Rock Star (26 page)

Another exciting evening
, Rafealla thought.
Why hasn’t Eddie Mafair phoned me? Why?

‘Isn’t
this fun
?’ Lady Stephenson shrilled.

*    *    *

She’s a bank clerk’s daughter

An’ y’know what I mean

Y’see when I met her she was barely eighteen

So I took her to my bed

An’ I gave her some . . .

LOVIN’

YEAH!

LOVIN’

YEAH!

Y’know what I mean

Oh yeah, y’know what I mean

Screams rang through the air as Kris and Buzz gave it their all – sharing the microphone with a certain vagabond intimacy. Two talented likely lads on the make.

She’s a bank clerk’s daughter

So pretty an’ sweet

Innocent as an angel with exceptionally small feet

Long yellow hair an’ big blue eyes

An’ I gave her some . . .

LOVIN’

YEAH! – ‘

LOVIN’

YEAH!

Y’know what I mean

Oh yeah, y’know what I mean

Every girl in the audience knew what they meant. The excitement factor ran high.

Rafealla found herself swept away by the sheer energy of their performance. Buzz Darke and Kris Phoenix made a formidable combination – whether they were singing or playing brilliant guitar riffs together, or merely running and jumping around, they both had pure animal magnetism. The whole group was great. It was an exciting concert.

Afterwards, at Annabel’s, where they were joined by several Americans in the music business, plus Sharleen – the famous recording star – there was much discussion about exactly how good The Wild Ones were.

‘
I
think they’re the new Rolling Stones,’ announced Lady Stephenson knowledgeably – she liked to keep up with what she termed ‘the youth culture’.

‘No!’ Pierce disagreed. ‘They’re much sexier. And Kris Phoenix doesn’t scream and make faces like that awful Mick Jagger.’

‘Mick Jagger’s adorable,’ insisted Lady Stephenson, fluttering a quiver of fake lashes as she ordered champagne from an attentive waiter. ‘I will not listen to a word against him.’

To her horror, Rafealla discovered that one of the Americans in their party was Marcus Citroen – her very own flasher from the South of France. He did not appear to remember their brief encounter, and merely nodded when introduced, turning his full attenton on the startlingly pretty singer Sharleen, who appeared to be his date.

Stifling a giggle she whispered the story to Fenella, who shook with silent laughter.

Being in Armabel’s reminded her of Eddie Mafair, and the night they first met.

I’m nearly eighteen
, she thought despairingly.
My life is ahead of me. I have to forget about Eddie, he’s just a creep.

Lady Stephenson was a wow on the dance floor, twirling and twisting until her chubby cheeks were red with exertion. Pierce made a suitable consort in his Doug Hayward suit.

‘Haven’t we met before, young lady?’ Marcus Citroen asked Rafealla, as soon as Sharleen went to the ladies’ room.

‘I don’t think so,’ she replied shortly, wishing he would go away, for she would never be able to erase the mental picture of Marcus Citroen, naked, with an erection, in the Franconinis’ swimming pool. As it was she had merely swum away, climbed out of the water, and vanished into the house, making sure their paths never crossed again.

‘What do you do?’ he asked.

‘I’m a student,’ she mumbled.

‘A student,’ he repeated her words, staring straight at her. ‘A very unusual and beautiful student, if I may say so. I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before.’

She returned his stare, saying nothing, refusing to look away, challenging his intent scrutiny.

‘If I can ever help you in any way, please call me,’ he said, handing her his engraved card. ‘I mean it.’

Accepting it reluctantly, she stuffed it in her purse, and hurriedly turned to speak to Fenella – sitting down after a hectic session on the dance floor.

‘Guess who’s here?’ Fenella whispered excitedly.

‘The Queen Mum.’

‘Very funny.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t think I’ll tell you now.’

‘Who?’

‘You’re not going to like it.’

‘Will you stop playing games, and
tell
me.’

Before Fenella uttered his name, she knew.

‘Eddie Mafair,’ said Fenella.

Oh no!
Her stomach knotted up. ‘Alone?’ she asked wanly.

