Rock Star (51 page)

They met in his suite at the Copacabana Palace Hotel, Marcus Citroen and Rafealla Le Serre. She was even more exotically beautiful than he remembered. He was even more of a dirty old man than she had thought, with his licentious hooded eyes and dissipated expression.

‘Well, my dear, it seem our paths cross again,’ he said. ‘You grow more beautiful each time. ’

She stared straight at him, her brilliant green eyes challenging and direct. She knew exactly what she wanted from Marcus Citroen. She also knew exactly what he wanted from her.

For a moment she thought of Luiz. He could burn in hell for all she cared. He was the last man she would ever allow to hurt her again. ’

Dear, sweet, wonderful Luiz. Bastard.
Basta
! He had lied to her from day one. A private detective found out the truth because she had to know.

Luiz Oliveira. Not his real name. Try Lupe Veira, A child of the
favela –
his one true statement. He was thirty-two years old, not twenty-six as he’d claimed.

Luiz Oliveira alias Lupe Veira. A convicted thief and male prostitute. Married twice before the lucky Vivienne Riccardo. The first time to Juana – the girl who’d worked for her and who he’d claimed was his sister. The second to a very old woman in São Paulo, who’d died after six weeks of marriage – leaving him her fortune. Her grown children immediately contested the will, and after many months of legalities he’d ended up with a paltry payoff settlement. A month later he’d re-entered Rafealla’s life.

By chance? Or had he planned it?

She didn’t know and she didn’t care. Men were users. Now she was going to join the club.

‘Marcus,’ she said coolly. ‘I
can
call you Marcus, can’t I?’

He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, gazing at her with lustful dedication. ‘Certainly, my dear. ’

‘You know what I think?’

‘What?’ Sweat beaded his bald head. This girl had everything he required. A strong, earthy sexuality, combined with a certain aloofness, and that wonderful milk chocolate skin. In a way she reminded him of Nova when he’d first set eyes on her. She had that same exotic quality he craved.

Of course, this girl was different, she already had breeding and class. And she was talented.

Rafealla stared directly at him. ‘Let’s not play games, Marcus. I’ll be very straight with you. ’

‘Yes?’

Briefly she thought of Luiz again, and Eddie Mafair. The two loves of her life. Two phoneys. Two lousy sons of bitches.

‘Marcus,’ she said strongly. ‘I want your power.
You
want my body. Why don’t we see if we can cut a deal?’

*    *    *

‘So’, Marcus said, snaking his arm slowly around her shoulders. ‘I kept my part of the bargain. Now, my dear, I think it is time for you to deliver.’

Deftly she moved out of his grasp. ‘Not yet, Marcus. I have to see it all work.’

‘You wouldn’t try to back out, would you?’

‘No.’

Rafealla was playing with him. Perhaps she didn’t realize she was playing with the greatest game expert of all time. But perversely, Marcus rather enjoyed her independent attitude. It was quite a change to come across a woman who expected him to wait. A true diversion. She obviously had no idea of his real power. He would have to teach her, and he looked forward to the lesson.

‘You’ll appear at my wife’s fund-raiser in July,’ he decided, with a faint smile. ‘We’ll consummate our relationship then.
And
, my dear, I’m sure you’ll find it will be a long and fulfilling one.’ He paused, adding meaningfully, ‘For both of us.’

Bobby Mondella

1987

The first time they made love was the most exciting day of Sara Johnston’s life. She hadn’t come to work for Bobby Mondella with the sole purpose of climbing into bed with him – but when the opportunity arose, who was she to say no? The man might be blind, but in her book that didn’t make him any less of a man. She’d brought him back from the brink. Nurtured him, cared for him. Moved him out of the big, expensive mansion he could no longer afford, and into a small, cosy place in Nichols Canyon. She’d got rid of his business manager – slightly too late, as the man had already stolen most of his money. And with enormous pleasure she fired his driver, and changed his doctor.

‘You’re some bossy woman,’ Bobby grumbled, as she set about getting him back into shape. ‘Where you comin’ from with all this attitude?’

‘Heaven,’ she replied dryly. ‘Or hell. Depends which way you look at it.’

