Temptation Island (30 page)

Anyway, they were hardly ever in the mansion at the same time. Lori’s shoots often took her away overnight and Peter was in the first flushes of attending every party going, at some of which they arranged to meet and pose for photos together. It was easy, and the press crowed about what a staggering couple they made.

Tonight they were returning from one such event. Peter employed a Hispanic driver called Santo, whom he spoke to like an imbecile. Lori made a point of conversing with him in Spanish and being as friendly as she could, to make up for Peter’s rudeness. Perhaps they weren’t so unlike a real-life couple after all.

‘They were hot for us tonight, baby!’ Peter rambled as the car pulled up the drive. ‘Jerking themselves right off for a piece of the action!’

Presumably he was talking about the paparazzi. ‘Mmm,’ said Lori, who was tired and thinking of getting into her bed.

So, it seemed, was Peter. Once inside the mansion, without warning, he pinned her arms behind her and pushed her up against the wall.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded.

‘Come on, babe,’ he crooned, his breath smelling faintly of Jack Daniel’s. ‘I know this whole virginity thing’s a loada horse crap. You
gotta
want me.’

Firmly she drove against him, using the weight of her body because her hands were tied. ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘Get used to it.’

‘Aw, don’t say that.’ He pressed himself closer and she was alarmed to feel his erection straining through his suit pants. ‘Little Peter’s gonna get upset.’

Little Peter
didn’t feel that little. Lori managed to pull her hands free.

‘I mean it,’ she told him, holding them up in surrender. ‘Back off.’

He scrunched his face up. ‘You
really
a virgin?’ His voice went all high at the end.

‘Yes.’

‘How old are you—twenty-two, twenty-three?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘Sheesh! And you’ve never had cock?’

‘Good night, Peter.’

He grinned, eyes soppy with lust. ‘You know I like a challenge?’

She turned at the stairs. ‘I hope you’re drunker than I think you are,’ she said. ‘Otherwise we’ve got a problem. Sleep on it.’

She was woken by the sound of a handle turning. Sleepily, she consulted the time: two a.m. And the silhouette of Peter Selznick in her bedroom doorway, his outline totally black, only the dim light from the hall illuminating him from behind.

‘Go to bed,’ Lori said wearily, flopping back on the pillows. It occurred to her that she should feel threatened—what exactly did he think he was doing?—but she couldn’t find Peter threatening. Even though he was older than her, most of the time he acted like a kid.

‘I can’t sleep,’ he complained, flicking the light on.

To her alarm he was completely naked—and completely hairless. His entire body had been waxed, it seemed: the smooth golden chest, bursting with pecs, his long, muscular legs. And that part in between … the part of a man she had never seen in the flesh before … Peter’s engorged
member sprang proud from his baldness, hairless as the day he was born.

Were they all this huge? She found herself mesmerised by it, couldn’t stop looking. Of course he read this as an invitation.

‘You know you want it, babe,’ he announced, striding in buoyantly. ‘What are we fighting against? You gotta put out some day, why not with me? I can teach you stuff.’ He tugged once at his penis, an odd gesture that was somehow absent-minded. ‘All you gotta do is lie back, relax and let me show you a good time. You know how many girls out there would kill to be in your position?’

Lori sat up, trying doggedly not to stare at his bulging groin. She felt as if someone were trying to sell her a cheap holiday. ‘Peter, I told you.
No
. I’m not interested. I thought One Touch made it clear to you what the deal was.’

‘One touch is all it takes,’ he panted, clambering on to the bed. Lori recoiled against the wall, aware her tank top and shorts did little to conceal the swell of her breasts and hips. Peter drank it in and, for a second, as his bulk stood to attention only a matter of inches away, she experienced that arrow of desire she had known with Rico. She had no doubt Peter was a practised lover. Yet, as ever, the arrow missed its target and shot straight into the ground.

‘I want you to leave
right now
,’ she commanded. ‘We’ll talk in the morning.’

‘Why’re you doing it?’

‘Doing what?’

‘Missing out.’

‘Missing out,’ she repeated flatly.

‘On sex. It’s the best there is. More specific, sex with
me
is the best there is. You’re only punishing yourself.’

‘Go to bed, Peter.’