‘He’s with Fiona Ripley-Hedges. She looks like the back end of a bus, but her father owns most of London, and we all
know
how attractive
that
must be. Especially since there’s a rumour going around that Eddie’s broke.’

*    *    *

By the time Kris Phoenix made his entrance, Rafealla was ready for him. She was ready for anyone actually, having surreptitiously drained every glass of alcholic beverage in sight.

As soon as he sat down she was on to him, wasting no time in forcing the rock star to pay attention and notice her. ‘I loved your concert,’ she said. ‘You were fantastic’

‘Thanks, luv.’

‘I honestly mean it.’

‘Great.’

‘Before I saw you I used to think Buzz was the star of the group, but now . . .’

‘That’s nice.’

He wasn’t interested, dammit. He only had eyes for the record moguls and Sharleen. Especially Sharleen.

Without a doubt he regarded her as just another boring fan. Well, she would show
him
– Mister Star – Mister Who-Did-He-Think-He-Was.

Marcus Citroen had his attention now, but it kept wandering towards Sharleen. Helplessly Rafealla watched the eye-play between Kris and the pretty singer. Sharleen was coming on to him. Licking full red lips, touching fluffy hair, eating him up with those big brown eyes.

Rafealla stood up. She had youth on her side, that had to count for something. ‘Can we dance?’ she asked aggressively.

‘Uh,’ Kris glanced around, hoping she was talking to someone else. The kid was a looker, but just a kid, and he’d had that scene.

No escape was in view, so getting to his feet he staggered a bit and followed her onto the packed dance floor, where she pulled him into a close clinch, grinding her body into his. He immediately got a hard-on. Some men couldn’t get it up when they were drunk. He was just the opposite – all that booze went straight to the old bone.

Rafealla experienced a moment of power. Young as she was, she already realized the sexual hold she had over men.

Screw you, Eddie Mafair. I can have anyone I want.

And then she saw him, dancing nearby, with horse-faced Fiona held tightly in his arms. He was laughing at something and didn’t even notice her.

Determinedly she moved closer to Kris Phoenix, as inexplicably her eyes filled with tears.

Bobby Mondella

1977

‘Drink?’

‘Pernod’

‘I don’t think I have any of that, Mrs Citroen.’

‘Yes you do. Look in the cupboard under the bar, you’ll find it’s fully stocked.’

He
was the occupant of the apartment, and
she
was telling him where to find things.

Goddammit, this woman was too sure of herself by far.

‘Maybe you can fix it yourself. I’m gonna shower an’ put clothes on,’ he said, feeling at a disadvantage because she was fully dressed and he was still clad in his workout clothes – shorts and a cut-off tee-shirt.

She raised an elegant eyebrow, unused to being told to do things for herself. ‘Fine,’ she said coolly. ‘And can I make something for you while I’m playing barman? Or should that be maid?’ she added sarcastically.

‘Orange juice.’

‘My, oh, my. We
are
on a health kick.’

‘Your idea.’

A slight smile. ‘In that case, one drink a night
is
allowed.’

‘Scotch.’

‘How about champagne?’

‘I don’t have—’

‘Ah, but you do,’ she interrupted. ‘So why don’t you go shower and simply leave everything to me.’ A glimmer of a smile. ‘I’m very capable when I have to be.’

Walking into the bedroom, he was aware of a distinct feeling of anticipation. The tailor had left, and they were all alone in the apartment. Mrs Citroen was not staying around for her health. The lady was hot for action, and if that’s what she wanted . . .

No!
an inner voice warned him.
This is dangerous territory. The lady is the boss’s wife.

Yeah?
he answered himself.
So what?
He was just about ready for a touch of danger.

Stripping off his sweaty clothes he entered the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped under the invigorating needles of spray.

Mrs Citroen. With her ice-queen looks and cool demeanour. The same Mrs Citroen whose husband had played games with Sharleen, nearly finishing her off. What did the lady want from him?

C’mon, Bobby – you know what she wants.

He almost laughed aloud. Yeah, he knew what she wanted, and if she was very patient . . . yeah,
really
patient. Then maybe, only maybe, mind you . . .

