“Because when we had dinner earlier, none of these thoughts were in your head, so something must have happened.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “He was here, and something did happen. We spent time together, and after he left I knew that you are the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
“You’ll never regret it,” Dean said.
“I know,” she whispered.
2:00 A.M.
Zaroff was seething. All night long he’d been the man in charge, the one with the balls. Now his fat uncle was telling him what to do. Didn’t he realize that Zaroff was the man?
He’d taken over that fucking restaurant with the help of his uncle’s Uzi, and he’d kicked ass good. Serge should be proud of him instead of calling him names.
Serge was pig shit. Serge was a Russian fucking peasant. Serge had no idea how exciting it was to have total control and to kill people.
Tonight everybody had been scared of him. He could’ve made them do anything. He could’ve taken any of those hostages and fucked the ass off them. Now he was at this fancy house in the hills, and his uncle was treating him like crap as usual.
Russian mafia my ass, Zaroff thought. I can take him any day.
His two cohorts were busy searching the hillside for the girl. His friends always did what he told them. Ever since he’d stopped a car one night and shot the driver just for kicks they’d been in awe of him. He was the man. No question. They were all scared of him. And he liked that.
Now his fat uncle was dissing him. The same uncle who’d go running to his mother. And she was a hard-assed bitch, she’d come down on him big time.
A thought entered his head. What would happen if when they found the girl, he kept her, hid her somewhere, and demanded a ransom?
The bitch had mentioned fifty thousand dollars. Fifty thousand fucking dollars!
If he blew Serge away, nobody would know it was him that did it.
Zaroff began to laugh. He was so clever. He’d just come up with the perfect plan.
“Can you believe this freakin’ place?” Gus said as he and Michael climbed the ornate staircase.
Michael shook his head. His palms were sweating and he felt short of breath. This wasn’t the kind of thing he knew how to do anymore. As bad as they were, was he honestly going to be able to take out his gun and shoot Mamie and Bone?
Gus had told him that if he wanted, he could have people do it for him.
Could he stand there and watch?
Was he the same Michael Castellino who’d shot Roy in the park so long ago? Or was he a different person now?
He didn’t know. He’d soon find out.
Vincent and Jolie headed into the bedroom. There was no chance of Jenna walking in on them. She was trapped at the Mirage. There was no chance of Nando finding them either, he was with his two new business partners.
“I’ve always felt this way about you,” Jolie said, putting her arms around him and kissing him on the mouth with her soft, provocative lips.
“We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Stop it, Vincent,” she scolded softly. “We’re both beyond the point of saying no anymore. This thing has been building between us for years.”
She was right. He was hard and she was ready.
So why was he suddenly developing a conscience?
Pig shit. Yeah, that’s what his uncle had called him. He’d show him who was pig shit.
How many men had Uncle Serge killed? One? Two? None? Fuck him! It was time that Zaroff took control of the Gorban family.
He told his two cohorts to keep looking for the girl. “When you find her, tie her up and shove her in the trunk of the car,” he said. “We’re taking her.”
“Where?” asked the driver.
“We’ll take her to the warehouse. The one Ace lives at.”
“Where you goin’?” they asked.
“I’m collectin’ the fuckin’ money Serge owes me. Then we’re outta here. Go find the girl,” he said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a small glass vial of coke. There was still some left. He shook the white powder onto the back of his hand and snorted it. Jesus, he’d done a lot of drugs tonight.
So what? He could handle it. He could handle anything and anyone.
He ran back toward the house. The big gates were still open, the Cadillac parked nearby.
He knew where the guardhouse was on account of the maintenance work he’d done at the house, helping Uncle Serge like a good little boy, getting ten bucks an hour if he was fucking lucky.
The guardhouse was empty. Nobody around.
As he headed up the driveway, a man stepped out of the bushes. “Stop!” the man said.
Zaroff lifted the Uzi and sprayed him.
Christ! The feeling of power that surged through his body gave him such a high. Or was it the drugs?
