Sinners

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Overview

Sinners

They come from every walk of life. Beautiful or bad, brilliant or bored, they all have one common goal: to get the best table, sign the most lucrative deal, and grab the biggest piece of the action. Obscene wealth, kinky sex, householdname fame — they're all available in the pleasure capital of the known universe: Hollywood.

Sinners

When gorgeous Sunday Simmons lands in L.A. by way of Rio, London, and ...

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Overview

Sinners

They come from every walk of life. Beautiful or bad, brilliant or bored, they all have one common goal: to get the best table, sign the most lucrative deal, and grab the biggest piece of the action. Obscene wealth, kinky sex, householdname fame — they're all available in the pleasure capital of the known universe: Hollywood.

Sinners

When gorgeous Sunday Simmons lands in L.A. by way of Rio, London, and Rome, jaws drop. For Sunday is that rare creature thought to be extinct — an actress with integrity.

Sinners

But among the hangers-on and body-builders, the hookers-turned-actresses and sex-addicted execs circling Sunday, there is an evil man more bizarre than any screenwriter could have invented. And he will not rest until he can make his most depraved fantasies come true.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780061012532
  • Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
  • Publication date: 4/28/1997
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Pages: 336
  • Product dimensions: 4.22 (w) x 6.78 (h) x 0.96 (d)

Meet the Author

Jackie Collins

With 190 million copies of her books sold in more than 40 countries, Jackie Collins is one of the world's top-selling writers. In a series of sensational bestsellers that began with The World Is Full of Married Men, she has blown the lid off Hollywood lives and loves. All of her fifteen novels have been New York Times bestsellers, and not one has ever been out of print.

Many of her books have been made into movies or television miniseries, including the international sensation Hollywood Wives and the famous Santangelo novels: Chances, Lucky, and Lady Boss.

Ms. Collins lives in Los Angeles, California. Her hobbies include photography, soul music, and exploring exotic locations to use as material for future books.

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



Herbert Lincoln Jefferson stared disgustedly at his wife Marge. She sprawled on a couch in front of the television, legs apart, displaying fat white thighs, eating an orange so that the juice dribbled down her chin, and holding a beer can from which she took occasional swigs. She was wearing a blue cotton dress which was so tight that it had split under one arm. Her huge bosom hung in a dirty white bra which peeked through the split. A stranger seeing her would have found it hard to judge her age, and perhaps assessed her as ten years older than she was. Actually she was thirty-five.

"I'm going," Herbert announced.

Marge didn't shift her eyes from the TV set. She crammed some more orange into her mouth and mumbled, "O.K., Hon."

Herbert left the faded pink house, one in a row of many faded houses. He kicked viciously at Marge's cat which wandered under his feet, and started the walk to the bus stop. It was early evening and particularly hot. Herbert felt enraged that he had no car. Everyone had a car in Los Angeles. Last week he'd had a beautiful shiny gray Chevrolet, but they had taken it away as he hadn't kept up the payments.

Herbert was of medium height, a thin man, with brown hair and sharp features. He wasn't good-looking, he wasn't ugly, he was just perfectly ordinary-looking. He was the sort of man you never remembered, that is unless he stared at you with his oblique brown eyes, and then suddenly you would get an odd sort of feeling. His eyes were mean and cruel and grabbing.

There was a young Mexican girl at thebus stop in front of him, and he appraised her quickly. Too skinny and too young, but a virgin, he was sure of that. He pressed up against her as they boarded the bus, and she turned around and gave him a startled look. He ignored her and took a seat next to a plump matron, probably some rich movie star's housekeeper. No, if she was, she would have her own car.

There was a musty smell of dried sweat in the bus, and Herbert wrinkled up his nose in disgust. He had taken a shower before coming out. Sometimes he showered four or five times a day. The man he really admired was Tiny Tim, because he had read somewhere that he showered every time he took a leak. Herbert admired such cleanliness.

The plump matron shifted in her seat. She didn't like the pressure of Herbert's leg beside her. But he stared straight ahead with his ordinary face, and she was sure he couldn't be doing it purposely.

