Sinners Read online

  Praise for Jackie Collins

  ‘Sex, power and intrigue – no one does it better than Jackie’ heat

  ‘A tantalising novel packed with power struggles, greed and sex. This is Collins at her finest’ Closer

  ‘Bold, brash, whiplash fast – with a cast of venal rich kids, this is classic Jackie Collins’ Marie Claire

  ‘Sex, money, power, murder, betrayal, true love – it’s all here in vintage Collins style. Collins’s plots are always a fabulously involved, intricate affair, and this does not disappoint’ Daily Mail

  ‘Her style is pure escapism, her heroine’s strong and ambitious and her men, well, like the book, they’ll keep you up all night!’ Company

  ‘A generation of women have learnt more about how to handle their men from Jackie’s books than from any kind of manual . . . Jackie is very much her own person: a total one off’ Daily Mail

  ‘Jackie is still the queen of sexy stories. Perfect’ OK!

  ‘Cancel all engagements, take the phone off the hook and indulge yourself’ Mirror

  Also by Jackie Collins

  The Power Trip

  Married Lovers

  Lovers & Players

  Deadly Embrace

  Hollywood Wives – The New Generation

  Lethal Seduction

  Thrill!

  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

  The Bitch

  The Stud

  The World Is Full Of Married Men

  Hollywood Divorces

  THE SANTANGELO NOVELS

  Goddess of Vengeance

  Poor Little Bitch Girl

  Drop Dead Beautiful

  Dangerous Kiss

  Vendetta: Lucky’s Revenge

  Lady Boss

  Lucky

  Chances

  First published under the title Sunday Simmons and Charlie Brick

  in Great Britain by W.H. Allen & Co. Ltd, 1972

  This edition published by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2012

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Chances, Inc. 1972, 1984

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Jackie Collins to be identified as 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

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WCIX 8HB

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-84983-615-9

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-84983-616-6

  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.

  Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CRO 4YY

  Sinners

  Contents

  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

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter One

  Herbert Lincoln Jefferson stared disgustedly at his wife, Marge. She sprawled on a couch in front of the television, legs apart, displaying fat white thighs, eating an orange so that the juice dribbled down her chin, and holding a beer can from which she took occasional swigs. She was wearing a blue cotton dress which was so tight that it had split under one arm. Her huge bosom hung in a dirty white bra which peeked through the split. A stranger seeing her would have found it hard to judge her age, and perhaps assessed her as ten years older than she was. Actually she was thirty-five.

  ‘I’m going,’ Herbert announced.

  Marge didn’t shift her eyes from the TV set. She crammed some more orange into her mouth and mumbled, ‘OK, hon.’

  Herbert left the faded pink house, one in a row of many faded houses. He kicked viciously at Marge’s cat which wandered under his feet, and started the walk to the bus stop. It was early evening and particularly hot. Herbert felt enraged that he had no car. Everyone had a car in Los Angeles. Last week he had had a beautiful shiny grey Chevrolet, but they had taken it away as he hadn’t kept up the payments.

  Herbert was of medium height, a thin man with brown hair and sharp features. He wasn’t good-looking, he wasn’t ugly, he was just perfectly ordinary-looking. He was the sort of man you never remembered, that is unless he stared at you with his oblique brown eyes, and then suddenly you would get an odd sort of shudder. His eyes were mean and cruel and grabbing.

  There was a young Mexican girl at the bus stop in front of him, and he appraised her quickly. Too skinny and too young, but a virgin, he was sure of that. He pressed up against her as they boarded the bus, and she turned round and gave him a startled look. He ignored her and took a seat next to a plump matron, probably some rich movie star’s housekeeper. No, if she was, she would have her own car.

  There was a musty smell of dried sweat in the bus, and Herbert wrinkled up his nose in disgust. He had taken a shower before coming out. Sometimes he showered four or five times a day. The man he really admired was Tiny Tim, because he had read somewhere that he showered every time he took a leak. Herbert really admired such cleanliness.

  The plump matron shifted in her
seat. She didn’t like the pressure of Herbert’s leg beside her. But he stared straight ahead with his ordinary face, and she was sure he couldn’t be doing it purposely.

  The old bag’s wearing suspenders, Herbert thought. One of them was digging into him. He moved his arm so that it nudged against the side of her bosom. She squashed nearer to the window, and Herbert stared impassively forward.