He kept walking. There were two dogs lying out in front of the house. It looked like they were asleep because they didn’t move. Lucky for them; he would have shot them too.
The front door was open. He walked through it and stepped into the foyer.
Michael and Gus, followed by three of Gus’s men, entered the master bedroom. The sight that greeted them was not a pretty one.
Standing there in his red silk robe with his dick hanging out was Bone. Mamie was across the room from him—a sorry sight in a man’s suit, a riding whip in her hand. A young blond girl was sitting on a chair fully dressed, while another, totally naked blond was sprawled on the floor.
“Nice,” Michael said.
Mamie’s face registered pure shock. “How did you get into my house!” she screamed. “What are you doing here, you murderer!”
Tawny shrank back in her chair.
“Retribution,” Michael said. “Isn’t that what your husband taught me? Isn’t that what you always wanted, Mamie—revenge?”
“You’d better get out of here now, or I’m calling the police,” she threatened.
“Lines are dead. But go ahead.”
“You no-good, scum-sucking bastard,” she screamed, her face contorted with rage. “You’re just like your stinkin’ father, Vinny. I hate you. I fuckin’ hate you!”
Zaroff burst into the bedroom—murder in his crazed eyes.
He was flying on coke, grass, and Ecstasy. He was filled with power—sure that he could conquer the world.
What kind of game was going on in here with Mr. and Mrs. Porno? He barely noticed Michael and Gus as he focused on the naked girl on the floor. And in spite of his drugged-out haze, he felt the stirrings of a hard-on. He hadn’t gotten laid in twenty-four hours, and Zaroff needed sex. He needed it more than he needed food and his mother’s bitching and his dumb uncle telling him what he could and could not do.
He was the man. He could do whatever he wanted.
Michael took a step back. The boy—who couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen—had an Uzi and traces of white powder under his nose. Not a healthy combination.
He was the wild card that nobody ever took into account. There was always a wild card.
Mamie stopped screaming at Michael, turning her attention to the boy.
“Who the—” she began to say.
“Mothafuckers!” Zaroff yelled, raising the Uzi. “Rich mothafuckers!” And he began spraying the room.
After that everything seemed to take place in slow motion—like some carefully choreographed, intricate dance. Zaroff spraying the room. Two of Gus’s men bursting in and tackling him from behind. The Uzi flying out of his hands. Too late for Mamie and Bone. They were both hit. Mamie in the face and heart. Bone in the stomach.
It was a fitting end for the two of them.
Michael turned and walked away.
It was over, and he hadn’t had to do a thing.
Epilogue
Zaroff Gorban was arrested for multiple murders—including the killings of Mamie and Bone. His uncle Serge was also arrested, for possession of an unlicensed weapon—the Uzi—and for assisting a
minor in a kidnapping plot.
Zaroff couldn’t remember any of it.
Michael’s lawyer in New York provided the police with enough evidence to prove that Michael had nothing to do with Stella and her boyfriend’s murder. One of the most pertinent pieces of evidence was the tape of Mamie’s phone call to Michael—boasting how she’d set him up. Rule one in business: always tape important calls. Michael always did.
Vincent—with temptation staring him in the face—had resisted Jolie’s considerable charms and decided to give Jenna one last chance.
Jenna, a wiser girl because of her experiences with Andy Dale, matured overnight and became the daughter-in-law that Dani had always wanted.
Vincent decided that he’d better knock her up soon, if only to keep her out of trouble.
Sofia did a photo session for Gianni in Rome. And then, as promised, he bought her a ticket home to America.
Two days later he phoned to inform her that the camera loved her, and that she was to become the new Gianni Jeans spokesmodel.
Sofia kind of got off on the idea. It sure beat bumming around Europe.
Jolie talked Nando out of the strip club business. This was after Nando had been involved in a drug bust at the Manray, along with Darren Simmons and Leroy Fortuno. Once that had taken place, it was an easy task to put a bad vibe on the whole idea.
