She wondered how Marcus was taking his captivity. Not well. If the police didn’t kill his captor, he would certainly see it was taken care of. Marcus Citroen insisted on being in control at all times.
* * *
‘This is how we’re going to do it,’ Maxwell said. ‘Listen carefully, because any mistakes can mean the end of your life.’ Contemptuously he kicked Marcus, rolling him on his side, until the dead man came to rest in a pool of his own blood. ‘Like him.’
Lying on the floor, still bound, Bobby heard the words as he drifted back into consciousness. Opening his eyes he saw a blurry haze. Gradually the haze sharpened, and came into focus.
He blinked once, twice, hardly believing what was happening. He could see! Goddammit, HE COULD SEE!
The doctors had said it could happen, just like that, anytime, anywhere. A conversion reaction could take place, they’d said, brought on by a traumatic situation. Jesus Christ! He could see, and he couldn’t tell anyone because he was well aware of the danger they were all in.
‘We’ll walk outside under the blanket,’ Maxwell said. ‘You’ll be in front, and I’ll be behind with a gun in your backs. The police won’t know who is where. Do you get it?’
‘Very smart,’ Kris jeered.
‘Yes, very smart,’ Maxwell agreed. ‘Because they’ll have marksmen out there ready to pick me off, and this way they can’t take the risk of making a mistake.’
Slowly Bobby looked around, taking in the scene. On the floor, nearby, were his dark glasses. Surreptitiously he groped for them with his hands still tied. He got them on without anyone noticing.
‘I’m going to untie your feet,’ Maxwell announced. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to keep on repeating that what happened to Marcus Citroen can happen to any one of you.’
Bobby groaned, to let them know he was conscious.
‘Are you all right?’ Rafealla asked anxiously.
If she only knew! ‘Yeah,’ he muttered. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Good,’ said Maxwell sarcastically. ‘It’s nice to know everyone is well.’
* * *
‘Here they come,’ said Captain Lynch, with a grunt of anticipation as slowly the front door swung open. ‘Carmine, get ready.’
Carmine Sicily stepped up next to the police captain. He was ready all right.
Nova Citroen shuddered. She had an ominous feeling of doom.
The Hawk put his arm around her, patting her mink-clad shoulder comfortingly. ‘It’ll soon be over,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Captain Lynch, as the blanketed group of figures shuffled from the house ‘Shit!’
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Carmine.
They’re under a fucking blanket. We can’t see who’s who.’ Grabbing his walkie-talkie he barked out a command.
‘No firing. Hold all gunfire.’
* * *
Under the blanket it was hot and uncomfortable. Rafealla was positioned in front of Maxwell, his gun jammed into the small of her back. Every step she took, she feared it might go off by mistake.
Kris was next to her. Maxwell had tied them together around the waist, making it difficult to walk. Bobby brought up the rear, tethered loosely to Maxwell.
‘Any bullets an’ you’re the ones that get it, my friends,’ Maxwell boasted. ‘One false move from any of you, and I’ll blow her in half – so don’t even think about it.’
Slowly they trundled towards the helicopter, every step an ordeal.
The night was silent, except for the sounds of nature. Waves crashing on the beach far below, crickets chirping, and the sway of the palm trees in the night breeze. There was a bright moon in the sky.
‘Maxwell,’ Suddenly a voice boomed through the bullhorn, breaking the silence. ‘This is your father, Carmine. I want you to quit what you’re doing now. Release your hostages, an’ give yourself up. That’s an order.’
Maxwell stopped stock-still, frozen in shock. What the fuck was Carmine doing here? What the fuck was that cocksucker interfering for? Wasn’t it enough that he’d had to grow up in his shadow, always Carmine Sicily’s son, Carmine Sicily’s boy. He hated his father with a passion. ‘What are you doing here?’ he screamed hysterically.
Instinctively both Kris and Bobby knew this was their moment, and as if operating on thought telepathy they acted as one. Kris knocked the gun from Maxwell’s hand with a vicious turn of his body, while Bobby kneed him in the back with every bit of force he could muster.
Maxwell fell to the ground, dragging all of them down with him.
‘Get the lights on.’ Captain Lynch yelled the order, as he raced toward the scene, accompanied by several of his officers, guns drawn.
Floodlights lit up the area.
It was over.
It was all over.
Epilogue
At Marcus Citroen’s funeral there was a bizarre combination of rock and rollers, high society, the movers and shakers of show business, and the powerful world of real money.
They came from all over to pay their respects, the most popular mode of transport being private plane.
The line of limousines at the burial ground was impressive, and later, at Novaroen, a party atmosphere prevailed.
Nova went through the motions. She made an impressive grieving widow.
Hawkins Lamont – the Hawk – delivered the eulogy. He was going to miss his friend and mentor.
Marcus had remembered him in his will. The Hawk inherited Marcus’s prized collection of antique cars, two solid gold Carrier watches, and an assortment of Tiffany cuff-links. The Hawk appreciated the gesture, but above all else he was a deal-maker, and owning a collection of old cars did not appeal to him. He sold them, and with the proceeds bought himself a white Ferrari, a black Maserati, and a weekend apartment in London.