‘Hell!’ he complained when she forced him to start swimming and exercising and using his body again.

‘Heaven!’ he crooned, the first time they made love, and he found everything to be in working order, just as it was before the accident.

What a lover he was! Sara felt weak just thinking about the hours they spent in bed together.

Bobby Mondella. Once she had him in good physical shape she set about getting his brain in gear. ‘You planning on sitting around doin’ nothing for the rest of your life?’ she challenged.

‘Yeah,’ he replied defiantly.

‘No way, man.’

‘You’re a pushy little thing.’

‘An’ you love it. Because I’m gonna push you all the way back to the top – whether you wanna go there or not.’

‘Get lost, woman.’

‘Don’t go givin’ me none of your lip, man.’

He’d refused to see anyone since the accident. Sara opened the doors and invited some musicians he’d worked with in the past over to the house. At first he was angry – it was almost as if he was ashamed to face anyone. And then gradually he’d relaxed when he found no one was judging him or feeling sorry. He’d ended up having a good time, and in bed that night he’d showed her his appreciation.

The next day he sat down at the piano and began composing and singing again.

It was a magic moment for Sara. She’d spent months getting him to this point. ‘You’re going to make an album,’ she told him. ‘We’ll call it
Mondella Alive
, an’ it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever done.’

He didn’t argue. He started writing new songs, arranging them, spending every waking moment on creating something both beautiful and powerful.

When he’d compiled enough rough material, Sara took it around to a few of the big record companies, starting off with Soul On Soul, where Amerika Allen politely said they weren’t interested. Reaction after that was not friendly. Doors were closed in her face.

‘Bobby Mondella? No way. His time is over.’

‘Bobby Mondella? I thought he was
dead.
’

‘
That
drunken bum. You must be putting us on!’

One day she got a call from Marcus Citroen, the president of Blue Cadillac Records. I understand you have new Bobby Mondella material,’ he said. ‘Is it good?’

She hesitated – Bobby had told her under no circumstances was she to go to Blue Cadillac. But what the heck – this was their only chance. ‘It’s not just good, Mr Citroen. It’s sensational,’ she said, with every ounce of enthusiasm she possessed.

I’d like to hear it.’

Within six weeks Bobby was in the recording studio with a fat new contract.

Marcus Citroen was giving him the chance to come back.

*    *    *

‘I’m sorry’, the specialist said gravely. ‘There is nothing I can tell you. The cause of Mr Mondella’s sight loss is a complete unknown. There is no physical reason. No deterioration or damage to the optic nerve. The cornea and retina are in perfect condition.’ The doctor shrugged hopelessly. ‘This is just one of those medical mysteries one day we hope to be able to solve.’

Sara nodded – they’d heard it all before. She took Bobby’s arm and they left the office. According to the many doctors and eye specialists they’d visited, Bobby’s loss of sight was caused by a traumatic situation and therefore there was no treatment. His blindness was unexplainable. They had been told everything from
psychosomatic
to
perhaps he should see a psychiatrist.

‘I’m learnin’ to live with it, stay cool,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘Hey, mama, I’m workin’ again. I feel good. Things aren’t that bad.’

He never let on to Sara how much it hurt inside to know he could never see again. The pain was his, and he had to bear it in silence, although sometimes, in the middle of the night, he lay awake for hours just thinking about things. Why? Why had this happened to him? And who was responsible?

Marcus Citroen was giving him the opportunity to shine again. Was he doing it because of guilt?

Hell, no, that piranha had no conscience.

So maybe Nichols and his band of business associates was responsible . . .

Shit. He shouldn’t even think about it, because it was something he’d never know.

The same week
Mondella Alive
came out, Sharleen committed suicide. She slit her wrists and bled to death in her New York apartment

Bobby mourned long into the night. He’d loved that woman once, and wished he’d been kinder to her the last time she’d visited him in New York.

Too late now. She’d written him after his tragedy, a sweet note asking if she could come and see him. He’d never replied, because he hadn’t wanted her to view him as a victim.

Now she was gone. Poor, pretty Sharleen.

