by Victoria Fox
‘This is unbelievable,’ she murmured as she checked out the enormous silky-gold bed, fully stocked bar and lavish bathroom complete with Jacuzzi and steam.
‘Yeah.’ Wanda was punching digits into her BlackBerry. She’d seen it all before, found it rather hideous, actually. ‘Welcome to Vegas.’
Under Xander’s direction, filming turned out to be the best experience of Stevie’s life. They were shooting in a purpose-built auditorium that in reality felt a little like a project put together with scissors and sticky-back plastic, but on camera got elevated to the calibre of Vegas’s finest theatres. Stevie’s was a varied part: she’d be singing one minute and crying the next. She’d go from dancing in sequins to spilling vitriol in a conversation with her estranged mother; from pulling off a jubilant performance to going backstage and finding her best friend with a needle in her arm; from falling in love to falling into dark despair. She was mesmerising, able to embody the role without reservation. Cast and crew were impressed by her humility, her beauty, and an aptitude, despite her early misgivings, that was God-given.
Xander demanded total focus from his actors. Stevie caught on quick that he was a perfectionist, but he was also fair. He was uncompromising in his vision, particularly in regard to her character’s love affair, and every last detail was considered and approved. She decided this script had been a long time in the making, and it revealed something of Xander himself, though she didn’t know him well enough to tell what that was.
In any case, his methods commanded respect. People worked hard for him. There was a sense of pulling together for a shared cause, something she hadn’t experienced in her debut.
A week into shooting, Xander pulled Stevie to one side. They were in the middle of getting her pivotal love scene in the can.
‘How do you feel about top-half nudity?’ he asked, straight to the point.
It wasn’t the fact that nudity hadn’t been addressed in Stevie’s contract, nor was it the fact she might have a problem with it. All she could think about was how it might feel getting naked in front of someone on whom, she realised now—with a curious mix of surprise and relief—she had a monolithic crush.
‘Well, I …’ She wasn’t sure what to say.
‘The scene isn’t working as it’s written,’ explained Xander, brows gathered in concentration, tapping his bundle of notes with a pen. ‘It’s unnatural. I’m concerned we’re forcing the modesty.’ He glanced up at her. ‘That said, you’ve no obligation. The last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable. It’s your role and your call—I only want your view.’
She nodded. ‘I don’t have an issue with it.’ And she didn’t: nothing about Xander’s script or style of working was gratuitous, and this was no different. The scene hadn’t been working for her either—it was a passionate, obsessive moment between two soul mates, and, while in theory it worked without exposing skin, in practice it felt contrived.
‘If I speak to Tyler, would you be happy to try it out, see how it fits?’ Tyler was her male lead. In real life he was gay as Christmas. ‘If you feel unhappy at any point, shout out.’
Xander was right. The scene was shot in one and Stevie was pleased with the wrap. Privately she blushed when she saw it. Tyler’s fervent kissing, his hand unclasping the neck of her dress, the material falling to reveal her breast … and then cut. She wasn’t embarrassed because of the eroticism—in fact she found love scenes straightforward. She was embarrassed because to her it was plain that the ecstasy on her face was from imagining Xander Jakobson was caught in the moment with her; what he might have felt or thought when she was exposed like that. It was the first time since leaving London that she had wanted to get to know a man—really get to know him, because he interested her. It was different from before. Xander was considerate and smart and sincere. He was down the line.
‘You’re brilliant,’ Xander told her afterwards. ‘It’s rare I see talent like yours. Honestly,’ he added when she brushed the compliment off. ‘It’s easy to see why Marty snapped you up.’
‘That’s kind.’
‘Only stating a fact.’ He was wearing a baseball cap, which he now took off, ruffling his hair, which was messy and sticking up at a strange angle at the back.
‘Weird to think how it happened,’ she said. ‘I never imagined any of this when I moved.’
‘So I read. Desk job in London, right?’
Stevie flinched at the reference. ‘Yeah. Long time ago.’ She tried a smile. Xander was regarding her fixedly, so she added, ‘Well, I guess not. Just seems that way.’
