‘You’re some bossy woman,’ Bobby grumbled, as she set about getting him back into shape. ‘Where you comin’ from with all this attitude?’
‘Heaven,’ she replied dryly. ‘Or hell. Depends which way you look at it.’
‘Hell!’ he complained when she forced him to start swimming and exercising and using his body again.
‘Heaven!’ he crooned, the first time they made love, and he found everything to be in working order, just as it was before the accident.
What a lover he was! Sara felt weak just thinking about the hours they spent in bed together.
Bobby Mondella. Once she had him in good physical shape she set about getting his brain in gear. ‘You planning on sitting around doin’ nothing for the rest of your life?’ she challenged.
‘Yeah,’ he replied defiantly.
‘No way, man.’
‘You’re a pushy little thing.’
‘An’ you love it. Because I’m gonna push you all the way back to the top – whether you wanna go there or not.’
‘Get lost, woman.’
‘Don’t go givin’ me none of your lip, man.’
He’d refused to see anyone since the accident. Sara opened the doors and invited some musicians he’d worked with in the past over to the house. At first he was angry – it was almost as if he was ashamed to face anyone. And then gradually he’d relaxed when he found no one was judging him or feeling sorry. He’d ended up having a good time, and in bed that night he’d showed her his appreciation.
The next day he sat down at the piano and began composing and singing again.
It was a magic moment for Sara. She’d spent months getting him to this point. ‘You’re going to make an album,’ she told him. ‘We’ll call it Mondella Alive, an’ it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever done.’
He didn’t argue. He started writing new songs, arranging them, spending every waking moment on creating something both beautiful and powerful.
When he’d compiled enough rough material, Sara took it around to a few of the big record companies, starting off with Soul On Soul, where Amerika Allen politely said they weren’t interested. Reaction after that was not friendly. Doors were closed in her face.
‘Bobby Mondella? No way. His time is over.’
‘Bobby Mondella? I thought he was dead.’
‘That drunken bum. You must be putting us on!’
One day she got a call from Marcus Citroen, the president of Blue Cadillac Records. I understand you have new Bobby Mondella material,’ he said. ‘Is it good?’
She hesitated – Bobby had told her under no circumstances was she to go to Blue Cadillac. But what the heck – this was their only chance. ‘It’s not just good, Mr Citroen. It’s sensational,’ she said, with every ounce of enthusiasm she possessed.
I’d like to hear it.’
Within six weeks Bobby was in the recording studio with a fat new contract.
Marcus Citroen was giving him the chance to come back.
* * *
‘I’m sorry’, the specialist said gravely. ‘There is nothing I can tell you. The cause of Mr Mondella’s sight loss is a complete unknown. There is no physical reason. No deterioration or damage to the optic nerve. The cornea and retina are in perfect condition.’ The doctor shrugged hopelessly. ‘This is just one of those medical mysteries one day we hope to be able to solve.’
Sara nodded – they’d heard it all before. She took Bobby’s arm and they left the office. According to the many doctors and eye specialists they’d visited, Bobby’s loss of sight was caused by a traumatic situation and therefore there was no treatment. His blindness was unexplainable. They had been told everything from psychosomatic to perhaps he should see a psychiatrist.
‘I’m learnin’ to live with it, stay cool,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘Hey, mama, I’m workin’ again. I feel good. Things aren’t that bad.’
He never let on to Sara how much it hurt inside to know he could never see again. The pain was his, and he had to bear it in silence, although sometimes, in the middle of the night, he lay awake for hours just thinking about things. Why? Why had this happened to him? And who was responsible?
Marcus Citroen was giving him the opportunity to shine again. Was he doing it because of guilt?
Hell, no, that piranha had no conscience.
So maybe Nichols and his band of business associates was responsible . . .
Shit. He shouldn’t even think about it, because it was something he’d never know.
The same week Mondella Alive came out, Sharleen committed suicide. She slit her wrists and bled to death in her New York apartment
Bobby mourned long into the night. He’d loved that woman once, and wished he’d been kinder to her the last time she’d visited him in New York.
