Tough luck, girls, she thought, smile fixed firmly in place. Linc Blackwood is mine. All mine. And in spite of his many shortcomings I definitely intend to hold on to him. So back off. Linc Blackwood is taken.
• • •
“I want Linc Blackwood,” Lola Sanchez said in her low-down husky voice, not looking at Elliott Finerman, the producer of her upcoming movie, who sat in the back of the limo next to her, while her second husband, Matt Seel, a former professional tennis player, perched opposite them, sitting beside her publicist, Faye Margolis.
“We’ve gone over this a dozen times,” Elliott said, barely able to contain his annoyance. “I was thinking Ben Affleck or Matthew Mc—”
“No!” Lola interrupted sharply. “I want Linc Blackwood. And if you can’t or won’t get him, then I suggest you find yourself another leading lady.
Bitch! Elliott thought. Who do you think you are? Four years ago you were a waitress at Denny’s, now you’re telling me what to do. Me, Elliott Finerman, producer of over thirty successful movies.
“Well?” Lola demanded imperiously, tilting her pointed chin.
“If you insist, sweetie,” Eliott said, forcing himself to sound calm. “However, I do think—”
“Fine” she said, cutting him off again. “Then if Linc says yes, we’re all set.”
Elliott stared out of the car window. It was glaringly obvious that this Diva couldn’t care less what he thought. It was all Anna Cameron’s fault. Anna, head honcho at Live Studios, had only agreed to greenlight his latest movie, New York State of Mind, if he signed Lola Sanchez. And Lola had only agreed to sign if she had leading man approval.
“Give it to her,” Anna had said. “You and I will steer her in the right direction.”
Sure, Elliott thought bitterly. Some right direction.
From the get-go Lola had started mentioning Linc Blackwood. He’d honestly believed that he could sweet-talk her out of her choice, but no, Lola wanted Linc, and she was one determined, spoiled, full-of-her-own-importance movie star.
Elliott couldn’t understand why she was so insistant. She didn’t even know Linc, and when she did get to meet him she’d be sorry. Linc Blackwood was trouble, making outrageous demands on the set, and screwing other men’s wives when he thought he could get away with it. Elliott had personal experience with the way Linc operated. He used some of the oldest lines going, yet women still fell for them. Not that they needed much pushing—when it came to movie stars, women were open-leg city, ready to give it up for a glance, a smile. Elliott should know, his ex had been no exception. Lynsey Fraser, a pretty but easily influenced young actress. Three months after marrying her he’d foolishly given her a minor role in one of his movies that starred Linc Blackwood. A week of location later he’d caught her servicing Linc with a blow job in his trailer.
That had been ten years and one divorce ago. Needless to say, Elliott had chosen not to work with Linc since.
Elliott felt sorry for Shelby Cheney. She was a very talented actress and an extremely desirable woman, although obviously not too smart, because apparently she was completely unaware of what a cheating piece of crap her husband was.
“If you’re absolutely sure—” Elliott began in an uptight voice.
“Yes!” Lola snapped, hardly giving him time to finish his sentence. “I’m sure.”
Elliott fumed. Diva cunt! America thought she was such a sweet and sexy piece, when in fact she was a twenty-four-year-old killer bitch who happened to have been blessed with long legs, big breasts, full sensual lips, glowing skin and a stone-cold heart. America was in love with her legs, her lips, and her wide appealing smile. They remained unaware of her failings as a human being.
On second thought, Elliott mused, maybe Lola and Linc deserved each other. Between the two of them they could self-destruct their way out of the business. As long as New York State of Mind was a box office smash, what did he care? Let them create chaos and garner major publicity. After the movie was launched they could ruin each other’s miserable lives.
Movie stars! A bunch of over-inflated assholes with a short shelf life. Five years down the line people would be saying, “Lola who?”
Unfortunately, Linc Blackwood would probably always be around. Like Stallone, Willis and Schwarzenegger, he was a survivor in a tough business. Plus his movies still made money, especially in foreign and video and DVD sales.
“We’re almost there,” Faye Margolis announced. Faye was a formidable woman in her late forties, with an iron-grey, bobbed hairstyle and an unbeatable knowledge of the P.R. business. Any celebrity in Faye’s care was guaranteed maximum exposure and copy approval. Faye protected her select group of clients with fierce loyalty.
“How do I look?” Lola asked, exhibiting a rare flash of insecurity.
“Hot!” enthused Matt, who was quite hot himself, with an athlete’s body, long dirty blond hair and small Van Dyke beard.
Lola ignored him. “Faye?” she asked tentatively.
“Make sure you stand up straight,” Faye ordered in her smoke-enhanced voice. “That dress is a walking hazard, and don’t you forget it or your breast’ll fall out.”
Lola giggled. Only Faye could get away with speaking to her in such a fashion. Now that she was a big star she demanded respect from all who came in contact with her.
