Hollywood Wives

( 15 )

Overview

They lunch at Ma Maison and the Bistro on salads and hot gossip. They cruise Rodeo Drive in their Mercedes and Rolls, turning shopping at Giorgio and Gucci into an art form. They pursue the body beautiful at the Workout and Body Asylum.
Dressed by St. Laurent and Galanos, they dine at the latest restaurants on the rise and fall of one another's fortunes. They are the Hollywood Wives, a privileged breed of ...

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Overview

They lunch at Ma Maison and the Bistro on salads and hot gossip. They cruise Rodeo Drive in their Mercedes and Rolls, turning shopping at Giorgio and Gucci into an art form. They pursue the body beautiful at the Workout and Body Asylum.
Dressed by St. Laurent and Galanos, they dine at the latest restaurants on the rise and fall of one another's fortunes. They are the Hollywood Wives, a privileged breed of women whose ticket to ride is a famous husband.
Hollywood. At its most flamboyant.

Like the original "Hollywood Wives", the new breed will shock and surprise, amuse and startle, taking readers on a trip they will not soon forget.

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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
The Barnes & Noble Review
Jackie Collins turned Hollywood-style decadence into an art form with her bestselling novel Hollywood Wives. Now Collins offers a highly anticipated encore performance, treating readers to a whole new generation of Hollywood women -- women driven by fame, fortune, love, and lust in a culture that thrives on glitz, glamour, and greed.

Singer and actress Lisse Roman seems to have it all -- beauty, brains, wealth, and success -- at least until her fourth marriage falls apart. Things get worse when Lisse’s 19-year-old daughter, Nicci -- about to marry a man she’s not sure she loves -- becomes the target of a ruthless kidnapper. Then there’s Taylor, a onetime actress who is married to Lawrence Singer, one of Hollywood’s most respected and influential producers. Yet despite being a power wife in Tinseltown, Taylor can’t get her own script produced. Nor can she seem to resist the charms of the young buck whose skills in the sack mirror his skills as a scriptwriter. Rounding out the players are a P.I. who has the hots for Lisse, twin brothers who are movie-producing geniuses and in competition for Nicci’s affections, and a host of ex-husbands, ex-lovers, and assorted sideline conspirators.

Collins cheerfully explores the heights of success and the depths of depravity, ratcheting up the suspense with plenty of blind ambition, powermongering, scandalous sex, and scintillating schemes. Literary it’s not; but if you’re looking for a few hours of entertainment, this read is one heck of a lot of fun. (Beth Amos)

Judy Bass
The novel is crammed with beautiful people scheming to advance themselves. No detail of their designer clothes or Rolls- Royces has been omitted, but Miss Collins is at her raunchy best when describing the collisions between rivals at parties or in bedrooms. She also excels at pacing her narrative, which races forward, mirroring the frenetic lives chronicled here with wit. -- New York Times
Gale Research
Although many reviewers dismiss Collins's novels as tasteless and excessive, others, such as Leola Floren in the Detroit News, feel that the books do contain some valuable insights. Floren's review of Hollywood Wives states: "It would be easy to self-righteously label this book trashy and worthless--but it's not entirely either. Jackie Collins has a talent for titillation and a knack for wooing the most reluctant of readers into a plot that spends 15 percent of the time peeking at people in the sack and the other 85 percent daydreaming about it."
Library Journal
Almost 20 years ago Collins wrote the best-selling Hollywood Wives, a racy look at Tinseltown's rich and famous that later became a miniseries starring Anthony Hopkins and Candice Bergen. Those wives, living in the shadows of their famous husbands, spent their days shopping on Rodeo Drive and lunching at the trendiest restaurants. While the new generation still indulges in the occasional shopping spree and lunch out, these wives now have careers of their own. Lissa Roman, an ber-famous, 40-year-old actress/singer, is getting ready to ditch her fourth cheating husband, while her 19-year-old daughter, Nicci, prepares for her upcoming wedding to a famous film producer. Lissa's best girlfriend, B-movie actress Taylor Singer, is married to Hollywood's top director but can't resist sleeping with a 22-year-old screenwriter. When Nicci is kidnapped and held for ransom, it's a good thing that Lissa is now sleeping with her bodyguard, a private detective and ex-cop. Narrator Michael Brandon offers a strong performance, trying to inject as much drama as possible into this typical Collins melodrama, but, unfortunately, he doesn't have much with which to work. Public libraries should purchase only to satisfy demand.-Beth Farrell, Portage Cty. Dist. Lib., OH Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
The usual mixed bag of vixens, sexy louts, and a hardworking star or two from Collins (Lethal Seduction), on familiar territory in la-la land once more. Lissa Roman, singer and movie actress, is still gorgeous at 40, but she has to work at it. Too bad her pesky offspring, Nicci, is now old enough to actually be engaged. What's next? Grandchildren? Perish the thought and get me my agent—who lands Lissa a fabulous gig opening a lavish new Las Vegas hotel. It's a welcome distraction from her restless fourth husband, Gregg, part-time philanderer and full-time bodybuilding egotist. He's so Hollywood—Lissa rues the day she married him. Well, perhaps her darling daughter will settle down with that hot young director, Evan Richter, and find happiness. Instead, Nicci finds she's wildly attracted to Evan's bad-boy twin, Brian. Will she stay faithful, or bed the naughty brother before her bachelorette party? And should she tell that weird guy in the stocking mask who just knocked on her door to go away? Decisions, decisions. Taylor Singer, a sometime actress married to a famous director who bores her in bed, has a few decisions of her own to make. Should she say yes to Montana, the bisexual woman director who wants her to play a leading role in a lesbian love story? Should she say no to Oliver Rock, the skanky but sexy young screenwriter who just sold his first opus for a million bucks? Getting back to the heroine: Lissa has the hots for Michael Scorsinni, the obligatory macho Italian cop and official Real Person in this hackneyed plot. Will he get the goods on cheating Gregg? And will Lissa let him out of bed long enough to save the life of her kidnapped daughter? Collinsresolves these and many other questions at breakneck pace, with her inimitable touch of crass evident throughout. Happiness awaits schlock connoisseurs and uncritical fans alike.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780671704599
  • Publisher: Pocket Books
  • Publication date: 8/1/1987
  • Series: Hollywood Series
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Edition description: Reissue
  • Pages: 560
  • Sales rank: 364,973
  • Product dimensions: 6.72 (w) x 10.88 (h) x 0.93 (d)

Meet the Author

Jackie Collins

There have been many imitators, but only Jackie Collins can tell you what really goes on in the fastest lane of all. From Beverly Hills bedrooms to a raunchy prowl along the streets of Hollywood; from glittering rock parties and concerts to stretch limos and the mansions of power brokers—Jackie Collins chronicles the real truth from the inside looking out.

