Lovers & Players Page 3

  It hadn’t been easy. Olivia had divorced Red when Chris was ten, refusing to put up with his constant affairs. Olivia–a great beauty–had then moved to California where she’d met and married Peter Linden, a rich lawyer who’d wanted her, but not the baggage of a son. Reluctantly Olivia had chosen her new husband over Chris. Her choice resulted in him being sent to a tough military school, a brutal place that he barely managed to survive. After that it was college, and finally–at the suggestion of Peter–law school.

  Yeah, anything to get rid of him. But he wasn’t against attending law school, it was a profession he quite fancied, having observed his step-father’s lavish lifestyle. Entertainment law interested him, especially as he planned on staying in L.A., a city he’d grown fond of. The weather was great, the women were very beautiful and available. What was there not to like?

  He saw his real father, Red, twice a year. It was more than enough.

  The day he passed the bar, Olivia was killed in a private plane crash on her way to celebrate with him. His stepfather, overcome with grief, blamed Chris and, shortly after Olivia’s funeral, cut off all contact with his step-son. Apparently Peter Linden’s grief did not last long, because six weeks later he married a larger-than-life, extremely famous blonde movie star.

  A few weeks after his mother’s funeral, Chris had called Red, whom he hadn’t heard from since he’d informed his father of Olivia’s death.

  ‘What the hell do you want now?’ Red had yelled over the phone. ‘Money? Too bad, ’cause you’re not getting it from me. I paid for every cent of your education–that’s more than enough. Now, get your lazy ass out there an’ work for a living like I had to. Nothin’s gonna be handed to you on a silver platter. Go achieve something, then call me.’

  Typical Red Diamond. Lose your mother–so what? Get your lazy ass back to work.

  Disappointed, but hardly surprised by his father’s unfeeling attitude, Chris had moved in with three friends from college. A couple of months later he managed to get a job at a Century City law firm, and began working his way up, determined to show both his fathers that he didn’t need their money or their help. He would succeed without them.

  His break came when he had a brief affair with one of the firm’s clients. She was an older woman, an actress with no career. Since she had no future–Hollywood can be a cruel town for women to grow older in–Chris inherited her as a client. Forty-five and still extremely beautiful in a fragile way, she reminded him of his mother.

  Resurrecting her career was definitely a challenge, but Chris got off on challenges. So, to everyone’s surprise, including the actress’s, he did the impossible: he brokered a gig for her on a new TV series, which went on to become the breakout hit of the season, and suddenly she was a very valuable client indeed. Even more important, she was his client.

  After that, his days of sharing an apartment with three other guys, all of them struggling to make their share of the rent, were over.

  A year later the law firm he worked at made him a junior partner, and from there it was a swift ride to the top. Chris had a knack of attracting all the right clients, and since the other partners were not stupid, they offered him a full partnership, which he happily accepted.

  He was young, hot and in Hollywood. And when he called Red, there was a grudging acceptance in the old man’s tone. ‘Y’ see?’ Chris was tempted to say. ‘I made it without you.’

  But he didn’t: he waited patiently for words of praise from his father’s lips.

  Those words never came. And while he pretended it didn’t matter, it actually did.

  Before leaving L.A., Chris had cancelled his trip to Vegas. Roth Giagante, the owner of the Magiriano Hotel, had not been happy. ‘You’re supposed to be here this weekend with my money,’ Roth had informed him, sounding pissed-off. ‘We had a fuckin’ agreement, an’ I don’t get along with people who back out of agreements.’

  ‘There’s an emergency in New York I’m forced to deal with,’ Chris had said. ‘I’ll make it to Vegas by Sunday. You have my word.’

  ‘You’d better be here, otherwise you’ll be using “emergency” in a different kind of sentence. Get it?’

  Yes. He got it. Roth Giagante allowed him certain privileges because of his star clientele and showbiz connections. But over the past three months Chris had lost big, and Roth wanted his money. In cash. Six hundred thousand to be precise, and that was a huge amount of cash to come up with.