Three months after the funeral he divorced his wife. A few weeks after that he and Nova Citroen were married in a secret ceremony in Mexico City.
They returned to New York triumphant, the latest ‘power’ couple. Together they ran Blue Cadillac Records, expanding into television and movies.
Nova Citroen maintained her reputation as one of the most elegant hostesses in America. And the Hawk continued to guide the careers of the cream of the superstars.
Together they made a formidable combination.
By the time Speed fixed the flat tyre on the hired limousine, and got himself and the car up to the Novaroen estate on that fateful July night, he was too late. The hostage situation was in progress, and everyone was going crazy.
He’d grabbed hold of a parking attendant, demanding hoarsely,’ What’s going on?’
‘There’s a guy up there gone wacko. He’s grabbin’ people, tying’ ’em up an’ demandin’ money.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Some waiter from that fancy restaurant. George somethin’ or other.’
‘George Smith?’
‘Yeah, that’s the dude’s name.’
Speed had gotten out of there fast. Gunning the limousine, he’d raced back to Hollywood, cleared out of his apartment, dumped the limo outside the rental place, and taken the next plane to Vegas. There, he’d thrown himself upon his ex-wife’s mercy, begging her to alibi him, lest George Smith pointed the cops in his direction.
She’d obliged. Reluctantly. It had cost him.
He stayed with her for three months. They’d fought every day, but he’d been forced to admit she had the best pair of bazoombas in captivity. Unfortunately she also had a lethal dose of the clap – contracted from a lounge singer with bad teeth and no talent. Naturally, Speed, with his luck, picked it up too.
He left in a fury, drifting back to Hollywood and his old haunts.
One night he met a man in a bar. There was a big job going down and this dude had heard he was the best freakin’ driver on the West Coast . . .
* * *
Chloe remained at Lilliane’s, quite the restaurant celebrity. If it wasn’t for Chloe and her diligent eye
, Maxwell Sicily might have got away with the robbery of the year. She revelled in the attention.
It never crossed her mind that if she hadn’t interfered, Marcus Citroen would be alive today.
* * *
Cybil Wilde and Kris Phoenix broke up, whereupon Cybil embarked on what was supposed to be a top-secret, extremely discreet affair with Governor Highland.
One late summer weekend they played together on a mutual friend’s yacht in Acapulco – where, unbeknownst to them, they were photographed by a lone paparazzi operating with a powerful long-distance lens.
The resultant pictures made headline news, damaging Governor Highland’s spotless reputation beyond redemption, and catapulting Cybil into a starring role in her first movie.
* * *
Vicki Foxe made the best of a bad job. She fled Novaroen during the height of the hostage situation, hitching a ride into town with one of the party guests – an old and shaky lawyer, who believed every word of her hastily made up story about a fight with Mrs Ivors, the dragon-lady housekeeper.
‘Do you need a job, my dear?’ he’d asked.
‘Yes,’ Vicki had nodded.
She’d stayed long enough to share her sexual favours and steal his precious and valuable stamp collection, which she sold for three thousand dollars to a pawnshop. It was worth over a hundred thousand.
Then she ticketed herself to Amarillo, Texas, where she set herself up in an apartment doling out submission and discipline.
Business was good.
* * *
Maxwell Sicily did not fare so well. In prison, awaiting trial for the murder of Marcus Citroen, he mysteriously passed away in his sleep one night. There was no official investigation.
The tentacles of Carmine Sicily’s power stretched far and wide.
* * *
Sara Johnston and Bobby Mondella planned a quiet wedding ceremony in her home town of Philadelphia. Both of them couldn’t be happier.
It had taken him some time to win her over, but he’d done it. After the night at Novaroen so much had happened. Firstly, the shock of recovering his sight had sent Bobby into a tailspin. At first he hadn’t known how to handle it, everything seemed so strange.
Seeing Sara – a woman he had virtually shared his life with for the last eighteen months – was the biggest shock of all. He’d imagined her to be darker, shorter, plumper, plainer. Instead she was dazzlingly pretty – reminding him in a way of a young Sharleen.
Before he had a chance to tell her how much she meant to him, she took off, leaving him a short note on which she had written, You don’t need me anymore, so I’ll say goodbye. It was great, Bobby, and I’ll always love you. But now you’ve got your life back. Enjoy it. Sara.
It took him two months to find her, and when he did, he told her in no uncertain terms, they would never be apart again.
She acquiesced. After all, she loved him, it was as simple as that.
* * *
Kris Phoenix and Rafealla went their separate ways.
After breaking up with Cybil, Kris returned to England and told Astrid it was over. They’d been together four years, which was long enough. He bought her a house in the country and allowed her to keep the dogs. They parted friends.
Then he sought out Buzz – still off drugs and well on the way to recovery, and suggested they did something together, just the two of them.
‘Yeah, I’d like that,’ Buzz said.
