The A-List Collection: Hollywood Sinners / Wicked Ambition / Temptation Island

‘Are you sure?’

Elisabeth looked hesitantly over his shoulder. ‘Of course.’ She forced a smile.

Robert checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to shoot, I’ve got a meeting with Bellini.’

Anxiety strangled her voice. ‘Alberto?’

‘I’m already running late.’

She gulped. ‘You’d better go.’

As Robert made his way across the Parthenon lobby, he tried to focus on the afternoon ahead. It couldn’t possibly mess with his head more than the morning.

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Elisabeth knocked on the door to her father’s office. Silence.

She pushed it open. A musky smell enveloped her, like smoke and sweat. Papers were scattered on his desk, half-full cups of coffee and a smouldering cigar bent in half in one of his crystal ashtrays. Battle scenes adorned the walls. She remembered being frightened of them when she was a girl.

Deciding to wait, Elisabeth took a seat at his desk. She leaned back in the chair, put her feet up and crossed her arms behind her head. So this was what it felt like to be a man. This was what it felt like to be Frank Bernstein.

She poured herself a drink. The seconds dripped by on his shagreen desk clock.

Her confidence began to falter. After another sleepless night she’d decided this was her and Bellini’s only way out. Bernstein would be mad, he’d be crazy, but he’d stand by her. Once the blackmailers knew the big man was involved they’d run a mile and never dare set foot in this town again. It was a risk she was willing to take–she knew her father was so dead set on the wedding that he’d protect her reputation at all costs. She’d made a mistake. So what? People made them every day. No doubt he’d made a few.

But now she wasn’t so sure. She’d always made such a point of her independence–what would it look like if she came running to him soon as times got tough?

On Bernstein’s desk was a photograph of the family outside the Mirage. It showed Elisabeth, a sulky twelve-year-old holding her father’s hand, whose other arm was cradling a baby Jessica. She squinted and leaned closer. In the background, something she’d never noticed before, was a recognisable figure looking on, half-obscured behind the dazzling waterfalls. Alberto Bellini.

She opened her father’s desk drawer for something to do. The smell of leather assaulted her, a catalogue of files and account books. Bored, she closed it.

The drawer below didn’t yield much else. A stack of old papers impaled on a silver pin, some sleek pens with their lids off, the nibs dry. She tried the last one.

Inside was a locked box. Elisabeth frowned, reached for it, extracting it with care. She shook it, thought she could hear papers but it was too hushed to be sure. Replacing it, she noticed a stack of leather-bound diaries wedged alongside. Each one was fastened with a padlock.

Just as she was about to close the drawer, she noticed something. A crisp white envelope was sticking out the top of one of the diaries. Curious, she took its edge and pulled.

On the front was her own name, staring back at her in ornate script.

Elisabeth

She frowned.

Abruptly the door opened. Hastily Elisabeth slammed the drawer shut and stuffed the envelope into her back pocket. She stood up.

Bernstein charged into the room, clearly in a bad mood.

‘What is it, Elisabeth?’ he demanded, slamming down a hefty dossier. ‘I’m up to my neck in crap today, this better be good.’

‘It’s nothing,’ she said, thinking quickly. ‘I thought you could do with a break, that’s all.’

Bernstein’s brow furrowed. In all her life he could count on one hand the number of times Elisabeth had asked to spend time with him. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Like I said, nothing.’ She smiled brightly.

His eyes shot to the desk. ‘You been snooping around?’ His voice was fierce.

‘No.’

He looked at her closely, before appearing satisfied. ‘Good. Now get outta here.’

Elisabeth didn’t need to be told twice. Hurrying out into the Parthenon lobby, she kept walking till she was out on the Strip, sensing she’d somehow had a lucky escape.

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Los Angeles

‘I’m telling you, my wife is missing. Gone. Vanished.’

‘Just calm down,’ said Marty, poised for flight on Cole’s studded leather couch, ‘we’re not gonna solve anything by getting upset.’

‘Upset? You call this upset? Marty, you’ve never even seen me upset.’ He kicked the end of the sofa. Marty jumped. ‘Give me another couple of hours and then tell me I’m upset.’

‘There’s bound to be a simple explanation. Who knows? She’s probably …’ He shrugged, before finishing feebly, ‘Shopping?’

Cole stalked over to the French windows, his back shaking with rage. ‘Don’t make me laugh, Marty–you’re the one with the stipulations. I’m to know exactly where she is at all times; it was part of the deal. Nobody, not my drivers, my security, my house staff, nobody knows where the fuck she is.’

Cole paced the floor, his eyes blazing. He wiped his palms over his face. The room was spinning-he had never felt so desperate, so out of control.

Louisa entered and did a nervous sort of bow. ‘Rita Clay is here for you, Mr Steel.’

Cole didn’t turn round, just nodded and impatiently waved her in.

‘Hello, Cole. Marty.’ Rita was sharp in a tailored grey suit, striking against her dark skin and blonde hair. She shook Marty’s fat, sweating hand but still Cole didn’t turn round. Settling on a plaid chaise longue, she crossed her legs. ‘Let’s get to the bottom of this, shall we?’

‘Have you tried calling her?’ said Cole tightly.

‘I have. We had a phone appointment scheduled for this morning.’

‘Well, call her again, then.’

‘I’ve tried a number of times, she isn’t picking up.’

‘She isn’t picking up, or she’s switched off?’

Rita paused. ‘She’s switched off.’

‘Fuck!‘ Cole put his head in his hands. ‘Just find her, Marty–for God’s sake, find her!’