The A-List Collection. Victoria Fox

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СКАЧАТЬ shared with his wife, an overweight, unhappy-looking broad called Anna-May. The work was hard and unrewarding, but it was a roof over his head.

      Things became complicated when Anna-May started spilling her guts, confiding that Irvin hadn’t paid her that kind of attention in months.

      ‘He used to say I had the sweetest ass in the whole of the state,’ she’d slur, shoving her fat hands into a bag of chips. ‘Now he won’t even look at me.’

      At first Lester wished she’d shut the hell up, but as Anna-May’s drunken, rambling confessions took on a new light, things began to get interesting. It turned out that Anna-May was the only daughter, once young and beautiful, of a wealthy oil baron, but had been cast out of her family when they’d discovered her relationship with neighbourhood bad boy Irvin. In fact, Lester discovered, it was she who had financed Irvin’s bar, and she, despite her apparent indolence, who held complete control over their finances.

      Lester saw his way in. Sex. Anna-May didn’t get it any more–he could give it to her. It was the perfect transaction. Soon it transpired that Anna-May had never had a man go down on her, and, though it made bile rise in Lester’s throat every time, he grit his teeth and got to it. In only a matter of weeks Irvin was phased out of the marriage–and, with special indulgences from Lester, out of the bar. Lester stepped up as owner, choked back disgust in bed every night with a sweating, insatiable Anna-May, and had soon saved enough to make it on his own.

      Eighteen months later, Nelson Price–who, of course, despite Anna-May’s concentrated search efforts, did not exist–disappeared quietly into the night. Just in time, for Anna-May had started gabbing on about marriage, which was about as far away from his intentions as it was possible to get. Over the months his hunger for revenge had not waned–it was fiercer now than ever. He took as much cash and jewellery as he could and headed for New York. That was nearly eight years ago now.

      Some time after, downing shots in a bar on West 14^th Street, he had seen a face he recognised. She was in a low-budget TV drama about a woman who falls in love with her psychiatrist.

       Laura.

      A year later, his sister was starring in a sitcom you couldn’t walk down the street without seeing in a store window–one of the best-loved American shows of the last twenty years or some crap. Lester’s heart had turned to stone, hardened by the fist of his loathing. Was she still fucking her murderer boyfriend? He didn’t think she was. It wasn’t until months later that he found out about Robert St Louis and his hotel empire.

      They couldn’t run for ever from the fact of their crime: they had killed a man in cold blood and yet they just carried on like nothing had happened. Everybody did.

      It was tempting to bring them down then and there.

      America’s sweetheart, Laura was called. Ha. They wouldn’t be saying that if they knew she’d torched her own brother to death. But the voice he’d heard that night he’d left Big Carl’s was revealing its intent. Of course. They now had millions in the bank, more money than Lester could ever imagine–and he was entitled to every last dime. Oh yes, they had a very big score to settle.

      And then, just like that, the golden opportunity had arrived. It was perfect.

      Lester pushed himself up on to one arm and reached for the side, hauling himself to his feet. His cock still hurt from where that hooker had kicked him. He scratched at his balls, yawning, preparing for the day ahead.

      Every day he was preparing.

      This summer, in three months’ time, the premiere of Lana’s new movie was going to that bastard’s hotel. Lester kept track of every damn move those killers made.

      When he was done with them, there would be nothing left. No more Lana Falcon and no more Robert St Louis. Patience, at long last, would be rewarded.

      Vegas was going to be a glorious reunion.

51

       Los Angeles

      Kate diLaurentis lit a second candle, a slender, violet stalk set in silver, and stepped back to survey the table with satisfaction. There, perfect.

      She had spent all afternoon at the mansion preparing a sumptuous anniversary banquet for Jimmy, who was due home any moment. Nerves jangled. Tonight was important–it was the night she would steer her marriage back on track, and she knew what that meant doing. Anxiously she fiddled with the neck of her aquamarine satin dress, encouraging a little more chest to spill forth. Smoothing her blonde hair, held in a hard knot at the back of her head and drawing the skin up so tight it was verging on painful, she reminded herself that she had a very good reason to feel confident.

      This morning she had secured, albeit last minute, a role in George Roman’s new production. Her comeback was finally within reach–à la Demi and Courtney, she was about to make forty-something sexy again–and who better to be championed by than the man with the golden touch? He was even jetting her off to London to meet the rest of the cast.

      In celebration she had given her kitchen staff the night off–it couldn’t be that hard to cook a meal. She checked the lamb one more time. Who knew how long it took, but it had been in there practically all day so it must be done. Then she poured herself a glass of wine and waited for Jimmy to come home.

      Minutes later she heard the door go and her husband stumble into the hall. She balled her fists. He’d better not be drunk.

      ‘Hello, darling!’ she sang, sailing out to greet him and positioning her body to award him the best view of her legs, which were almost entirely visible where the dress split up one side. She was pleased to see he had only tripped over their son’s toy truck–hadn’t she told Su-Su to put that stupid thing away?–and appeared, at least, to be sober.

      ‘Hi,’ he said, clearly in a bad mood. He trudged past her, failing to take in her clinging dress or killer heels. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, helping himself to a beer from the refrigerator, ‘happy anniversary.’ He knocked the bottle open and swigged from it, before wiping his mouth with his shirtsleeve and burping gently. ‘Something smells good.’

      ‘It’s dinner,’ said Kate tightly, determined not to let his behaviour affect her evening.

      ‘You’re cooking?’ He went to laugh, realised she was serious and caught himself in time. When they’d first been married Kate had taken to the kitchen quite frequently–she’d explained she had never been allowed to when she was living with Cole; he insisted his staff did it all–and every meal she’d produced had been practically inedible. It had become, or at least it used to be, a standing joke between them.

      Instead he looked surprised. ‘Wow, OK. Thanks. Um …’ He spotted a vase of white roses on the side and plucked one from the water, hoping charm would win out. ‘Here you go.’

      It was inexcusable that he had failed to bring her a bouquet. Swallowing her disappointment, Kate took the rose from him and forced herself to smile.

      ‘Come on through,’ she purred, leading him out on to the candlelit terrace. The table was set beautifully in purple and vanilla linens–one thing Kate’s hostess skills did stretch to–with an elaborate, silver-leafed flower arrangement at its centre. Soft music played on the stereo.

      ‘This СКАЧАТЬ