Thrill

by Jackie Collins

  “I’m afraid so,” he said. “You’re lucky to have survived. If you hadn’t been asleep on the backseat . . .”

  My head would’ve come flying off along with Morgan’s, she thought. Gallows humor. She was allowed.

  “Do you have family?” the doctor asked.

  “No,” she answered softly. “I have no one.”

  “No one,” he repeated, clearing his throat.

  “That’s right.”

  He looked into her appealing green eyes, and before he could help himself he’d offered her the use of the couch in his small apartment for a few days, until she decided what she was going to do.

  “I won’t have sex with you,” she said.

  “It never occurred to me,” he lied.

  And so she moved into his place with only the clothes she’d been wearing at the time of the accident and her purse, which contained all of their savings—five hundred dollars—and the phone number of Elliott Goldenson, a producer Morgan had said was prepared to give her a job in the movies. She wasn’t quite sure she trusted Morgan’s judgment—he hadn’t even met Elliott Goldenson. But she called anyway, and a male secretary gave her an address in Hollywood and told her to come right over, because Mr. Goldenson was auditioning.

  She decided this was a sign, and hurried to the address as fast as she could get there.

  When she walked into the waiting room, she knew she was in the wrong place. A gaggle of blondes everywhere, yammering away at each other. They all had one thing in common—enormous breasts.

  A young man with a bright-red ponytail sat behind a large desk strewn with pictures.

  She went over to him. “I’m Lara Ann Creedo,” she said. “I called and you told me to come over. Am I in the right place?”

  He looked up at her. “Honeybunch, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

  “This isn’t the place?” she asked, dismayed.

  “You’re not the kind of girl he’s looking for,” he said, pursing his lips. “Why are you here?”

  “Because you said Mr. Goldenson was auditioning.”

  “I know. But what fool gave you this number to call?”

  “My husband.”

  “Oh,” he nodded knowingly. “One of those deals.”

  “Can I ask you something?” she said, leaning across the desk.

  “Ask away.”

  “If I’m not right for this role, is there another one coming up?”

  He spoke in hushed tones. “Sweetie bunch, you’re in the wrong place. Mr. Goldenson makes porno movies. I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for.”

  She stepped back. “Oh!” she said, startled. “But . . . my husband . . . he had this number. He said I’d be perfect.”

  “Hmm . . . I’d have a word with your husband if I was you. Anyway, don’t look so disappointed; at least I didn’t send you in there to strip in front of a bunch of dirty old men.”

  “I wouldn’t do that anyway.”

  “I take it you’re new in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, precious, this is my advice. Find yourself a legitimate agent and start doing the rounds. You’re certainly beautiful enough.”

  “How do I find a legitimate agent?”

  “Look in the Yellow Pages. Go to William Morris, ICM—one of the big ones.”

  “Who’s William Morris? Do you have his phone number?”

  He threw up his hands in despair. “The girl is a total novice. William Morris is a huge agency. Don’t you know anything?”

  “I guess not.”

  “I suggest you go back to your husband and bite his butt for sending you here.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh, my God—it’s a sob story! Please, whatever you do, don’t make me feel sorry for you. I’m sorry enough for myself, having to do this shitty job. The only reason they employ me is because they know I’m not about to hit on the girls. Girls not being my style, if you know what I mean.”

  “Are you . . . gay?”

  “Honeybunch, do rabbits mate?”

  And so a friendship was born. His name was Tommy, and two days later she moved into Tommy’s place above a restaurant on Sunset Boulevard.

  He was mother, father and brother to her. He guided and protected her; sent her to acting class; introduced her to a proper agent; fed and clothed her; counseled her on all subjects; got her a job as a waitress while she was waiting for her first break; and made sure nobody took advantage of her innocence.

  And in return she nursed him after he got sick with AIDS, and sobbed at his funeral when he died ten months later.

  A week after his death she landed her first big movie. Tommy never got to see her become a star.