  Roth would get paid. Eventually. Although the truth was he’d only managed to come up with two hundred and fifty thousand, which was stashed in his home safe back in L.A. He was banking on Roth giving him more time. Roth was cool, and if he promised him a visit from a couple of his star clients, it would take the edge off. Those Vegas big-shots were all the same–major star fucks.

  Yes, Vegas was his downfall. He made great money, but for the last three months he’d blown it at the gaming tables. Things were serious, and yet he still couldn’t seem to stop. It was an addiction that had him by the throat.

  By the time Jonathan got off the phone, they were airborne, on their way to New York. Jonathan stood up, beckoned his girlfriend, and the two of them went into the bedroom and shut the door. Obviously further conversation was not on the movie star’s agenda.

  Chris didn’t mind, in fact he was thankful. It had been a stressful week trying to get the money together to pay Roth, while still dealing with his roster of famous clients. They were a demanding group, calling him at all times of the day and night, which did not sit well with his latest girlfriend, Verona, an Asian Pilates teacher with exotic looks and incredible hands. Verona wanted to move in. So far Chris had resisted: he liked living alone. What was wrong with that?

  The good news was that Verona was not an actress and, even better, she had no ambitions in that direction. This pleased Chris, who had recently broken off a destructive on-off affair with Holly Anton, a TV sit-com star who also happened to be a certifiable maniac. It was Holly who’d started him on his gambling kick. Holly loved Vegas, the city she’d been raised in, and soon they’d started spending every weekend there.

  He didn’t miss Holly, she’d driven him crazy with her insatiable sexual appetite, bouts of black depression, and paranoia concerning her career. Gambling had become his escape from her ever-changing moods.

  Actresses. Never again. He felt lucky to have gotten out of that one alive.

  One thing the Diamond brothers had in common was exceptional looks. They were all over six feet tall. Max was dark and brooding, Jett the quintessential bad boy with his dirty blond hair and intense blue eyes, while Chris had a look that was pure George Clooney in his E.R. days. Women fell for Chris’s self-deprecating sense of humour and dazzling smile. And his being a successful lawyer in a town turned on by success was an added attraction.

  Little did anyone know that, as successful as he was, his gambling debts were very worrisome.

  Putting down the magazine, he closed his eyes and attempted to clear his mind. He was hoping this trip might solve all his problems. Being summoned to New York by his billionaire father could definitely be a sign that things were about to get better.

  Before long he’d find out what Red wanted. The anticipation was a bitch.

  ‘Your father doesn’t mean it,’ Olivia would say in a soothing tone.

  Growing up, those were the words Chris heard his mother utter almost every day. Maybe she believed she was telling the truth, but from the moment he could understand what was going on, Chris knew that old Red Diamond meant everything he said and did. There were no second chances with Red.

  The trick was to stay out of his way, which wasn’t always possible, as Chris had discovered on more than one occasion.

  His father was into corporal punishment. If any of his sons did anything that Red considered wrong, then in his opinion they deserved a good beating. And it seemed that Red took a great deal of pleasure in administering the punishment personally.

  Once, when Chris was nine
, he’d innocently scarfed down a box of chocolates he’d found next to Red’s bed. How was he to know they were gourmet chocolates, hand-made especially for his father by a master chocolate-maker in Belgium and couriered to America by private jet?

  Red was not happy when he discovered his chocolates were gone. His screams of fury could be heard throughout the house.

  ‘Who the fuck ate my chocolates?’ he yelled, while Olivia attempted to calm him, and Chris hovered nervously outside the bedroom door.

  Mae, the cook, came running out of the kitchen offering to make him some more.

  ‘Are you mad?’ Red yelled. ‘I’m talking hand-made chocolates, woman, not that shit you come up with.’

  Glaring at her boss, Mae retreated back to the kitchen, mumbling under her breath.

  ‘Where’s Chris?’ Red shouted. ‘Where’s that dumbass useless boy?’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t him,’ Olivia said, protecting her son as usual.

  ‘Oh, you’re sure it wasn’t him,’ Red said, mimicking her voice in a cruel fashion.

