‘My skirt! I wanted to show how disgusted I am with him. I can’t bear anything I’m wearing to touch him.’
‘Much too busy,’ Randon said dismissively. ‘Cut it out.’
‘I shall see what my director says,’ she snapped. ‘I rather like it. I think it’s very feminine.’
‘He’ll tell you to cut it out too,’ Randon said, reclining back on the sofa and propping a pillow behind his head. ‘You might as well listen to me and save yourself the humiliation. Take some advice from someone who’s actually trodden the boards.’
‘Oh, shut up! If I have to hear one more time about you playing Macbeth at the National Theatre . . .’
Vivienne mimicked Randon’s British accent perfectly, sticking her nose in the air as she did so.
‘You Brits are the worst snobs about the theer-ter!’ she continued, nailing the 1920s pronunciation she would be using for The Letter. ‘You think you own it! It’s not like we don’t have tons of good playwrights in the States—’
It was Randon’s turn to ignore what she was saying.
‘That accent isn’t half bad,’ he observed. ‘Much better than the Spanish one you’re currently hawking up from the back of your throat. You sound like you’re about to gob up phlegm most of the time. I think you’re actually getting worse the longer you do it.’
‘It’s really hard to use my diaphragm properly with that corset! And at least it’s not as bad as that fake Texas drawl you did for Rattlesnake Ridge!’ Vivienne snapped, putting the derringer down on a side table. ‘You sounded ridiculous! “Sheriff, Ah’m bound to tell yah, stand aside or Ah’ll have to let mah trusty Colt do the talkin’ for me . . .”’
Her imitation of Randon in one of his rare failures was unfortunately much too accurate. Rattlesnake Ridge, his recent Western, had been a total flop, the dialogue just as cheesy as Vivienne’s parody, and Randon’s accent had been widely mocked. Everyone had advised him against it; that genre of film was considered old-fashioned, and the script was weak. But Randon had always wanted to play a cowboy, and had refused to be dissuaded.
‘I did not sound like that!’ Flicked to the raw, Randon sat up straight, his blue eyes blazing with fury, grabbing for the brandy bottle on the floor by the sofa and refilling the glass beside it.
‘Just because your Spanish accent sounds like you have six angry dwarfs trapped in your windpipe arguing with each other,’ he continued, after a long slug of his spirit of choice, ‘there’s no need to be so vicious! And you need the corset, woman, with all that paella you stuff down every night! They’re keeping your waist the same size for the costume, but there’s more of you coming out top and bottom every day!’
‘Fuck you!’ Vivienne screamed. ‘It’s so unfair! I hate how men can eat whatever they want! You’re stuffing your face too, but you get to wear a uniform, which is the most flattering thing of all – you don’t have to show off a twenty-six-inch waist in every bloody shot—’
‘Oh, don’t worry, darling,’ Randon said with a syrupy tone of fake reassurance, setting down the glass. ‘The twenty-six-inch waist may be a lost cause, but no one will be looking anywhere but at those increasingly huge tits ballooning out of the top of your blouse. I can’t believe your character’s supposed to be seventeen, by the way. Great boobs for your age, but—’
‘Fuck you! My God, I need to get actual bullets for this gun!’
She grabbed it and pointed it at Randon; he immediately reacted, jumping up from the sofa, throwing his arms wide in surrender. Vivienne pressed the trigger anyway, the empty chamber clicking, and he clutched his chest with an expression of horrified surprise on his face, his blue eyes wide. Vivienne fired again, and he staggered back, the imaginary impact taking him into the arm of the sofa; another shot, and he was thrown right over the arm, his legs flying up, his body crumpling behind the sofa.
‘Ow,’ came his voice. ‘Tiled floors. Bloody Spain. Forgot there wasn’t a rug back there.’
‘Serves you right for being such a show-off,’ Vivienne said, putting down the gun again. ‘No one made you do anything so scene-stealing. You could just have died on the sofa like a normal person.’
‘I’m not a normal person,’ Randon said, unmoving. ‘Come and help me up, woman. It’s the least you can do after having shot me down like a dog.’
Vivienne’s heels clicked across the terracotta floor as she strode briskly around the sofa; her husband was lying there, rubbing the shoulder on which he had landed in his twisting back somersault fall.
