Sinners (40 page)

Jackie Collins has been called a ‘raunchy moralist’ by the late director Louis Malle and ‘Hollywood’s own Marcel Proust’ by
Vanity Fair
magazine. With over 400 million copies of her books sold in more than forty countries, and with some twenty-eight
New York Times
bestsellers to her credit, Jackie Collins is one of the world’s top-selling novelists. She is known for giving her readers an unrivalled insider’s knowledge of Hollywood and the glamorous lives and loves of the rich, famous, and infamous! ‘I write about real people in disguise,’ she says. ‘If anything, my characters are toned down – the truth is much more bizarre.’

Visit Jackie’s website www.jackiecollins.com, and follow her on Twitter at JackieJCollins and Facebook at www.facebook.com/jackiecollins.

If you enjoyed
Sinners
, turn the page to find the Prologue and first chapter from Jackie Collins’ tale of fame, lust, violence and passionate obsession:

Thrill!

Thrill!
is available from Simon & Schuster as
an Ebook and paperback in 2012

Thrill!
Prologue

Here’s the truth of it – I can fuck any woman I want any time I want – no problem. Every one of them is ripe and ready, waiting to hear the magic words that’ll persuade them to do anything. Married, single, older, younger, desperate, widowed, frigid, horny – point ’em out, and they’re mine.

You see, I know what to say, I discovered the key, and believe me it opens the lock every single time.

My mother was a hot-looking natural blonde from Memphis who got herself murdered when I was seven. She was beaten up and strangled, then thrown from a moving car. For a while the cops suspected my old man, they even took him into custody for a day or two. But he had an airtight alibi, he was in bed with his mistress at the time – a pie-faced redhead with the biggest tits I’d ever seen.

My dad had the face and attitude of a handsome gangster. He was an extremely snappy dresser – only the best for him. He wore the finest Egyptian cotton shirts, silk ties, hand-tailored suits, gold cuff links and a Rolex watch – all the trimmings. He could have any woman he wanted, and did. I remember when I was growing up I used to watch him operate. He owned a fancy restaurant, and cock-walked the room flirting with all the female customers. Women were his for the taking, and from an early age I got an education observing him in action. He always had plenty of pussy, but after my mom died there were more women than ever. They felt sorry for him – and he ate it up.

He drank, though, and I was smart enough not to want to end up like him. He started off the evening looking like dynamite, halfway through the night he was a wreck, and by the time his restaurant closed he was falling-down drunk.

We lived in an apartment and had a maid come in twice a week. He was screwing the maid, too. He didn’t give a toss what the women he bedded looked like, in fact, he used to say, ‘Get an ugly one between your legs, an’ she’ll really show you what it’s all about. They’re cock-hungry and very grateful.’

My dad didn’t have much time for me, so I became a loner. Instead of having other kids over, I joined a gang at school and began getting into trouble. Running the streets stealing cars and knocking off liquor stores was more of a kick than sitting in an empty apartment waiting for my dad to stagger in whenever he felt like it.

I started following in his footsteps. Fuck ’em and leave ’em was his motto. Why shouldn’t it be mine, too?

By the time I hit fifteen and he was fifty, the restaurant was long gone and so were his looks. His handsome face was puffy and bloated. He had a big beer gut and rotten teeth – too chicken-shit to visit a dentist, he simply let ’em fall out.

One memorable day I asked him something I’d wanted to for years. I demanded to know if he’d killed my mother.

He whacked me so hard he split my lip, still got the tiny scar to prove it. ‘Leave my fucking house,’ he screamed, his bloodshot eyes bulging with fury. ‘I don’t ever wanna see your ugly face again.’

Fine with me. I had two steady girlfriends and plenty of contenders.

I chose to move in with Lulu, a twenty-year-old stripper who was happy to have me. Of course, she had no idea I was only fifteen on account of the fact I looked about nineteen and pretended to be twenty.

The nice thing about Lulu was that she didn’t care I had no job, she was happy to indulge me. When she wasn’t working we spent all our time at the movies – both getting off on the fantasy. Hollywood – the ultimate dreamland. ‘You’re so talented,’ she was forever telling me. ‘You should be a movie star.’

