Authors: Jackie Collins
Snaking her arms around his waist, she rocked him back towards her. ‘How about a private gig just for me?’ she whispered in her best sexy voice. ‘After all, I
am
asking nicely. And I promise I’ll be good.’ A meaningful pause.
‘Very
good.’
There was no way Kris would break his rule. And nobody – not even the gorgeous Cybil Wilde – could make him. On the day of a performance he was like a fighter entering the ring: he needed every ounce of his precious sexual energy. Not one drop got spilled until it was all over.
‘Later,’ he promised, disengaging himself and moving purposefully towards the shower.
Cybil pulled a disappointed face.
‘I said later, luv,’ he repeated, flashing his famous crooked grin as he stepped under the icy needles of water and grabbed a bar of lemon soap.
Lathering his chest he decided the shower felt good. Freezing water. Freezing out the old sexual urges. Making him feel alive and alert, ready for anything.
Anything except a private performance for Marcus sonofabitch Citroen.
Coldly Kris reflected on how much he loathed the powerful record magnate.
And with dull resignation he realized there was nothing he could do about it.
Not yet, anyway.
* * *
Rafealla alighted from Marcus Citroen’s private jet and entered Marcus Citroen’s personal Mercedes stretch limousine waiting on the tarmac. She nodded curtly to the driver, and was relieved to see upon entering the limo that there was no welcoming committee to greet her.
Great
, she thought,
no one to bother me until I reach the hotel.
She was wrong. As soon as she settled back, the driver requested she pick up the car phone. ‘Mr Citroen on the line,’ he said reverently.
‘Thanks.’ Her voice was flat. Marcus Citroen followed her every move. She couldn’t go to the bathroom without his knowing about it.
‘Hi, Marcus,’ she said listlessly.
‘Mr Citroen will be with you in a moment,’ replied the velvet-toned voice of his ever-so-efficient secretary, Phoebe.
Rafealla waited. Marcus liked to keep people waiting, she had seen him do it countless times. ‘Builds character,’ he would say dryly – with just a hint of the European accent he had never quite managed to get rid of.
Nervously she leaned forward and asked the driver if he had a cigarette.
‘I gave it up,’ the man said with an apologetic shrug. ‘Would you like me to stop and get you a pack?’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head vigorously. She too had given up the dreaded habit, although right now she was prepared to kill for the chance of one long deep drag on
anything.
‘Rafealla?’ Marcus’s voice. The slight accent. The oily thickness.
‘Yes, Marcus.’
‘You’re here.’
Of course I am, you summoned me, didn’t you?
‘Yes.’
‘Was your flight comfortable?’
‘Very.’
‘Good, good.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have booked you into a suite at L’Ermitage. I’ll call you as soon as you get there.’
Yes. Probably the moment I walk through the door.
‘Fine,’ she said coolly.
‘Rafealla?’
‘Yes.’
‘You won’t regret your decision.’
Ah, but I will, Marcus. I will.
He had given her no option, she thought, running a hand despairingly through her long, dark hair. With a deep sigh she slumped back against the plush leather seating.
Rafealla. She was known by just one name.
Rafealla.
When she sang, her voice evoked magic. Sultry nights and smoky nightclubs; for she did not sing of virgins and fresh young love, she ventured back to Billie Holliday territory and the blues. At twenty-seven years of age she knew plenty about the blues. More than she ever should.
Rafealla was an exotic beauty. Green-eyed, with sharply etched cheekbones, a wide, luscious mouth, and a deep olive complexion. Her dark hair swept in a curtain to her waist – straight and shining. She was slight of build, not voluptuous – but her body was still quite something in the oversized man’s suit and thin silk top she wore.
Rafealla had risen to the heights from nowhere, it seemed. Eighteen months ago she was unheard of. Now she was a star. Burning bright. A meteor streaking her way to the top of every record chart in the world. And whereas she had imagined stardom would bring her freedom – exactly the opposite had happened. Stardom had brought her Marcus Citroen. And she hated him with a deep and burning passion.
* * *
‘Bobby Mondella, do you have any idea how much you are loved?’ crooned the affectionate tones of the pretty black woman perched on the edge of a large circular desk. Her name was Sara.