‘You’re going to need to kiss this better,’ he said.
‘Kiss my ass,’ she retorted.
‘Language!’
Randon reached out, grabbed her ankle, and pulled her ruthlessly downwards; she screamed, tried to clutch the edge of the sofa, but ended up sprawling on top of him, his legs coming round hers to hold her down.
‘I may have been a bit harsh about your tits,’ he said, starting to unbutton her blouse. ‘Let’s have another look.’
‘Randon, for God’s sake – we’re in the middle of the living room, anyone might come in – you’re too drunk to realize.’
‘Oh, come on, give me a quick look! We’re married, for fuck’s sake. If I can’t grope my wife’s tits when I want to, why the hell did I bother to put a ring the size of a tangerine on your finger?’
He had her blouse open, was squeezing her breasts now in just the way he knew she loved, his thumbs circling her nipples through the lace of her bra.
‘Just a quick feel . . .’ he crooned in the deep, sexy tones that had legions of women around the world swooning. ‘Mmm, so good . . . real proper handfuls, ripe and juicy . . .’
Vivienne’s eyes were rolling up into her head with pleasure. Randon had been doing all his own stunts for the film, dragging ox carts, packing rifles with gunpowder, and his palms were deliciously callused. Previous lovers had made the mistake of treating Vivienne Winter as if she were made of porcelain as delicate as her skin. She had been so famous for so long that it was hard for them to believe they were truly having sex with her, and most of them had consequently felt the need to comment on it repeatedly in near-worshipful tones. Unfortunately for them, Vivienne had no interest in soft caresses or endless compliments, and even less in men telling her over and over again how lucky they felt to have her in their arms.
There had been a few types who had tried the opposite approach, coming on too rough once they were alone with her to show that they weren’t intimidated by her fame. Vivienne had once had to break a vase over the head of a fellow actor who had seemed to think that it was okay to grip her arms hard enough to leave bruises when they were just kissing. God knew what he would have done in bed! So, as soon as he’d let her go so he could undo his jeans – apparently he considered that he’d performed sufficient foreplay by shoving his tongue down her throat and marking her arms so badly they would have to use heavy body make-up on her for days – she had writhed away, snatched the vase and crowned him with it.
And he hadn’t been the only one. There was something about the prospect of fucking Vivienne Winter, the film star who had been a sex symbol since her mid-teens, that drove men literally crazy; alone with her, they seemed to turn into completely different people, slavering beasts or humble slaves.
Randon, blissfully, was a rare exception. He was always himself, vulgar and unrestrained, intimidated by not a single person in the world, and in bed he treated Vivienne with happy, uninhibited lust. Right now, the way he was groping her breasts was perfect, his touch just rough enough without manhandling her as if she were a piece of meat.
Like Goldilocks with the porridge, she thought unexpectedly, her head swimming with the champagne she had drunk earlier. Not too cold, not too hot, just right . . .
She started to giggle tipsily.
‘What? Why the hell are you laughing?’
Randon sat up, wrapped his arms around her waist and flipped the two of them over so that she was underneath, the tile chilly on her back. He propped himself on
his elbows, frowning at her comically.
‘Why is it funny suddenly when I’m touching your tits?’ he demanded.
‘I was thinking that you’re like the porridge,’ she said, still giggling. ‘Goldilocks’ porridge.’
‘What?’ Randon’s frown of confusion deepened.
‘Mummy?’ a plaintive, piping voice cut in. ‘Mummy, why doesn’t the gun go bang? Mummy, where are you?’
Staring into each other’s eyes, caught up as they were in their very intimate and particular world, it took Randon and Vivienne a long drawn-out moment to realize that Vivienne’s daughter, seven-year-old Pearl, was in the room. To their horror, in the silence that followed, they heard the clicking sound of the derringer’s trigger being pulled again and again.
‘Pearl! Put that down!’
Vivienne wriggled frantically from under Randon, dragged her blouse closed and climbed to her feet, running around the sofa to her daughter. With her blonde mop of curls and angelic face, dressed in a white embroidered nightdress that tied with big bows at her shoulders, Pearl looked like Shirley Temple, which made the pearl-handled revolver in her small hands even more incongruous. She was diligently pressing the trigger with her forefingers, presumably trying to make it go bang.