  • •

  Lara sighed deeply, remembering her friend Tommy and all the fun they’d had. It wasn’t fair that he’d been taken from her, but it had made her all the more determined to succeed. Tommy had given her warmth and comfort and—most of all—the right guidance on how to handle herself in Hollywood. He’d taught her well. He’d also taught her never to put up with any shit.

  She recalled the day she’d left Richard, the day she’d actually caught him getting a blow job, and he’d still thought he could talk her out of leaving.

  Richard and his charm. In that respect he was exactly like Joey: they both had the same kind of masculine power they thought made them irresistible to women.

  Well, when it really mattered, she could resist. And even though she loved Joey, she did not wish to continue in a relationship with a man who was a fake. He’d used her. Invented a fiancée, and reeled her in like a fish. God! He probably thought she was so easy. Easy and desperate for a man. Poor little frustrated movie star. How he must have laughed behind her back.

  Thank God she’d found out before marrying him. What a mistake that would have been.

  And yet, she thought sadly, What am I going to do without his strong arms to hold and protect me? His insistent lips that brought me such unbelievable pleasure?

  Was everything about him a lie? She’d never bothered to find out. It hadn’t mattered. But now that she knew, it did.

  Maybe you should listen to his side of the story, her inner voice suggested.

  Why? So he can lie his way out of it exactly like Richard used to?

  No. She was too wise to go down that street again.

  As soon as Cassie arrived, she was ready to go. She’d completed her final scene, promised the cast and crew she’d see them later at the party arid managed to avoid Nikki, whom she didn’t feel like confiding in.

  “I brought my car,” Cassie said, her cheeks flushed. “Thought if I called the limo company, people could easily track us.”

  “Good thinking, Cass,” Lara said, stuffing her golden hair beneath a Lakers’ baseball cap and covering her eyes with Jackie Kennedy blacker-than-black shades.

  Cassie was dying to ask what was going on, but she didn’t, because she knew her boss well enough to understand that she’d explain the situation when she was ready and not before.

  “What did you tell the Crenshaws?” Lara asked, getting into the passenger seat and fastening her seat belt.

  “Nothing,” Cassie replied, starting the engine. “I figured if you wanted them to know anything you’d call them later.”

  Lara nodded. At least she could always depend on Cassie.

  CHAPTER

  60

  JOEY DRESSED CAREFULLY IN A black Armani silk shirt, black slacks and a classic Armani blazer. Lara liked him in black, plus dressing against his looks suited him. Casual yet hot.

  He stared at his reflection in the mirror and remembered what he’d been doing a year ago. It wasn’t a good memory. It caused him sleepless nights and hot sweats. Thank God it was behind him. One day he’d tell Lara. In fact, when they were married he’d tell her everything—finally cleanse his soul to the one person he knew he could trust.

  She hadn’t called, whi
ch meant she was expecting him to meet her at the studio. Cassie had obviously forgotten to mention he was trying to get through on her cell phone, because the damn thing was still turned off.

  He missed her, which was pretty ridiculous considering they’d only been apart one day.

  That morning he’d held her in his arms, stroking her into a state of almost orgasmic ecstasy. “I’ll finish the job later,” he’d joked.

  “Since when did it become a job?” she’d laughed, flushed and breathless.

  “You’re gonna have to wait,” he’d said, kissing her soft, inviting lips. “But trust me—the wait’ll be worth it.”

  She’d smiled. “Oh, I know that.”

  Then he’d lain on the bed, hands propped behind his head, watching her dress.

  She was so goddamn beautiful. How did he ever turn his life around and get this lucky?

  Lara Ivory. His Lara.

  Plucking the car keys off the dresser, he headed for the studio, a happy man.

  • •

  It started raining lightly as Cassie drove down Sunset toward the Pacific Coast Highway. All day there’d been storm warnings on the radio, but this was the first sign of bad weather.

  Lara closed her eyes, agonizing over whether she was doing the right thing. As she relived the progression of her romance with Joey, she realized it had all been based on lies. He’d made up a fiancée, never told her about the money he’d taken, hadn’t told her about living with Madelaine, hadn’t told her anything, really.

