‘Why?’ she challenged.
‘Because it is no place for you. You don’t belong with these people.’
‘God! You’re not a snob too, are you? Rupert is bad enough.’
‘Who is Rupert?’
‘My brother.’
‘A smart man.’
‘Bullshit!’
Fixing her with an intense look he said, ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Take me home and we’ll talk.’
‘Seriously.’
‘Yes, we can talk seriously if you like.’
‘Don’t play with me, English lady.’
‘I’m not English,’ she said furiously. ‘Do I look English?’
Softening, he said, ‘You look beautiful.’ With a deep sigh of regret he added, ‘Too beautiful, too rich. And whatever we may both feel, we should not be together. I know these things.’
Persuasively she gave it her all. ‘Take me home, Luiz. Please – take me home now.’
* * *
Antonio Carlos Jobim on the stereo, more champagne, the apartment lit only by the glow of the street lamps.
Just kissing was a trip she’d never experienced before. His lips so cool, his tongue so hot. They stood up against each other in the dark apartment exploring – tasting, indulging in long, lingering soul kisses.
He was in no hurry and neither was she. They’d waited since the first moment they’d met, and now the time was here and there was no rush.
Running his hands through her long hair he softly murmured her name, ‘Rafealla, ah . . . Rafealla.’
‘Luiz,’ she whispered back, feeling the soft, fine curls at the base of his neck. ‘Ah . . . Luiz.’
Slowly his hands moved down to her shoulders, and tantalizingly played with the thin straps of her dress, pushing them up and down.
She wanted him to pull the damn dress off. She wanted to feel his hands on her skin. She just wanted him . . .
Slowly, at last, he peeled the top of her dress down, caressing her breasts, gently at first, his fingertips barely brushing her nipples, until finally his touch grew stronger and soon he replaced his fingers with his mouth.
Sighing with pleasure she reached towards his hardness, releasing him, murmuring his name.
Together they sank to the floor. Cosmic twins, alike in every way. Somehow she knew exactly what would please him, while he anticipated her every need.
They were together. As far as she was concerned it was all that mattered.
* * *
In the morning he was gone. She waited for him to come to her apartment or call. He didn’t. She went to the Pussy Satin, only to be told he no longer worked there. Meanwhile Juana had packed up and left with no explanation or goodbye.
One night and it was over.
Luiz was gone, and she had no way of ever finding him again.
Bobby Mondella
1981
‘You’re making the biggest mistake of your life,’ Marcus Citroen said. His voice on the phone was tempered steel, but it didn’t frighten Bobby – nothing frightened a superstar. Goddammit! He was too big to be touched by anyone or anything. Right now he was merely angry that Marcus had him trapped. He didn’t need this. The dumb lawyers were supposed to have handled everything without him getting involved.
‘Hey,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s my mistake, an’ if I wanna make it, I guess I can.’
‘You’re screwing me, Bobby. I want you to be fully aware of that.’
I’m screwing your wife, just like you screwed Sharleen for all those years.
‘Yeah, well, life goes on. I’m sorry you’re not happy, Marcus, but business is business.’
‘You have a lesson to learn, Bobby,’ Marcus sounded ominous. ‘And believe me, you’ll learn it with Hit City – the hard way. You have no idea what you’re getting into with those people.’ He put the phone down, leaving a sharp dialling tone in Bobby’s ear.
Who the fuck did the dude think he was? Some asshole businessman, that’s all. While he, Bobby Mondella, was a star, and let no one forget it.
Whistling quietly to himself he checked out his image in the mirror. Nova was on her way over, confrontation time was here, and he wanted to be sure he looked his very best. She’d never been to his house before, and the fact that she’d agreed to meet him on his own territory was a coup.
Mrs Citroen was coming to tea, and everything had to be just right.
Taking another sip of bourbon, he decided to change from the all-white outfit he had on to an all-black one. She preferred him in black, said it gave him a sleeker look.
