Jackie Collins is one of the world’s top-selling writers, with more than four hundred million copies of her books sold in more than forty countries. Her twenty-six bestselling novels have never been out of print, and have all been New York Times bestsellers. She lives in Beverly Hills, California. Visit her website at
www.jackiecollins.com
PRAISE FOR JACKIE COLLINS
‘Jackie Collins is the queen of the bonkbuster – I’m simply the scullery maid’ Jilly Cooper, Telegraph
‘Sex, glamour and big hair and more sex, Jackie Collin’s dissection of Tinseltown is as razor sharp as ever’ Daily Mail
‘Her style is pure escapism, her heroines strong and ambitious and her men, well, like the book, they'll keep you up all night!’ Company Magazine
‘A generation of women have learnt more about how to handle their men from Jackie’s books than from any kind of manual’ Daily Mail
‘Bartender, pour us a dirty martini and keep them coming. This is vintage Jackie Collins and we’ll be here ‘til closin’’ Heat
‘Jackie is still the queen of sexy stories. Perfect’ OK!
‘Cancel all engagements, take the phone off the hook and indulge yourself’ Mirror
‘The Proust of nips and tucks’ Daily Telegraph
Also by Jackie Collins
Poor Little Bitch Girl
Married Lovers
Lethal Seduction
Hollywood Divorces
Hollywood Wives – The New Generation
Deadly Embrace
Thrill!
Lovers & Players
L.A. Connections – Power, Obsession, Murder, Revenge
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
THE SANTANGELO NOVELS
Lady Boss
Lucky
Drop Dead Beautiful
Dangerous Kiss
Vendetta: Lucky’s Revenge
Chances
This edition published by Pocket Books UK, 2010
An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Chances Inc, 2001, 2003
Hollywood Wives – The Next Generation first published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2001
First published by Pocket Books UK, 2002
Hollywood Divorces first published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2003
First published by Pocket Books UK, 2004
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
Pocket Books & Design is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster Inc.
The right of Jackie Collins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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www.simonandschuster.co.uk
Simon & Schuster Australia
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
eBook ISBN: 978-1-84983-210-6
With thanks to the artists for permission to quote from the song Copacabana – Barry Manilow / Bruce Sussman / Jack Feldman
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For all the Hollywood Wives
Old and new…male and female…
Gay and straight…
A constant source of inspiration!
And for Arnold Kopelson,
who told me much more than I
ever wanted to know!
And for my darling Frank,
Always…
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Epilogue
Prologue
Eric Vernon walked into Sam’s Place, a seedy topless bar in the valley, and immediately fixed his gaze on Arliss Shepherd.
Arliss was not a pretty sight as he leaned against the bar, nursing a half-full bottle of beer. Long-faced with pale, pock-marked skin, and lank, shoulder-length yellow hair, he was skinny as a starving coyote and just as skittish. Nervous habits surrounded him–he chewed his straggly hair, picked his teeth, rarely changed his underwear, and smelled of stale onions.
In spite of his shortcomings, Arliss was not lacking in friends: a group of similar misfits hung out at Sam’s Place, with Arliss leading the pack. Sam, an obese man famous for only having one ball, ran his bar like a friendly club for losers. Regulars included Davey ‘The Animal’, Little Joe, and Big Mark Johansson. They were a motley crew, drawing solace from each other’s company and the fact that there was strength in numbers. Together they could kick ass. Alone they were useless, nothing more than a bunch of loud-mouthed failures. Which, as far as Eric Vernon was concerned, was a good thing, because men with no self-esteem were far easier to manipulate than men with balls. He’d discovered that in prison when he was doing time for manslaughter.
Manslaughter my ass, Eric thought as he approached Arliss at the bar. I hit the scumbag with a two-by-four until he dropped dead in front of me. And not a moment too soon.
Eric Vernon was a nondescript man of medium height and slight build, with bland features and sandy brown hair cut short. He had the kind of face that blended in–the kind of face that nobody ever remembered.
Except that skanky bitch remembered me all right, he thought sourly. Oh, yes, she remembered me so well that I served six miserable years in prison because of her.
br /> The first thing he’d done when he’d got out of the joint was taken care of her. Smashed her pointy face until it was no more than pulp. Then he’d burned her house down.
