by Victoria Fox
Praise for
Victoria Fox
‘Victoria Fox’s glossy chick-lit novel gives Jackie Collins a run for her money.’
Irish Tatler
‘It’s the best bonkbuster of 2012.’
The Sun
‘If you think the Made in Chelsea crew live a glitzy life, you ain’t seen nothing yet.’
Heat
‘Just too exciting to put down’
Closer
‘Pour yourself a glass of Pimms because this summer’s bonkbuster is guaranteed to get you seriously hot.’
Cosmopolitan
‘Even we were shocked at the scale of scandal in this juicy tale! It’s 619 pages of sin!’
Now
‘If you’re a fan of Jackie Collins and Jilly Cooper you’ll love the whirlwind of intrigue, mystery, sex and scandal…We couldn’t put it down!’
handbag.com
‘This debut novel is full of sex, glamour and divas!’ 4 stars
Star
‘For a trip to ultimate escapism, take the Jackie Collins freeway, turn left at Sexy Street, right at Scandal Boulevard. Your destination is Victoria Fox’s Hollywood.’
dailyrecord.co.uk
Indulge yourself with Victoria Fox’s previous books…
HOLLYWOOD SINNERS
TEMPTATION ISLAND
Short stories…
Tinseltown
Rivals
Pride
Ambition
Wicked Ambition
Victoria Fox
www.mirabooks.co.uk
For Chloe Setter
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you to Madeleine Milburn, a diamond among agents, who championed these characters long before they arrived in this story. To my brilliant editors at MIRA, Jenny Hutton and Sally Williamson: I’m so grateful for your direction and support. Special thanks to Kim Young for her early feedback on this book and for everything she gave to the others. To Tara Benson and Claudia Symons for their passion, their ambition and for Gin School; and to the rest of the team at Harlequin UK, especially Mandy Ferguson, Jason Mackenzie, Nick Bates and Tim Cooper. To Rebecca Oatley, Pally Kaur and Lisa Wlodyka at Cherish PR—it’s going to be so much fun.
Shout-out to Bernie and Matthew Strachan for keeping the bonkbuster dream alive; to Chioma Okereke for her solidarity; to Jenny Dodd for wine and chats; to Ian and Katharine Stonex for their encouragement; and to Mark Oakley for everything in between.
Finally, thanks to Toria for knowing Jax and Leon from the beginning. They made it!
Prologue
Palisades Grand Arena, Los Angeles
Summer 2013
IF NOT VICTORY, REVENGE!
It was printed in hot-pink marker on the back of the cubicle door, the lettering neat and precise. Ivy Sewell reached to touch it, her fingertips tentative, tender almost across its surface, as she might in another life have caressed a lover’s cheek.
Her hard blue stare locked on to the affirmation. Ivy’s was a malice years in the making, a shoot green in youth that had turned black through adolescence, insidious and strangling as a weed, so that tonight, here, at last, the instant of her retribution had arrived. In the wings, the truth gasped its final throttled breaths; the old order shrugged off a wilted coil. She was deadly. Lethal. Toxic. Poison. And the world prepared to feel her wrath.
There would be before tonight, and after tonight, and nothing would ever be the same again. In the eleventh-floor washroom of LA’s Palisades Grand Arena, on the most televised event in the entertainment world calendar, vengeance was their apocalypse.
Ivy carved a painted fingernail, danger red, into the print, gouging a nub of plaster.
IF NOT VICTORY, REVENGE!
Victory had never been hers. But revenge? Revenge was in her blood.
From inside the stadium she could hear the muted thrum of beats and the united roar of the fans. Ivy imagined the cries were for her, urging her on, baying for the carnage she was about to unleash. She released her breath, tasting salt and iron, her tongue flicking across the split in her lip where she had bitten too hard in anticipation.
Three women.
