Wicked Ambition (39 page)

In a plunge he was inside her, filling her up, and Kristin closed instinctively around him, tightening her muscles. She reached out and went wrist-deep into a tub of impossibly buttery strawberry cream, her knee raised to drive him further until she was all but folded into the dome of delights. Alessandro shouted in Italian as he raced for his
climax, faster and faster, harder and harder, slamming without mercy till they both exploded in unison, sticky and wet with sweat and joy.

‘L’Italia ti ama,’
Alessandro groaned, bent over her trembling back.

She understood that much, at least. ‘And I love Italy.’

49

T
he interrogation room on the fifth floor of LA’s West Bureau Police Department was hotly oppressive. An overhead fan rotated with the sluggish reluctance of a spoon through glue.

Fenton Fear gazed forlornly out of the window. He could hear car horns blaring from the street below and the hum of careless conversation as it passed on the warm breeze. Those people hadn’t a concern in the world. How had he wound up in this unthinkable mess?

‘We need a straight answer,’ pressed his questioner, which seemed to Fenton a droll way of putting it. ‘Were you or were you not sexually involved with Scott Franklin Jessop Valentine before his eighteenth birthday?’

‘I can’t
bloody
remember,’ replied Fenton angrily. He hadn’t known that Scotty’s middle names were Franklin Jessop either before this blow-up. ‘It was a long time ago, OK? If it was, it was only a matter of weeks—’

His lawyer cut him off. ‘My client has already answered
this point,’ she said. ‘It’s possible that Mr Valentine misled Mr Fear about his age.’

‘Goddammit,’ spat Fenton, ‘how many times do I have to tell you it was consensual?’

‘Come now.’ The interrogator sat back in his chair and folded his arms over a generous gut. Handling a case of such rampant popular interest had him bobbing up and down in his seat. ‘Do you expect us to believe that? Scott was your selection; he was your number one. You’re telling me the attraction only sparked once he was legal? Love affairs don’t work like that, do they? Passion exists by its own rules.’

‘You’d know, would you?’ Fenton challenged, disgusted.

‘I think
you
would, Mr Fear, which is why I’m asking.’

‘My client refuses to comment,’ the lawyer interjected.

‘It looks like he’s ready to comment to me.’

Miserably Fenton slumped his elbows on the table and rested his glistening forehead on the heels of his hands. If only they could offer him the electric chair…because what did he have left to live for after this? He was a hated man, an angel fallen so sensationally from grace that he didn’t even know if hell would let him pass. His career was in tatters, he was being labelled a sex criminal and he had lost the person he loved most in the world.

Curse Scotty for telling them! How
could
he? He had known fully what it would mean and the monstrous repercussions that would play out: apparently he had deemed the sacrifice of his own career worth the bludgeoning of Fenton’s. Had he really hated him this much? Things hadn’t ended well but what about the love that had passed before, the tenderness? Had Scotty forgotten all about that?

His young lover had responded to the threat of being cut
loose from Fraternity. Fenton hadn’t meant it, Scotty was the golden child, but that had been a risk the boy was unwilling to take. Now Fenton was alone, accused of being a pervert, a sex fiend, a depraved human being…all for the simple offence of following his heart. The ignominy was unspeakable.

‘I want bail,’ he told his lawyer afterwards. ‘We’re headed for a release on recognizance, provided you’re not deemed a danger to the community. There might be a home detention order.’

‘“A danger to the community”? Are you kidding me? What do you think I’m planning to do, hit up the local schools with my travelling zoo of hand puppets?
Look who Uncle Fenton’s got his arm up now, kids!
Give me a fucking break.’

‘I wouldn’t joke about things like that.’

‘Do I look like I’m joking? Just do your damn job.’

‘Be patient, Fenton,’ she told him. ‘We’ll get you cleared.’

50

S
ex with a member of her crew had its benefits. It released the pressure before the lights went down, it solved the problem of surplus adrenalin after a show, it calmed her when she woke from bad dreams—and it sure gave Robin something to do on her nights off.

Farrell was gorgeous. She tried not to overthink how much he resembled Leon Sway but the similarity was extraordinary, the only real discrepancies being the crescent-shaped dimple in Leon’s cheek, the cleaner green of the athlete’s eyes, and, while Farrell’s body was incredible, it was the frame of a dancer, not a sprinter. When Leon had held her she’d felt shielded by his strength, even being
next to him
had electrified her in the shadow of his might. Leon’s body was a machine; Farrell’s, however honed, couldn’t come close.