Brilliant idea! As far as I could tell, movie stars didn’t have to do much, except stand around looking macho – women worshipped them, and from what I read in Lulu’s fan magazines, they made plenty of big bucks.

Lulu found out about an acting class, and even sprung for the bucks for me to go. Nobody could ever accuse her of not being a sport.

After we’d been together a year, I came home early one day, and caught her in bed with another guy. My dad had warned me not to trust women. I figured he was wrong on that score, but then I’d never imagined they’d screw around on me.

Big surprise. There was Lulu with her legs in the air moaning and groaning. Horny little bitch.

I pulled the guy off her and he ran, shaking, from the apartment, because I looked mad enough to beat the crap out of him.

Lulu lay there, thighs spread, naked and scared, begging my forgiveness.

I knew then I had the power. I didn’t even slap her, although she deserved it. Instead I packed my things and made a fast exit. No woman was ever going to get one off on me again. Next time I’d make sure I did it first.

An unclothed Lulu chased me down the hallway yelling her guts out. ‘It was a mistake! You can’t go! Please! Don’t leave me!’

Too late. By that time I’d figured out what I wanted, and it wasn’t some cheating whore who didn’t know how to be faithful.

I wanted to be a movie star and own the whole fucking world.

I was sixteen, what did I know?

Lara Ivory stepped carefully towards the camera, managing to appear cool and collected under the crushing weight of a heavy crinoline gown, her slender waist cinched into an impossible seventeen-inch span, lush cleavage spilling forth.

Lara’s fellow actor in the shot, Harry Solitaire, a young Englishman with tousled hair and droopy bedroom eyes, walked beside her, delivering his lines with an enthusiasm that belied the fact that this was their seventh take.

It was eighty-four degrees in the South of France garden setting, and the entire crew stood silently on the sidelines, sweating, as they waited impatiently for Richard Barry, the veteran director, to call cut, so they could break for lunch.

Lara Ivory was, at thirty-two, an incandescent beauty with catlike green eyes, a small straight nose, full luscious lips, cut-glass cheekbones and honey-blonde hair – right now curled to within an inch of disaster. She had been a movie star at the top of her profession for nine years, and miraculously the fame and glory had never changed her, she was still as likeable and sweet as the devastatingly pretty girl who’d arrived in Hollywood at the age of twenty and been discovered by the director Miles Kieffer, who’d spotted her when she’d come in to audition for a minor role in his new film. Miles had taken one look and decided she was the actress he had to have to play the lead. Gorgeous and fresh, she’d portrayed a naive hooker in a
Pretty Woman
style movie – beguiling everyone from the critics to the public.

From that first film, Lara’s star had risen fast. It only took one special movie. Sandra Bullock was a prime example with
Speed
. Michelle Pfeiffer had gotten her break in
Scarface
. Sharon Stone with a spectacular performance – not to mention flashing her pussy – in
Basic Instinct
.

The public never forgot a star entrance. The trick was keeping up there.

Lara Ivory had managed it admirably.

At last Richard Barry called out the words everyone was waiting to hear. ‘Cut! Print it! That’s the one.’ Lara sighed with relief.

Richard had been a successful director for nearly thirty years. He was a tall, well-built man in his late fifties, with even features, a well-trimmed beard, longish brown hair flecked with grey at the temples, and crinkly blue eyes. He also had dry humour and a sardonic smile. Women found him extremely attractive.

‘Phew!’ Lara repeated her sigh, her smooth cheeks flushed. ‘Someone get me out of this dress!’

‘I’ll do it!’ Harry Solitaire volunteered with a lascivious leer, flirting as usual.

‘That’s OK,’ Lara retorted, smiling because she liked Harry, and if he wasn’t married he might have been a contender. She considered married men strictly off-limits, and refused to break her rule for anyone – even though she hadn’t had a date in six months, ever since she’d broken up with Lee Randolph, a first assistant director, who, after a year of togetherness, had been unable to take the pressure of being with so famous a woman. The sad truth was that what man enjoyed being background material? Relegated to second place? Attacked by crazed stalkers and fans? Referred to as Mr Ivory by waiters and limo drivers?

It took an exceptionally strong man to cope with that kind of deal – a man like Richard Barry, who’d handled it admirably for the four years he and Lara had been married.