Each was here to claim the spotlight. Each was an international superstar, a glittering icon with the world at her feet. Robin Ryder, UK talent-show sensation, the rags-to-riches sweetheart rescued from oblivion. Kristin White, global pop phenomenon with the voice of an angel, who had ditched the princess act after tragedy struck. And Turquoise da Luca, America’s number one female vocal artist and now tantalising toast of Tinseltown.
One of them was going to perish.
At the mega-event better known as the ETV Platinum Awards, Ivy Sewell was concerned with one target and one alone: her twin. The hated sister, born identical and torn towards an opposite fate, who had claimed everything Ivy herself should have been, who had snatched it all from her grasp, who had turned her back and slipped so seamlessly into a life of opulence and glamour, forgetting where she had come from or what had gone before.
Ivy shoved the bag into the trashcan, forcing it down with her fists. Later, when it was discovered, they would know how clever she had been. In it lurked the disguise she’d worn, the orange T-shirt with its Burger Delite! logo emblazoned across the front…a whole person, just like that, folded away in a sack. She stared indifferently at the hands that would carry out this great execution. Wrists pale and brittle, like branches in winter; the fingers thin.
Only when the bullet entered would it be over. Only when that flawless skin was ruptured, that smile erased, that heartbeat frozen, one and the same as hers and yet a universe apart, would it be finished: one life in exchange for another.
A rapturous cry exploded. The show was beginning, the stage lit up to welcome the players, the kings and queens of twenty-first-century music, the alphas and the studs and the bitches and the beauties with their diamonds and their hundred-thousand-dollar gowns.
Ivy closed her eyes. The letters were emblazoned on her lids, bright as fire.
IF NOT VICTORY, REVENGE!
The curtain was up. And now it was show time.
PART 1
One year earlier
1
Robin Ryder was seeing stars, weightless and electrified as she flew towards the raging sun of her orgasm. Fuck the wardrobe her stylist had spent hours perfecting; fuck the producer’s countdown mere minutes away; fuck everything except this glorious, glittering fuck.
‘Does that feel good?’ the man breathed, gripping her waist and pulling in deeper. Robin, on top, ground against him; the slippery, yielding leather of the seat was soft and sticky beneath her knees, and she threw her head back to moan her reply.
Backstage in the VIP suite, ahead of a live Saturday night broadcast of The Launch, she was riding this guy like it was the last ride of her life. What she was doing was reckless, it was sinful, but Robin had never been able to play by the rules. She was a judge and he a contestant; it was all kinds of wrong and yet all kinds of right. RnB tunes filtered through the music system, and at the bar an empty magnum of Krug nestled on a bed of ice. As Robin held tight she decided she would definitely, oh definitely, be putting him through this week.
‘I’m there,’ she cried, ‘don’t stop, I’m there!’
‘Me too,’ the guy choked, driving in hard. ‘My God, you’re so fucking hot.’
The throne-like chair was a prop, used in the early audition stages: when a judge liked what they saw they hit a lever, prompting the seat to rush forward on a pair of rails. Thankfully for Robin the gimmick had been relegated backstage once the live nights began—she’d proved a hit during those first weeks where her inclination to back everybody had her getting motion sickness every ad break. After all, The Launch was where she herself had begun
: now she was the nation’s darling, drawn from obscurity, a rough diamond polished through song. Robin had risen to fame through the very show she was tonight judging.
The public loved Robin’s voice, raw and sensuous, somewhere between pain and deliverance. They loved how she wore her heart on her sleeve. They loved her guts, and her honesty. They loved her story—loved that she’d been hurt and wanted to seize her dues. Over twelve months Robin had soared to a dizzying stratosphere, invited to every party, on to every red carpet, booked for every event. Her gift was undeniable and her smile lit up a room.
‘Do you want it?’ the contestant was panting, his sweat-slicked six-pack glistening in the half-glow. ‘Right there, do you want it?’ He was this year’s favourite, tough guy with the voice of an angel—and a heavenly body to match.