‘You’re real pretty, you know that?’ Farrell, fresh from the shower, sank down next to her on the bed and kissed her shoulders. Her Denver penthouse suite was boutique and
stylised, the bed sheets and bath tub black, the carpets cream and the fittings chrome. Dark orchids rose from elaborate vases and the view over the city was astonishing.

‘Hmm.’ Robin turned her head to meet his kiss, melting as his touch trailed a line down her back and peeled away the sheet. His chest was still wet and his breath minty from having cleaned his teeth. She moved on to her back and succumbed to his caresses.

‘Not tired yet?’ he teased, nibbling her ear lobe. They’d had sex all night, and going by Farrell’s rock-hard dick pressed against her inner leg he wasn’t done yet either. Lifting his washboard stomach, he loosened the towel around his waist. His majesty sprang free.

‘D’you want it?’ he groaned, close to her ear. ‘Let me hear you say you want it.’

‘I want it,’ she whispered, guiding him in.

‘You’re so wet,’ he choked. ‘I fucking love how wet you are.’

They fell into momentum, their wearied muscles concerned only with the urgency to climax. With her eyes shut tight Robin could imagine for an instant she was with Leon. It was unfair but she couldn’t help it; she couldn’t tell herself not to feel what she felt. Farrell’s shoulders were broad, pinning her down, his backside lifting and falling on top of her: he was an able lover, he knew what he was doing, but with him as with all men there remained a sliver of detachment that stopped her engaging completely. With Leon, despite the fact they had only kissed, it had been different. She couldn’t put her finger on how, or why, but it had.

‘Are you ready?’ he breathed. She strained against him in response, raising her back and contracting her legs against
the sides of his waist and then he was pounding harder, winding his hips in the way that brought her pleasure. In a searing flash she was coming, and held him to her as she rode it out, screaming his name over and over again.

Farrell finished quietly. He was a long time dismounting her, and when he did he sat on the side of the bed with his back to her.

‘That was fun.’ Robin propped herself on one elbow. ‘D’you think we should get up now? You’ve given me a serious appetite—’

‘Who’s Leon?’

The question threw her. ‘What?’

‘Leon. You just said his name about sixteen times.’

She yanked the sheet up, blushing like crazy. ‘No, I did not. That’s ridiculous.’

‘Only saying what I heard.’

Robin didn’t know how to reply. Had she said Leon’s name? Oh dear.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘Obviously not,’ he answered tightly. ‘So who is he?’

‘No one.’

‘Why do I doubt that?’

‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘It was a stupid mistake, forget it.’

Farrell turned. ‘I know this is just fun—’ he gestured between them ‘—whatever this is, but I have to know where I stand. If you’re with me, you’re with me. Not someone else.’

‘I know.’

‘So who is he?’

She got up, pulling on her vest and jogging pants. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Funny, it kinda does to me.’

‘Forget it, Farrell. It was a slip.’

‘Is it that sprinter? Is it Leon Sway?’

Robin ran a hand through her hair. ‘If this is just fun, can’t we let it go?’

‘No. It makes a guy feel kinda shitty when you pull a stunt like that.’

‘Which is why I’ve apologised. Let’s move on.’

He hauled on his jeans and went about finding his T-shirt.

‘Over there,’ she said, pointing to a heap on the floor. She waited awkwardly while he dressed, unsure how to make it better. Finally, shoulders slumped, Farrell turned.

‘I like you,’ he said. ‘A lot.’

‘Maybe it’s not just fun between us, then.’

‘Maybe not to me.’

He watched her expectantly. This was her chance. She said nothing.

‘I’ll see you at rehearsal.’ With the click of the door, Farrell was gone.

Robin spent the rest of the day in a slump. Down time was always a jolt to the system, and after this morning’s disaster it was worse than usual. Welcome distraction arrived with news that Shawnella Moore, Slink Bullion’s girlfriend, was in town launching a fashion line with a D-list movie star. Her arrival had attracted a ripple of media interest and, after making the necessary phone calls, Robin headed to the warehouse on Colorado Boulevard.