She was grateful that Vincent had not fallen for her charms. After all, Nando was the man she’d married. And the truth was that Nando was the man she loved.
Madison suffered a mild concussion, many cuts and bruises, and a broken wrist. How surprised she was, when the fire rescue team hauled her up from the bottom of the hill, to find Michael there.
“Daddy!” she’d gasped. “I knew you’d come riding up on your white horse.”
“It was a black limo actually,” he’d said, grinning. “And how come you’re calling me Daddy?”
“ ’Cause I kind of like it. Do you mind?”
“No, sweetheart, I don’t mind at all.”
“How did you know where I was?”
“It’s a long story.”
A muscle-bound paramedic helped her into the ambulance. “Not another long story?” she groaned. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”
“Well,” he’d said, grinning again, “I do have a couple more surprises . . .”
Michael flew back to Vegas immediately after the shootings. To Dean’s chagrin, he was just in time to stop Dani from marrying him.
And so Dani and Michael had a June wedding at their son’s hotel.
Dani, exquisite in a pale cream Valentino wedding gown, gazed at her husband-to-be. Michael was more good-looking than ever in an Armani tuxedo. Tall, dark, and handsome. He never changed.
Everyone they loved was present at the wedding, including old friends like Tina and Max with their kids. And Charlie with his wife. And of course, Warner and Karl.
Sofia sat next to her brother, Vincent, while Madison was surrounded by her best friends, Natalie, Jamie, and Cole.
She watched as her father married the beautiful blond woman. They weren’t exactly a family yet. But one day they would be.
Michael and Dani couldn’t wait.
SIMON & SCHUSTER
PROUDLY PRESENTS
HOLLYWOOD
DIVORCES
JACKIE COLLINS
Now available in hardcover from Simon & Schuster
Turn the page for a preview of Hollywood Divorces. . . .
Shelby Cheney took a long, deep breath and prepared to make her entrance. Head up. Shoulders back. Superwatt smile. Artfully windswept shoulder-length raven hair. Dazzling Badgely & Mishka lace gown cut down to Cuba. Diamonds at her throat and ears. Movie star husband by her side.
Shelby Cheney had it all. Or did she?
Tonight she was at the Cannes Film Festival with her husband, Linc Blackwood. Each had a movie to promote.
Hers: An edgy drama about a woman on the brink of a total collapse—thirty-something sex addict who reveals more than her mental breakdown on screen, with nobody around to help her. And, of course, one blistering sex scene, because Shelby had all the attributes, and since this movie smelled of an Oscar nomination she hadn’t minded showing them.
His: A tough-guy superhero movie. Hard-boiled cop. Sexy. Sardonic. A sequel to his two previous blockbuster hits playing the same character. Linc Blackwood, once one of the highest paid box office stars in the world, was still up there.
Tonight Linc wore a midnight blue Armani tuxedo with a dark blue silk shirt. No tie. Muscular body. Clouded green eyes. Longish dark hair. Stubbled chin. Crooked nose—broken in a fight or two before he was famous and powerful enough to insist on a double for his more dangerous stunts.
Shelby and Linc. A movie star couple set to thrill the throngs of fans who eagerly watched them as they made their way—flanked by various publicity people and assorted flacks—into the Palais des Festivals where Shelby’s film, Rapture, was about to be shown.
“Shit,” Linc mumbled under his breath, waving at the paparazzi while flashing his trademark grin. “I need a fuckin’ drink.”
“No you don’t,” Shelby managed to reply, as she smiled for the assorted cameras and TV crews lined up three deep, all shoving and struggling for the best shots.
Linc’s drinking was a big bone of contention between them. He’d been in rehab twice, it hadn’t done him much good, he was still a hard boozer whenever the mood took him. And tonight the mood was definitely taking him.