  ‘I’ll send for more chocolates,’ Olivia said. ‘I can—’

  Whack! Chris heard Red strike his mother and, without a second thought, he raced into the room and began pummelling his father.

  ‘Ha!’ Red yelled, fending his son off. ‘The kid’s got balls after all. What a surprise!’

  And for a split second Chris had felt a frisson of satisfaction. His father had actually praised him!

  After that it was all downhill. A beating twice as long as usual on his bare backside, a beating so bad it had drawn blood.

  He hadn’t been able to sit down for a week, but at least Red thought he had balls. And, young as he was, he knew that was a good thing.

  A year later his parents got divorced.

  Chapter Three

  Nancy Scott-Simon was a major control freak. Everything for her only daughter Amy’s upcoming wedding had to be exactly right, and anyone who made a mistake better watch out.

  Nancy was a thin, brittle-looking woman, with sharp cheekbones and jet black hair pulled back in a tight chignon. She favoured Oscar de la Renta suits, Ferragamo handbags, Gucci shoes and Valentino ballgowns. She also favoured fine antique jewellery handed down from her mother, Amy’s grandmother, who was ninety years old and still as lively as a French poodle.

  Nancy ruled from her impeccably decorated townhouse off Park Avenue. Five floors. Eight bedrooms. Five live-in staff.

  Nancy’s daughter, Amy, was a very pretty girl indeed. A New York princess with silky blonde hair (natural), a deceptively innocent face, dreamy turquoise eyes, soft lips, sun-burnished skin, and a slinky body suitable for the front cover of Sports Illustrated if she ever chose to pose–which of course she never would.

  A rich girl, because Nancy Scott-Simon was a double heiress, and at the age of twenty-five Amy was due to inherit a large chunk of the family fortune.

  Amy had grown up privileged, surrounded by nannies and drivers, butlers and bodyguards. She’d attended the finest private schools and vacationed in all the best places. Due to her family’s enormous wealth there’d once been a kidnapping incident. Nancy referred to it as an incident, but Amy remembered the gruelling time she’d spent in captivity at the age of fourteen with horror and dread. For forty-eight hours, after a nightmare trip stuffed into the filthy trunk of a car, she’d been locked, chained and blindfolded in a rat-infested cellar with no bathroom facilities and only a few chunks of dry bread and a bottle of water for sustenance. Not knowing what was about to happen to her next was terrifying. Every moment she spent in captivity was pure torture, especially when one or other of her captors–there were two men and a woman–entered the room and hurled verbal threats and insults her way.

  Her mother had not called the police. Instead, she’d summoned the family lawyer, who’d paid the ransom. But nobody had paid for her humiliation and mental suffering.

  After the ransom was paid, the kidnappers had bundled Amy back into the trunk of the car, and dropped her off in the middle of the night somewhere in Brooklyn. Sobbing hysterically, she’d managed to make a phone call, and the family lawyer’s son had picked her up and delivered her home.

  The trio of kidnappers were never caught. They got away with two million dollars in cash, while she escaped with her life.

  Was it a fair exchange?

  Absolutely not, although Nancy was happy because by not calling in the police or FBI she’d avoided all the nasty headline publicity. It never occured to Nancy that she’d put her daughter’s life at risk, and it certainly never entered her head that Amy might need counselling after her horrifying ordeal.

  ‘It’s over,’ she’d informed Amy in a let’s-never-talk-about-it-again tone of voice. ‘You must forget all about it.’

  But it wasn’t over for Amy, who’d suffered nightmares and flashbacks and a strong overall feeling that nowhere was safe.

  Over the years she’d overcome her fears, and when she’d graduated from college she’d decided to take an independent step and move out of the family townhouse, get a job and live by herself. Nancy objected, but Amy had insisted, until eventually her mother had reluctantly relented.

  After several weeks of looking, she’d scored a job at the high-profile fashion house of Courtenelli, run by the flamboyant, colourful Italian designer, Sofia Courtenelli.