She came in a crash, a bursting galaxy of dazzling confetti as she writhed on the brink of paradise. Sex was Robin’s release. It enabled her to feel that warmth, that closeness, without risk of being wounded. You got what you came for and you left. She didn’t get why people wanted to stick around afterwards anyway; she had never understood this sleeping-in-each-other’s-arms thing. She’d got this far alone and she didn’t need anyone else.
‘That was amazing,’ he groaned, cradling her, kissing her over and over as she gasped through the aftermath of her climax.
She had barely had time to fling a shirt over her nakedness when the door opened. Robin didn’t know which happened first: the contestant’s face dropping as fast as his pants had ten minutes earlier; or her attempt to dismount disastrously striking the switch that jolted the chair meteorquick towards their visitor like some sort of warped sacrificial offering.
‘Oh,’ said their caller, as Robin scrambled to conceal herself. Instead of a mortified exit (which would have been the polite thing), he stood there, an infuriating grin on his face.
Light flooded the room. ‘Shit, man,’ gabbled the contestant helpfully. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
‘Do you mind?’ she raged, so mortified she couldn’t bear to turn round.
‘Sure.’ She could hear the smirk in his voice. ‘Guess I’ll come back later.’
It was a miracle she made it through the show without punching him.
Leon Sway, Olympic sprinter, was guesting on tonight’s panel. Since the summer Games had decreed him a World Personality, the athlete was hotly in demand for every broadcast going. Leon was mixed race, with close-cut black hair, strong cheekbones and an all-over movie-star look: it was little wonder he had been gracing billboards across the globe with a ream of sponsorships and modelling contracts; and now here he was making a star appearance on the adjudicating Launch line-up—what the hell did he know about music?
‘I’ve been a fan of yours from the start,’ Robin told a quivering choirgirl after an impressive rendition of Adele. ‘That was a brilliant performance; I really felt it. Well done.’
‘Sure that’s not all you felt?’ came the murmur from her neighbour, just loud enough for her to hear. She tried not to scowl—either that or turn to Leon and chuck her glass of water in his face. It wasn’t in Robin’s nature to wish for the ground to open up and swallow her whole, but tonight had to be the exception. As the acts ran through their numbers and the board delivered their verdicts, she tried not to dwell on what parts of her anatomy might have been unveiled before they’d even been introduced—not easy with Leon’s supercilious bulk to her left, interspersed with a hot flash of shame every time she recalled his untimely intrusion.
‘Do you think she can win?’ asked a producer mogul who had been tagged as her rival on the show. ‘With those nerves I can’t see her pulling off any live gigs.’
‘This is a live gig, isn’t it?’ Robin snapped. She could sense Leon watching her. Why did he have to be such a smug, full-of-himself…? Ugh, she couldn’t even think of the word.
‘Well, yes…’
‘I absolutely believe in her,’ commented Robin, battling through her disgrace. ‘This is where I got my break and it took me time to grow, of course it did. If she were cutthroat at this point you’d be tearing her apart for being difficult to work with. Which is it going to be?’
The arena shouted its approval. Robin’s image filled the screens on either side of the stage, the people’s champion: she was petite, her hair chopped short but with a trademark sweep still long enough to obscure her eyes, which were cat-like and aglow with dramatic make-up. Hers was a cautious demeanour that belied the tough, attitude-fuelled work that had made her name: Robin’s music spoke of more years lived and more experiences earned, and had consequently secured her the first ever talent-show-spawned album to be nominated for—and win—a Brit Select Award. The victory had made Robin Ryder, at just nineteen, the hottest thing on the UK scene. She believed in putting everything into her art, the offering up of her heart and her soul, because for a long time she had imagined that both those things were damaged beyond being any use to anyone.
When the time came for that contestant to take the spotlight, she grimaced. Leon couldn’t resist fixing her with a stare throughout the entire introductory VT.
‘It wasn’t for me,’ he judged afterwards. ‘It kinda felt like you were distracted.’
‘I disagree,’ put in Robin. ‘For me it was a very focused, determined performance.’
Leon turned to her. ‘Are you complimenting his performance?’