‘Life changes quickly, huh?’
‘You could say that.’
Did Xander have a girlfriend? She wasn’t sure. He hadn’t mentioned one, but then that didn’t mean anything. Someone like him must have a girlfriend.
‘Are you going to the Fashion Awards tomorrow?’ she asked, grappling for something to say. Frontline Fashion was a charity gala in aid of American troops based abroad. This year Vegas was host city and all the big names in town would be there.
Xander’s demeanour instantly changed. He stiffened and looked away. ‘No.’
Stevie felt like a teenager who didn’t see the point of attending a party unless her crush was going to be there. She tried to hide her disappointment. ‘Oh. OK.’
Xander must have sensed that he’d come across rude, because he elaborated, ‘I don’t go in for that kind of thing.’
‘Celebrity parties?’ It figured.
‘Some.’ His body language was utterly new. Gone was the easy confidence. He appeared nervous, jumpy. ‘It depends who’s going.’
Stevie made a dick of herself by misunderstanding. ‘I’m going.’ It sounded horribly, pointlessly, flirtatious.
Luckily, he smiled, but there was little humour in it. ‘You’re not who I’m worried about.’
‘Oh?’
Xander thought twice before speaking. ‘Old adversaries,’ he said, and the words seemed weighty, laced in shadow, as though they’d been left a long time in the dark. ‘It’s boring.’
Stevie frowned. ‘I’m sure it’s not.’
‘The guy running it—we, er, don’t see eye to eye. Long story.’
She recalled seeing a picture of him once. Cool eyes, a sharp suit. She had read about him in a magazine, his surname as synonymous with the fashion world as Versace, Armani, Lacroix. Moreau. Since his parents were killed, he had become the reluctant face.
What history could Xander possibly share with JB Moreau? It was too soon to pry.
‘I’ll have to be careful, then, won’t I?’ she teased.
He didn’t return her smile. ‘You will.’
24
Lori
‘I’d like you to meet Lori Garcia …’
Shocked and flustered, caught off-guard, Lori had been unable to form the words she’d envisaged herself saying a thousand times. Even if she had, what would have been the point?
JB Moreau had pretended not to know her. He had met her gaze and extended his hand, those still blue eyes regarding her without a hint of recognition. Blankly, she had accepted it, thrown off course by the unexpectedness of a coincidence she could not understand.
‘Lori’s the girl I found in Spain. We’ve taken her picture, she’s a natural.’
If he was surprised, he hadn’t shown it. If he remembered, he’d given nothing away.
Lori’s mouth had gone dry. Her throat had closed up.
‘It’s a pleasure,’ he’d said. ‘I hope we’ve been looking after you.’
Dazed, she’d nodded. Later, she would wish she hadn’t, for the moment she consented to their introduction it became impossible to claim what had passed before.
JB’s skin had been dry and cool. Her own hot. As their hands had connected, she’d recalled his touch that day in the car, how unbridled they had been, all over each other, the temptation they had been powerless to resist. She knew he’d felt it too: if she knew anything, it was that.
How she had wanted to
blurt, ‘It’s me, don’t you remember?’ Instead, just a burning humiliation, like a child in trouble though they didn’t understand why.
Lori could not make sense of it. She got that he was an important man, more so than she could have anticipated, and that with Desideria standing right there it was never going to be an impassioned reunion—after all, the nature of their first meeting was hardly something he’d be prepared to advertise. Yet, even now, weeks down the line, he had made no attempt to see her. Seeking him out through La Lumière was impossible. His army of personnel—mostly, to her agony, long-limbed women with possessive, mistrustful eyes—made sure of that. Besides, it would make her feel like some kind of stalker, a kid with a crush, a desperate admirer. It wasn’t as if she were the only girl at the agency fixated with Moreau. Everyone was.
