Hollywood Wives--The New Generation Read online

  Once, they lived in the shadows of their famous husbands.

  Now, Hollywood wives are taking control. . . .

  Praise for Jackie Collins and her page-turning New York Times bestseller

  HOLLYWOOD WIVES: THE NEW GENERATION

  “Luststyles of the rich and famous. . . . The true intrigue is in trying to figure out what real Hollywood characters Collins is caricaturing.”

  —People

  “[This] glam take on celebrity fashion and open sexuality make it perfect fodder for our Sex and the City era.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “[A] twisted plot.”

  —Daily News (New York)

  “Collins is a natural-born storyteller, a writer with an instinctive gift for racing narrative that is as willfully chaotic as anything in life.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Collins at her page-turning best.”

  —The Palm Beach Post (FL)

  “Sizzling. . . . Collins dishes up glamour, suspense, and heartache.”

  —Good Housekeeping

  “This is Collins at her ultra-celeb, super-accessorized, best-selling best.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Patented Jackie Collins.”

  —The Orlando Sentinel (FL)

  Also available from Simon & Schuster Audio—read by the author!

  Madison Castelli, the glamorous and street-smart heroine of Jackie Collins’ miniseries L.A. Connections, sets the night on fire in two sizzling bestsellers

  DEADLY EMBRACE

  “The godmother of glam/vamp fiction. . . . Collins knows no limits.

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Deadly Embrace starts with a bang. . . . Plenty of sex, suspense, revenge, passion, intrigue, and deception.”

  —The Times Union (Albany, NY)

  “This book has everything—a restaurant hold-up, unfaithful wives, movie stars, sex, and murder.”

  —Liz Smith, New York Post

  “Jackie Collins is one incredible storyteller.”

  —The Anniston Star (AL)

  “[A] dishy page-turner, Deadly Embrace, will doubtless find its way into every Prada beach bag from coast to coast.”

  —Hamptons Magazine

  “[A] sex-o-rama. . . . Brisk and fast-paced. . . . It’s all very addictive.”

  —Associated Press

  LETHAL SEDUCTION

  “Cool as a subzero shot of designer vodka.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “[A] bawdy, boisterous lust fest from Collins.”

  —People

  “Even the tiniest nuances of naughtiness rarely escape the author’s anthropological eye. . . . Decadence, luxury, and film-land plot lines that make Collins one of the bestselling writers of our time.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Vicarious thrills.”

  —Booklist

  “Collins injects plenty of glamour into this page-flipping tale”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “No one writes a better sex-in-the-back-of-a-Bentley scene.”

  —Talk

  “The literary guilty pleasure is defined once again by Jackie Collins’ Lethal Seduction . . . a frothy romp packed with gorgeous people obsessed with sex, deception, cash, and more sex. . . . Fans should give in to Collins’ seduction.”

  —Us magazine

  “Crackles with light, beach-ready scandal and suspense.”

  —The Village Voice

  “JACKIE COLLINS’ BOOKS ARE HOT AND STEAMY . . . ENOUGH OVERHEATED SEX AND ACTION [TO PUT] POLAR ICE CAPS IN DANGER OF MELTDOWN.”

  —Houston Post

  “A LOT OF THE FUN OF READING COLLINS’ SCORCHERS HAS ALWAYS BEEN TRYING TO IDENTIFY THE REAL PEOPLE ON WHOM THE FICTIONAL ONES ARE BASED.”

  —Chicago Tribune

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  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 FRANK,

  Always . . .

  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, pockmarked skin, and lank, shoulder-length yellow hair, he was skinny as a starving coyote and just as skittish. Nervous habits surrounded him—he chewed on 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.

  The first thing he’d done when he’d gotten 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 gotten a job with a computer company—using 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-surrounded 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 nonstop action. Yoga, Pilates, starvation, ice-cold showers, Brazilian waxing, hair coloring, 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 he
r look like somebody else—take away her identity, her personality. She had seen it happen to numerous people in Hollywood—women and men. 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 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. Instead of her mother’s platinum-blond sexiness, Nicci had inherited 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 gotten 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 race-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 how to 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 arose. 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 gotten out, he was ready to party, and in spite of Adela’s objections, party he did, winging his way across Europe and 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 pushover—she kept tabs on her son. She considered it bad enough that he’d ma
rried 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.

  Nicci had a strained relationship with her strict grandmother. Adela professed to care for her half-American granddaughter, but at the same time she was forever disapproving of Nicci’s behavior. Nicci soon learned how to deal with her—whenever the criticism and muttering got too much to take, she flew back to L.A. and hardworking Lissa, who was so caught up in her career that she didn’t seem to mind what Nicci did.

  And Nicci did plenty, for she had inherited both her mother’s passion for breaking rules and her father’s wild ways. She was into experimenting, seeing how far she could go without actually doing “IT.” In spite of her lessons in birth control, she was nervous about going all the way, that is until back in Europe she met Carlos, Antonio’s distant cousin.

  She was seventeen and ready for the big deal. Carlos was twenty-five, self-assured and extremely good looking.

  It didn’t take him long to break down her inhibitions, then, shortly after, break her heart. Unfortunately, like his cousin, Carlos was a serial philanderer who could not resist a pretty face. Furious and hurt by his rejection, Nicci had traveled the revenge route, jumping into bed with as many men as possible, while harboring the vain hope that Carlos would become hopelessly jealous and beg her to come back to him.

  He didn’t.

  With a great deal of prompting from his mother, Antonio eventually got on her case, pointing out that if she wasn’t careful, people would start calling her a slut and a whore.

  “And what are you?” she’d yelled at her father—a man who found it impossible to keep it in his pants. “A goddamn virgin?”

  “No. I am a man,” he’d replied with a small superior smile. “And men can do anything.”

  They’d argued bitterly for most of the night, both of them saying things they would grow to regret.

  The next morning Nicci had gotten on a plane to L.A. and had not been back to Europe since.