Too late now. She’d written him after his tragedy, a sweet note asking if she could come and see him. He’d never replied, because he hadn’t wanted her to view him as a victim.
Now she was gone. Poor, pretty Sharleen.
A day later he contacted Rocket Fabrizzi – another friend he’d rejected. Rocket was in L.A. making a movie. He came over and they talked the night away, reliving every good old memory.
‘I’m glad t’see you’re back,’ man,’ Rocket said warmly when he left. ‘Let’s stay in touch. You an’ I – we’ll always remember Sharleen the way she was.’
Early reports on his album were excellent. As a favour Rocket directed a promotional video to help it take off. Sara was by Bobby’s side at all times, urging him on.
When Marcus Citroen phoned to say he wanted Bobby Mondella to appear at his wife’s fund-raiser, Sara’s initial reaction was a short, sharp no. She knew some things about Bobby’s affair with Nova – he’d told her bits and pieces, but not the whole story by any means.
When she informed Bobby of Marcus Citroen’s request, he hesitated for only a moment, and then – to her surprise – said, ‘Yeah, I’ll do it.’
Privately he thought it was time he laid some ghosts of the past to rest. And maybe – just maybe – he could find out the real truth about that fateful night in Rio.
‘Really?’ Sara glared at him disapprovingly.
With an affirmative nod he said, ‘Sure. You can tell Marcus Citroen I’ll definitely be there.’
The Dinner
Saturday, July 11, 1987
‘Can I see you?’ Governor Highland asked in a low voice.
‘Huh?’ Cybil widened her big blue eyes. ‘You are seeing me.
Leaning closer he murmured, ‘You know what I mean.’
She thought about what Hawkins had said – one day this man might be in the White House. Quite an exhilarating prospect. Then she thought about Kris. He’d been two-timing her with some Danish floozy in London.
‘Do you mean lunch?’ she asked.
‘Dinner,’ he corrected.
‘Okay,’ she said, with a shiver of excitement. ‘Where and when?’
Governor Highland smiled. He had sharp, pointed teeth. Attack-dog teeth, she thought, suppressing a wild giggle.
‘I’m married, you know.’ He was agreeably honest. ‘Therefore I have to be very discreet.’
‘That’s all right,’ she replied. ‘I’m living with someone – I have to be just as careful as you.’
‘Write down your phone number,’ he said, surreptitiously handing her a packet of book matches and a pen. ‘My aide will contact you.’
It was an unfortunate choice of word. Grim realization dawned on Cybil. Governor Highland was probably putting it about all over the place – politicians were known to be a randy bunch, especially the married ones. Too risky, as Kris would say.
Quickly she scribbled the wrong number.
More attack-dog teeth as Governor Highland pocketed the information with a true politician’s smile.
* * *
‘Dinner is served.’ Several maître d’s made the announcement, causing a procession of richly clad and bejewelled guests to begin the walk do
wn towards the dining area. Leading the way was a strip of thick red carpet covering the winding path.
Maxwell Sicily took a wooden tooth-pick from his pocket and dug it into his gums as he watched them move out. How come his father wasn’t among them? The great Carmine Sicily. The great pig. Carmine had tried hard enough to insinuate himself into high society. He’d bought large chunks of a variety of high-profile companies, even gaining controlling interest in a bank. But Maxwell knew the way things were – he was smarter than his old man any day. The big shots might come to Carmine when they needed a favour – only they would never think of mixing with him socially. To them he was nothing but a rich gangster.
Maxwell had to make sure his life was different. In South America a new identity awaited him. He would have money and respect.
Unlike his father, he would have everything.
* * *
Nova Citroen moved among her guests, assured and in control. She knew Marcus was watching her. Damn him. Let him watch away. There was nothing more he could do to her. He’d taken her to the very depths and then dragged her right up to the top again.
He’d done the same to Bobby Mondella.