Bobby, sitting in a comfortable leather chair next to the desk, reached out to touch. ‘Tell me, girl, tell me good.’
Bobby Mondella gave new meaning to the word ‘handsome’. In his thirties, he was tall, well over six feet, with dark chocolate skin, curly jet-black hair, and a great body.
‘I’ll do better than tellin’ you, honey,’ Sara said enthusiastically, grabbing a random pile of press clippings from the desk. ‘I’m gonna read you some of the reviews comin’ in on
Mondella Alive.
We are talkin’
dy . . . na . . . mite!’
Bobby reached for the dark glasses covering his unseeing eyes, took them off, put them on again. He made the same gesture about a hundred times a day. It was impossible for him to accept the fact that he would never see again.
‘Yeahhh.
Dy . . . na . . . mite!’
Sara repeated excitedly.
‘I know ’bout the reviews,’ Bobby said patiently. ‘The album’s been number one on the soul charts for five weeks now.’
‘Six,’ Sara corrected matter-of-factly. ‘Six straight weeks, an’
still
goin’ strong.’ She paused for breath. ‘Oh, sure,
Mister
Mondella. I know you’ve heard all about the
Billboard
rave, an’
Rollin’ Stone
, not to mention the
L.A. Times, Blues an’ Soul
, an’—’
‘What’s happenin’?’ Bobby interrupted. ‘Whyn’t you just get to the train station an’ save me the trip?’
‘What’s happening,’ Sara said importantly, ‘is that all across the country, in this great land we call America—’
‘Cut it, babe.’
Ignoring him, she continued her speech. ‘In every little hick town – they are lovin’ you, honey, but I mean
lovin’ you.
’ She paused triumphantly, shuffling the stack of press clippings. ‘Want me to read you some of this stuff?’
‘Sure,’ he said casually, not wishing to appear too eager, although hiding anything from Sara was almost impossible, she knew him too well.
‘Ridgway, PA,’ she read crisply. ‘ “Bobby Mondella
is
King Soul. Buy
Mondella Alive
an’
really
get down, for Bobby Mondella puts more meaning into a lyric than anyone out there.” ’ She paused, then said, ‘You like?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Hey – listen to Mister Conceited!’
‘Bring your cute ass over here, I wanna play basketball.’
‘Will you
stop
,’ she scolded: ‘Here’s another one. The
Duluth Herald.
“The return of Bobby M. makes for the finest soul album of the last decade. Since his unfortunate tragedy the Mondella magic is hotter than ever.” ’
Sara’s sweet voice droned on – heaping praise upon praise. Superlative after superlative.
Listening carefully, Bobby couldn’t help being delighted by all the extravagant praise. It was good to be number one again. Real good. Especially since everyone had counted him out, said he was finished, written him off as a has-been.
Everyone.
Except Sara.
And Marcus Citroen. Damn him.
Bobby felt the hate envelop him like a noxious cloud. He loathed the man, and for good reason. But he had to admit that Marcus Citroen was the only one who had given him a chance to come back, and back he was – with a vengeance.
‘Enough, Sara,’ he interrupted quietly. ‘I want to get some rest before tonight.’
‘I don’t know why you agreed to do this dumb fundraiser,’ she grumbled. ‘Marcus Citroen and his rich friends don’t deserve to be entertained by the likes of you. Especially your first live appearance since the accident.’
How come everyone – including Sara – referred to his loss of sight as an accident? It was no accident, goddammit. It was a crime. And one day he would find out who was responsible.
‘It’s for an interesting event,’ he said shortly.
‘Her
event,’ Sara sneered, taking his arm and guiding him towards the door of his bedroom.
Her event.
Bobby hadn’t seen
her
since it happened. Nor had he heard one word from the cold-hearted bitch.
Nova Citroen. Marcus Citroen’s wife. The thought of being in her company excited and disgusted him. He wondered what she would do . . . say . . .
Oh Christ. Don’t tell me I’m still hung up
, he thought.
I can’t be. I mustn’t be . . .
As if sensing his thoughts of another woman, Sara withdrew. Her voice became shrill and businesslike. ‘The limo will be here at three o’clock. What time shall I wake you?’
‘Make it one-thirty.’ His hand reached for her smooth cheek. ‘An’ I’ll have a bacon sandwich with all the trimmings. Okay?’