Didn’t she deserve an explanation? He had entered her life—the circumstances of which, now she knew his identity, were more perplexing than ever—and left it in pieces. She had tried everything she could to explain his dismissal, clinging on to the vain hope that he would eventually make contact and extinguish the misery of her pining. He didn’t.
Lori’s appetite vanished. She wasn’t sleeping. At night, in her apartment, she would stay awake for hours trying to picture his face, trying so hard that the details imploded and JB Moreau morphed in her uncertain half-dreams into Rico, her sisters, Desideria, sometimes even herself. When sleep finally claimed her, it would be just for a short while. Woken by desire, she would battle the gnawing ache in her gut—all types of hunger, physical and emotional and sexual—until she gave in, and, thinking of him, would pleasure herself, vowing it to be the last time, ashamed at her craving, addicted to the fleeting relief but frustrated by its impermanence. The only cure for her sickness, for that was what it was, was the man himself.
In darker hours, she became convinced this was her reckoning. It was what she deserved for wronging the man she ought to have stood by. Rico Marquez was languishing in a prison cell because she had refused him help. She, who was supposed to love and uphold him, had run that day and not once looked back. Selfishness, her desire for another man, had overtaken what a small, scared part of her still labelled her duty. She found she was unable to remove the ring her boyfriend had given her, as though it would make her jinxed: a final rejection of her responsibilities. It’s a promise …
It could not go on. She had to find answers—and, if JB Moreau was not prepared to give them, she would have to uncover them herself.
Desideria wanted her in Vegas for a party the agency had organised. It would be a chance for Lori to meet the industry’s notables as well as get a feel for the lifestyle she was set to embrace.
‘Learn to adore your celebrity,’ said Desideria. ‘Because it might not be tonight, it might not be tomorrow, but sometime soon it’ll happen.’
They arrived in Vegas on Friday afternoon. It was the first time Lori had been and the scale and sparkle of the Strip dazzled her. This time a year ago, she’d never have seen herself as part of a world so glamorous. It didn’t seem real, just another of the improbable storylines that had kept her going back home, and in a heartbeat she’d wake, bleary-eyed from a midday sleep, resting on the counter at Tres Hermanas with the sound of Anita’s scolding ringing in her ears.
At the Mirage, they settled into their rooms. Several girls represented by La Lumière were performing in tonight’s show and had suites adjacent to Lori’s. She had seen them arrive: tall, steel-faced beauties, alarmingly thin; black, white, Asian, all ravishing.
‘They seem nervous,’ she commented as she and Desideria headed to one of the hotel’s magnificent bars. The show was taking place at the Parthenon, a little way down the Strip, but, while a handful of celebrities had already started to arrive, Desideria wanted Lori to hit the carpet a fraction after everyone else.
‘That’s because they are,’ said Desideria. Her hair hung sheer and straight, fluid as oil.
‘Of what?’
‘Tonight’s a big night.’ She ordered drinks, vodka martinis with a twist. ‘It’s the biggest showcase of the Moreau house there is.’
‘I thought it was a fundraiser?’
‘It is. But it’s also a publicity gambit—not just for the fashion line, for the models, too. They’ve got to make a good impression. It’s not every day they get to exhibit their abilities in front of the man himself. It’s rare he attends events like this.’
Carefully, Lori sipped her drink. It was strong. ‘They want to impress JB.’
‘Our girls know what they want. They’re ambitious, they’ve got their heads screwed on—they’re not puppets in lipgloss. But, even so, the minute they clap eyes on Moreau it all goes out the window.’ Desideria watched her sideways. ‘I hope that’s not going to happen to you.’
Lori laughed. It hit an odd pitch, like an instrument being tuned.
‘All he has to do is snap his fingers and they come running. It’s the French thing: that accent ought to carry a health warning. And they think he’s what they want, you know? Rich, handsome, driven, successful …’ She shrugged. ‘The next day, they’re history.’
Lori felt sick. ‘He’s known a lot of women?’ she asked.
But not in the way he knows me. He didn’t do for them what he did for me.