The blush threatened to engulf her. ‘Sure,’ she managed, the double entendre squatting resolutely between them. ‘I am.’
‘Focused and determined—that’s how you like it, then?’
She returned his glare. ‘Who doesn’t?’
The host, confused, went to ask another panellist their view.
‘It seemed like he had something else on his mind,’ Leon steamed on before he could, ‘something more interesting than being up on that stage. Don’t you feel that’s an issue?’
‘Whatever drives him is fine by me,’ she replied stiffly, knowing that every word she uttered was laced in innuendo. ‘After all, what would a sprinter know about vocals?’
It was a cheap shot, she ought to know better, but humiliation had forced her into a corner. A blood-hungry cheer erupted and she could all but hear the producers salivating.
‘Well, he is the bookies’ favourite,’ supplied the mogul.
‘Not just the bookies’…right, Robin?’ Leon joked, a crescent-moon dimple appearing on one side of his all too slappable face. His insinuation was obvious. There was a horrible silence. Robin’s cheeks flamed. She tried to think of something to say and nothing came. She was so angry she could scream. This was live TV!
‘Excuse me?’ she spluttered.
But the presenter moved on, instructed to sever it at the point of maximum speculation.
Afterwards, everyone assured her that it hadn’t sounded that bad. Robin wasn’t stupid. It would be all over the papers tomorrow thanks to that insufferable bastard Leon Sway! The contestant looked hopefully at her as she fled: that was the end of him.
Her car took her straight to Soho’s Hideaway Club, where she found scant solace in ordering the strongest concoction she could find. Her band met her there.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said, before Polly, her bassist, had a chance.
Polly was American with a peroxide-blonde beehive. ‘All right,’ she said as they settled in a booth. ‘But just to say—’
‘Don’t say anything.’
‘It could have been worse.’
‘Could it?’
‘Did you screw him?’
Robin was aghast. ‘Who, Leon?’ she demanded, outraged at the thought.
‘No!’ Polly named the contestant. ‘Although Mr Sway, well, you have to admit—’
‘I’m warning you: don’t even go there.’ She downed the drink. ‘Anyway, what difference does it make? Everyone thinks I did, so I did. Isn’t that how it goes?’
Within minutes a tower of frosted glasses was deposited in front of them,
together with several giant bottles of part-frozen vodka. An accompanying note read:
Want a winner on your team?
Her manager Barney signalled across the space. ‘Hey, Robin, check out your secret admirers.’ Close to the neon-bulb-strewn bar, just decipherable through the low-lit shadows that gave way to pockets of absolute dark, Olympian Jax Jackson, officially the fastest man in the world, was partying with a harem of lovelies. Two Olympians in one day? Some luck that was. Jax raised a glass and Robin prayed he wouldn’t come over: thanks to Leon he probably thought it was a free-for-all.
‘If we accept these you don’t have to do anything in return, right?’ Matt, her drummer, was already pouring. He winked at Robin when she raised her middle finger. ‘What? Girls never buy me drinks; it’s not like I know the rules!’
Robin tossed back a syrupy shot, then a second, then a third. Polly threw her a glance and she matched it. What was wrong with having fun? She was young and free and famous, and didn’t need anyone to tell her she deserved a break.
‘What?’ she countered. ‘Aren’t we partying?’ Matt grabbed the second bottle and filled the glasses and everyone went in for a sticky collision before the liquid vanished.
‘Sure,’ said Polly, not sure at all. What Robin had gone through didn’t go away; you had to deal with it before you could move on, not get trashed till you forgot. ‘You earned it.’
‘Nah, we earned it,’ corrected Robin, putting one arm round Polly and one round her manager and pulling them close. ‘We’re family, aren’t we?’
Family.
Even as she said the word she could hear how hollow it sounded.
2
Five thousand miles away and several hundred feet above a Hollywood theatre, Kristin White and her boyfriend were making a surprise landing at the premiere of Lovestruck.