‘I’m not your resident cook,’ she said stiffly.
‘I know, baby. But nobody – like I mean
nobody –
makes a better bacon sandwich than you.’
Letting out a deep sigh of resignation, she realized she would do anything for Bobby Mondella and he knew it. Whether he appreciated it or not was another matter.
Left alone, Bobby made his way over to the bed, took off his shirt, unzipped his pants, and lay down.
Nova Citroen. Now that he had started he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Removing his dark glasses, he realized with a dull feeling of hopelessness he would never be able to set eyes on her again.
* * *
Nova Citroen could not decide which important piece of jewellery to wear that night. The Harry Winston emeralds were inviting, so green and rich looking. A single huge stone surrounded with diamonds for her neck, matching earrings, outrageous ring, and a magnificent bracelet. But she had worn that set in February to the great annual Niven/Cohen/Moss Valentine party, and again to Irving and Mary’s Oscar event. Twice in one year was enough, so she discarded the emeralds, moving on to the Cartier rubies.
Ah, such nice bright baubles, but a touch too jazzy for her requirements tonight.
Without hesitation she turned to the deep burgundy box which housed her new diamond necklace, bracelet, and earrings. No contest. She had known all along that the evening cried out for nothing less than dazzling diamonds to complement her upswept white-blonde hair and the stylish Galanos dress she planned to wear. So appropriate for a simple summer evening by the sea.
Nova Citroen’s idea of a simple summer evening by the sea and the rest of the world’s might possibly differ. Nova and her husband, Marcus, lived part of the year on Novaroen, a magnificent twenty-five-acre estate, perched on the top of a high bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean a few miles past Malibu. The estate boasted two separate mansions – one especially for guests – an Olympic-size swimming pool, three north-south tennis courts, a recording studio, a fully equipped gym, a luxurious movie theatre, stables for their expensive Arabian horses, and garage space for Marcus’s collection of immaculately restored antique cars.
They called it their weekend hang-out. Only this particular weekend a little more than hanging out was taking place. Nova and Marcus Citroen were hosting a fund-raiser for Governor Jack Highland –
the
fund-raiser of the year. An exclusive black tie affair for fifty couples, each of whom had paid a hundred thousand dollars per couple for the privilege of being there. It was called protecting their future. And a very select group they were too. Nova had been ruthless in her choice of whom she would allow to attend. Once word got out that it was an impossible ticket, everyone clamoured to part with their money. After all, those in the know felt that Governor Highland was a sure thing for the next President.
Nova was suitably pleased with her final guest list. Only the
crème de la crème.
The richest, the most powerful, the most talented, and the most famous. She had not wanted too much Hollywood – her desire was to attract the
real
power, with just a scattering of rare stardust. And she had succeeded. They were flying in from all over the world.
The evening she had planned for her guests was spectacular. A five-course open-air dinner catered by the ultra chic Lilliane’s restaurant. Followed by a surprise concert, where three of the biggest recording stars in the world would appear. The legend – Kris Phoenix. The comeback – Bobby Mondella. And the rising star – Rafealla.
One night. Five million dollars raised for Governor Highland’s forthcoming campaign, and that was
before
the silent auction and raffle, where anyone – for a thousand dollars a ticket – could win prizes ranging from a case of Cristal champagne to a Mercedes coupé.
Clasping the magnificent diamond necklace to her throat, she decided it was perfect for later, and carefully replaced it in its velvet-lined box. After all, she had a certain reputation to live up to. She was known for her fabulous jewellery collection.
Nova Citroen was an elegant-looking woman in her early forties, with lightly tanned skin, fine aquiline features, and mesmerizing violet eyes. Men got lost in Nova’s eyes. They were her greatest asset. She was not beautiful, but seductively attractive, with a body slim to the point of anorexia. It suited her, enabling her to look wonderful in clothes.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Citroen.’ Discreetly, Norton St John, her personal assistant, entered the room. ‘Mr Citroen would like to speak to you. He’s on your private line.’
‘Is
he?’ For a moment she considered telling Norton to inform Marcus he could go to hell. It was a pleasurable idea, but one she thought better of. Marcus Citroen was her continuing ride to the top, and much as she detested him, she was aboard for the entire trip.