Jackie Collins has been called a “raunchy moralist” by the late director Louis Malle and “Hollywood’s own Marcel Proust” by Vanity Fair magazine. With more than 500 million copies of her books sold in more than forty countries, and with some twenty-seven New York Times bestsellers to her credit, Jackie Collins is one of the world’s top-selling novelists. She is known for giving her readers an unrivalled insider’s knowledge of Hollywood and the glamorous lives and loves of the rich, famous, and infamous. “I write about real people in disguise,” she says. “If anything, my characters are toned down—the truth is much more bizarre.”

Visit Jackie’s website www.jackiecollins.com, and follow her on Twitter at www.twitter.com/JackieJCollins, Facebook at www.facebook.com/jackiecollins and Pinterest at www.pinterest.com/jackiejcollins.

Biography

Louis Malle may have branded Jackie Collins a "raunchy moralist," but it wasn't her sense of ethical propriety that had her in a snit when Kenneth Starr dutifully reported to the nation the details of the pseudo-coupling between Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. It was her literary pride. "Everybody said that the Monica Lewinsky stuff in the Starr report was like a Jackie Collins book," she told the Chicago Tribune in 2001, "but if I'd written it, the sex would have been better."

Unquestionably. Jacqueline Susann may be the Emily Bronte of the naughty bits, but Collins is surely Charlotte, having filled her books to the rim with skin since her first novel The World Is Full of Married Men appeared in 1968. Since then, there has been a string of sexy Hollywood moguls, sexy models, sexy wives of Hollywood moguls, sexy divorcées and sexy children of Hollywood moguls in such titles as Chances, Lucky and Throb as well as The Bitch and The Stud (both made into movies starring big sister Joan).

The critics, when they take notice at all, tend to sniff. ("While no one expects Lady Boss to be a literary banquet, certainly a yummy little snack is in order" is about the best to expect from The New York Times.) But those who can look past the satin sheets and champagne flutes see more going on in the Collins canon. Hers is a dissection of the vacuous, viperish entertainment class hiding behind designer sunglasses in Los Angeles. Vanity Fair called her "Hollywood's own Marcel Proust.” The Advocate hinted that she might be the Charles Dickens of Beverly Hills. And Joe Queenan, a Hollywood player himself, said Collins's 1993 novel American Star was nothing less than a lament of the American family's demise.

"It would be easy to self-righteously label this book trashy and worthless -- but it's not entirely either," the Detroit News wrote in a review of Collins's 1983 novel Hollywood Wives. "Jackie Collins has a talent for titillation and a knack for wooing the most reluctant of readers into a plot that spends 15 percent of the time peeking at people in the sack and the other 85 percent daydreaming about it. Deliberately or not, she speaks eloquently of emptiness through the lives of people who would seem to have everything: French poodles, Mexican maids, American Express."

And Judy Bass wrote in the Los Angeles Times that Collins's gimlet eye for detail is what makes her novels such a gas: "Collins caricatures the life styles of the rich and famous with devastating accuracy. She spoofs every nuance of their attire, speech and relationships, never allowing tedium or predictability to dilute the reader's fun."

There are a number of recurring characters in Collins's books, though none better known than Lucky Santangelo, the sexy (natch) film studio owner who has appeared in Lucky, Lady Boss, Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge and Dangerous Kiss. The Lucky series bring together all the required ingredients of a Collins cocktail: the rich and famous, the shifty Hollywood shenanigans, scheming opportunists and a bug-on-the-wall vantage point of every -- or every other -- bedroom in the 90210 zip code.

Time once wrote of a Collins novel that it allowed the reader the rare opportunity to watch adverbs mate. Of course. There's a high art to the lowbrow. The Village Voice, writing in 2000, understood that: "The beauty of the trashy novel is twofold: It's a lightning-quick read, and you can howl in smug superiority as you turn the pages. Lethal Seduction, the latest from well-appointed and leopard-print-swathed Queen of Trash Jackie Collins, is a prime example of page-turning, literary-hauteur-stoking fun."

But it might have been People, reviewing Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge, that most succinctly summed up the contradictory seductiveness of the Jackie Collins novel: "embarrassing to pick up, impossible to put down."

Good To Know

Collins makes a mean meatloaf. "It's the herbs and spices," she told Biography magazine, "and my essence."

Collins spends about a year writing each novel, and does so entirely in longhand.

She eschews the stodgy demands of grammar. "I don't basically understand grammar," she is quoted as saying in Contemporary Popular Writers. "I call myself a street writer. I write purely by instinct. I've decided people don't speak in grammatical conversations.... The important thing is I get people into the bookstores who probably wouldn't be there otherwise."

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    1. Also Known As:
      Jacqueline Jill Collins (full name)
    2. Hometown:
      Los Angeles, California
    1. Date of Birth:
      October 4, 1941
    2. Place of Birth:
      London, England

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One:

Elaine Conti awoke in her luxurious bed in her luxurious Beverly Hills
mansion, pressed a button to open the electrically controlled drapes, and was
confronted by the sight of a young man clad in a white T-shirt and dirty jeans
pissing a perfect arc into her mosaic-tiled swimming pool.