“If her tits fall out she’ll make every front page in France,” Matt sniggered.
“Don’t you mean the world?” Lola corrected, throwing him a withering glance.
“If you say so, honey,” Matt agreed, suitably abashed.
They had been married for five months. As far as Lola was concerned the honeymoon phase was way over, although Matt had yet to realize it.
They’d gotten married on a billionaire’s Malibu estate in a blaze of publicity, with helicopters hovering overhead, paparazzi hanging out of trees, and a star-studded guest list of people they hardly knew. An English magazine had paid two million dollars for exclusive pictures of the happy couple, and Faye had made sure that everything happened exactly the way she planned it. No mistakes was Faye’s motto, and anyone who made them was permanently off Faye’s extensive payroll.
Lola wasn’t quite so thrilled anymore. She got bored easily, and apart from beach boy looks and a buff body, Matt did not bring a lot to the party. He’d given up professional tennis, preferring to leech off her. When she’d complained about his lack of activity, he’d assured her that he was writing a screenplay, and also planning on taking acting lessons.
Great! Why hadn’t he confided that he had aspirations to be in show business before she’d married him?
Here’s what he didn’t know. She only married him to preserve her public image as the sexy superstar of the new millennium. Forget about Halle Berry, Jennifer Lopez and Angelina Jolie, Lola Sanchez was it, and she had to keep her credibility level right up there. Before her marriage to Matt, she’d been indulging in a high profile romance with Tony Alvarez, a brilliant Latino movie director who some considered to be the Pedro Almodovar of his generation, except Tony was a product of the Bronx, so the three movies he’d directed were pure Americana with an edge.
Tony’s problem was that he had an ongoing drug habit, and in spite of a couple of well publicized arrests for possession, and a lengthy probation, he still managed to get into trouble. Once his bad boy ways began reflecting negatively on Lola’s image, her advisors had warned her that she’d better distance herself from him, as it was becoming increasingly possible that he might have to serve a few months in jail for supposedly dealing—which everyone knew was bullshit, but since Tony was a celebrity, the authorities had to look like they were doing something.
Lola, ever mindful of her public image, had reluctantly broken off their engagement, and hurriedly married Matt, who could not believe his luck and had willingly signed an iron-clad pre-nuptial agreement.
Now she was stuck with him. But not for long. Lola had plans, and those plans included Linc Blackwood.
• •
•
Cat Harrison was not happy to be at the Cannes Film Festival. Celebrity events were so boring, full of stars with enormous egos. Not that she’d been to that many, but ever since she’d written and directed her first movie, Wild Child, a film loosely based on her own somewhat unconventional life, she’s been forced to work the circuit. And ever since her low budget (try non-existent budget) movie had become a cult hit, Cat was the flavor of the month.
Big freaking deal. She hated being the center of attention. She loathed having to get dressed up and play nice to the money men and big shots who were hot to finance her next project.
“Ya gotta do it, luv,” advised her Australian musician husband, Jump Jagger—no relation to Mick, although he wished.
“Why?” she’d argued.
“’Cause it’ll be good karma for us both. An’ I could do with a bit of karma.”
Trust Jump to put himself in the mix. He had an annoying habit of always putting himself first. It didn’t matter though, because she was crazy about him.
The child of divorce, Cat had grown up dividing her time between an eccentric English mother and a totally insane American father, which meant that she’d spent most of her childhood drifting between the two countries, until at the age of seventeen she’d decided she needed her own space and her own career (Daddy was a hugely successful sculptor and Mummy was an award-winning photographer). So she’d moved to New York, where she eventually met Jump—who’d saved her from a downward spiral of drugs and craziness. She was heading along a bad road, and he’d managed to pull her back just in time. Then they did the conventional thing, married and settled into a SoHo loft.
While Jump worked on his music, Cat took various gigs as a nanny, dog walker and personal assistant to a sullen but extremely creative theater director. One weekend, full of ideas and enthusiasm, she’d started writing a screenplay. Six weeks later she began shooting her film on an old Sony handy-cam she’d taken from her father’s basement. She’d used their weird and wonderful assortment of friends as actors, while Jump had worked on putting together an edgy and interesting soundtrack with his group. Voila! Instant movie.
A friend’s uncle had introduced her to a small distributor who’d picked up her film, and from the first screening—like The Blair Witch Project before it—the buzz began. First there was a website, then there were two, then three. Within weeks there were twenty-one websites devoted to discussing Wild Child.
Cat was beyond excited, until reluctantly she was thrust into the spotlight. The media loved her. It helped that she was now nineteen, tall and agile, with short, spikey, natural blond hair, olive green eyes and a challenging face with high cheekbones. She could’ve easily been a model or an actress. Neither profession interested her, she got her kicks out of being the on the other side of the camera, the side she was able to maintan a certain degree of control.