‘Put the gun down!’ Vivienne screamed. ‘Jesus, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be in bed by now!’
Pearl dropped the derringer and burst into tears, the big purple eyes filling up immediately. However, Vivienne too could cry on demand, and, knowing that, she always took the sight of her daughter in tears with a pinch of salt.
‘Maria!’ she bellowed into the hallway. ‘Get down here and take my daughter back to bed, now!’
Almost immediately the local maid who was tasked with looking after Pearl could be heard running down the central staircase of the villa and into the living room.
‘What the hell is she doing up?’ Vivienne demanded, as Pearl bawled even harder. ‘She was playing with my gun, for God’s sake! She could have killed herself!’
‘I’m so sorry, Mees Winter . . .’ Maria babbled. ‘I theenk she is in bed with her dolls . . .’
Randon, who had been waiting for his erection to subside, was on his feet now, striding towards the little group, bending down to pick Pearl up.
‘Come on, little Pearl, stop crying,’ he said, bouncing her up and down. ‘You mustn’t play with guns, you know! Mummy’s quite right about that.’
‘I just wanted to make it go bang!’ Pearl sobbed.
‘It’s way past your bedtime!’ Vivienne said furiously. ‘You shouldn’t be down here!’
‘But I just wanted to see you, Mummy!’ Pearl said, opening her eyes wide and putting on her best cute expression.
‘Sneaking to the kitchen for some more cake, more like,’ Vivienne said, with a total lack of sympathy. Pearl’s eyes flashed as she shot daggers at her mother, so cross she completely forgot that she was supposed to be upset.
‘Ooh, she got you!’ Randon crowed cheerfully. ‘And you look just like your mummy when you get angry, Pearl – it’s very funny. Here, off you go to Maria like a good girl. Children should be neither seen nor heard after seven o’clock.’
‘I never see Mummy at all,’ Pearl said sulkily. ‘It doesn’t matter what time it is.’
Randon grimaced at the truth of this.
‘After this film, Mummy will be in a play and you’ll see her much more,’ he said consolingly. ‘She’ll be at work in the evening and free to play with you all day.’
It was Vivienne’s turn to pull a face.
‘With two matinees and six evening shows?’ she said. ‘I’m going to need a lot of rest, you know.’
‘Well, you’ll have more time with Mummy than you do now,’ Randon said to Pearl. ‘You can wake her up every morning to say hello!’
Pearl brightened visibly; Vivienne shot Randon a dagger-look of fury. She was famous for sleeping in late whenever she could, to the point that filming schedules were adjusted to fit her requirements for as few early starts as possible.
He plopped Pearl back on the ground and nodded at Maria.
‘I’ll kiss you goodnight now,’ Vivienne said.
‘No! Mummy I want you to kiss me in bed!’ Pearl wailed.
‘Then you should have waited there like a good girl!’ her mother said, conveniently ignoring the fact that she had completely forgotten to go upstairs and kiss her daughter goodnight. ‘You’re lucky you’re getting a kiss at all! Here.’
She bent down and dropped a brief kiss on the top of her daughter’s head.
‘Off you go,’ she said, nodding at Maria.
‘No! No! I want a proper kiss in my own bed! No!’
Pearl started sobbing again as Maria obediently took her hand and pulled her from the room, big hopeless cries that echoed all the way around the hallway, bouncing off the tiled floors, the terracotta staircase, the white-painted stone walls of the villa.
‘Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!’ she wailed. ‘Mummy, I want you!’
‘God, she’s such a little drama queen!’ Vivienne said, turning back to Randon, who was picking up the brandy bottle and refilling his glass.
‘God knows where she gets it from,’ he observed, straight-faced, tossing down the brandy and setting down the glass.
Vivienne executed a big, stage-fighting slap on the side of his face; he pretended to take it with a flinch, then doubled back to grab her round the waist.
‘Where were we before we were interrupted?’ he said, his hands sliding up to her breasts.
‘Mmm, there,’ she said, closing her eyes in pleasure. ‘Exactly there. God, yes . . .’