She struggled to situp, buzzing for Lina, her Mexican maid, and at the same
time flinging on a marahou-trimmed silk robe and pressing her feet into dusty
pink mules.

The young man completed his task, zipped up his jeans, and strolled casually
out of view.

"Lina!" Elaine screamed. "Where are you?"

The maid appeared, inscrutable, calm, oblivious to her mistress's screams.

"There's an intruder out by the pool," Elaine snapped excitedly. "Get Miguel.
Call the police. And make sure all the doors are locked."

Unperturbed, Lina began to collect the debris of clutter frorn Elaine's bedside
table. Dirty Kleenex, a half-finished glass of wine, a rifled box of
chocolates.

"Lina!" Elaine yelled.

"No get excited, senora," the maid said stoically. "No intruder. Just boy
Miguel sent to do pool. Miguel sick. No come this week."

Elaine flushed angrily. "Why the hell didn't you tell me before?" She flung
herself into her bathroom, slamming the door so hard that a framed print sprang
off the wall and crashed to the floor, the glass shattering. Stupid maid.
Dumb-ass woman. It was impossible to get good help anymore. They came. They
went. They did not give a damn if you were raped and ravaged in your own
home.

And this would have to happen while Ross was away on location. Miguel
would never have dared to pretend to be sick if Ross was in town.

Elaine flung off her robe, slipped out of her nightgown, and stepped under the
invigorating sharpness of an ice-cold shower. She gritted her teeth. Cold water
was best for the skin, tightened everything up. And, God knew, even with the
gym and the yoga and the modern-dance class it still all needed tightening.

Not that she was fat. No way. Not a surplus ounce of flesh on her entire body.
Pretty good for thirty-nine years of age.

When I was thirteen I was the fattest girl in school. Etta the Elephant they
called me. And I deserved the nickname. Only how could a kid of thirteen know
about nutrition and diet and exercise and all that stuff? How could a kid of
thirteen help it when Grandma Steinberg stuffed her with cakes and latkes, lox
and bagels, strudel and chicken dumplings?

Elaine smiled grimly. Etta the Elephant, late of the Bronx, had shown them all.
Etta the Elephant, former secretary in New York City, was now slim and svelte.
She was called Elaine Conti, and lived in a six-bedroomed, seven-bathroomed,
goddam Beverly Hills palace. On the flats, too. Not stuck up in the hills or
all the way over in Brentwood. On the flats. Prime real estate.

Etta the Elephant no longer had a sharp nose, mousy hair, gapped teeth,
wire-rimmed glasses, and flat tits.

Over the years she had changed. The nose was now retrousse, cute. A perfect
Brooke Shields, in fact. The mousy hair was a rich brown, cut short and tipped
with golden streaks. Her skin was alabaster white and smooth, thanks to regular
facials. Her teeth were capped. White and even. A credit to Charlie's
Angels.
The unbecoming glasses had long been replaced with soft blue
contact lenses, without them her eyes were slate-gray and she had to squint to
read. Not that she did a lot of reading. Magazines, of course. Vogue,
People, Us.

She skimmed the trades, Variety and The Hollywood Reporter,
concentrating on Army Archerd and Hank Grant. She devoured Women's Wear
Daily
and Beverly Hills People, but was not really into what she
termed hard news. The day Ronald Reagan was elected President was the only day
she gave a passing thought to politics. If Ronald Reagan could do it, how about
Ross?

The tits, while nowhere near the Raquel Welch class, were a perfect 36B, thanks
to the ministrations of her first husband, Dr. John Saltwood. They stuck
defiantly forward; no pull of gravity would ever harm them. And if it
did, well, back to good old Johnny. She had found him in New York, wasting
himself doing plastic surgery for a city hospital. They met at a party and she
recognized a plain lonely man not unlike herself. They married a month later,
and she had her nose and tits fixed within the year. Then she talked him into
going to Beverly Hills and setting up in private practice.

Three years later he was the tit man, and she had divorced him and
become Mrs. Ross Conti. Funny how things worked out.

Ross Conti. Husband. Movie star. First-class shit.

And she should know. After all, they had been married ten long years and it
hadn't all been easy and it wasn't getting any easier and she knew things about
Ross Conti that would curl the toes of the little old ladies who still loved
him because after all he was hitting fifty and his fans were not exactly
teenagers and as each year crept by it was getting more and more difficult and,
God knew, financially things were not as good as they had been and each film
could be his last and . . .

"Senora." Lina hammered on the bathroom door. "The boy, he go now. He want
pay."

Elaine stepped out of the shower. She was outraged. He wanted paying — for what?
Pissing in her pool?

She wrapped herself in a fluffy terry-cloth robe and opened the bathroom door.
"Tell him," she said grandly, "to piss off. "

Lina stared blankly. "Twenny dollar, Meesus Conti. He do it again in three
day."

Ross Conti swore silently to himself. Jesus H. Christ. What was happening to
him? He couldn't remember his frigging lines. Eight takes and still he was
screwing up.

"Just take it easy, Ross," said the director calmly, placing a condescending
hand on his shoulder.

Some frigging director. Twenty-three if he's a day. Hair hanging down
his back like a witch at Halloween. Levi's so tight the outline of his schlong
is like a frigging beacon.

Ross shook the offending hand off. "T'm taking it easy. It's the crowd — they
keep distracting me.

"Sure," soothed Chip, signaling to the first assistant. "Calm them down for
chrissakes, they're background — not auditioning for Chorus Line."

The first assistant nodded, then made an announcement through his
loudspeaker.

"Ready to go again?" asked Chip. Ross nodded, The director tunned to a
suntanned blonde. "Again, Sharon. Sorry, babe."

Ross burned. Sorry, babe. What the little prick really means is sorry, babe,
but we gotta humor this old fart because he used to be the biggest thing in
Hollywood.

Sharon smiled. "Right on, Chip."