Merrill Zandack, head of Zandack Films, had taken over distribution of Wild Child, and now he was planning to finance her next project, Caught, a quirky film she’d written about a womanizing con-man and a duplicitous female undercover cop, hence her visit to the Cannes Film Festival.
“Be nice to everyone, kitten,” Merrill had told her when she’d arrived. “You’re on the fast track.”
“I’ll be nice if you stop calling me ‘kitten,’ ” she responded a tad irritably. It pissed her off that men thought it was quite okay to call women cutesy names. How would he like it if she called him puppy?
Merrill, a plump, balding man, who spent most of his time sweating profusely while sucking on a large Cuban cigar, found Cat to be a refreshing presence. He admired the way she didn’t kow-tow to anyone. He enjoyed her non-conformist attitude. Merrill had a gut instinct for talent, and if Cat kept her head and didn’t annoy too many people with her ballsy approach, she was destined to soar.
• • •
Shelby did the dance and she did it well. Linc did it better. Linc was an expert at making everyone feel they were his best friend. He had charm and then some. Shelby watched him as he flirted with a very svelte looking Sharon Stone. She got a kick of out watching him when he didn’t know she was looking. He was so damn sexy.
“You’re a beauty, hon’,” Merrill Zandack said, puffing on his cigar as he lumbered up behind her. “Can’t wait to see your movie.”
“Thanks, Merrill,” she said, turning toward the powerful studio head as he planted a sweaty kiss of her cheek, leaving an irritating wet spot that she was dying to wipe off.
“You an’ me gotta work together,” Merrill continued, blowing a stream of expensive cigar smoke directly into her face. “I hear you’re dynamite in tonight’s flick.”
“You do?” she said, surreptitiously attempting to wipe her cheek dry with the back of her hand.
“It was supposed to be a private screenin’,” he wheezed. “Never had the time.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Naw, this way’s better,” he said, blowing more cigar smoke in her face as he managed a not-so-discreet peek down her cleavage.
She took a step back and smiled politely at Merrill’s date, a statuesque Angelica Huston clone. Since his wife had died several years ago, Merrill had rarely been seen with the same woman twice. He appeared to favor a long line of interchangeable brunettes, women he never saw fit to introduce.
“Well. . . . I do hope you enjoy it, Merrill,” Shelby said, once more glancing over at Linc, who was now in an intense conversation with Woody Allen. No rescue there.
“You look beautiful, hon’,” Merrill repeated.
“Thanks,” she murmured, and to her relief, Merrill spotted Lola Sanchez making a much admired entrance, and immediately headed in her direction, his brunette date trailing regally behind him.
Shelby’s appointed P.R. person, a young French woman with her hair worn in a tight bun, and a sulky, turned down mouth, hovered nearby. “Do you wish to meet with the reporter from Paris Match now?” the woman asked.
Shelby shook her head. The last thing she wanted to do was speak with a journalist. “Tomorrow, at the press conference,” she said.
The woman’s thin lips tightened. “He has to leave for Paris early in the moring. He will not be able to attend the press conference.”
A couple of years ago Shelby would have said yes to anything. Two years of therapy and she’d learned to say no.
“If he’s so anxious to speak with me,” she suggested, “then perhaps he should stay over.”
Before the P.R. woman could reply, Linc reappeared and took her arm. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he said warmly, winking at the P.R. woman. “Let’s go take our seats.”
Shelby nodded, her stomach fluttering. This was her big night and she was determined to relax and enjoy it.
Jackie Collins is one of the world’s top-selling authors, with more than four hundred million copies of her books sold in more than forty countries. From her first sensational release, The World Is Full of Married Men, to her recent Married Lovers, from Hollywood Wives to Hollywood Divorces, Jackie Collins skewers the lives of the rich and famous with “devastating accuracy” (Los Angeles Times) in twenty-five internationally bestselling novels. She lives in Beverly Hills, California.
Visit her website at www.jackiecollins.com.
MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
SimonandSchuster.com
authors.simonandschuster.com/Jackie-Collins
Books by Jackie Collins
THE SANTANGELO NOVELS
Dangerous Kiss
Vendetta: Lucky’s Revenge
Lady Boss
Lucky
Chances
Also by Jackie Collins
Hollywood Wives—The New Generation
Lethal Seduction
L.A. Connection—Power. Obsession. Murder. Revenge.
Thrill!
Hollywood Kids
American Star
Rock Star
Hollywood Husbands
Lovers & Gamblers
Hollywood Wives
The World Is Full of Divorced Women
The Love Killers
Sinners
The Bitch
The Stud
The World Is Full of Married Men
We hope you enjoyed reading this Simon & Schuster eBook.
* * *
Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Simon & Schuster.
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com
Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2002 by Chances, Inc.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
This Simon & Schuster ebook edition February 2017
SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or
[email protected] The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com