The A-List Collection. Victoria Fox
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‘Just what in Christ’s name is wrong with you?’ demanded Cole, tugging off his tie.
It was midnight and they’d been shown to their suite after Elisabeth had enjoyed one too many celebration cocktails and fallen off her chair. Not terribly dignified, but at least she’d been having a good time–unlike his wife.
Fuck! Lana had been in a shitty mood ever since they’d arrived, hardly uttering a word through dinner. It was apparent that St Louis and his fiancée were extremely important people in this town–God only knew what conclusions they had drawn from Lana’s doomed expression. Cole and his wife were meant to be the happiest couple in Hollywood–if she’d forgotten that, she needed to get with the damn programme.
‘Nothing,’ said Lana blankly. She was sitting quietly on a chair, her hands in her lap. Mercifully their suite had separate sleeping quarters, but Cole was on a rampage and wouldn’t let her out of his sight until she’d accounted for her behaviour.
‘Is that all you can say?’ Cole shook his head in disgust.
‘All night you’ve been distracted, acting like I dragged you here against your will.’ He momentarily ran out of steam at the corner he’d walked into. Moving on, he stormed, ‘Even when they invited us to the wedding you couldn’t slap on a goddamn smile!’ He stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door.
A second later it opened again.
‘Don’t think I don’t know what this is about,’ he said.
Lana laughed humorlessly. ‘Sure.’
Cole walked towards her, a muscle twitching in his jaw. ‘Just what is that supposed to mean?’
‘Forget it.’
This was bad; he’d never seen her like this before. Their second argument in one day! Normally they wouldn’t talk this much in a week. He’d have to placate the situation before tomorrow–if she could at least perform at breakfast then perhaps they could salvage it.
He sat down opposite her. ‘I know you’re still upset about what happened this morning.’
She stayed quiet. Maybe she was ill.
‘I apologise for keeping you in the house,’ Cole said magnanimously. He closed his eyes as though it pained him. ‘There, it’s done. Now can you please throw off this childish sulk and concentrate on tomorrow.’
She frowned. ‘What’s happening tomorrow?’
‘I’d like us to breakfast with St Louis before we go,’ he said, glad she was finally engaging.
‘No,’ she cut in. ‘Please, Cole. I want to leave immediately in the morning.’
‘Why?’
She looked away. ‘I can’t explain. I’m tired. I just want to go … home.’
Cole’s anger was instantly dispelled. Lana had always refused to refer to the Beverly Hills mansion as her home–until now. If she was thinking of it in those terms, perhaps it would be easier to keep her than he thought.
As if on cue, his cell rang. It was Marty King.
‘Marty.’
‘Cole, hi. You’re in Vegas?’
‘Yeah. What is it?’ He got up and paced over to the window. He could see his wife reflected in the glass, her sad expression still in place.
‘Two things,’ said Marty, who sounded like he was eating. ‘First, I got you scheduled for an impromptu appearance next week at Castelli’s–thought you could throw a few shapes like you did at that fundraiser, get everyone dancing, y’know, like a spontaneous thing. Remind everyone what a great sense of humour you’ve got.’
Cole pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. ‘And second?’
‘And second …’ Marty was quiet a moment. ‘Is Lana there?’
Cole held the phone closer to his ear. ‘Go ahead.’
‘I’ve found a way to seal this deal,’ he said. ‘Lana’s yours, Cole. I can’t discuss it over the phone but come see me when you’re back and we’ll go through the plan.’
He kept his voice low. ‘This had better be good.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry, it is.’
Cole breathed an inward sigh of relief. Now all he had to do was get his wife smiling again. Fine, if it made her happy, they’d leave first thing.
‘I’ll be there,’ he said, snapping his cell shut. He watched Lana’s reflection in the glass. For a long time neither of them moved.
Days later, at the Vegas palace he called home, Frank Bernstein uncorked his finest bottle of vintage Krug with a great flourish. A twist of vapour escaped at the neck before it was emptied into a spread of waiting glasses.
‘What did I tell ya?’ he boomed, slapping Robert hard on the back. ‘I knew you’d do the right thing, son, I knew it all along.’ He raised his glass. ‘To the wedding!’
Robert smiled at Elisabeth as everyone lifted their crystal flutes-Bernstein, looking more leathery than usual after a business trip to Sicily; Christie Carmen, clad in a microscopic pair of silver hot pants; and Jessica, with lips slightly pursed, as usual, at her sister being the centre of attention.
‘Mr and Mrs St Louis,’ said Elisabeth, savouring the words as she took a drink.
Her father nodded, satisfied. Thank Christ this damn union was finally going ahead. He’d thought back in France they were cooling things off, taking their time. Not on his watch.
There was too much at stake. Elisabeth had to get down that aisle and not a moment too soon.
‘How long will this take?’ moaned Jessica, already thinking about her outfit for the New Year’s party she was attending that evening.
Ignoring her, Bernstein took Robert’s arm and they moved away from the women.
‘You know what this means, right, St Louis?’ At the window they stopped and he put a hand on the younger man’s back. ‘You and I got some talking t’do.’
Robert ran a hand through his dark hair. He was tired. ‘We have? ‘
‘The future,’ said Bernstein, lighting a Cuban and angling his body away from the girls. A curl of smoke escaped out the side of his mouth. ‘You got responsibilities now.’
‘I know my responsibilities, Bernstein.’
‘Damn right. An’ now I’m tellin’ you, you got some more. Capiche? ‘
‘I won’t be threatened.’ Robert kept his voice down. ‘You can tell your associates it’s not happening.’
‘Wake the hell up, kid. What makes you think you’re any cleaner than the rest of us?’
‘I told you, I’m not interested.’
‘Well, get interested.’ Bernstein’s eyes darted to his daughter. ‘Call it insurance. One of these days you’re gonna need someone t’watch your back, an’ Elisabeth’s, an’ the kids’.’ He leaned in. ‘You got a story I could wipe my ass on? Think about it, wise guy.’
Robert’s head snapped up. What did Bernstein know?
He was being paranoid. Christmas had been and gone since Lana’s visit, but still he couldn’t get her out of his head. Every night since he had replayed it and tried to find a different outcome. The bottom line was: he’d blown it.
Sleep had eluded him