Sure. Right on Chip. We'll humor the old schmuck. My mother used to love
him. She saw all his movies. Creamed her panties every time.

"Makeup," Ross demanded, then added, his voice heavy with sarcasm, "That's if
nobody minds."

"Of course not. Anything you want."

Yeah. Anything I want. Because this so-called hotshot needs Ross Conti in
his film. Ross Conti means plenty at the box office. Who would line up to see
Sharon Richman? Who has even heard of her except a couple million television
freaks who tune in to see some schlock program about girl water-ski
instructors? Glossy crap. Sharon Richman — a hank of hair and a mouthful of
teeth. I wouldn't even screw her if she crawled to my trailer on her hands and
knees and begged for it. Well, maybe if she begged.

The makeup girl attended to his needs. Now, she was all right. She
knew who the star was on this picture. Busily she fussed around him,
blotting out the shine of sweat around his nose with an outsize powder puff,
touching up his eyebrows with a small comb.

He gave her a perfunctory pinch on the ass. She smiled appreciatively. Come
to my trailer later, baby, and I'll show you how to give a star head.

"Right," said Chip the creep. "Are we ready, Ross?"

We are ready, asshole. He nodded.

"Okay. Let's go, then."

The scene began all right. It was a simple bit of business which involved Ross
saying three lines to Sharon's six, then strolling nonchalantly out of shot.
The trouble was Sharon. She stared blankly, making him blow his second line
every time. Bitch. She's doing it purposely. Trying to make me look
bad.

"Jesus H. Christ!" Chip finally exploded. "It's not the fucking soliloquy from
Hamlet."

Right. That's it. Talking to me like some nothing bit player. Ross
turned and stalked from the location without a backward glance.

Chip grimaced at Sharon. "That's what happens when you're dealing with no
talent."

"My mommy used to love him," she simpered.

"Then your mommy is an even bigger moron than her daughter."

She giggled. Chip's insults did not bother her. In bed she had him under
control, and that was where it really mattered.

Elaine Conti drove her pale-blue Mercedes slowly down La Cienega Boulevard. She
drove slowly so as not to spoil her nails, which she had just had done at a
sensational new nail clinic called the Nail Kiss of Life. Wonderful place, they
had wrapped her broken thumbnail so well that even she couldn't tell.
Elaine loved discovering new places; it gave her a tiny shot of power. She
pushed in a Streisand tape and wondered, as she bad wondered countless times
before, why dear Barbra had never had her nose fixed. In a town so dedicated to
the perfect face . . . and God knew she had the money. Still, it certainly had
not harmed her career — nor her love life, for that matter.

Elaine frowned and thought about her own love life. Ross hadn't ventured near
her in months. Bastard. Just because he didn't feel in the mood.

Elaine had indulged in two affairs during the course of her marriage. Both of
them unsatisfactory. She hated affairs, they were so time-consuming . The highs
and the lows . The ups and the downs. Was it all worth it? She had decided no,
but now she was beginning to wonder.

The last one had laken place over two years ago. She blushed when she thought
about it. What absurd risks she had taken. And with a man who could do her
absolutely no good at all except fix her teeth, and they were already perfect.
Milton Langley, her dentist — and probably everyone else's with money in
Beverly Hills. How indiscreet of her to have picked him. But really he had
picked her. He had sent his nurse scurrying off on an errand one day, climbed
aboard the chair, and made fast and furious love to her. She remembered the day
well, because he had climaxed all over her new Sonia Rykiel skirt.

Elaine giggled aloud at the thought, although she hadn't giggled at the time.
Milton had poured mouthwash over the damaged garment, and, when his nurse
returned, sent her over to Saks to purchase a replacement. After that they had
met twice a week in some dreadful motel on Santa Monica for two hot months. One
day Elaine had just decided not to go. End of that little episode.

The other one wasn't even worth thinking about. An actor on one of Ross's
films. She had slept with him twice and regretted both times.

Whenever she mentioned their lack of a sex life to Ross he flew into a rage.
"What the frig do you think I am? A machine? I'll get it up when I want to-not
just because you've read some crap sex magazine that says you should have ten
orgasms a day."

Ha! She was lucky if she got ten a year. If it hadn't been for her trusty
vibrator she would have been climbing walls.

Maybe his erection would return if the movie he was doing turned out to be a
hit.

Yes. That was what Ross needed — a massive shot of success would be good for
both of them. There was nothing like success for putting the hard-on back in a
man's life.

Carefully she made a left on Melrose. Lunch at Ma Maison was a must on Fridays.
Anybody who was anybody and in town invariably showed up. Elaine had a
permanent booking.

Patrick Terrail, the owner of Ma Maison, greeted her at the entrance to the
small outdoor restaurant. She accepted a kiss on each cheek and followed a
waiter to her table, keeping an eagle eye out for anyone she should
acknowledge.

Maralee Gray, one of her closest friends, was already waiting. She nursed a
spritzer and a sour expression. At thirty-seven Maralee maintained more than a shadow of her past prettiness. In her time
she had been voted the most popular girl in high school and Miss Hot Rod
1960. That was before she had met, married, and divorced Neil Gray, the film
director. Her father, now retired, owned Sanderson Studios. Money had never
been Maralee's problem. Only men.

"Darling. I'm not late, am I?" Elaine asked anxiously, brushing cheeks with her
friend.

"Not at all. I think I was early." They exchanged you-look-wonderfuls,
admired each other's outfit, and cast their eyes around the restaurant.

"And how's Ross making out on location?" Maralee asked, extracting a long black
cigarillo from a wafer-thin gold case.

"You know Ross-he makes out wherever he is."

They both laughed. Ross's reputation as a cocksman was an old Hollywood
joke.

"Actually he hates everything," she confided. "The script, the director, the
crew, the food, the climate — the whole bug-ridden setup, as he so charmingly
puts it. But Maralee, believe me" — she leaned confidentially toward her
friend — "he's going to be dynamite in this movie. The old Ross
Conti-full-force."