  At the next stop the woman got out, and Herbert shifted his knees so that she had to squeeze past him. He felt the outline of her big buttocks against his knees, and he laughed silently. Old cow, give her a thrill. They all loved a thrill, even the old ones.

  He thought lovingly about the letter he had sent to sexy red-headed film star, Angela Carter. He had mailed it the previous evening, and she had probably read it by now. He had managed to get her home address; that was an advantage of doing the job he was in now. They had a file in the office of most of the film stars’ addresses. He was working for a chauffeur service employed by Radiant Productions. It was most important when writing to people that you were sure they would open the letter themselves. That was the whole point.

  To Angela he had written lovingly in glowing and explicit terms about what he would like to do to her. No detail had been spared and he enclosed a small plastic bag into which he had proudly masturbated.

  It was one of his better literary efforts, and he hoped that Miss Angela Carter appreciated it.

  The bus arrived at his stop and he walked the short distance to the Supreme Chauffeur Company.

  Chapter Two

  The woman caressed the man beneath her, and in return his hands stroked her arched naked back.

  She was beautiful in no conventional sense. Long wild hair, framing a tanned, almost animalistic face. Eyes a mixture of brown and yellow. Mouth wide and sensual.

  They lay on a bed with black silk sheets, one sheet covering the woman just below her waist. She had a marvellous body, a combination of long limbs, curves and fine muscles.

  She sighed and bent to kiss the man. He was also naked. A brown hard body with hairs on his chest and a fine display of muscles.

  As they kissed she reached down to the floor, and from under the bed produced a small gun which she stealthily brought up to his head.

  Ending the kiss she whispered, ‘Goodbye, Mr Fountain.’

  In one quick movement he threw her off him and twisted the gun from her hand.

  Furious, she crouched on the floor glaring at him.

  He laughed. ‘Better luck next time, baby, you’re not dealing with a Boy Scout.

  She brought up her arm to try to strike him, and a voice shouted, ‘Cut.’

  Sunday Simmons’s hands flew to cover herself. Quickly a wardrobe lady appeared and threw a robe around her.

  Abe Stein, the director, strolled over. He was fat, and chewing on an ancient, stinking cigar. He spoke to the man lying on the bed. ‘Sorry, Jack, too much tit.’

  Jack Milan grinned. He was a well-preserved forty-nine, with jet-black hair and a smile that had kept him hot at the box-office for twenty years. ‘There’s never too much tit for me, Abe old boy.’

  Everyone within earshot laughed, except Sunday who huddled miserably on the floor, clutching the robe around her.

  Why had she ever agreed to do this film? In Italy, in fact in most European countries, she was regarded as almost a star; and here in Hollywood, she was treated as a nothing.

  Abe addressed himself to her. ‘Look, honey, I know you got a gorgeous pair of boobs there, but just keep them pointed at Mr Milan, huh?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘When he throws me to the floor it is very difficult. Perhaps if you let me wear some sort of covering, as I wanted to . . .’

  ‘No, those things look worse than nothing.’ He was referring to ‘patsies’ which some female stars insisted on wearing in any kind of nude scenes. They were round flesh-coloured pads which stuck over the nipples. Sunday had asked to wear them, but her contract for the film stipulated she had to do what the film company wanted, and they wanted no patsies. So here she was, exposed, except for a brief pair of panties, to the entire unit, which seemed to have doubled itself on this day.

  She dreaded having to remove the robe again.

  As if reading her thoughts, Abe said, ‘Get on the bed, let me show you what I mean. Do you mind, Jack? Shall I get your stand-in?’

  ‘Do I mind? Just get me a Scotch and a cigarette, and I’ll shoot this scene all day!’

  More laughter, and Sunday reluctantly took off her robe. She tried not to care, tried to blank out the grinning faces watching her.

  She got on the bed, partly under the sheets, and half lying across Jack Milan.

  ‘Now let’s take it in slow motion,’ Abe said. ‘Show me how you throw her off you.’

  Jack’s strong arms lifted her slowly and edged her sideways. Abe’s fat arms brushed across her until both men were holding her.

  ‘Try and keep her towards you like this,’ Abe said. ‘That’s it, marvellous. Now on the floor, dear, when you go to hit him, just make sure your back is to the camera. Like this.’

  Once more he handled her body, and this time she was sure his fat hands didn’t slide across her breasts by accident.