‘You telling me you don’t want some of this?’ He sat back and gestured to the obscene tower between his legs. She resisted looking.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, you don’t; or yes—’ he winked naughtily ‘—you do?’

‘Go to bed,’ she said again, pulling the sheet up to cover her.

For a moment Peter weighed up his chances, before releasing an exasperated puff and bouncing off the bed. He headed for the door, swollen staff leading the way. Lori fought the urge to laugh. It wasn’t funny, he was way out of order—but his unabashed attempts at seduction were at least straightforward.

‘You know where I am if you change your mind,’ he said gravely, turning to award her one final glimpse of what she was missing.

‘Sure.’

Sulkily, he closed the door. When she was sure he’d gone, Lori lay back and turned the light off. For a long time she stayed awake, unable to get to sleep. She thought she heard intermittent yelps from the opposite end of the mansion—Peter bringing himself the pleasure he’d promised her? Snaking her hand down past the band of her shorts, she closed her eyes and, to her disappointment, thought of JB Moreau. Nighttime was perilous, dark and sweet, a landscape for dreaming. She wondered what he would look like naked.

‘I’m not kidding. He just turned up in the middle of the night! You’ve got to talk to his management again about whatever it was you agreed.’

Jacqueline was appalled. ‘Lori, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘This is awful.’

‘It’s OK.’ She dismissed her concern. ‘It’s just annoying. And it’s like Peter’s dead-set on this campaign now to get me into bed. He won’t take no for an answer! ’

Jacqueline straightened in her office chair. ‘“No” is the word we made
absolutely clear
throughout the negotiations.’ Again Lori thought of the puppy. It was as if Peter were in toilet training—next she’d be teaching him to walk at her heel. ‘It’s completely unacceptable,’ her publicist went on. ‘
Completely
unacceptable. Leave it with me. I’ll sort it out.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t thank me. Just stick with it. It sounds like you handled it great.’

A thought occurred to her. ‘Surely everyone else imagines we’re … doing it?’

Jacqueline nodded. ‘That’s the beautiful thing. Peter’s a renowned ladies’ man and you’re a virgin. As far as the press are concerned, he’s met the woman he’s prepared to wait for … or has he? Peter might have switched you. I guess they’ll never know. Him being partnered with you makes everyone see him from another angle; you being partnered with him achieves the same. That’s why we were keen to get you together.’

‘So long as we don’t
actually
have to get together, in that sense, it’s fine by me.’

‘And it’s fine by me, too.’

Desideria Gomez was throwing a dinner party to mark her fortieth birthday. Peter was out of town so Lori attended by herself, the low-key affair marked by just a knot of photographers outside the host’s beachfront apartment.

Desideria herself looked stunning in a killer dress and
heels, her glossy black hair caught in a long low ponytail at the nape of her neck. She greeted Lori at the door, enveloping her in sensual musk, and Lori presented her gift: a solid silver bracelet bearing the engraving
DG
. Desideria bit her lip with pleasure when she opened it.

Guests mingled inside. Lori spotted Dante, a gorgeous shaven-headed black man new to the modelling circuit, and Pearl, a six-feet-plus redhead with legs that went on for an eternity. Both were represented by La Lumière.

‘Hey, sweetie,’ crooned Dante, kissing her. He grinned wickedly. ‘How’s Peter?’

Lori didn’t want to think about Peter. ‘Another time,’ she said.

‘Have you
seen
the face on that?’ Dante murmured, nodding over her shoulder.

Lori turned. Dante was known for his catty one-liners and backstage bitching—she wondered what poor soul was on the receiving end this time.

Rebecca Stuttgart
.

She was in conversation with a man Lori didn’t recognise. Lori’s attention flitted anxiously across the room, half wanting JB to be there and half unable to trust herself if he was. The strength of her dislike impelled her to march straight up and chuck her drink in his face.

‘You wouldn’t think she was bedding the sexiest guy on the planet,’ crooned Pearl, licking rosy-pink lips. ‘Imagine sleeping with JB Moreau every night.’

‘Excuse
me
!’ Dante was indignant. ‘The sexiest guy on the planet is standing right here.’ He sighed. ‘But I do kind of agree with you.’

To her intense discomfort, Lori was seated next to Rebecca Stuttgart at dinner. Her husband was nowhere to be seen.