"I can believe it;" Maralee murmured. "I've never counted him out, you know
that."

Elaine nodded. Maralee was a true friend, and there weren't many of them
around. In Hollywood you were only as hot as your last hit — and it had been a
long time between hits.

"I'm going to have my eyes done," Maralee announced dramatically. "I'm only
telling you, and you mustn't mention it to a soul."

"As if I would!" Elaine replied, quite affronted. "Who's doing it?"

"The Palm Springs connection. I'll spend a couple of weeks there — after all,
I have the house. Then I'll come back and nobody will know the difference.
They'll just think I was vacationing."

"Wonderful idea," Elaine said. Was Maralee stupid or what? Nobody took a
vacation in Palm Springs, even if they did have a house there. They either
weekended or retired. "When?" she asked, her eyes flicking restlessly round the
restaurant.

"As soon as possible. Next week if he can fit me in."

They both stopped talking to observe the entrance of Sylvester Stallone. Elaine
threw him a perfunctory wave, but he did not appear to notice her. "Probably
needs glasses," she sniffed.

"I met him at a party only last week."

Maralee produced a small gold compact and inspected her face. "He won't last,"
ardshe remarked dismissively, removing a smudge of lipstick from her teeth. "Let's
face it, Clark Gable he's not."

"Oh yeah, that's it... don't stop... don't ever stop. Oh yeah, yeah
. . . just keep on going, sweetheart, keep right on going."

Ross Conti listened to the words pouring from his mouth and wondered how many
times he had uttered them before. Plenty. That was for sure.

On her knees, Stella, the makeup girl, worked diligently on his weak erection.
She sucked him as if he were a water pump. Her technique could do with some
improvement. But then, in his time, Ross had had some of the best little
cocksuckers in the business. Starlets, whose very livelihood depended on doing
a good job. Hookers, who specialized. Bored Beverly Hills housewives who had
elevated cocksucking to an art.

He felt his erection begin to deflate, and he dug his fingers hard into the
girl's scalp. She yelped with pain and stopped what she was doing.

He wasn't sorry. Ouick as a flash he tucked himself out of sight and firmly
zipped up. "That was great!"

She stared at him in amazement. "But you didn't come."

He could hardly lie. "Sometimes it's better this way," he mumbled mysteriously,
reaching for a bottle of tequila on the side table in his hotel room.

"It is?" She continued to stare.

"Sure. Keeps all the juices inside. Keeps me buzzing. That's the way I like it
when I'm working." If she believed that she'd believe anything.

"I think I know what you mean," she began enthusiastically. "Sort of like a
boxer before a fight — mustn't release that precious energy. You've got to
make it work for you."

"Right! You got it!" He smiled, took a slug of tequila from the bottle, and
wished she would go.

"Would you like me to... do anything?" she asked expectantly, hoping that he
would want her to undress and stay.

"There's a million things I'd like you to do," he replied. "But the star has
got to get some sleep. You understand, don't you?"

"Of course, Mr. Con — Ross."

He hadn't said she could call him by his first name. Mr. Conti would do nicely.
Women. Give them nine inches and they frigging moved in. "Goodnight,
Sheila."

"It's Stella."

"Right."

She finally left, and he switched on the television in time for The Tonight
Show.
He knew that he should call Elaine in L.A., but he couldn't be
bothered. She would be furious when she heard he had blown his lines and walked
off the set. Elaine thought he was on the way out. She was always nagging him
about keeping up with what the public wanted. He had done his last movie
against her advice, and it bombed at the box office. God, that bad pissed him
off. A fine love story with a veteran director and a New York stage actress as
his leading lady. "Old-fashioned garbage," Elaine had announced baldly. "Sex,
violence, and comedy, that's what sells tickets today. And you've got to get in
on the act, Ross, before it's too late."

She was right, of course. He did have to get in on the act, because be was no
longer Mr. Box Office, not even in the frigging top ten. He was on the slide,
and in Hollywood they could smell it.

Johnny Carson was talking to Angie Dickinson. She was flirting, crossing long
legs and looking seductive.

Abruptly Ross picked up the phone. "Get me the bell captain," he snapped.

Chip had come groveling to his trailer after his walkout. "Nothing we can't
sort out, Ross. If you want to quit today, we can schedule to reshoot the scene
first thing in the morning."

He bad agreed. At least they knew they were dealing with a star now, and not
some nothing has-been.

"Yes, Mr. Conti. This is the bell captain. How may I help you?"

Ross balanced the phone under his chin and reached for the tequila bottle. "Can
you be discreet?"

"Of course, sir. It's my job."

"I want a broad."

"Certainly, Mr. Conti. Blonde? Brunette? Redhead?"

"Multicolored for all I care. Just make sure she's got big tits-and I mean
big ones.

"Yes sir!"

"Oh, and you can charge her to my account. Mark it down as room service." Why
should he pay? Let the film company pick up the tab. He replaced the
receiver and walked to the mirror. Fifty. Soon he would be fifty. And it hurt.
Badly.

Ross Conti had lived in Hollywood for thirty years. And for twenty
five of those years he had been a star. Arriving in town in 1953, he was
soon discovered hauling boxes in a food market on Sunset Boulevard by an aging
agent's young wife. She was entranced by his blond good looks, and set about
persuading her husband to handle him. In the meantime she was handling him
herself — twice a day — and loving every minute.

Her husband discovered their affair on the day Universal decided to sign his
young client. In a fit of fury the old agent negotiated the worst deal he
possibly could, waited until it was signed, then dropped Ross, and badmouthed
him as an untalented stud all over town.

Ross didn't care. He had grown up in the Bronx, spent three years kicking
around New York grabbing bit parts here and there, and a Hollywood contract
seemed just peifect to him, whatever the terms.

Women adored him. For two years he worked his way through the studio,
eventually picking on the pretty mistress of a studio executive, who promptly
saw to it that Ross's contract was dropped.

