Wicked Ambition

by Victoria Fox

  ‘Nice little photo op,’ she commented when they got inside. ‘Cheers for that.’

  ‘Pleasure.’

  She scowled as Leon put in their drinks order. He was so up himself!

  Their entrance caused a stir. G-Money fell into conversation with a group of star-struck teens before Slink gestured time out and they were roped into a VIP space.

  ‘What if I don’t like vodka?’ Robin asked as a glass of freezing cold liquid was deposited in front of her, a twist of lemon emerging from the top.

  ‘You were drinking it at the premiere,’ Leon answered.

  ‘Oh.’ He watched her until she looked away.

  The vodkas turned into shots. The music got louder. The alcohol kept coming. On one side of the booth she and Slink laid out their inspirations, the artists they had grown up with, and Robin had to bite her (by now loose) tongue from not going off on a rant about how he’d always been her number one. On the other G-Money and Leon were deep in conversation, gesturing earnestly and clinking their bottles as the room began to soften and seep, the lights blur, and Robin’s body tingle with the warm contentment of being at the exact right stage of drunk. Leon was closest to her and every so often she would feel the heat of his touch as his skin brushed hers. When he raised his arm to high-five Slink over a shared joke she caught his aroma, that clean, human scent, and didn’t object when his fingertips appeared on the small of her back, as if by accident, on the strip of bare skin between her jeans and her vest.

  ‘You know how to make a guy work,’ he murmured into her ear. It should have come off easy but when she turned into his green stare it was urgent with some unspoken message.

  ‘You’re giving up already?’ She couldn’t help it; she fancied him like mad. He was unbearably sexy. She didn’t care that she was flirting, finding any excuse to touch him.

  ‘I told you. I don’t quit.’

  She felt a twinge deep inside when she imagined having sex with him.

  They moved against each other to the music, almost touching but not quite, lights spinning and Robin’s blood humming with being happily wasted. At one point they were thrown together and Leon caught her waist, a hand on either side, and she found herself clasping his shoulders, solid as steel, and for a dizzying second not wanting to let go.

  It was two a.m. by the time they left the club. Leon took her hand in his as they negotiated a path to the exit and she saw the skin of sweat on the back of his neck, and noticed that when they got outside he didn’t release her fingers. She thought he might kiss her then but he didn’t.

  ‘Cold?’ he asked.

  ‘A bit.’

  He didn’t offer her his jacket. Instead he put his arms around her and rubbed her back very fast so that it felt like being tickled and she laughed.

  A car was waiting. It took them along the ocean edge, the water a sheet of ink, the moonlight casting a pale silver spill. A cluster of night surfers were catching the waves and Robin lowered the window so that she could breathe the fresh air. She was acutely aware of Leon’s thigh pressed against hers on the seat. She wanted him. God, she did.

  ‘Can we walk?’ If she didn’t put some distance between them she might faint, or be sick, or throw herself at him. Get a grip, Robin. She never lost it like this.

  ‘Sure.’ He asked the driver to stop. ‘We’re not far.’

  She wanted to go barefoot. The sand was cool under their soles. Leon carried her heels in one hand, dangling like a pair of hooked fish, his trainers in the other.

  It was quiet, their only soundtrack the waves lapping at the shore.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked. There was a tone to his voice that she hadn’t heard before, one of genuine enquiry, of concern. Warm ripples lapped at their ankles.

  ‘Sure.’

  He walked a little closer. ‘You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.’

  She snorted, making light of it. ‘What are you, my counsellor?’ But he didn’t share the joke. For a screwy second Robin was filled with the need to confide about her stalker—about the bunch of withered roses that had arrived where she was staying that very morning; about the phone calls; about the sense of being watched; about her fear that each attempt came from the same determined source, and that one day that source would catch up with her.

  But where would she stop? If she were to tell Leon about that, why not tell him about everything? No chance. All he could give her was sympathy, or pity, and she didn’t need either of those. Nothing bad had actually happened; just a few deviations that by coincidence had come at the same time. Other celebrities dealt with it—she would, too.