‘Here’s the thing,’ Randon said, kissing her shoulder, his brandy breath hot against her skin. ‘I don’t want to take my hands away. It’s like they’re glued here now. But we can’t go upstairs with me groping your tits, not with Pearl on the loose . . . and we can’t fuck in here either, as you boringly pointed out . . . So I’m thinking, what about a quickie in the study? That’s only got one door. I can shove the desk or something in front of it. And then I can get your tits out and apologize to them.’
‘What, with your penis?’
This was supposed to be sarcastic, but Randon chose to take it completely seriously.
‘Great idea!’ he said, still kissing her neck. ‘I’ll come on your tits. They always love that. It’s the highest compliment a man can give . . .’
‘God, you talk such rubbish, such absolute drunken bullshit—’
‘You love it,’ Randon said complacently. ‘You love my drunken bullshit, and you love me. And I’ll love you till the day I die, you colossal drama queen. Right, first I’m going to bend you over the study desk and fuck your champagne-soaked brains out. And then you can tell me why the hell you said I was like porridge, you crazy bitch!’
Chapter Three
Paris, 1990
It was an unusually warm spring morning, and both the beautiful young mother and her lovely little son were damp with sweat after a long walk across the Luxembourg Gardens and through the sixth arrondissement to the hôtel particulier whose doorbell, framed by elaborate metal curlicues, the former had just rung. The little boy’s small hand was slick with perspiration, slipping from his mother’s. She gathered it up in a firmer grip as a security camera attached to the high stone wall swivelled, fixing them with its lens, and a voice issued from the intercom beside the bell she had just pushed, discreetly labelled on a polished plaque: Hôtel Delancourt de Saint-André.
‘Miss Pearl?’ a male voice said tinnily.
‘Yes! Baxter, I’m here with Angel!’ the young woman said eagerly ‘We’ve come to see Mummy!’
There was a pause, lasting several seconds, before the male voice responded.
‘Madame said nothing to me about a visit, Miss Pearl.’
‘Well, she must have forgotten,’ her daughter said sharply.
‘I’m afraid that Madame is not at home at the moment, Miss Pearl,’ the voice replied. ‘She
had a costume fitting this morning with Monsieur Lacroix and is not expected back till after lunchtime.’
This news seemed to come as no surprise at all to Madame’s daughter.
‘Well, buzz us in and we’ll wait for her!’ she instructed. ‘We just flew in from London – we got the bus from the airport, but we’ve been walking forever from the stop, Angel’s exhausted and thirsty and he needs a wee—’
‘Mummy!’ the boy objected in embarrassment.
It sounded as if Baxter had heaved a sigh, but possibly that was the hinge of the automated iron gate beginning to swing open. Pearl heaved a sigh of her own, but hers was of sheer relief. Clutching her son’s hand, she darted into the entrance courtyard even before the gate was fully open, as if worried that Baxter would change his mind and start to close it again. She was making for the entrance across the courtyard, framed imposingly by double stone columns, but the little boy called Angel stopped, looking around him, his amethyst eyes wide with wonder.
‘Does Granny Viv live in a hotel all by herself, Mummy?’ he said in awe. ‘When I grow up, I want a hotel all to myself as well. And then I can stay in all the rooms till I pick the one I like best.’
‘Hôtel’s just what the posh houses are called in France,’ Pearl said airily, dragging him into movement again.
Pearl’s mother had done her best to secure her daughter the best of educations at a variety of very expensive schools – and then private tutors, when each school in turn had regretfully declined, despite her mother’s celebrity and Pearl’s considerable intelligence, the continued privilege of having Pearl as a student. While Pearl might not have passed any exams, she had learned everything she considered necessary, including the ability to speak French and Italian – or at least, all the words relating to the high life.
‘Wow,’ Angel said in awe, swivelling around the cour d’honneur to take in the golden stone walls and soaring windows. The Hôtel Delancourt de Saint-André, which his grandmother was renting as her private residence while she shot a film in France, had been built in the eighteenth century for the Marquise de Delancourt, a famous society hostess whose weekly salons had hosted the wits and writers Madame de Sévigné, Corneille, Richelieu and La Rochefoucauld.
Killer Diamonds Page 4