  But then . . . what had she told him? Exactly nothing.

  So, they were even. “It was great fun, but it was just one . . .”

  “Another half hour and we’re there,” Cassie said, after she’d been driving for a while. “I hope this rain stops. People in L.A. don’t know how to drive when it rains.”

  “I’d forgotten how far it is,” Lara remarked.

  “You wanted isolated.”

  Cassie was right. She enjoyed being away from everyone and everything. Especially now.

  She leaned back, desperately trying to shut out the jumbled memories that in times of stress always came flooding back.

  There was so much of her past she’d never revealed to anyone. So many secrets . . .

  She had hoped to share them with Joey one day. Now that was not to be.

  And the realization made her desolate.

  • •

  “Anyone seen Lara?” Nikki asked hopefully, although she knew it was highly unlikely Lara would show.

  “Saw plenty of her in Truth and Fact,” one of the grips sniggered.

  Nikki threw him a disgusted look. She spotted Linden and stopped him as he walked past. “Is Lara coming?”

  Linden shrugged. “Don’t know, Nikki. Sorry.”

  The cast and crew were gathered on Sound Stage Four. A rock-and-roll band blared fifties classics, while everyone tried not to look self-conscious in their fifties outfits and bouffant hairstyles. The fifties theme was Mick’s idea—he was very into that period.

  Clad in stovepipe black jeans that made his skinny legs look even skinnier, and a Marlon-in-his-thin-days white T-shirt, Mick made the rounds, dancing with everyone from the nineteen-year-old prop girl to the sixty-year-old accountant.

  “I’m pissed at Lara,” he said, sweeping Nikki into a quick jive. “She should be here.”

  “She’s upset about the photos,” Nikki explained, as he swung her in a wide circle. “So am I.”

  “Shit happens,” Mick said, totally unconcerned. “Tell her to move on and get her fine movie-star ass down here. The crew’s disappointed.”

  “Maybe I’ll call her, see what I can do,” Nikki gasped, as he somehow or other lowered her between his legs, then pulled her up in an elaborate arc. She spotted Aiden watching her with an edgy grin. Fuck it! He was making fun of her. “Bye, Mick,” she said, managing a quick escape. “I’m not in a dancing mood.”

  As she hurried toward Aiden, one of the production assistants came at her with a cell phone. “It’s a Mr. Weston calling from Chicago. Says it’s urgent.”

  Like she didn’t have enough problems. She grabbed the phone. “Yes?”

  Sheldon’s voice sounded indistinct and panicky, unlike his usual in-control self. “Is she with you?” he demanded.

  “Is who with me?”

  “Summer.”

  “What are you talking about, Sheldon? She’s in Chicago with you.”

  “No, she’s gone. Vanished. Please tell me she’s with you.”

  “No,” she said, her stomach dropping. “She’s not here, Sheldon.” So where the hell is she?

  CHAPTER

  61

  THE THRILL OF THE CHASE had always appealed to Alison Sewell. She’d followed movie stars home on many occasions, right up to the point where they shut their great big gates in her face. However, following someone who was unaware they were being tracked was even more of a kick. It was a cat-and-mouse game. Alison considered herself the big powerful cat and Lara the poor little mouse.

  Alison had been trailing Lara all day. She’d followed her from her house in the morning, then sat in the parking lot near the location, watching as they shot the last day of Revenge. She’d had a perfect view of Lara’s trailer, popping off roll after roll of film as Lara came and went.

  Miz Ivory looked upset. And so she should. Truth and Fact had done Alison’s pictures proud. Her photographs were on the front page, and, as if that wasn’t enough, there was a double-page spread inside.

  That would teach Lara Ivory to mess with Alison Sewell, spurn her friendship and haul her up in court like a common criminal. Who exactly did the bitch think she was?

  Late in the day when Cassie arrived to pick Lara up, Alison was surprised. Usually the big movie star sat in the back of her chauffeur-driven car and was taken home that way. But not tonight. Tonight her driver was sitting across the street, reading a Frederick Forsythe paperback behind the wheel of his limo, unaware his star was leaving by other means.