The best revenge is deadly. Eric had learned that at an early age.
Immediately after dealing with the tattling bitch he’d adopted a new identity and moved to California, eventually settling in L.A. where he’d taken a job with a computer company–a skill he’d mastered in jail.
All this had taken place two years earlier, and no one had ever questioned who he was or where he came from. Which is exactly the way he’d planned it.
A person does not sit in jail for six stinking years without making plans. And Eric had an agenda, an agenda he was getting ready to pursue.
Chapter One
‘You look fantastic!’
‘You think?’
‘I know.’
Lissa Roman narrowed her eyes as she studied her reflection in the large, lightbulb-studded makeup mirror. She saw perfection, and so she should, considering she worked like a long-haul truck driver to look as good as she did. And it wasn’t easy. It took real dedication and non-stop action. Yoga, Pilates, starvation, ice-cold showers, Brazilian waxing, hair colouring, jogging, swimming, weight training, fasting, aerobics, spinning–you name it, Lissa did it. Everything except plastic surgery. She was too scared of the knife. Too petrified that the surgeon would make her look like somebody else–take away her identity, her personality. She had seen it happen to numerous people in Hollywood, men and women. Besides, she was only forty–younger than Madonna and Sharon Stone, for God’s sake. And, anyway, she didn’t need it.
‘You’re sure I look as good as it gets?’ she questioned, forcing Fabio, her faithful makeup and hair artist, to repeat his compliments.
‘Divine. Beautiful. The works,’ Fabio assured her, tossing back his luxuriant mane of expensive hair extensions.
And he meant every word of it, because although Lissa Roman was not a classic beauty, she had that indiscernible something that made her a superstar. It was a combination of blatant sex appeal, fiery energy and a body to die for. Not to mention blazing blue eyes, high cheekbones, and full, pouty lips. Fabio loved basking in her aura.
‘All thanks to you and your magic fingers,’ Lissa murmured, smoothing her shoulder-length platinum hair.
‘That’s what Teddy told me last night,’ Fabio said, with a self-satisfied smirk.
‘Lucky you,’ Lissa said, rising from the makeup chair.
‘No,’ Fabio said, wagging a beringed finger at her. ‘Lucky Teddy.’
‘You have some ego!’ Lissa teased, heading for the door.
‘Almost as big as yours,’ Fabio retorted crisply, following her out to the studio where the photographer from Maxim magazine waited.
Lissa and Fabio had worked together for eight years and enjoyed an excellent relationship. Fabio actually liked Lissa Roman. For someone of her stature she was not an egocentric bitch. She was warm and friendly and quite funny at times. Of course, she had appalling taste in men–but living in Hollywood there was hardly a vast pool of eligible men to choose from. And as far as Fabio was concerned, all the good ones were gay–thank God!
Her second husband, Antonio, the man who’d fathered her only child, sounded the best of all. Not that Fabio had ever met him, but he’d seen photos, and Antonio was a magnificent specimen: all dark sexy eyes, impressive physique, and broodingly handsome features. Fabio often wondered why she’d let that one slip away.
‘Antonio had a wandering cock,’ was Lissa’s only explanation.
Fabio didn’t get why straight people were so uptight about sex. After all, sometimes a wandering cock could be a good thing.
Nicci Stone gazed unblinkingly at her kickboxing instructor’s crotch. It was quite a package, and so was he. His name was Bjorn, and he was tall and blond in the Nordic style, with subtle muscles and sinewy bronzed thighs. He was over six feet tall with large Chiclet teeth and a gleaming smile.
I bet he gives great tongue, Nicci thought, with a secretive smile. He’s Scandinavian. Scandinavian men rock.
Not that she’d had that many. Sven, the Swedish facialist. Marl, the Danish rock ’n’ roller. And Lusti, the Norwegian personal trainer. Actually, that was a lot. Enough to make her realize that European men were far more inventive in bed than their American counterparts.
She wondered how Bjorn, with his quite commendable package, would stack up. Maybe she should give him a try…
No! a stern voice in the back of her head commanded. You are currently engaged and there will be no more screwing around.
Damn! Who came up with that rule?
Mommy, of course. Lissa Roman, mega movie star, singer and legendary sex symbol–currently on her fourth husband.