Naked, except for a black lace G-string and spike-heeled shoes, Nova got into the shower behind him, carrying an open bottle of Cristal. She nuzzled the cold bottle against his back. ‘I never really welcomed you to Blue Cadillac properly, did I?’ she murmured, in her husky voice.

He’d known she was going to come on to him, but not this strong. And not this soon. She was not a patient woman.

‘Don’t turn around,’ she commanded, placing the bottle on the tile floor. ‘Just relax.’

Sure. He could certainly relax with a naked, married woman cosying up behind him, running talented and expensive fingers along his spine. He thought about what to say, but it was too late for words. With great confidence she was reaching for his balls, cupping them delicately, applying just the right amount of tingling pressure before falling to her knees.

‘Now!’ she said urgently. ‘Turn around
now!
’

He did as she asked, plunging deep inside that elegant mouth, ready and waiting to taste and tease him with feathery jabs of her tongue and a low animal groaning sound.

Eat your heart out, Marcus
, he thought.
I’m getting my own back for Sharleen.

He surrendered to sensation. There was really nothing else he could do, except lean back and enjoy it.

Los Angeles

Saturday, July 11, 1987

The security checks aggravated Kris. ‘What is this shit?’ he demanded. ‘Don’t they know who I am?’

‘Of course they do,’ the Hawk said soothingly. ‘They’re merely following orders. You can’t be too careful with the amount of terrorists around today.’

‘Yeah,’ Kris replied sarcastically. ‘We really look like a terrorist group, don’t we? Y’know, in the limo an’ all. Just ridin’ on up to rip the bleedin’ place to pieces.’

‘Have you been to Novaroen before?’ the Hawk asked, quickly changing the subject.

‘Once,’ Kris replied vaguely.

‘You didn’t tell
me
that,’ squealed Cybil. ‘One of the girls did a shoot here for that perfume Nova Citroen was pushing, and
she
says the place is amazing.’

‘It is,’ the Hawk assured her. ‘They have two houses, all decorated in different styles. The main house is Colonial. The guest house is—’

‘Christ! Not again!’ bitched Kris as the limousine stopped for a third security check.

‘Lighten up,’ Cybil said, laughing gaily. ‘This is an adventure.
I’m
really enjoying it!’

He stared at his Californian girlfriend, all bright eyes, glossy hair, and whiter-than-white teeth. It didn’t take much to make
her
happy, did it?

Sometimes she got on his nerves.

*    *    *

It was amazing how inefficient security became once the guards were sure everyone was doing something.

Maxwell Sicily surveyed the scene. The workers were all in place, name-tagged and running here, there and everywhere like an army of robots. Access between the makeshift tented kitchen and the open-air dining area was no problem. Now that there were over a hundred catering personnel busying themselves on the premises, a party atmosphere prevailed. Waiters and busboys were whistling and cracking jokes. The chefs were slicing and pounding as they prepared gourmet delights. The dessert cooks were hard at work creating creamy concoctions. And an army of barmen were unpacking crates of the finest champagnes and wines, plus a dizzying assortment of other beverages.

Maxwell picked his moment before slipping quietly away. He knew exactly where he was going. Thanks to Vicki Foxe he was aware of every inch of Novaroen.

*    *    *

Alighting from her limousine, Rafealla took a deep breath. The sea air was invigorating. If only the circumstances were different she might be enjoying herself.

‘Here comes the greeting committee,’ warned Trudie, as a dapper man with owl-like glasses and a pleasant smile stepped forward.

‘Welcome to Novaroen,’ he said, in a clipped English accent. ‘I’m Norton St John. Personal assistant to Mrs Citroen. Please allow me to escort you to your suite.’

‘He makes the joint sound like a hotel,’ Trudie said, in a low aside.

‘Rafealla would like to do a sound check immediately,’ announced one of the record executives. ‘Are the musicians ready?’

‘I believe they’re planning a run-through with Mr Bobby Mondella,’ Norton St John replied. ‘However, since each artist is only performing two songs, it shouldn’t take long.’

‘Rafealla wants to do her sound check
now
,’ said the executive testily. ‘You
do
know that Mr Citroen has given strict instructions for Rafealla to have everything—’