  She was glad when he asked: ‘What do you make of the guys?’

  ‘Slink’s awesome.’ Robin grinned. ‘They all are. Mostly.’

  ‘Mostly?’

  ‘Principal’s not my favourite.’

  ‘Mine neither. But I’m kinda drunk, so don’t hold me to it tomorrow.’

  The word tomorrow made her tummy flip.

  ‘You and G-Money get on well,’ she offered quickly. ‘It must be weird for you…’ She was blabbing; it was the alcohol. ‘I mean, don’t take offence—’

  ‘That means I’m definitely going to take offence.’

  ‘I’m guessing you don’t normally hang with people like them.’

  A pause. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You’re rich.’

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘I think you’re brought up nice.’

  ‘My mom did a good job.’ He was amused. ‘What are they “like”, anyway? Black? In case you didn’t notice, so am I.’

  ‘I’m not talking about race.’

  ‘What, then?’

  Robin struggled for the words, unsure of what she was trying to convey.

  ‘You seem so…I can’t describe it.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘Clean.’ She nodded. ‘You’re really…yeah, clean.’

  ‘Thanks. I take showers most weeks, if I remember.’

  The thought of him in the shower made her gulp. ‘I don’t mean that…’

  ‘Me and G, we’re from the same neighbourhood.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Sure. Mean streets of Compton, baby.’ He gave her a friendly nudge with his shoulder. ‘Why so surprised?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It just wasn’t how she’d imagined him.

  It started to rain. A rumble of thunder growled into the night.

  Robin stopped. ‘So I’ve got you wrong?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘First, if you think I’m clean you should see me after a sprint.’ The rain was coming down heavily, fast and wet, soaking their clothes. He didn’t seem to notice. ‘I’m sweaty and dirty because that’s what I get like when I want to win.’ For a heartbeat Leon imagined entrusting her with it—none of the stuff that was written about him on the internet but the stuff that came from his soul, the way he had loved his brother and still did with a blaze that would never dim, never die. But, he didn’t. ‘Second, what happened to not judging people? You think you’ve had my number from day one.’

  ‘That isn’t fair.’ Her top was sodden. ‘You brought that on yourself.’

  ‘And you overreacted. It was just a bit of banter.’

  ‘Don’t even go there. You were way out of line that night and you know it.’

  ‘It’s not like you gave me a chance to explain.’

  ‘I was just messing,’ she reminded him, quoting his defence. ‘I haven’t had a lot of practice with this fame stuff? Sounds lightweight to me.’

  Beads of water glowed off Leon’s skin. ‘I’m touched you remembered it verbatim. And that’s a nice American accent, by the way.’

  Robin released a cry of irritation and started off down the beach.

  In a flash he was with her, catching her arm.

  He could feel the heat of her stare. She was watching him intently, as though she could see right into his fibre. In the dark her eyes appeared larger, huge,
and he wasn’t sure if it was a trick or if her face was coming closer to his, but before Leon knew it his thumb was on her chin and he was kissing her. He fully expected her to pull away, and for a moment she was totally still, just letting herself be kissed, and then to his surprise she was kissing him back, her hands on the sides of his face, and he took those hands, so small in his, and held the fingers. Water drenched their skin, drips caught in their locked tongues caught in the wet of their kisses, and she tasted sweet and delicious and her mouth was cool. Instantly he was hard.

  They kissed all the way back to his Malibu apartment. The second they were inside she hauled off his T-shirt, running her hands across his chest, the muscle stiff beneath his hot, soft skin, a trail of hair vanishing into his jeans. In the bedroom he lowered her on to the sheets, wanting to kiss her and love her all over, the softness at her collarbone and her eyelashes and her hairline. He wanted to kiss her elbows and the backs of her knees.

  ‘I can’t have sex,’ she told him, a muffle against his shoulder.

  ‘OK.’ He went to kiss her again, not wanting to stop.