Two years, and all he had done was a few small parts in a series of
beach-party movies. Then suddenly — no contract, no prospects, no money.

One day, lounging around Schwab's drugstore on the Strip, he got talking to
a girl named Sadie La Salle, a hardworking secretary with the most enormous
knockers he had ever seen. She was not a pretty girl. Overweight, suspicions of
a mustache, short of leg. But oh those magnificent tits! He surprised himself
by asking her for a date. She accepted readily, and they went to the Aware Inn,
ate health burgers, and talked about him. He loved every minute of it. How many
girls were prepared to discuss him and only him for five solid hours?

Sadie was very smart, a quality Ross had not encountered in a woman before.
She refused to go to bed with him on their first date, slapped his hands away
when he went after the magic tits, gave him sound advice about his career, and
on their second date cooked him the best meal he had ever had.

For six months they had a platonic relationship, seeing each other a couple
of times a week, speaking on the phone daily. Ross loved talking to her; she
had an answer for every problem. And oh boy, did he ever have problems! He told
her about the girls he was screwing, the trouble he was having finding work.
Going on interview after interview and getting nowhere was depressing, not to
mention terrible for his ego. Sadie was a wonderful listener, plus she cooked
him two great meals a week and did his washing.

One night he had a narrow escape while visiting a nubile girlfriend. Her
out-of-town husband returned home sooner than expected, and Ross was forced to
drop out her bedroom window desperately clutching his pants. He decided to pay
Sadie an unexpected visit and tell her the story. sure she would love
it.

When he arrived at her small apartment on Olive Drive he was shocked to
discover her entertaining a man, the two of them sitting at her candlelit
dining table finishing off a delicious-smelling pot roast. There was wine on
the table, and fresh-cut flowers . Sadie was wearing a low-cut dress and seemed
flustered to see him.

It had never occurred to him that she had boyfriends, and he was
unreasonably pissed off.

"I want you to meet Bernard Leftcovitz," she said primly, eyeing his
crumpled clothes and mussed hair with distaste.

He flung himself familiarly into a chair and threw a silent nod in Bernard
Leftcovitz's direction. "Get me a drink, hon," he said to Sadie, reaching out
to slap her on the ass. "Scotch, plenty of ice."

She glared, but did as he asked. Then he outsat Mr. Leftcovitz, who finally
left an hour later.

"Thanks a lot!" she exploded, as soon as the door shut behind him .

Ross grinned. "Wassamatter?"

"You know what's the matter. Walking in here like you own the place,
treating me like one of your . . . your . . . goddam . . .women!" She was
spluttering with rage. "I hate you. I really hate you! You
think you're such a big deal. Well, let me tell you —"

He grubbed her fast. Moved in for the kill — for he knew that's what it would
be — a killer scene, all thighs and heat and those amazing mountainous breasts
enveloping him.

She pushed him away. "Ross —" she began to object.

He wasn't about to listen to any reasons why they shouldn't. Sadie La Salle
was going to be his and screw the Bernard Leftcovitzes of this world.

She was a virgin. Twenty-four years old. A resident of Hollywood and a
virgin.

Ross could not believe it. He was delighted. Ten years of making out and she
was his first.

The next day he packed up his things and moved in with her. He was two
months overdue with his rent anyway, and money was becoming a big problem.
Sadie loved having him in her life. She said goodhye to Bernie without a second
thought and devoted all her time to Ross. "We have to find you an agent," she
fretted, because she knew his failure to land a part in a movie was upsetting
him more than he cared to admit. Unfortunately all the agents he visited seemed
to have got the message — Ross Conti equaled bad news.

One day she mode a major decision. "I'll be your agent," she said
quite seriously.

"You'll what?" he roared.

"I'll be your agent. It's a good idea. You'll see."

The next week she gave up her job, withdrew her savings, and soon found a
tiny room in a run-down building on Hollywood Boulevard. She stuck a notice on
the door — Sadie La Salle, Agent to the Stars. Then she had a phone installed,
and was in business.

Ross found the whole thing hysterically funny. What the hell did Sadie know
about being an agent?

What she didn't know she soon found out. For six years she had worked as a
secretary in a large lawfirm which specialized in show-business work. She had
the legalities down pat, and the rest wasn't difficult. She had a product. Ross
Conti. And when the women of America got a good look at him they were going to
want to buy.

"I have a great idea," she told him one day, "and I don't want your opinion of it,
because it'll work. I know it's going to work."

As it happened he loved her idea, although it was a little crazy, and very
expensive. She borrowed the money she needed from her former boss, an uptight
jerk named Jeremy Mead who Ross suspected wanted to ball her. Then she had Ross
photographed by the Pacific Ocean wearing faded Levi's cutoffs and a smile. And
she had the picture blown up and placed on as many billboards as she could
afford all across America, with just the words: "WHO IS ROSS CONTI?"

It was magic time. Within weeks everyone was asking, "Who is Ross
Conti?" Johnny Carson began making cracks on his show. Letters started to
arrive by the sackload, addressed to Ross Conti, Hollywood (Sadie had prudently
informed the post office where to forward them). Ross was stopped in the
street, mobbed by adoring women, recognized wherever he went. The whole thing
took off just as she had predicted it would.

At the peak of it all Sadie flew with her now famous client to New York,
where he had been invited to do a guest appearance on The Tonight Show.
They were both ecstatic. New York gave Ross the feel of what it would be
like to be a star. Sadie was thrilled that it was she who had done it for
him.

He was marvelous on the show-funny, sexy, and magnetically attractive. By
the time they got back to Hollywood the offers were piling up. Sadie sifted
through them and finally negotiated an ace three-picture deal for him with
0 Paramount. He never looked back. Success as a movie star was
instantaneous.

