of the party and the few weeks either side, the entire site would be empty of Seagram-Cohens.
‘It took a bit of work,’ Peaches said. ‘But let’s just say Murray was persuadable.’
She glanced up at Ross, who hastily took a sip of mineral water.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Peaches rebuffed him, adding in a whisper, ‘I didn’t “do it” with Murray Cohen. I do have standards, you know.’
Ross shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did. He was stunning in his hey-day. Some of those old films he did with Clint? Boy, he really fizzed on screen.’
‘Believe me, Murray still has his charms. And I told him that it was important that he didn’t get sidelined as an old guy. Not with his son moving into Clover Hill. I told him, “Murray, there’re plenty of roles around for sexy older guys like you.” And there are, I guess. More than for women. I told him that now Jessica’s gone, it’s important for him to get back to work. You know, get some credibility. And what better way to announce he’s still got what it takes than if it comes out that he hosted my party? It was a simple case of appealing to his vanity.’
‘You’re a genius,’ Ross said, smiling.
‘But you know, Ross, you can’t tell anyone. I mean it.’
Ross mimed zipping up his mouth.
‘So how much are you charging this year?’ he asked, after the waitress had poured them both a glass of the imported Hildon water Ross liked so much. ‘Just in case anyone asks me.’
‘Five thousand entrance, plus the usual fees for the girls.’
Ross let out an impressed whistle. ‘So by my reckoning that leaves you . . . I’d say . . . two mill in the clear.’
‘Two and a half. Minus some overheads.’
‘My, my, Peaches,’ Ross said, shaking his head. ‘You are one clever girl.’
As they continued talking, Peaches forgot all about Ron Wallace and Gorsky. Laughing with Ross made her remember who she was. She was Peaches Gold, pleasure-provider, party-organizer and businesswoman. She didn’t have personal problems. That wasn’t part of the package. She hadn’t needed a confidant before and she wasn’t going to start now.
She was on her own. And that was just fine. Who cared where she’d come from? The point was that she’d made it here.
But as their lunch drew to a close, even though Peaches was laughing, the coldness returned to the pit of her belly.
All she could think about again was the Merton Correctional Institute and what tomorrow might bring.
CHAPTER NINE
On Pushkin, Frankie was alone with Alex in his study in the suite of rooms adjacent to the master cabin. It had a dark teak built-in desk beneath a row of oval portholes that overlooked the vast expanse of sky and ocean.
‘Doesn’t anyone clean up here?’ Frankie asked, amazed at the state of the small room. The desk was loaded with paper. There was an open attaché case on the large swivel chair and a grey linen jacket flung over the set of wooden drawers. Several TV screens showed CNN news and various financial programmes. Beneath them, a monitor showed Reuters graphs of what F
rankie assumed were stocks and shares. A fax machine spilt paper out on to the thick pile carpet with its repeated Pushkin monogram.
‘No. I’ve given Richard strict instructions that this place is out of bounds,’ Alex said, frantically clearing up.
Frankie picked up a mug. There was a crust of old coffee in it, probably two months old. She showed it to Alex and raised her eyebrows. ‘Roz would have a fit if she could see this.’
Alex looked embarrassed and rubbed his finger up the side of his face. He was still flushed from his workout.
‘To hell with Roz,’ he said. ‘I like stuff to be mine, occasionally. You know – a place that has my skin cells in it.’
Frankie smiled. Who would have guessed that Alexei Rodokov could be so . . . so damned normal? It only served to make him a hundred times more attractive, because it suddenly made him seem attainable too.
‘Take a seat,’ Alex said, moving the case and offering her the swivel chair. Now that they were alone and she was in his domain, rather than in the gym, she’d expected him to be completely at ease and in control. But quite the reverse. He seemed apprehensive, nervous even. But of what? Surely not of her?
She sat down and looked at the open laptop on the desk in front of her. It was the latest Mac. She’d only read about them, never actually seen one, but to Frankie’s trained eye, it was beautiful – the most powerful portable machine on the market. It would take her six months’ full salary to be able to afford one for herself.
Alex leant down beside her, one arm on the chair, as he booted up the screen. Their heads were close now and, once again, Frankie had to remind herself to be professional.
It felt good being back at a computer, but it made her nervous too. She hadn’t touched one for over a year, apart from to send the occasional email to friends back home. She hadn’t wanted to let herself think too much about what had happened. About how she’d been fast-tracked into a Government job as a computer technician, only to then accidentally uncover information concerning a conflict diamond scandal involving senior government officials. About how she’d blown the whistle on what she’d found and, in turn, exploded her life.