  ‘I mean I really can’t.’

  He half frowned, half smiled, and touched her nose with his. ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ve got my period,’ she said frankly.

  ‘I don’t care.’

  She looked up at him. ‘I do.’

  Leon kissed her softly, deeply. ‘All right.’

  All night he held her, and they kissed, kissing until their mouths ached, and talked about everything except the lost years: he about his burning ambition for gold; and she about her life that had got so mad that she barely recognised it any more. Leon waited for her to open up about her past but she didn’t, and because of that neither did he: Marlon, the crime against his family, none of it was mentioned. For now, to have her with him was enough.

  It was five a.m. the last time he looked, the ocean sighing contentedly beneath the window as he touched his lips to her closed eyes. After that they must have been asleep.

  Warm sunshine woke him. The bed was empty. Leon expected to hear the shower, but the only sound was of a neighbour calling his dog down on the beach and a warm breeze blowing through the palms. Nine o’clock. He touched the pillow next to his head.

  There was no note, nothing. Almost as if he’d dreamed her, Robin Ryder was gone.

  24

  Turquoise had been summoned to dinner with a visiting Donna Cameron and several VIPs who were staying at the Paradise Palms. On the terrace they were served cold champagne, succulent oysters and bright pink crab Thermidor. Conversation hummed in the air as steady as the tide and Turquoise, sun-kissed and wild-haired, wowed in a figure-clinging jade dress and heels. Ava had flown home, and fortunately Cosmo had another engagement.

  ‘Hello, movie star.’ Donna smiled, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Hollywood sure seems to be agreeing with you.’

  They caught up on banalities and Donna told her there had been a flurry of interest following the project’s announcement. True Match was the heady brew that only seldom came along. Would Turquoise be any good? Would Cosmo’s script carry water? Did Sam Lucas still have what it took? The haters waiting in the wings to tell everyone it was a joke were vastly outnumbered by the throngs of fans counting the days till the film’s release.

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Donna over dessert, ‘one of your dancers keeps hassling me for your whereabouts. He’s pretty committed. Bronx Riley?’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Since your location’s under wraps I couldn’t give him details.’ Donna looked at her quizzically. ‘Judging by your expression I did the right thing.’

  Turquoise waved away the suggestion they had a connection. ‘I’m too busy right now to deal with Bronx. It was a fling, it doesn’t mean anything.’ Even so the mention of his name tugged something loose in her chest. She quashed it. Since accepting the Cosmo project she had been ignoring Bronx’s calls, deleting his voicemails. How could she see him, speak to him, anything, when she was spending her days re-enacting her very worst secrets? If there had ever been a chance at a future between them, now it was over.

  She didn’t normally disclose details of her personal life and Donna was taken aback. ‘As I thought,’ she said, swiftly changing the subject.

  As Donna went on about movie openings already in the pipeline, Turquoise saw a flash of blonde disappearing inside the hotel lobby. Pop starlet Kristin White was staying at the hotel, though by all accounts was keeping a conscientiously low profile. Was Kristin doing rehab? It was the only explanation she could think of. Though Turquoise couldn’t imagine Kristin or her squeaky-clean boyfriend Scotty Valentine staying out past midnight, let alone getting involved in the hard stuff. Ava had met Kristin several times through her work on Lovestruck and had always said she was friendly.

  The meal wrapped early and Donna, inebriated, gushed about Turquoise’s burgeoning opportunities before excusing herself to go to bed. Under radically different circumstances Turquoise might have shared her enthusiasm, but as it was she couldn’t wait to be alone.

  She had a plan to draw together.

  Returning to her suite, she was thankful for the deserted hotel corridors. The champagne had made her head fizzy and tired; cushion enough to protect her from the harsh reality of filming resuming first thing. At least they would soon be off this island and some semblance of normal life could resume. Being cut adrift on this location made her feel as if she were going crazy, as if everything she had achieved back in LA were an illusion and when she went back Cosmo would be standing atop the rubble of her mansion and laughing wickedly.