A day later he contacted Rocket Fabrizzi – another friend he’d rejected. Rocket was in L.A. making a movie. He came over and they talked the night away, reliving every good old memory.

‘I’m glad t’see you’re back,’ man,’ Rocket said warmly when he left. ‘Let’s stay in touch. You an’ I – we’ll always remember Sharleen the way she was.’

Early reports on his album were excellent. As a favour Rocket directed a promotional video to help it take off. Sara was by Bobby’s side at all times, urging him on.

When Marcus Citroen phoned to say he wanted Bobby Mondella to appear at his wife’s fund-raiser, Sara’s initial reaction was a short, sharp no. She knew some things about Bobby’s affair with Nova – he’d told her bits and pieces, but not the whole story by any means.

When she informed Bobby of Marcus Citroen’s request, he hesitated for only a moment, and then – to her surprise – said, ‘Yeah, I’ll do it.’

Privately he thought it was time he laid some ghosts of the past to rest. And maybe – just maybe – he could find out the real truth about that fateful night in Rio.

‘Really?’ Sara glared at him disapprovingly.

With an affirmative nod he said, ‘Sure. You can tell Marcus Citroen I’ll definitely be there.’

The Dinner

Saturday, July 11, 1987

‘Can I see you?’ Governor Highland asked in a low voice.

‘Huh?’ Cybil widened her big blue eyes. ‘You
are
seeing me.

Leaning closer he murmured, ‘You know what I mean.’

She thought about what Hawkins had said – one day this man might be in the White House. Quite an exhilarating prospect. Then she thought about Kris. He’d been two-timing her with some Danish floozy in London.

‘Do you mean lunch?’ she asked.

‘Dinner,’ he corrected.

‘Okay,’ she said, with a shiver of excitement. ‘Where and when?’

Governor Highland smiled. He had sharp, pointed teeth.
Attack-dog teeth
, she thought, suppressing a wild giggle.

‘I’m married, you know.’ He was agreeably honest. ‘Therefore I have to be very discreet.’

‘That’s all right,’ she replied. ‘I’m living with someone – I have to be just as careful as you.’

‘Write down your phone number,’ he said, surreptitiously handing her a packet of book matches and a pen. ‘My aide will contact you.’

It was an unfortunate choice of word. Grim realization dawned on Cybil. Governor Highland was probably putting it about all over the place – politicians were known to be a randy bunch, especially the married ones. Too risky, as Kris would say.

Quickly she scribbled the wrong number.

More attack-dog teeth as Governor Highland pocketed the information with a true politician’s smile.

*    *    *

‘Dinner is served.’ Several maître d’s made the announcement, causing a procession of richly clad and bejewelled guests to begin the walk down towards the dining area. Leading the way was a strip of thick red carpet covering the winding path.

Maxwell Sicily took a wooden tooth-pick from his pocket and dug it into his gums as he watched them move out. How come his father wasn’t among them? The great Carmine Sicily. The great pig. Carmine had tried hard enough to insinuate himself into high society. He’d bought large chunks of a variety of high-profile companies, even gaining controlling interest in a bank. But Maxwell knew the way things were – he was smarter than his old man any day. The big shots might come to Carmine when they needed a favour – only they would never think of mixing with him socially. To them he was nothing but a rich gangster.

Maxwell had to make sure
his
life was different. In South America a new identity awaited him. He would have money
and
respect.

Unlike his father,
he
would have everything.

*    *    *

Nova Citroen moved among her guests, assured and in control. She knew Marcus was watching her. Damn him. Let him watch away. There was nothing more he could do to her. He’d taken her to the very depths and then dragged her right up to the top again.

He’d done the same to Bobby Mondella.

Ah . . . Bobby. For a moment she thought about her former lover with a feeling of nostalgia. At least he was alive. By all rights he should be dead.

She twisted the huge solitaire diamond ring on her finger. A blood present – from her dear husband, and she had accepted it, and kept her silence. After all, deep down, a whore was always a whore.

Memories of Rio returned . . . the nightmare lingered.

Touching her magnificent diamond necklace she turned to speak to Governor Highland, seated on her right. ‘I do hope you’re enjoying yourself,’ she said pleasantly.