She and Richard had gotten divorced three years ago, and along with Richard’s new wife, Nikki – a costume designer with whom he’d hooked up while shooting a movie on location in Chicago – they were now good friends.

Nikki was dark-haired, feisty and extremely pretty in a gamine-like way. She also knew how to bring out the best in Richard. Early on in their relationship she discovered that like most men he was a lot of work. Before she entered his life he’d been a smoker, a philanderer and a heavy drinker, plus he expected to get his own way at all times, and when he didn’t, he sulked. Nikki had taken stock of his strengths and weaknesses and decided he was worth the effort. Somehow she’d calmed him down, fulfilled all his needs, and now his biggest vice appeared to be work. He was a bankable director, much in demand, whose movies always made money, and in Hollywood that’s all that counts.

Lara considered Nikki her closest girlfriend. Right now they were all enjoying working together on
French Summer –
a beautifully scripted period film that Richard was passionate about. The three of them were sharing a rented villa on the six-week location. Lara hadn’t wanted to intrude, but Nikki had insisted, which secretly relieved Lara, because the loneliness of being by herself was sometimes hard to cope with.

‘That last take was magical,’ Richard said, coming to her side and squeezing her hand.
‘Definitely
worth waiting for.’

Lara frowned; she was her own sternest critic. ‘Do you think so?’ she asked, worrying that she could have done better.

‘Sweetheart,’ Richard assured her, anticipating her concerns because he knew her so well, ‘seventh take perfect. Nothing to improve.’

‘You’re just being kind,’ she said, her frown deepening.

‘Not kind – truthful,’ he replied sincerely.

Her disarmingly honest green eyes met his. ‘Really?’ she asked.

Richard regarded his exquisite ex-wife and found himself wondering if her painful insecurity had contributed to the demise of their marriage.

Maybe. Although catching the make-up girl giving him head in his trailer had been the final nail in the coffin of his infidelities – that was one he hadn’t been able to talk himself out of.

For a year after their somewhat public and acrimonious divorce they hadn’t spoken. Then Richard met Nikki, and she’d insisted in her usual no-nonsense way that it was crazy they couldn’t all be friends. As usual, she was right. The three of them had gotten together for dinner and never regretted it.

Nikki strode over, looking enviably cool in baggy linen pants and a yellow cotton shirt knotted under her breasts, exposing her well-toned midriff. She was in her early thirties, shorter than Lara, with a lithe, worked-out body, cropped dark hair worn with long bangs, direct hazel eyes and an overly ripe mouth. Nobody would guess that she had a fifteen-year-old daughter.

Richard enjoyed the fact that Nikki was smart and sassy, and most of all that she wasn’t an actress. After losing Lara he’d considered never getting involved again, because there’d never be another woman who could live up to her. Nikki and her upbeat ways had changed his mind.

‘Get me out of this dress!’ Lara implored. ‘It’s cutting me in half. Worse torture than being married to Richard!’

‘Nothing
can be worse than that!’ Nikki joked, rolling her expressive eyes.

‘Wasn’t Lara great in that last take?’ Richard interrupted, putting an arm around his current wife, trailing his fingers up and down her bare skin.

‘He’s just being kind,’ Lara said with one of her trademark deep sighs.

‘I know the feeling,’ Nikki responded crisply. ‘That’s exactly what he says when he praises my cooking.’

Lara widened her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me you cook for him?’ she exclaimed. ‘I never did.’

Nikki pulled a face. ‘He forces me, you know how persuasive he can be.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Lara agreed. They laughed conspiratorially.

Richard frowned, pretending to be annoyed. ‘It’s really irritating that you two are such good friends,’ he said. ‘I hate it!’ Truth was he loved having both women in his life.

‘No, you don’t,’ Nikki retorted, looking at him with the kind of expression a woman gets when she’s totally secure of her man. ‘You get off on it.’

With an amused shake of his head, he walked away. Nikki signalled one of her wardrobe assistants to follow them to Lara’s trailer. ‘For a grown man, Richard can be such a baby,’ she remarked.

‘That’s why our marriage didn’t work,’ Lara said lightly. ‘Two giant egos fighting for the best camera angle!’