Ah . . . Bobby. For a moment she thought about her former lover with a feeling of nostalgia. At least he was alive. By all rights he should be dead.
She twisted the huge solitaire diamond ring on her finger. A blood present – from her dear husband, and she had accepted it, and kept her silence. After all, deep down, a whore was always a whore.
Memories of Rio returned . . . the nightmare lingered.
Touching her magnificent diamond necklace she turned to speak to Governor Highland, seated on her right. ‘I do hope you’re enjoying yourself,’ she said pleasantly.
‘Nova, dear, when a man is in your company everything is a treat. You are truly the most gracious hostess of all. I cannot begin to tell you how much Mary and I appreciate this evening.’
‘It’s nothing, Jack,’ she murmured modestly. ‘I adore entertaining. And doing something for you is always a pleasure.’
Gazing into her eyes he said a very sincere, ‘Thank you Nova, Thank you so very much. You’ll never regret the support you’ve given us.’
* * *
Restlessly pacing around her tastefully appointed guest suite, dreading the fact that soon she was going to have to confront Marcus Citroen, Rafealla decided to talk to Bobby, because tonight was the perfect opportunity, and why should she allow him to blank her out of his life? Once they’d been close friends – was that friendship supposed to end because of his unfortunate accident?
‘Trudie,’ she said, ‘I’m going to see Bobby Mondella.’
‘Right now?’ Trudie asked, doubtfully. ‘Well, I guess if you’re dressed and ready to go on, we can stand at the side of the stage.’
‘I don’t mean watch him perform. I want to visit him now.’
‘That’s not a good idea at all,’ Trudie said firmly, wondering what this was all about. ‘Bobby is on first, and I’m sure he’ll be getting ready even as we speak.’
‘What room is he in?’
‘Uh . . . seriously, Rafealla. The guests are eating dinner. You should be getting dressed, and Bobby is probably already on his way down there.’
‘What room is he in?’ she repeated stubbornly.
Trudie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. This isn’t a hotel, there are no numbers on the doors. And there’s enough doors to house three families!’
‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll be right back.’
‘Rafealla—’ Trudie wailed.
‘Five minutes. I promise.’
Stepping into the hall she looked around. There were several doors, obviously all leading into guest suites like hers. She knocked on the first one, and a masculine voice called, ‘Come in.’
Tentatively she did so.
Lounging on a couch, flicking the channels on a large-screen TV, was Kris Phoenix.
A silent moment while their eyes met. Oh, no! She hadn’t seen him since that memorable night in his limousine ten years ago. Oh, no! For a moment she almost panicked.
‘Hi,’ she mumbled, feeling like a stupid fan.
‘Hello, luv,’ he said, without a flicker of ever having met her before. ‘Nice of you to come by an’ say hello. I like your music, you’re doin’ all right, girl. Keep it goin’.’
* * *
‘Ooooh, Tom. I thought I’d never find you,’ Vicki cooed softly, creeping up behind him in the security control room. ‘I should’ve guessed you’d be here.’
‘Where else would I be?’ he asked, a trifle pompously, indicating the bank of TV monitors surrounding him. ‘I get to see every single thing from this seat.’
‘So you do,’ she said in an admiring tone. ‘What a clever system. Did you set it up?’
‘It’s all based on my suggestions,’ he boasted, turning to ogle her cleavage in the partly unbuttoned uniform. She’d been cosying up to him for a while now – it was obvious she couldn’t resist him.
He felt Mr Stiffy stir in his pants. Mavis, his wife of twenty-five years, had named it Mr Stiffy on their honeymoon. Unfortunately, over the years, it had not exactly lived up to its name, but this red-hot, not-so-little number certainly had its full attention.
‘I think you’re brilliant,’ she sighed, wondering to herself if she wasn’t going just the tiniest bit too far.
‘You do?’
‘Oooh, sugar-pie, I do!’
He was just about to get up and grab her, when the door opened and one of his guards walked in.
‘What is it, Sturgon?’ Tom snapped, caught at the pass.