Six months later he dumped her, signed with a big agency, and married Wendy
Warren, a rising young star with an impressive thirty-nine-inch bust. They
lived together in much-photographed luxury on top of Mulholland Drive, five
minutes from MarIon Brando's retreat. Their marriage lasted only two years and
was childless. After that Ross became the Hollywood bachelor. Wild
stories, wild pranks, wild parties. Everyone was delighted when in 1964 he
married again, this time a Swedish starlet of seventeen with, of course,
wonderful breasts. The marriage was stormy and only lasted six months. She
divorced him, claiming mental cruelty and half his money. Ross shrugged the
whole thing off.

At that time his star was at its peak. Every movie he appeared in was a
winner. Until 1969, when he made two disastrous films in a row.

A lot of people were not sorry to observe his fall from superstardom. Sadie
La Salle, for one. After his defection from her loving care she had faded from
sight for a while, but then she had resurfaced and slowly but surely built
herself an empire.

Ross met Elaine when he went for a consultation with her husband. At
thirty-nine he thought maybe he needed a little face work. He never got the
surgery, but he did get Elaine. She moved in on him without hesitation, and she
was exactly what he needed at that time in his life. He found her sympathetic,
supportive, and an excellent listener. The tits were nothing to get excited
about, but in bed she was accommodating and warm, and after the aggression of
the usual Hollywood starlet he liked that. He decided marriage to Elaine was
just what he needed. lt did not take a lot of persuasion for her to divorce her
husband. They married a week later in Mexico, and his career took a sharp
upward swing. It stayed up for five years, then slowly, gradually, it began to
slip. And so did their marriage.

Forty-nine. Heading full-speed toward fifty. And he didn't look a day over
forty-two. The blond boyish good looks had aged nicely, although he could do
without the graying hair that had to be carefully dyed, and the deep
indentations under his piercing blue eyes.

Still, he was in terrific shape. The body was almost as good as new. He stared
at his reflection, hardly hearing the discreet knock on the door.

"Yes?" he called out, when the knock was repeated.

"Room service," crooned a feminine voice.

Room service was twenty-two and stacked. Ross made a mental note to tip the
bell captain royally.

Copyright © 1983 by Chances Inc.

Read More Show Less

First Chapter

Chapter Three

We gotta plan your bachelor party," Brian Richter remarked as he finished rolling a joint. "Or rather I do. All you gotta do is gimme a night, and leave everything else to me."

"No party," Evan Richter answered stubbornly. They were sitting around a long table covered with scribbled-on script pages in a hotel room in Arizona, where they were on location for their current movie, Space Blonde.

"Why not?" Brian said, lighting up the joint.

"I've been a bachelor forever," Evan said, annoyed that he had to explain. "Did enough partying to last a lifetime, so what've I got to prove?"

"You gotta be shittin' me?" Brian said with a disgusted look. "Bachelor parties are the only sane reason for getting

married. If you're gonna lock yourself up in pussy prison, you may as well fuck your balls off before your old lady cuts 'em off."

"You're sick," Evan muttered.

"No. I'm normal," Brian retorted, dragging deeply on his joint. "You're the fucked-up member of the family."

"It's a tragedy we weren't separated at birth," Evan muttered, wishing it were so.

"That would've suited me just fine," Brian retorted. "And I'm sure Mom wouldn't've minded."

The Richter brothers. Fraternal twins. Totally unlike physically. Evan, quirky and nice looking, but no hunk with his spiky brown hair and lanky frame. Whereas Brian was all piercing blue eyes, shaggy beach-blond hair, and a hard body. In spite of Brian's bad-boy habits -- which included gambling, drinking too much, drugging a lot, and indiscriminately sleeping with a variety of nubile females -- he was in excellent shape.

The Richter brothers. Hot properties in Hollywood. Hot and unpredictable. Some thought Evan was the one with all the talent because he appeared to be more serious than Brian. But Brian was the one with the best ideas. And Brian was the one who came up with the main story line and wrote most of the scripts. It was Evan who kept it all together, handled the financial aspects, could unfailingly close any deal, and made sure their movies came in on time and usually under budget.

The Richter brothers were always arguing; it amazed everyone who came in contact with them how they were able to maintain such a successful working relationship. Bicker, bicker, bicker. Day and night they went at it.

Often they threatened to dissolve their partnership and go their separate ways. But usually sanity soon prevailed, because why mess with something that was making them both more money than they could ever have imagined?

"How is dear little Nicci?" Brian asked sarcastically. "Still calling you six times a day?"

"We alternate," Evan muttered, wondering why he was even bothering to explain.

"Bullshit," Brian said disbelievingly.

"How come you're always on her case?" Evan responded, frowning.

"'Cause she's nothing but a needy kid."

Evan glared at his brother. "Like you date adults," he said.

"I date 'em, don't marry 'em," Brian pointed out. "Marriage is for old people who can't get it up."

Fortunately, Teena, their script assistant, rushed into the room, speaking into a cell phone. Short and in her thirties,

she was an eccentric-looking woman with hair like straw, decorated with various colored clips and slides -- plus a bold blue streak. Her round face was made to seem more so by the addition of huge wire-rimmed glasses, and she had a prominent snub nose.

"What's up?" Evan said, happy for the interruption, because he was not about to get into a discussion about why he was marrying Nicci with his sex-crazed brother. It was none of his business.

"Everything," Teena said, clicking off the phone and rolling her purple-shadowed eyes. "Abbey doesn't care for her new lines. Harry is under the impression that his trailer is smaller than hers. And Chris can't handle it. He's apparently gone into a funk. We'd better get over to the location, pronto."

Abbey Christian -- a leggy, twenty-two-year-old natural blonde, with a smile that could light up Christmas. Star of their latest movie. Major player. Major cokehead.

Harry Bello -- big-deal comedy actor supreme. Rubber faced and coming up to fifty. Paranoid about getting older and quite certain that Abbey was receiving better treatment than he was.

Chris Fortune. Boy-wonder director. The same age as Abbey and somewhat intimidated by his two stars -- even though he'd directed the big sleeper hit of the previous summer.