A gaggle of paps was hanging around outside. The appearance of Robin Ryder was an unexpected bonus to the tedious hours waiting for Shawnella and her friend to emerge, and they trailed her up the steps like hopeful puppies, fended
off at the door. Barney didn’t like her going without security but she knew that was a slippery slope: if she insisted on going everywhere accompanied she would lose her independence for good. No matter how she’d been frightened that was not a ransom she could accept. Yes, there were nutcases out there, but you had to assume that ninety-nine per cent of the time they intended no harm.

In any case, Robin didn’t want a chaperone on this particular jaunt. What she intended to discuss with Slink’s girlfriend wasn’t for anyone else’s ears but theirs.

A rickety lift packed with studio props took her to the sixth floor. She tugged at the door before it gave, drawing it back to reveal Shawnella posturing in a catsuit and the D-list movie star swinging her legs from a stool at the make-up hub, totally uninterested. A rail of clothes was being wheeled on to set—samples from the line, presumably: a clash of fuchsias, lilacs and blues, dresses and hot pants, playsuits and shorts, some more identifiable than others because they had holes ripped into them as if they’d been attacked by the claws of a wild animal. The materials were plasticky and iridescent in the photographer’s light, sort of a nineties shell suit wet-look, and Robin couldn’t think of a single person she knew who would wear them. The ‘Demand Moore’ collection had some way to go.

She took a seat at the back. Shawnella gave it all, slipping in and out of the costumes with the commitment and endurance of a pro, while the movie star, deigning herself to be above it while the fact remained that nobody knew her name, kicked up a fuss about having to wear ‘bulgy’ outfits and heels that were so uncomfortable she couldn’t walk in
them, which struck Robin as a dubious claim to make about your own collection.

Shawnella was surprised to see her when they broke for lunch. There was a ripple of interest as Robin was recognised. The movie star slunk towards the exit, pissed off.

‘Can I take you for coffee?’ Robin asked.

The elevator was bust so they had to take the stairwell, Shawnella getting a lift from one of the assistants because her shoes were pinching.

Downstairs, she was suspicious. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s half an hour of your time,’ said Robin. ‘Please?’

Shawnella hesitated and Robin added, ‘It’s important.’

The day was hot and the fresh air a welcome shift from the stuffiness of the studio. Robin preferred to be in an open space anyway for what she was preparing to say, so the women grabbed a drink and took it to City Park. It was perversely easier to be incognito in a public place: the more people there were, the less you got noticed.

Shawnella wasn’t one for small talk, so Robin jumped straight in.

‘I need to ask you something,’ she began. ‘It might sound mad, I might be way off the mark, but I have to know and I can’t think of anybody else I can trust with this right now.’

The implied confidence secured Shawnella’s attention. ‘Yeah?’

She took a deep breath, deciding to just come out with it.

‘Did Slink have anything to do with Marlon Sway’s murder?’ She searched her companion for a reaction. ‘Back in 2000…the guy got shot. He died. They never found the person responsible. I’ve got reason to suspect Puff City know more than they’re letting on.’

Shawnella blinked. It was a fraction too late. In that microsecond Robin recognised acceptance: this was a secret Shawnella had kept for her boyfriend for far too long.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, the flat denial Robin had expected.

‘I overheard Slink and Principal,’ she explained, ‘at the party in Seattle. Shawnella, they said his name; they said Marlon’s name. They said G-Money was getting close to Leon and how that couldn’t happen because Leon was Marlon’s brother, and how G was a weak link and now he couldn’t handle his conscience—’

‘Then you heard wrong.’ Shawnella rounded on her. ‘You heard wrong.’

‘How can I have? Come on, it’s written all over your face. Are you going to be Slink’s yes-girl your whole life? This is serious. This matters. Someone was
killed
.’

A group of children were playing nearby, splashing each other with water. A mother came and grabbed one of their fists, dragging the boy off to a wailing soundtrack.

‘It ain’t none of my business,’ said Shawnella, getting up and walking away.

Robin leapt after her. ‘This is your chance,’ she said, keeping pace, ‘to step up and be
you
, not just the sometime girlfriend of a guy who couldn’t care less—and that’s by your own admission, not mine.
Wait
. Please, would you listen to me? This is important. This is the single most important thing you or I will ever have done.’