  You thought all this was real? Wake up, sugar, you still belong to me…

  She wondered what had dragged Cosmo away from the evening’s festivities—it wasn’t like him to relinquish a chance to make her squirm, and with Ava out of the way he’d have had free rein. Turquoise pictured him in his penthouse (Cosmo demanded one of seven rooftop apartments, typically occupied by Russian oligarchs or Texan oil barons), busy scheming his next ploy. If only she had the courage to expose him for what he was! She’d thought about it so many times, all the possible outcomes and what they would mean, but the facts remained the same: even if she told the truth, even if she revealed Cosmo Angelopoulos in all his wretched glory and confessed to the terrible death they had concealed, even then, even if everyone felt for her and said it wasn’t her fault and what else was she supposed to have done, even then, her life, her career and all she had battled for would be ruined, if not by being branded a criminal then by being branded a whore.

  The abuse of her body was not a charge Turquoise was willing to answer ever again. She had paid at the highest level—with her pride, her dignity, her ability to meet herself in the mirror and hold her head high—over the majority of her young life, and she could not accept having to surrender her adulthood to the same. Why should she? None of it had been her choosing, she had been used and exploited in the worst way, and uncovering Cosmo meant uncovering herself. They would pity her. She’d had enough of being pitied.

  ‘Mr Angel, no! You’re such a naughty boy!’

  As she rounded the corner to her suite she heard a woman’s excited squeal, pursued seconds later by another. Next the giggles chimed together and a group came into view.

  Turquoise backed against the wall and listened. Opposite her was a mirror that looked down the hall and in its reflection she could detect Cosmo’s arrogant swagger as the party swayed drunkenly towards the bank of elevators. There were five girls in all, and she saw that they were young—the oldest couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Bare flesh peeped through their scant clothing and their eyes were glassy. Cosmo pushed one hard against the wall and roughly fondled her breasts. He snarled something at them and then two of the others were kissing, and when they stopped he slapped them gently across the cheek.

  The elevator came and they stepped inside. Turquoise held her breath as Cosmo paused to throw a glance in her direction, but all he met was his ow
n image. A hand reached out, seized his tie and pulled him inside, and the doors closed with a soft hush.

  Turquoise stayed where she was, afraid that if she moved the approaching idea would slip through her fingers like water. To begin with it was faint, without shape or centre, then, imagining what Cosmo was doing with his women up in his invincible castle, she smiled.

  Cosmo Angel was over. It was obvious what she had to do.

  She received word from Donna late Friday night that they were expected to be on the Greek island of Crete the following week. Sam had been scheduled to shoot the New York scenes but Cosmo had changed his mind after a favourable weather report from Europe. On this project, at least, his word was law.

  Crete was where Cosmo Angelopoulos had grown up. It stood to reason that he would want to incorporate it into his bizarre autobiopic, if for nothing else than to crash the modest village where he had struggled at school and caused trouble for the locals and kicked stray dogs in the street, all to stick them the bird and say, Look who made it, suckers!

  The change meant that Turquoise was forced to cancel a performance at a friend’s wedding, a promise that had been in the diary for months. Since it wasn’t a ‘legit commitment’ (Donna’s words) it got dismissed the instant that Cosmo issued instructions.

  Early Monday they were shooting on the south of the island, close to the foot of the Samaria Gorge. Cast and crew were being put up in the finest air-conned luxury that Chania, on the north coast, had to offer, but down here it was sweltering. The land was arid and it was unseasonably hot, a cluster of brittle shrubs perishing in the heat. Tavernas were packed with hopeful fans, and the area Sam had cordoned off for the shoot provided limited shade. A rocky Libyan sea heaved behind them, rendering scant breeze.

  ‘This is my home,’ Cosmo choked, posturing against a rock as Sam’s camera swung to capture his pained expression. ‘It’s the only place I belong…’ His character was repenting his ways, trying to find his true self by returning to his roots.