Sleek, hell. Nobody could beat Bobby Mondella when it came to looking sleek. He was the biggest superstar soul singer in the world, and soon he would be moving on. Nichols Kline had so many great plans – number one being a movie in which he would star.
Hey – Bobby Mondella – movie star. Yeah! He could go for that.
The new deal and getting away from Blue Cadillac had taken some working out. Fortunately Arnie Torterelli’s lawyers were that rare combination – street smart and college educated. They’d handled everything, and Bobby was delighted. Moving to Nichols Hit City was about the best decision he’d ever made.
More bourbon soothed his throat. Lately he’d taken to waking up with it, and keeping a glass nearby at all times. Booze did not affect him, just kept him nicely mellowed out, because the pressures of superstardom were unbelievable.
Hey – he didn’t do drugs – just cocaine once in a while before a show. So what was wrong with drinking – as long as he never took it too far?
The all-black outfit suited him admirably. He glanced at his solid gold Rolex. Nova should be arriving any minute. She knew the score, all he needed was an answer.
* * *
‘You look tired, Bobby.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes, you do.’
Is that all she had to say – You look tired, Bobby. How about Your house is sensational or I’m thrilled with the news or even Yes, I’ve made my decision – I’m leaving Marcus.
‘I guess it’s, all the hard work I’ve bin’ doin’,’ he replied.
‘Maybe even all the alcohol you’re consuming.’
She could talk. She drank champagne by the bucket.
It had been six weeks since he’d seen her. She was elegant as ever in a beige suit with her usual crocodile accessories and striking gold jewellery. Her white-blonde hair was pulled back into a neat chignon.
Mrs Citroen did not have matching collar and cuffs. Between her classy legs there was a patch of thick, black hair, overgrown and dense, and sexy as hell. The contrast was a real turn-on.
‘How was your trip?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘The Orient is always fascinating,’ she replied, reaching for a cigarette.
‘So I’ve heard.’
Gazing directly into his eyes she said, ‘You’re a fool, you know.’
He leaned towards her, lighting her cigarette. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because you left Blue Cadillac without asking me. You did something extremely stupid.’
She talked to him as if he were a child. It burned the hell out of him. ‘Tell me what you think’s so stupid?’
‘Leaving Marcus.’
‘Fuck Marcus,’ he exploded. ‘I don’t give a shit about him, and neither should you. He’s screwed around on you since the day you married him. You’ve told me about the games he plays with you, and his sick carryings on. Maybe you can forgive and forget, but lady, I certainly can’t.’
Drawing strongly on her cigarette she said, ‘I’ve managed to live with it.’
‘Yeah, well maybe you can. Let me repeat myself – I can’t. So I’ve done something about it. I’ve gotten out. An’ now I want you to come with me. Don’t you understand, woman, I’m giving you a chance to escape.’
Shaking her head ruefully she said, ‘Bobby, when we started this affair, that’s all it was – an affair. Somehow it grew into something more. But never did I say
I would leave Marcus.’
‘You didn’t have to say it. Just do it. I’ve got everything you’ll ever need, baby. We can have a great life together.’
‘Don’t you understand? Marcus won’t allow me to go.’
‘What kinda crap is that? I’ll get a tough lawyer on the case – I know just the right guy. You won’t have to deal with a thing.’
Stubbing out her barely used cigarette she sighed deeply. ‘You don’t know Marcus at all, do you?’
‘What’s to know?’
Her tone was very measured. ‘If I ever left him he’d kill me. And whoever was responsible for my leaving would be dead meat too. Just remember what I’m saying, Bobby. Marcus Citroen would have us both killed.’
Los Angeles
Saturday, July 11, 1987
The four subjects the press wished to discuss were The Wild Ones, Buzz, Doktor Head and Cybil. Kris blanked them nicely. He hadn’t been in the business for so many years without learning a thing or two. With a cheeky grin he could joke them out of anything. ‘Cybil, who’s she?’ he asked, jollying them along when they enquired if he had any marriage plans. Skilfully he turned the question-and-answer session around, directing it towards his soon-to-be-released new album Long-legged Blondes.