The guard was no idiot. He took one look at Vicki, hovering in the corner, and another look at Tom, red-faced and ready for action, and quickly said, ‘Just reporting in, boss. No problems. Everybody’s in position.’
‘Good, good,’ Tom blustered. ‘Get back to checkpoint one an’ stay there.’
‘Don’t you need me to man the screens with you?’
‘It’s not necessary. I’ll contact you later.’
Sturgon favoured Vicki with a long, lustful leer. He wouldn’t mind a crack at her himself. Some people had all the luck. ‘Okay, boss,’ he said, with a smart-aleck salute. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Tom grunted. He didn’t like the way Sturgon eyeballed Vicki. She deserved more respect than that.
* * *
Standing at the side of the stage, Bobby smelled money. It was all around him. Along with the light outdoor breeze there was a subtle mix of heady perfumes and expensive aftershaves. Above that, the rich aroma of two-hundred-dollar cigars filled the air.
Sara had one hand firmly on his arm. ‘How do you feel?’ she whispered anxiously.
It was the fourth time she’d asked him. ‘Will you quit,’ he muttered angrily. ‘You’re really starting to piss me off. Get lost. Go watch the show someplace else.’
‘Bobby . . .’
He could hear the hurt in her voice and didn’t care. The main thing was to get this show over and done with. Sara by his side would only bug him.
‘I said get lost,’ he repeated harshly. ‘I need to be left alone right now.’
‘Sure,’ she said, hurt and angry at the same time. ‘I’ll go and enjoy the party.’
‘Do that.’
‘I will,’ she replied defiantly. Not that he gave a damn. Since she’d left him alone earlier he’d been in a foul mood. It was confusing being with Bobby. One minute she was his lover, the next merely an employee. What did he really feel about her? Did he care at all? Sometimes she doubted it.
One of the musicians had already been elected to escort him on stage, so there was no reason for her to hang around. Norton St John had invited her to join the press table and she decided she would. With a firm step she left Bobby standing alone.
Rafealla wanted to laugh. Kris Phoenix had known who she was all right. New hot recording star – Rafealla. And that’s all he’d known.
Ha! She must have really
left a lasting impression that night so long ago in London. He’d had no idea they’d ever met, let alone made love together – if that was the right way to describe their one-time encounter.
It was funny really – since achieving fame she’d been nervous about running into him, quite sure he would remember the silly little girl he’d taken advantage of and make fun of her.
No such attitude. Just a friendly grin and words of encouragement.
Wouldn’t it blow his mind if he knew the truth!
Backing out of his room, she hurriedly returned to Trudie, who urged her to get changed as they had to make their way down to the performance area. Slowly she put on the simple black dress she’d chosen to wear. It made her crazy, because she couldn’t help thinking about Marcus taking it off her later. Why had she ever agreed to go to bed with such a vile man?
They’d cut a deal, hadn’t they? And he’d kept his side of the bargain. He’d made her famous, and after Luiz’s betrayal that’s all she’d wanted. Fame. Because her one big desire was to get back at Luiz – and fame was the only way to do it. Luiz had always been so ambitious. America was his dream – he’d talked about it all the time.
Now she had it and he didn’t. Too bad. She knew he must be wishing he’d stayed with her.
Smoothing the black dress over her slim body, she decided it was perfect for tonight. Thinking about Luiz still upset her. He’d hurt her badly – devastated her, in fact. But one thing she was sure of. No more love entanglements. Sleeping with Marcus Citroen was better than falling in love any day.
* * *
Maxwell Sicily walked away from the open-air dinner with authority, carrying a full tray.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ A burly guard stopped him at one of the exit points.
Maxwell indicated his badge and the tray. ‘A snack for Kris Phoenix. I’m taking it over to the guest house.’
‘You got authority?’
‘Yeah,’ Maxwell said sarcastically. ‘The chef stopped everything and wrote me a note. Jeez! You guys take this crap seriously, don’t you?’
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