‘How’s Mac Valerie treating you?’ Rebecca politely enquired, placing two fingers over her wineglass when the waiter tried to fill it.

‘Great,’ said Lori, wondering why a reminder of JB had to be there every damn way she turned. Her conscience buckled each time she tried to meet Rebecca’s probing gaze. Did the woman know? She’d certainly had that impression when they’d met at La Côte. Had JB confessed to what had happened? Had he lied to cover his tracks, vowing Lori to be the one who kissed him, not the other way around? Perhaps she
had
been? She could no longer be sure of anything that happened that day. Had they laughed about it, the silly child clinging on for a recurrence? Or was Rebecca suspicious of every La Lumière model she met, knowing the predator her husband had become? ‘I’m proud to have the contract.’

‘So you should be.’ Rebecca eyed her for a moment then said, ‘JB thinks a lot of you.’

Lori didn’t respond. She had the sensation of being mocked, invited to join a game whose rules she couldn’t grasp and which she would never win. She didn’t know whether to feel ashamed or embarrassed and so settled for both. Did they have kids?

If I’d known he was married, would that have made a difference?

There was a brief hiatus while their appetisers arrived, followed by a smattering of polite appreciation for the food.

Rebecca smiled stiffly. ‘What I mean to say is, he’s fond of you all at the agency.’

‘I’m sure.’

Gently, Rebecca pressed the back of her fork into the salmon mousse. ‘JB’s out of town right now,’ she said, ‘in Europe. With his family.’

Lori wondered why she was telling her this. ‘In France?’ she asked, to be gracious.

Rebecca took a small, controlled bite and chewed without relish. ‘Italy. Capri.’

‘I’ve never been.’

There was an uneasy pause, so Lori enquired, ‘Will you join him?’

‘I don’t think so. I ought to be heading home this week.’

‘You don’t live in LA?’

‘JB has a place here,’ said Rebecca. ‘But it’s not our home.’

Home, with its connotations of safety and warmth and all things familiar, didn’t fit with a man like JB. She was surprised he had married at all. What was the point of marriage if you spent your whole time pursuing other people? It was possible they had an open relationship, something she was encountering more and more in Hollywood and which was anathema to her. Marriage was sacrosanct, a bond, a pledge. It was for always.

‘Where’s home?’

Rebecca looked blank.

‘I’m sorry,’ she tacked on hastily. ‘I’m prying.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Rebecca, sipping from her water glass and leaving a stain where her lips touched. She didn’t volunteer the information, so Lori took it the conversation was over.

Fortunate diversion came from Desideria making a toast to her guests. It lasted long enough for the tension of their discussion to dissipate, and for there to be no obligation afterwards for either woman to resume it.

33
Aurora

‘Come to Italy.’

A week before term began, Pascale called. Aurora jumped at the invitation. One last blowout before Mrs Durdon sank her vampire teeth back in. And eight weeks in LA had felt like a long time, even in spite of the renewed focus Rita Clay had given her. Rita was working overtime laying the foundations of her so-called comeback: exciting things were planned for when she left school in a year’s time and returned here permanently.

Permanently
.

The thought freaked her out. What if she didn’t want to? What if she wanted to go somewhere quiet and be anonymous for a while? She hadn’t told Pascale about her anxieties because she knew what Pascale would say: that she should quit LA for good and do something ‘meaningful’ with her life. Only it wasn’t that simple.

Gisele and Arnaud Devereux had a villa on the island
of Capri. Having never visited Italy before, Aurora hadn’t heard of it (though she had heard of Capri pants: not a good look). She flew out to Naples early September, where Pascale greeted her impassively at the airport.

‘I missed you!’ cried Aurora. They kissed each other briefly on the lips.

Pascale led her through the terminal. ‘We’ve got a boat to catch.’

A cab took them to Naples harbour. The ferry ports were swarming with tourists dragging over-stuffed wheelie suitcases at their ankles. Aurora and Pascale bypassed the crowds, located the Devereux Bombardier Bowrider and climbed aboard with the help of two swarthy Italians. One, clad in crisp white shorts and a shirt with insignia across it, was at the wheel.

‘Grazie, signor,’
Pascale said, before uttering something else in Italian that was incomprehensible to Aurora.