Shelby knew he’d had a couple of shots at the hotel, and now he was muttering that he wanted more. This was not a good sign. She had hoped to relax and enjoy the night, but if Linc was on the prowl, she’d have to spend the evening watching him to make sure he didn’t embarrass them both—something he was quite capable of doing. When Linc got drunk it was disaster time. He either became belligerent and ready to pick a fight. Or compulsively amorous, flirting outrageously with every woman in sight. Both were equally unappealing traits.
Damn! Why couldn’t she simply revel in her triumph? Because everyone had assured her that her performance in Rapture was a triumph—everyone except Linc, who’d seen a rough cut of her movie, and immediately remarked that she looked tired and drawn and that the cinematographer hadn’t lit her well.
Didn’t he get it? She was playing a woman on the verge, she wasn’t supposed to look her usual gorgeous self.
The truth was that even though he’d never admit it, Linc was jealous, eaten up with envy that she was starring in a movie that was destined to receive critical acclaim and box office success—a combination he’d never quite managed to achieve.
The one thing Linc craved was respect and acknowledgement for his acting talent, not merely his physical antics. His movies still made mega millions, but his reviews were abysmal. This drove him slightly crazy—especially now that she was about to make a major impact as a serious actress. She had no doubt he loved her, but things were about to change for her career-wise, and she wasn’t sure how Linc would take it.
Sometimes she worried that maybe she should give it all up, stay home and do nothing but look after Linc, because even after four years of a somewhat turbulent marriage she still loved him, in spite of his drinking and womanizing and going off on binges with his gang of asshole buddies whom she’d never been able to persuade him to get rid of. Lurking within the macho movie star was a little boy lost, and the little boy was always there, sweet and needy, and most important—all hers. Especially at night when they were in bed together and she snuggled up behind him and fell asleep breathing his smell, feeling his warmth, loving every inch of him. It wasn’t all about sex, and Shelby liked that. Linc was her man, and she desperately hoped he always would be.
Nobody knew the real Linc except her. Nobody had any clue about his abusive childhood with a father who’d beaten him daily when the old man wasn’t busy battering Linc’s mother, a gentle woman who was simply not capable of protecting her only son from a man who victimi
zed them both.
Linc had one sister, Connie, who, at forty-eight, was six years older than her brother. They shared a tough family history. When Linc was twelve his dad had beaten his mom to death, then turned the gun on himself—blowing his brains out all over the kitchen walls, leaving Connie and Linc to fend for themselves.
To her credit, Connie had never let her brother down. She’d taken a job as a waitress, managing to keep him out of foster homes until he’d run off to L.A. at the age of seventeen and started on the long and sometimes treacherous road to success. Connie was a dedicated lesbian who refused to have anything to do with men. She lived with her girlfriend, Suki, on a ranch on Montana—bought for her by Linc. The two of them rarely left it.
On his own, Linc had achieved phenomenal success, and Shelby loved and admired him for it. On the other hand, Linc Blackwood was a handful and Shelby wasn’t sure how long she could continue putting up with all his games.
She wanted a baby.
He didn’t.
She wanted to lead a less public life.
He didn’t.
She wanted him not to flirt with every woman who gave him the available signal. And they all did. Linc was a movie star, he might as well have FUCK ME emblazoned on his forehead.
Shelby, however, was completely loyal to him. It wasn’t part of her moral code to even contemplate having an affair. Her parents had been together for forty years, and they still held hands, exchanged loving looks and indulged in secret conversations. She often dreamed of a marriage as good as theirs.
“Shelby!” screamed the photographers. “Over here! Look over here! Shelby! SHELBY! SHELBY!”
As their pleas grew more frantic, Shelby obliged, turning her head this way and that, holding everything in, making sure she didn’t fall out of her daringly low-cut gown. She tossed back her mane of raven hair, her hazel eyes wide and appealing. Image was incredibly important, and even though Shelby was only thirty-two, she was well aware of the hordes of up and coming actresses rabid for their chance at stardom. They all wanted to be her. They all wanted to have her career, be married to a movie star and live in a magnificent Beverly Hills mansion.