  Landing the job at Courtenelli was a coup. Amy was one of three PR girls, who took care of promotions and publicity and, with her charm, education and appealing looks, she was an instant success.

  Working was a revelation and she loved it. It was fun and exciting, and the big plus was that she got to meet all kinds of people she wouldn’t normally encounter.

  The only downside was the men. They hit on her relentlessly, driving her crazy. Everyone from the male models to the sales team, they all had one thing on their minds–nail little Amy Scott-Simon. After all, she was a major New York heiress, so why not?

  Since Amy wasn’t interested in casual sex, she found it no problem to turn them down. The truth was that she wasn’t into sex, having made up her mind after many sweaty struggles from high school to college that she would save herself for marriage–or, if not marriage, the right man. Someone she could really trust. Plus there was the memory of her kidnapping and the sexual indignities she’d been forced to endure, which she’d confided to her best friend, Tina, but no one else, not even her mother, who would’ve thrown a hysterical fit if she’d known her teenage daughter had been sexually molested. It wasn’t as if she’d been raped, although her kidnappers had forced her to do other things…things she didn’t care to think about. She’d locked away the memories. It was better that way.

  One memorable night at a fundraiser in Manhattan, she’d been introduced to Max Diamond, and even though he was much older than her, she’d been intrigued by his sophisticated style and courtly manners. Max struck her as someone who was safe. He also seemed to be a gentleman, unlike most other men she’d met. The other advantage was that, since he was so rich himself, he certainly wasn’t after her inheritance, which was a big relief.

  After several quiet dinners and long conversations, they’d begun dating seriously. She knew he was divorced and had a child, but that didn’t seem to matter.

  Right at the beginning of their relationship she’d been totally forthright and informed him there would be no sex. ‘Never?’ he’d said, perplexed and intrigued by her directness.

  ‘Don’t laugh at me,’ she’d replied earnestly. ‘I’m saving myself for the man I marry.’

  ‘I can respect that,’ he’d said.

  ‘Really?’ she’d said, delighted by his response.

  ‘Yes,’ he’d replied. ‘I find your attitude most commendable.’

  Hmm…a man who understood made a nice change. It was then that she’d decided he was definitely the man for her.

  Three months later–much to Nancy’s delight–Amy and Max had gotten engaged.

  Every day after Amy finished work, N
ancy expected her to come to the house and pore over the wedding plans along with Lynda Colefax, the wedding planner–a bossy, over-groomed woman of indeterminate age.

  Amy was beginning to dread these little sessions. She couldn’t stand listening to Nancy and Lynda go on about which guests were attending, where they’d sit, the flower arrangements, the table placements, the wedding cake, her dress, the music, the table linens. It was all so trivial. ‘I don’t care!’ she was tempted to scream. ‘It shouldn’t be such a big deal. I hate being the centre of attention. I just want it to be over.’

  Harold, her step-father, agreed with her. ‘Too much fuss,’ he grumbled. ‘Too much money being spent.’

  Naturally Nancy ignored him.

  Amy’s own father had drowned in a tragic boating accident on a weekend trip to Venice when she was three. A year later her only sibling–a brother had passed away due to a rare bone disease. She had no memories of either of them, except a few family photos. She lived with an ongoing sense of sadness and loss, having convinced herself that if her father had been alive, her kidnapping might never have taken place.

  Her step-father was a pleasant enough man, even though everyone knew he had no balls. Nancy had them firmly in her pocket. Nancy ruled. It was her money, her way of doing things. And Harold never dared get in her way.

  As her wedding drew closer, Amy found herself unable to sleep at night, lying in her bed and wondering if perhaps she was making a huge mistake. Yes, her future husband was an important man, a business powerhouse. Handsome, in a dark, brooding way, he was also kind and thoughtful and genuinely cared about her. He’d accepted her no-sex-before-marriage rule and never tried to pressure her. He’d bought her a ten-carat diamond engagement ring and showered her with other expensive gifts.

  Not that the gifts meant anything: they were merely surface signs of affection. Deep down she yearned for more than that. Deep down she yearned for her father and her brother, the missing men in her life.