"Freakin' actors," Brian grumbled, exhaling smoke. "We should be making animated movies."

"You finally came up with a decent idea," Evan said. "No more over-the-top salaries."

"Please, guys, let's move it," Teena urged, almost jumping up and down with agitation. "Abbey won't come out of her trailer. Harry's sulking. And Chris is heading for a panic attack. We must get over there."

"Let's go," Brian said, carefully preserving his joint in a Kleenex for later. "Nothing like a view of Abbey's tits to wake me up in the morning."

"Remember," Evan said ominously. "No fucking our star until the movie wraps."

"Hey," Brian said innocently. "I can look, can't I?"

Lissa Roman went to great lengths to keep her private life private. Which was not easy considering she lived under constant media scrutiny. Danny, her assistant, was a big help. Earlier that day she'd instructed him to hire a car, leave it in the parking lot at Saks, and give her the ticket. He'd done so, no questions asked.

After lunch, she'd had Chuck drop her off at Barneys,

instructed him to come back in two hours, walked across to Saks, got into the rented car, and driven out to the valley. There was no way she planned to alert Gregg to what was going on, or anyone else for that matter. This was her business, and when Lissa wanted to keep something private, she knew how to do it.

Anyway, she was quite capable of driving to the valley on her own. She didn't need security, just a pair of dark glasses and a baseball cap to hide her telltale platinum hair. Besides, it was an adventure to be doing something on her own for a change.

She put on talk radio and listened to the various call-ins, which was always a trip, until finally she arrived at the Robbins/Scorsinni offices on Ventura, where she was greeted by a plump, middle-aged Asian assistant in a flowered pantsuit. The offices were old and kind of run-down, but Lissa felt quite comfortable. She wasn't looking for one of those hotshot Hollywood P.I. agencies that knew everyone's business. This low-key place suited her fine.

Quincy Robbins, who ran the private investigation/security agency with his partner, Michael Scorsinni, was a pleasant, reliable man, whom Lissa had used on several other occasions for various matters. He and his partner were ex-New York detectives, and that made her feel secure. When she'd moved into her house several years ago, she'd hired Quincy to be her chief security advisor. She'd never met his partner, but she knew that his reputation was stellar.

"Take a seat, please," the Asian woman said with a gummy smile, revealing a row of uneven teeth. "I am Mai Lee. Michael will be with you soon."

"I'm not here to see Michael," Lissa said, anxious to get this over with. "Quincy is expecting me."

"Nobody contacted you?" Mai Lee said, sounding surprised.

"Not that I know of."

"Oh dear," Mai Lee said, now highly embarrassed. "I think I was supposed to call you."

"About what?" Lissa said, fast losing her patience.

"Quincy's laid up at home," Mai Lee said, fluttering her hands. "He broke his leg."

"You've got to be kidding?"

"I'm afraid it's true."

"When did this happen?"

"A few days ago. But not to worry, Michael took over your case. You'll be happy with Michael, he is most capable."

Lissa stood up. "I always deal with Quincy," she said tightly. "This could've waited if I'd known he wasn't available."

"My fault," Mai Lee said, now taking full responsibility. "I was supposed to explain. You see, Quincy didn't seem to think you would want to wait."

Lissa wondered how much Mai Lee knew. This was so embarrassing, she could see the headlines now -- lissa roman catches another cheating husband.

"Oh, God!" she sighed, realizing there was nothing she could do at this late stage. "I suppose I'll have to see Michael. Where is he?"

"Sorry," Mai Lee said apologetically. "He's out of the office right now."

This was ridiculous, she'd driven all the way out to the valley, and now she was getting a runaround. "Are you telling me that you expect me to sit here and wait?" she said sharply. It wasn't often she played the star, but one perk of star treatment was never having to wait.

"He'll be back soon," Mai Lee volunteered. "Very soon."

"Unbelievable!" Lissa muttered irritably. "I drove over here especially."

"There's plenty of magazines," Mai Lee offered soothingly. "Why don't you sit down and relax?"

Why don't you shove it up your ass, Lissa wanted to say, but she didn't. That would have been mean and petty, and one thing she was always careful about was preserving a good public image.

I'm nervous, she thought. I'm nervous because even though I know for sure that Gregg's screwing around, it's still difficult to deal with. At least Quincy -- big, black, comfortable Quincy -- would have held her hand and said, "Listen, this is something you're not gonna want to hear, but these are the facts."

Now she had to hear it from a stranger.

Well, not exactly a stranger, Quincy had often mentioned his partner's name. "My friend Michael," he'd always say. "You should've seen us when we were detectives together in New York. Michael got shot, nearly bought it. You'll like him. He's one of the good guys."

And yet over the years she'd never met him.

She sat down, picked up a magazine, and flipped the pages impatiently, until suddenly the door was pushed open and a tall man strode in.

"Michael," Mai Lee said, jumping up. "Ms. Roman is here."

He walked right over to her. "Sorry to have kept you waiting," he said. "Quincy insisted I shouldn't make you wait, but it was unavoidable. I'm really sorry," he added, giving her a long, sincere stare.

He had the blackest eyes she'd ever seen, thick jet hair, and dark olive skin with a two-day stubble. He was handsome, with a dangerous edge -- an irresistible combination.

So this is Michael Scorsinni, she thought. Quincy never told me he looks like a movie star -- only better.

"Uh...hi," she said, and wondered if this might turn out to be easier than she'd thought.

Copyright © 2001 by Jackie Collins

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 7, 2006

    Definitely Hollywood!

    Very good book! I like mix of mystrey and Glitz and glamour types. Barnes and Noble made a mistake of printing the previews of what is about this book. The previews belongs to the Hollywood Wives: Next Generation.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 15, 2003

    huge let down

    even though this book is older, i purchased it to add to my collection. At first, i thought it was going to be pretty interesting, but with all of the characters,it got a little cofusing, and not to mention boring. i acually like this author, but i have definatly read better.

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    Posted August 26, 2010

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