‘Is the title track about Cybil Wilde?’ demanded an English woman reporter, with scraggly hair and bad teeth.
Kris knew her – Cyndi Lou Planter. She was always digging for the dirt – her weekly page in a national British newspaper brought frustrated bitchery to new heights.
‘C’mon, Cyndi, luv,’ he said good-naturedly, hoping to endear himself to her by remembering the old bag’s name. ‘You know me – I never favour anyone. The song’s dedicated to every long-legged blonde I ever fancied.’
‘That certainly covers a lot of ground,’ Cyndi Lou Planter said, with a knowing smirk. ‘Aren’t you at an age when you should start thinking about settling down? What about marriage?’
Screw the stupid cow. What did age have to do with anything?
‘I reckon I got a few years left in me yet,’ he joked.
‘You’re nearly forty,’ Cyndi Lou persisted. ‘How long can you continue to jump around on stage? There’s nothing worse than an ageing rocker, is there? You said so yourself in an interview we did three days before your thirtieth birthday.’
‘I’m just thirty-eight,’ he snapped back. That’s hardly senile. An’ I’m in the best shape I’ve ever bin in.’
‘What about Buzz? Do you miss him?’
‘Excuse me,’ he said, smothering a strong desire to bash her face in. Spotting Jeannie Wolfe from Entertainment Tonight, he thanked the press, and walked over to do the TV spot. Television was a lot fairer than the written word. At least on television you could defend yourself. He could just imagine Cyndi Lou Planter’s opening paragraph when she wrote her piece. Ageing rocker Kris Phoenix, who reluctantly admits to being nearly forty, has no intention of marrying his long-legged blonde Cybil Wilde. The ageing Romeo prefers to play the field, even though he’s over the hill.
‘Tell me, Kris,’ Jeannie asked. ‘Is Long-Legged Blondes a summary of your love life?’
Bloody Albert! What was it with him and his love life? That’s all they wanted to know about lately.
‘The music comes first, Jeannie,’ he said sincerely. ‘It always has an’ it always will.’
Yeah, now he was really telling it like it was. He’d fooled around plenty, but there’d never been a woman who was more important than his music.
A sad fact of life. Sometimes he wished there had been.
* * *
As soon as Maxwell Sicily could shake off the clinging Chloe he did so, leaving her with the excuse that he had to take a leak. The woman was a pest.
Time was passing, and there was a lot to think about. With the help of Vicki Foxe he knew the layout of Novaroen backwards. Ten days ago Vicki had got him onto the estate on the pretext that he was a plant specialist. She had the head of security hot for her, and the guy didn’t even question when she’d told him Mrs Citroen had specially requested her plant doctor from Beverly Hills to have full access to the grounds.
He’d spent over an hour finding his way around. Fortunately there were no problems. In this business you could never be too sure of anything.
* * *
When she had finished watching Bobby rehearse, Rafealla went for a walk, accompanied by Trudie, and the two Blue Cadillac executives, who didn’t seem prepared to let her out of their sight. They were probably working under Marcus’s strict instructions.
She had wanted to stay and talk to Bobby, but his manager – a pretty black woman – had said a polite but firm no, Bobby did not wish to speak to anyone.
At least he was alive, looking great and sounding sensational. Seeing him was enough for now.
They tried to lure her into the press room to meet with the media. Now it was her turn to say no.
‘Mr Citroen will expect you to,’ one of the executives said, rather edgily.
‘Then let him ask me himself,’ she replied defiantly.
After her walk, she did her sound check, then went back to her room and relaxed.
One entire house had been turned over to the three stars and their entourages. The guest house was balanced on the side of a cliff, with breathtaking views of the ocean spread out below. It was away from the main mansion and the frantic activity taking place all round. There were brightly-coloured golf carts to transport them to and from the centre of activities should they wish to be part of the action.
‘I’ve never seen anything to match this set-up,’ Trudie exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe people really live like this.’