  Hmm . . . Alison thought. Something’s up.

  She drew out of her parking place and slid her station wagon behind Cassie’s Saab as it left the location.

  I would have been the perfect assistant for Lara, Alison thought. I could have protected her better than anyone. Certainly better than that stupid, one-armed publicist, or that dumb, handsome boyfriend. All she needs is me.

  When Cassie’s car hit Sunset, Alison was right on her tail. Earlier she’d managed to have a conversation with one of the grips, acting real casual, as if she was just a fan. He’d let slip that tonight was the wrap party. Surely the party wasn’t at the beach, which was where Cassie seemed to be heading.

  Alison hummed softly under her breath. She got a charge following the car, sure that she was the only person who knew Lara Ivory was in it. There were no other photographers around to bother her. No stupid men to deal with.

  Truth was she was smarter than all of them. And the proof was that she’d made a fortune in the last week. Now she was rich and could do whatever she liked. She’d made more money than Uncle Cyril ever did.

  She switched on her windshield wipers to clear away the sudden rain, so unexpected in sunny California. Then she reached in the glove compartment for a Snickers bar.

  Unfortunately she now had a criminal record, thanks to Miz Ivory.

  It didn’t matter. She was rich. And she planned on getting even richer.

  How much would pictures of Lara Ivory dead be worth?

  How much could she score for pictures of a beautiful corpse?

  CHAPTER

  62

  TINA AND SUMMER WALKED BACK from the restaurant, laughing about the guys who’d tried to come on to them.

  “Bunch of pathetic dogs,” Tina sneered. “Now do you see why it’s so stupid to go out with somebody and not get paid? These dudes are only looking to get into your pants. The ones that pay are like, real men.”

  “Doesn’t getting paid mean we’re prostitutes?” Summer asked, trying n
ot to yawn.

  “Prostitutes?” Tina shrieked. “What kind of an old-fashioned word is that? We’re . . . service givers. Very expensive service givers. Being a prostitute is like grabbing a Big Mac. What we do is like dining out in the coolest restaurant in town. Get it?”

  “I guess so,” Summer said, thinking how ready she was to crawl into bed and sleep.

  Tina was in an ebullient mood. “I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do,” she said, breaking into a jog as it began to lightly rain.

  “What?” Summer asked, hoping it was bedtime.

  “We’re gonna call Norman,” Tina said as they reached her nearby apartment.

  “Now?”

  “Yeah, why wait till tomorrow?”

  “I thought you said we shouldn’t rush into anything.”

  “Who’s rushing? He doesn’t even know you’re here. It’s definitely time we told him.”

  “Okay . . .” Summer said uncertainly.

  “I’m asking for big bucks,” Tina said excitedly, her eyes gleaming. “I’m gonna tell him you don’t put out anymore. Only for special johns.”

  “Can I listen in?” Summer asked, anxious to hear the sound of his voice.

  “Yeah, pick up the second line,” Tina said, dialing his number. She got right through. “Hi, Norman,” she said, putting on a low, sexy voice. “Remember me? Tina? I was over at your place a few weeks ago with Summer, that gorgeous blonde you were so wild about. Darlene sent us, remember?”

  “Sure do,” Norman answered, sounding stoned.

  “You were really into Summer,” Tina continued. “Kept asking Darlene when she’d be back. But you know what? Bad news. Summer gave up the business, and she’ll only do it for very special clients. Now the good news—you happen to be extra special.”

  “Whyn’t you come over,” Norman said. “Both of you.”

  “Well . . .” Tina said, pretending to hesitate. “If we do, you’ll have to pay us direct, and not mention a word to Darlene, ’cause like I told you—Summer’s no longer in the business. So you’ll be dealing directly with me. Okay?”

  “I can do that, cutie.”

  “Oh, and it has to be cash. And it’ll cost more, ’cause, like I just said—”