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

Nate grimaced. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘Oh?’

‘Things didn’t end well.’ His voice was sour.

Unexpectedly she took his arm. When she leaned in he could smell the alcohol on her breath. ‘That sounds very interesting,’ she purred. ‘Nate Reid, you and I have got a lot to talk about.’

Later, at Kate’s Mayfair hotel, she fixed them both a nightcap, performed a little dance that he suspected was more for her amusement than his, then wasted no time in removing her clothes. Nate couldn’t believe his luck.

‘Sit back,’ she commanded huskily, stepping out of her lacy blue underwear. ‘I’m going to show you a magic trick.’ She shoved him back on to the bed, pushed his knees apart and deftly whipped out his cock.

He’d never had a woman Kate’s age. Her body was long and fluid, muscular like a wild animal. She raised her arms above her head, continuing the dance, her toffee-coloured tits high and proud on her chest; a streak of honey fuzz between her legs. Nate watched, transfixed, happy to be following the leader. Like a beast unleashed, she prowled around the bed, touching herself, shaking her assets in his face. It was a bizarre display but a major turn-on. He wondered if her husband knew she was this kinky.

Jimmy Hart probably had enough else to think about.

Eventually she sank to her knees in a twist ‘n’ shout sort of manoeuvre–except she didn’t get up again. Ducking her head to meet his cock, she licked its tip like an ice cream cone and met his eye.

‘Relax, honey,’ she instructed. ‘The good stuff starts here.’

70 (#ulink_300479b2-a712-5987-b0f3-4dadcdd5ed2e)

Las Vegas

Elisabeth raked her fingernails down the man’s back, gasping as he moved on top of her.

‘Make me come,’ she whispered in his ear, tightening her muscles and arching her back. At a renewed pace he went to work, kissing her lips, her forehead, her neck. She screamed out, grabbing his ass and pulling him closer, moving with him. Together they climaxed violently, their bodies bathed in sweat.

Middle-of-the-day sex: there was nothing better. They had snatched an hour at lunch. It had been her idea.

He rolled off and lay back, breathing hard. Elisabeth ran her fingertips over his chest.

‘That was amazing,’ she said.

He looked at her, the trace of a smile on his face.

She touched his cheek with her hand, leaned in and kissed him slowly, meaningfully.

‘What was that for?’ he asked.

‘I just wanted to.’

The man watched her. ‘You know what I want.’

She sat up, shook her head. ‘I told you. I can’t. I can’t?

Alberto traced a line down her spine. ‘We can do anything, my love. Together, it is possible.’

She hugged her knees to her chest. ‘Do you think they’re watching now?’

‘Not here.’ They were safe in Alberto’s mansion. ‘I had the place checked out.’

She nodded. ‘This has got to stop,’ she said for what felt like the thousandth time.

‘Some things we cannot stop,’ he advised quietly. ‘They have an energy of their own.’

‘This is different. Other people are involved.’

He sat up. She looked in his eyes and saw a young stallion; she looked at his body, crinkled and sagging, and saw an old man.

What are you giving up Robert for? she asked herself. It was foolish to walk away from marriage to one of the most eligible men in America. And for what? An ancient Italian with about six years left? But while her head told her one thing, her heart said another.

‘You must tell St Louis,’ said Alberto. ‘Before the premiere.’ He gazed at her a moment, a little sadly, she thought, before he climbed out of bed and headed into the shower. The steady beat of water followed soon after.

The blackmailers’ ultimatum hung off her like a cross. They’re bluffing, she told herself, knowing she was a coward. They might not know anything. It’s an empty threat.

She put her head on her knees. Lana Falcon had been here for nearly two weeks and Robert was the happiest she had ever seen him. She had never made him that happy.

At least she had something she was keeping close to her heart.

With a flutter of reprieve she remembered the envelope she had found in her father’s office. It had to be from her mother, it just had to be. She’d seen Linda’s handwriting on things over the years and she’d recognise it anywhere. To think that her mother had left her this note, this little piece of her meant for Elisabeth’s eyes only, shone a bright light through the confusion in her heart. She’d hidden it away where no one could find it, savouring its potential, had nearly opened it several times before telling herself to wait–it was too good to rush.

Her father had no idea she’d taken it–maybe he was waiting till she was married to give it to her–and, in a situation over which she felt she was rapidly losing control, it gave her a thrilling sense of power.

Swinging her legs off the cotton sheets, Elisabeth slid open the bathroom door. Alberto’s naked form was just visible through the crystal glass.

She passed her reflection in the mirror, the back of her head a nest of sex hair. Brushing it out, she pinched her nipples to harden them and drew across the shower panel. Her lover’s white hair was sudsy and his body slick with water. She stepped in.

‘My darling …’

‘Shh.’ She put a finger to his mouth.

His cock hung sadly between them. Squeezing gel on to her palms she massaged till he was coaxed to attention, just about. She pushed him back on to the tiled seat and mounted him.

Whoever was threatening her had underestimated the strength of her armour. Her body was a weapon they could never defeat.

‘Breathe in; breathe out, and now deliver the note!’

Elisabeth delivered a note, but whether it was the right one or not was up for debate.

‘OK,’ said Donatella, her vocal coach, brushing back a thick mane that was more like fur than hair. Gold bangles, one in the shape of a snake twisted round her wrist, moved with her. ‘Claude, from the top, please.’

Claude, a mini-Liberace at the piano, raised his shoulders in an elaborate preparation for play then thundered down on the keys like his life depended on it. He swayed from side to side as if he were caught in some dreadful musical tide.

Elisabeth attempted to keep up with Claude pummelling on the ivories, looking at her for accompaniment with eyes wild, and Donatella cueing her in like a demented maestro.

It was the same afternoon and they were gathered at Bernstein’s mansion to practise Elisabeth’s premiere piece. It was a song she had written herself–with a little help from Donatella, who’d been in the music business since the seventies–and was made up of a number of component parts, in the tradition of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody. It began quietly then built to a crescendo, before shying back to a pianissimo, then finishing with an operatic belt-out.

Donatella called time. ‘What’s wrong with you today?’ she frowned. ‘Your pitch is way off. Concentrate, Elisabeth.’