‘Yeah, I rather thought you would,’ Kris replied, adding with a wink, ‘Ya always fancied workin’ with a superstar, didn’t you?’
‘You’re still full of it, you old wanker,’ Buzz replied, with a wicked grin.
‘Yeah, an’ you wouldn’t have it any other way. Right?’
‘Right, mate.’
The years disappeared as they broke up laughing and spontaneously hugged each other.
* * *
Rafealla returned to England, collected Jon Jon from her mother’s, and the two of them settled down in the small house she’d bought near Regent’s Park.
It was good to be back in England after all the years she’d spent abroad. And it was certainly nice to be an established recording artist without the threat of Marcus Citroen hanging over her head. Of course she regretted his death, it was a terrible thing to have happened, but life went on.
* * *
Kris Phoenix and Rafealla made the trip to Philadelphia for Bobby Mondella’s wedding. They arrived separately, neither aware of the other’s presence.
Rocket Fabrizzi was best man, and although Bobby and Sara had tried to keep the wedding quiet, there was a huge turnout of fans and press.
Rafealla hadn’t seen Kris Phoenix since their shared ordeal. She glanced across the aisle, and there he was, cocky as ever, with that ridiculous spiked hair and those intense blue eyes – Jon Jon’s eyes.
Tentatively she waved.
He waved back.
She smiled.
He smiled back.
Oh God! Not again. For the third time in her life she felt that old familiar tingle of anticipation.
She’d struck out twice, that didn’t mean she had to stop playing, did it?
Kris was on his feet, heading in her direction. Soon he was beside her.
‘Anyone sittin’ here?’ he asked, indicating the half-empty pew.
‘No.’
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘I think I’d like that.’
They watched Bobby hurry down the aisle, Rocket beside him.
‘He looks nervous,’ Kris remarked jauntily. ‘Poor sod.’
‘He probably is.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s a big step.’
‘It certainly is.’
‘Have you ever taken it?’
‘Once.’
‘Me too. I’m divorced now.’
‘So am I.’
Music began to play, indicating the arrival of the bride. Sara wore white, and a big smile.
Bobby turned to look at her as she walked down the aisle. He thought she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.
‘Romantic, huh?’ whispered Kris.
Rafealla nodded. She was frightened to look him in the eye, because once she fell into those two intense pools of blue she might be lost forever.
Maybe she should risk it. What was that old superstition? Third time lucky, or something like that.
‘Hey, Raf He leaned towards her; speaking in a low, intimate voice.
‘Yes.’
‘There’s something I’ve bin meaning’ to tell you.’
‘Yes?’ she repeated.
Their eyes met, and it was memorable.
‘Uh . . . I just want you to know this.’
‘What?’
‘Did I ever mention that after I met you I gave up blondes forever?’
Gazing at him solemnly she said, ‘No. You never told me that.’
He winked. ‘It’s true.’ Arid with perfect timing he took her hand in his, squeezing it gently. ‘C’mon, we’d better watch a wedding, see how it’s done. It might come in useful one of these days.’ A cheeky grin. ‘Right?’
She grinned back. Kris Phoenix was an adventure waiting to be experienced, and this time she was old enough to enjoy it. ‘Right,’ she agreed.
‘After all—’ he began.
Catching his rhythm she joined in, and together they completed his favourite expression – ‘It’s only rock ’n’ roll!’
About the Author
There have been many imitators, but only Jackie Collins can tell you what really goes on in the fastest lane of all. From Beverly Hills bedrooms to a raunchy prowl along the streets of Hollywood; from glittering rock parties and concerts to stretch limos and the mansions of the power brokers – Jackie Collins chronicles the real truth from the inside looking out.
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 t
han 40 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
Table of Contents
Praise for Jackie Collins
Also by Jackie Collins
Inscription
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication page
Contents
Los Angeles
Kris Phoenix: London
Bobby Mondella: New York
Rafealla: Paris
Kris Phoenix
Bobby Mondella
Los Angeles
Kris Phoenix
Bobby Mondella
Rafealla
Kris Phoenix
Bobby Mondella
Los Angeles
Kris Phoenix
Rafealla
Bobby Mondella
Kris Phoenix
Rafealla
Bobby Mondella
Los Angeles
Kris Phoenix
Rafealla
Bobby Mondella
Kris Phoenix
Rafealla
Bobby Mondella
Los Angeles
Kris Phoenix
Rafealla
Bobby Mondella
Kris Phoneix
Rafealla
Bobby Mondella
Los Angeles
Kris Phoenix
Rafealla
Bobby Mondella
Kris Phoenix
Rafealla
Bobby Mondella
Los Angeles
Kris Phoenix
Rafealla
Bobby Mondella
Kris Phoneix
Rafealla
Bobby Mondella
Los Angeles
Kris Phoenix
Rafealla
Bobby Mondella
Kris Phoenix
Rafealla
Bobby Mondella
Los Angeles
Kris Phoenix
Rafealla
Rock Star Page 44