The old bag's wearing suspenders, Herbert thought. One of them was digging into him. He moved his arm so that it nudged against the side of her bosom. She squashed nearer to the window, and Herbert stared impassively forward.

At the next stop the woman got out, and Herbert shifted his knees so that she had to squeeze past him He felt the outline of her big buttocks against his knees, and he laughed silently. Old cow, give her a thrill. They all loved a thrill, even the old ones.

He thought lovingly about the letter he had sent to sexy red-headed film star, Angela Carter. He had mailed it the previous evening, and she had probably read it by now. He had managed to get her home address; that was the advantage of the job he was in now. They had a file in the office of most of the film stars' addresses. He was working for a chauffeur service employed by Radiant Productions. It was most important when writing to people that you were surethey would open letter themselves. That was the whole point.

To Angela he had written lovingly in glowing and explicit terms about what he would like to do to her. No detail had been spared and he'd enclosed a small plastic bag into which he had proudly masturbated.

It was one of his better literary efforts, and he hoped that Miss Angela Carter appreciated it.

The bus arrived at his stop and he walked the short distance to the Supreme Chauffeur Company.

Sinners. Copyright © by Jackie Collins. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
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First Chapter

Chapter One: "I'm going," Herbert announced.

Marge didn't shift her eyes from the TV set. She crammed some more orange into her mouth and mumbled, "O.K., Hon."

Herbert left the faded pink house, one in a row of many faded houses. He kicked viciously at Marge's cat which wandered under his feet, and started the walk to the bus stop. It was early evening and particularly hot. Herbert felt enraged that he had no car. Everyone had a car in Los Angeles. Last week he had had a beautiful shiny gray Chevrolet, but they had taken it away as he hadn't kept up the payments.

Herbert was of medium height, a thin man, with brown hair and sharp features. He wasn't good-looking, he wasn't ugly, he was just perfectly ordinary-looking. He was the sort of man you never remembered, that is unless he stared at you with his oblique brown eyes, and then suddenly you would get an odd sort of shudder. His eyes were mean and cruel and grabbing.

There was a young Mexican girl at the bus stop in front of him, and he appraised her quickly. Too skinny and too young, but a virgin, he was sure of that. He pressed up against her as they boarded the bus, and she turned around and gave him a startled look. He ignored her and took a seat next to a plump matron, probably some rich movie star's housekeeper. No, if she was, she would have her own car.

There was a musty smell of dried sweat in the bus, and Herbert wrinkled up his nose in disgust. He had taken a shower before coming out. Sometimes he showered four or five times a day. The man he really admired was Tiny Tim, because he had read somewhere that he showered every time he took a leak. Herbert really admired such cleanliness.

The plump matron shifted in her seat. She didn't like the pressure of Herbert's leg beside her. But he stared straight ahead with his ordinary face; and she was sure he couldn't be doing it purposely.

The old bag's wearing suspenders, Herbert thought. One of them was digging into him. He moved his arm so that it nudged against the side of her bosom. She squashed nearer to the window, and Herbert stared impassively forward.

At the next stop the woman got out, and Herbert shifted his knees so that she had to squeeze past him. He felt the outline of her big buttocks against his knees, and he laughed silently. Old cow, give her a thrill. They all loved a thrill, even the old ones.

He thought lovingly about the letter he had sent to sexy red-headed film star, Angela Carter. He had mailed it the previous evening, and she had probably read it by now. He had managed to get her home address; that was an advantage of doing the job he was in now. They had a file in the office of most of the film stars' addresses. He was working for a chauffeur service employed by Radiant Productions. It was most important when writing to people that you were sure they would open the letter themselves. That was the whole point.

To Angela he had written lovingly in glowing and explicit terms about what he would like to do to her. No detail had been spared and he enclosed a small plastic bag into which he had proudly masturbated.

It was one of his better literary efforts, and he hoped that Miss Angela Carter appreciated it.

The bus arrived at his stop and he walked the short distance to the Supreme Chauffeur Company.

Copyright © 1971 Jackie Collins

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