Yeah. That’s right. Four.
Nicci hoped it was Lissa’s lucky number. The next wedding was hers, and she did not take kindly to competition, even though she had lived with it forever.
Growing up with Lissa Roman as your mother was no day trip to Disneyland. Whenever possible, Nicci had kept the identity of her famous mom a deep, dark secret. Although keeping it to herself never lasted long, because somebody always managed to find out–blowing her chance of a normal (what’s that anyway?) relationship.
Nicci was, at nineteen, a spirited kind of beauty. Unlike her mother’s platinum blond sexiness, Nicci had inherited her exotic gypsy looks from Antonio Miguel Stone, her Spanish father–Lissa’s husband number two–a drop-dead handsome philanderer with no money to speak of and a somewhat shaky pedigree. His mother, Nicci’s grandma, was supposedly a third cousin to the King of Spain–although they’d never been invited to tea.
Nicci knew the story. Lissa had fallen for Antonio when he’d arrived in Hollywood to liaise with a gorgeous redhead. Five days after their first meeting, the redhead was history, and Lissa and Antonio were on their way to Vegas in a chartered plane where, after two days of gambling and incredible sex, they’d got married.
Nine months after that, Nicci was born.
One passion-filled year later, Lissa caught Antonio cheating with her so-called best friend and promptly divorced him. Shortly after that he’d returned to Europe to continue his career as an ace playboy and sometime racing-car driver, roaming around the best resorts and the most beautiful women.
At age ten Nicci had started demanding to know more about her father–a man she had only seen pictures of. Reluctantly Lissa had instructed her lawyer to contact her ex and remind him that he had a daughter. Surprisingly, over the next few summers, Antonio had rallied and sent for the little girl. Nicci’s visits were a big success. She was pretty, sassy and smart, and Antonio was quite entranced. So much so, that over the following years she began spending months at a time with her charismatic dad, until, at age fifteen, she dropped out of Beverly Hills High School and enrolled at the American school in Madrid. Lissa didn’t seem to mind. Lissa had a career to take care of.
Nicci was thrilled, freedom at last! She soon discovered that Antonio was far more exciting to live with than her mom. He acted more like an older brother than a father figure, full of devilish doings. He taught her what he considered to be all the good things in life–such as how to smoke pot, drink martinis without getting too wasted, and handle men with the right combination of flattery and disinterest. One of his many exotic girlfriends had given her a crash course in birth control. How cool was that? What more could a young, eager-to-learn teenager ask for?
By the time Nicci was sixteen she was wise way beyond her years, certainly wise enough to realize that her father was incorrigible–a bad boy with a fun-loving disposition and a big heart. He adored his daughter, she was his one link to normality. And Nicci adored him back, even though she knew he was a rogue and somewhat spineless. So what? He was her dad and she loved him.
The only downside to living with Antonio was his mother, Adela, a fierce-faced woman who dressed only in black and screamed at her son whenever the opportunity a
rose. Antonio didn’t seem to mind, he gave as good as he got, raising his voice back with no concern about anyone listening. Nicci soon realized it was a game between the two of them. A competition. Their deal was who could scream the longest and loudest. Grandma always won. Grandma was a determined woman. She was also the keeper of the family money, and much to Antonio’s annoyance, she doled it out on her terms.
Adela owned the house they inhabited in Madrid, plus a luxurious villa in Marbella, both properties left to her by her late husband who’d suffered a fatal heart attack when Antonio was only ten. Since that time Adela had drummed it into her handsome son that he was now the man in the family, and therefore had to look after her. Then she’d promptly sent him off to a military academy, where he’d had the crap beaten out of him on a regular basis.
When Antonio had finally got out, he was ready to party, and in spite of Adela’s objections, party he did, winging his way across Europe bedding a constant procession of sleek women. Along the way he’d become interested in racing cars. As soon as Adela found out, she’d thrown a fit. To appease her, Antonio made it a hobby instead of a career, a move he’d always regretted.
Now he split his time between his mother’s two residences, carefully planning to be wherever she wasn’t.
Adela was no push-over–she kept tabs on her son. She considered it enough that he’d married a cheap American movie star when he’d ventured out of her range, and she certainly had no intention of allowing that kind of madness to happen again.