Rafealla quite liked the publicity girl, but right now she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. ‘I’m going to rest,’ she said. If you can let me know an hour before I’m on, that’ll be perfect.’
‘Sure,’ Trudie said. ‘When you need me, I can be buzzed in the fun room. I always fancied playing Pac Man!’ Opening the door, she was just about to leave, when she spotted Marcus Citroen coming up the stairs. Darting back she said, ‘The Big Boss is on his way. Do you want me to go or stay?’
‘Marcus Citroen?’
‘Yup.’
Rafealla’s face clouded over. ‘Can you stay? Please?’
‘You got it.’
* * *
Patience had never been one of Speed’s virtues. Pacing the holding cell, waiting for his lawyer, he almost began climbing walls.
If he blew this one . . . Jeeze! It didn’t bear thinking about. His name would be mud-slime in the business. Who would hire a douche-bag driver who never even showed up for his own job?
Nobody, that’s who. Reliability was the key to success, and if he didn’t break out of this shit-palace soon, his reliability was about as hot as an Eskimo’s ass.
Sugarbush would love this. Sugarbush, his ex-wife – the ball-breaking Las Vegas tootsie roll, with knockers to send a man to heaven and back. She got off on watching him fail. This one would really be a crowd-pleaser.
‘Listen, I gotta make another call,’ he yelled, rattling the rusty bars of the holding cell.
Everyone ignored him.
So what else was new?
* * *
‘You should meet with the press,’ Sara insisted. ‘They’re here, and they’re on your side.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Bobby asked moodily. ‘I don’t think – I know. You’re a survivor. You’re right back at the top where you belong. Everybody loves a winner. Now go for it.’
‘Hey babe, I’m just not sure . . .’
‘Trust me, Bobby.’
It’s not you I’m worried about.’
‘Pleeaasse.’
‘I don’t want anyone feelin’ sorry for me,’ he warned.
‘Sorry for you!’ she shrieked. ‘Are you a crazy man? You’re tall, you’re handsome, you’re singing better than you ever did before. Honey – you are right up there.’
‘Well . . .
’
She picked up the phone. ‘Mr St John. Bobby Mondella is ready to meet the press. Can we do it right now before he changes his mind?’
* * *
‘Who’s the fat ding-bat?’
‘Get away from me,’ Maxwell hissed.
‘Who is she?’ Vicki fumed.
‘Get the fuck away from me. Anybody could be watching.’
‘Not until I know who she is, and if she’s in on it.’
‘She’s not in on anything,’ he said, his eyes darting furtively around. ‘She works at Lilliane’s.’
‘So what?’
‘So she likes me.’
‘Can’t you dump her?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do.’
Vicki chewed on her lower lip, automatically thrusting her breasts forward as far as her confining maid’s uniform would allow. ‘Shall I deal with her?’
His voice was a deadly whisper. ‘Just get back to doing what you’re supposed to be doing, and don’t bother me again.’
‘There’s nothin’ wrong with a maid talkin’ to a waiter.’
‘Get lost before you blow it.’
Reluctantly she moved away. There was zilch going on between Maxwell and her, but she certainly wasn’t going to stand by while some other bitch invaded what could be her future territory. After all, she was putting a lot on the line for Maxwell Sicily.
Walking away she came face to face with Tom, her own special security guard.
‘What are you doing down here?’ he asked.
Suggestively licking her lips she lightly touched his arm. ‘Lookin’ for you, sugar.’
He was pleased. A woman hadn’t paid this much attention to him in years. ‘Well,’ he said happily, ‘you’ve found me.’
‘Later, I’m really gonna find you,’ she said, with a promising nudge.
Taking a risk he patted her on the ass. ‘Who were you talking to?’
‘When?’
‘Just now.’
‘Was I talkin’ to someone?’ she asked innocently.
‘A man.’
‘Oh, him. Some wop waiter needing directions.’
‘Where to?’
‘The men’s room.’ She laughed aloud. ‘Do I look like an information booth?’
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