  ‘We’ll break for lunch now.’ He turned to Jack Milan who climbed out of the bed, wearing orange jockey shorts and matching socks. ‘Everyone back by two p.m. sharp. Come on, Jack, I’ll buy you that Scotch.’

  Sunday walked slowly to her dressing room. She was close to tears. It was so humiliating to be treated like this. She had thought a Jack Milan film would be a good thing to do, but it had turned out to be just another girl in a multi-girl spy film. She had been so anxious to leave Rome that she had hardly even looked at the script. And she had wanted to see Hollywood; the nearest she had been before was Rio, where she was born.

  Sunday had had a happy childhood. Her father was South American and her mother French, and the two nationalities were very compatible.

  By the time she was sixteen she had decided to be an actress, and she persuaded her parents to send her to a dramatic academy in London. It was the best, and arrangements were made for Sunday to stay in London with her mother’s elder sister, Aunt Jasmin. Of course, she was to return to Rio for all vacations, and immediately if she didn’t care for England.

  It didn’t make any difference whether she cared or not. Her parents were killed in a car crash two days after she left.

  Sunday was heartbroken. She blamed herself, reasoning that if she had been there it might not have happened.

  Her father left hardly any money at all. Generous, he had lived big, spending and lending in every direction.

  After the funeral, Sunday decided to stay in London and continue her studies. She had a few thousand pounds left to her by her mother.

  It was a far different life for her to adjust to. A small apartment in Kensington, the cold weather, and Aunt Jasmin, who thought it a sin to show any affection.

  Sunday found this strange and worrying. She needed love and affection, and it seemed there was no one she could turn to.

  She threw herself into her work at the academy.

  One day after she had been there a year and a half, she met Raf Souza.

  Raf was a dynamic young man, currently the most in-demand fashion photographer and very aware of it. He turned up at the school with three thin model girls, a hairdresser, a battery of equipment, and three huge dogs. He had permission to use the interior of the academy for a Vogue lay out with students in the background.

  At that time, Sunday wore her hair flattened down and scraped back. She dressed for the cold, wearing at least three sweaters and baggy trousers. She wore no make-up.

  Raf picked her out immediately, made her loosen her hair, and had her kneeling with the dogs looking up at the three model girls.

  She was secretly delighted, but to the other students she pretended it was an awful bore.

  When Raf left he handed her his card and said, ‘If you want
to see the pictures, drop around tomorrow about six.’

  Raf’s studio was the wrong end of Fulham Road, and it took her ages to find it. He hardly gave her a glance when she arrived, just threw the contact sheets at her.

  She studied them intently. How blank her face looked beside the models. How lumpy she appeared in her loads of sweaters.

  ‘How old are you?’ Raf asked casually.

  ‘Nearly seventeen. Why?’

  ‘Just wondered. I had an idea you might be good for. You want to try some test shots?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like to.’

  ‘If they’re any good it will mean a week abroad plus all expenses paid and a hundred quid.’

  Raf was no fool. He was getting paid a thousand for the job, and if he took a really good professional model it would dig deeper than a hundred. Anyway, he saw great potential in this girl. That fabulous skin would photograph a million dollars in colour, and with the right make-up and hairstyle she would be a knock-out. He was fed up with the usual faces. They all looked the same. This girl could be quite a diversion.

  Raf, in his short career, had been to bed with many of the top photographic models, lady editors of magazines, and generally any female who could do him some good. He was stocky, untidy, with a little-boy smile that turned women on.

  He tried it now on Sunday. ‘What do you think? Could you make it with no family problems?’

  She thought how nice he was. ‘Yes, I’m sure I could. Term ends tomorrow and I didn’t have any definite plans.’

  ‘Great! Let’s get started. You’d better get out of your clothes. I’ll give you a shirt to put on. Oh, and take your hair down, it looks terrible scruffed back like that.’

  She had second thoughts. What sort of pictures did he want to take anyway? She hesitated when he threw her a shirt.

  He noticed her hesitation. ‘They’re going to be fashion shots, darling, beach jazz and harem gear, I’ve got to see if you’ve got a body underneath all that. Get changed upstairs if you like.’ He busied himself with a camera.

  She took the shirt, went upstairs, and put it on over her bra and pants. It looked quite decent. Then she loosened her hair and padded quietly downstairs.

  Christ! Raf thought, he’d picked a winner this time. The girl was magnificent. She had the most incredible long legs, and he imagined the wild shots he could do with her. Her breasts jutted through the shirt, and she had a special kind of walk. Very, very sexy.