Desideria nearly spluttered out her martini. ‘What are we in, the nineteenth century? Honey, he’s known them and then some. Are you getting the picture?’ Her expression was grave, her voice soft. ‘Look, you’re a sweet girl. I like you. I don’t want you getting hurt. Do you hear what I’m saying?’
She nodded.
Desideria reached for her hand. She opened her mouth to speak, lowered her gaze then closed it again. In her eyes was a glimmer of conflict, as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t.
‘Just be careful. OK?’
The women took a cab to the Parthenon. Desideria had a brief word with the La Lumière officials manning the carpet and ushered Lori in between a Czech supermodel and a movie star couple who were friends of Stefano Gabbana.
She had dressed in vintage Moreau: a dusky pink off-the-shoulder figure-skimming dress, her hair harnessed in a loose bun below one ear, its darkness offset by a blooming lilac flower. It was a simple look, one that showed off her coppery skin and exotic black eyes, in one glance a virginal Spanish girl-next-door, in another an icon.
Cameras danced and throbbed, the wall of paparazzi a moving shadow giving way to bursts of light. Desideria had told them her name and they shouted it again and again.
‘You starting to believe it now?’ she asked, placing a hand on Lori’s arm once they were inside the lobby. Trays of champagne circulated; jewels glittered and gowns shimmered like light on water; TV crews interviewed the biggest names in the industy. Everywhere she turned, Lori saw faces she recognised. All except his.
‘Believe what?’
‘That you’re going to be as famous as them all,’ said Desideria, collecting two flutes from a passing tray. ‘More, I should think. You’re incredible-looking, Lori.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘You know that’s what I think.’
Not for the first time, Lori had to drag her gaze from the other woman’s. She didn’t know much about Desideria’s private life and didn’t want to make assumptions.
There was a reason he avoided nights like this.
The spotlight—that solitary, staring eye—was a lonely place to be. Everyone here, despite their wealth and riches and glamorous connections, craved its heat and at the same time despised its scrutiny. It was a trap he had become adept at eluding. JB Moreau was in the business of not getting caught.
Nevertheless, his evasion fuelled their gossip. WHO IS JB MOREAU? headlines demanded. MOREAU HEIR AN ENIGMA. Speculation raged on his whereabouts and how he spent his time. MOREAU IN SECRET CULT was a popular line the previous year. FRENCH TYCOON HOLIDAYS IN SPACE. Or, less imaginative: ORPHAN MOREAU RETURNS TO FRANCE TO SCENE OF PARENTS’ DEATHS. Then, last month, his favourite: JB MOREAU ACQUIRES REMOTE TER
RITORY TO INITIATE CLANDESTINE BUSINESS.
That was the closest they had got. Even the prowling eye of the media could never guess at the truth. Hacks were hacks: they wanted a quick, easy story. If the curtain were ever pulled up on Cacatra, its ruse exposed, he doubted they could even find the vocabulary to write it up.
For a man ill at ease on a public stage, JB didn’t let it show. Making his way through the teeming lobby, graciously greeting acquaintances, he played a perfect game. Absence and reappearance: the oldest trick there was. A white rabbit out of a hat. JB’s charm, his intelligence and his brutal beauty were quick to secure the devotion of women and the admiration of men.
Poise and proficiency ran through his veins. From the earliest point, JB had been treated like a man and expected to behave like one. Infancy had been nothing of the sort, an inconvenient prelude to the time when he would eventually become useful. His parents, the notorious Paul and Emilie, would be absent for months on end, working, travelling, honeymooning. There’d been no brothers or sisters—he, the accident child, was enough of an exasperation—and for long stretches he’d been left alone, until, at the age of five, he’d been sent away to a series of international academies. There had never been time to be young. Life was a challenging issue and the sooner that was realised and confronted, the better.
Another reason why JB resisted attending parties: the industry’s unrelenting interest in the Moreaus and their legacy. His upbringing was not a territory he wished to revisit.
Do you remember them fondly? They were my parents.
What does such a tragedy do to a teenage boy? It was a difficult time. Painful.