The A-List Collection. Victoria FoxЧитать онлайн книгу.
By the time another smoke was passed over she felt buzzy and completely happy to sit and listen to all the wonderful, intelligent things people were saying. She became aware that Nate was kissing her, and that other people on the floor were kissing each other as well. Nate’s hand roamed over her breast and it was the most erotic thing she had ever experienced. She thought if he touched her nipple she would just come straight away.
‘Can we find a room?’ she found herself saying. Somehow Nate had managed to manoeuvre her legs around his waist and was reclining her on the sofa in front of everyone.
‘No one’s looking,’ he said throatily, kissing her neck. ‘They’re doing their own thing.’ He was fumbling with the buckle on his belt. Vaguely she recalled he was wearing two belts–how hilarious!–nd she burst out laughing.
‘Shh,’ he murmured, sticking a tongue in her ear. It felt huge and thick like a slug.
‘I don’t want to do it here,’ she protested with some effort. Turning her head, she saw that Mister Cowboy Boots and Short Fat Girl were having it off and one of Short Fat Girl’s boobs was hanging out. This was the craziest night ever!
‘Take me to bed, Nate,’ she purred, disentangling herself.
Desperate to get into his girlfriend’s pants, Nate stood up and extended his hand. Hitching down her dress, Chloe followed him into the room next door. It was completely empty apart from some piled-up cardboard boxes. There were no curtains on the window.
Before she knew what was happening, Nate had her on the floor, his hands unbuttoning her and sneaking underneath her bra. It felt so good she didn’t even care about the splintery wood beneath her back. She ran her fingers through his hair and said something about how amazing he was and how she wanted his big cock inside her right now, all the stuff men wanted to hear. With deft hands he unclipped her bra and peeled down her top half, exposing her breasts.
Chloe’s head was swimming. Everything felt amazing. The world was amazing. Nate Reid was amazing. She was completely, totally, madly in love.
Gradually Chloe was aware of the door opening. A pale shaft of moonlight illuminated the thin figure waiting there. It was Erica Lang.
‘Room for one more?’ she asked, pulling off her high-necked shirt to reveal virtually non-existent tits with alarmingly dark, extended nipples.
Nate made a guttural sound in his throat as she came closer. ‘Can we, babe?’ he asked Chloe, his hand finding its way past the elastic of her knickers.
Chloe was floating. She wanted the pleasure to go on and on and never end. As Erica knelt to join the party she closed her eyes and gave herself up.
LA, just you wait, she was able to think before ecstasy took over. You won’t know what hit you.
Los Angeles
Cole Steel stepped off his state-of-the-art treadmill and wiped his brow. Not that there was much perspiration there–Cole was a man who did not break sweat.
‘Are we done yet?’ his agent Marty King gasped in desperation, taking a breather at the rowing machine. He was a squat man in his fifties with jowls, ginger spray-on hair and a face like a fat Gene Wilder. His eyes were shifty and a touch watery with age, and when he exerted himself his skin broke out in a patchy pink rash. He was also the canniest agent in Hollywood, with a catalogue of A-list clients and major deals to his name.
‘Not yet,’ said Cole, polishing off a two-litre bottle of mineral water. ‘I didn’t get that martial arts equipment installed for nothing.’
Marty King sighed and wiped his own, copiously sweating, face. They were in the bespoke home gym at Cole’s Beverly Hills mansion, complete with its own indoor pool, hot tub, sauna and steam; and of course all this goddamn kit–Marty died a little bit every time, he swore it. But Cole was a man who liked to work out, and even more so when he was talking business.
‘Put this on,’ said Cole, slamming a body protector at his agent.
Marty grimaced but did as he was told. When Cole started pumping iron he was like a maniac and you just had to strap in for the ride. It was the same mind-space he adopted when acting: complete immersion and total focus. Marty himself was grossly unfit–was partial to his steak, his women and his cigars–and had spent the last half-hour with the rowing machine on its lowest possible setting, still managing to wear himself out. And now the sparring. Jeez, it was enough to kill a man.
Cole strapped on his strike pads and took a couple of early punches. Each one practically winded Marty and he was relieved when, five minutes later, it was over. Cole moved on to a kick spinner, lifting his leg high into the air, karate-style, and pounded the shit out of the bags. Marty was grateful to sit out.
‘How was Chicago?’ he asked. How the hell did this guy manage it? His client was barely out of breath.
‘Good,’ said Cole.
‘And Lana?’
He kicked the bag especially hard. ‘Fine.’
‘Cute piece on you both in LA Star,’ observed Marty, taking a drink of water. ‘Very domestic. More in love than ever, or something?’
‘You got that right.’
Marty sat back. ‘And the movie?’ Cole was shooting a family drama about an alcoholic father trying to make contact with his estranged son. ‘Everything OK?’
Cole did an impressive rotating kick and the bag nearly flew off its spring. ‘Everything’s fine, Marty.’
Marty was quiet a moment, sensing trouble. The men had been working together for over twenty years and he could tell when something was on his client’s mind. But Cole Steel was, even after all this time, a closed book. If he didn’t want to talk, nothing would make him.
‘I heard Lana’s movie is premiering in Vegas,’ Cole said, unstrapping his pads.
Christ, thought Marty, he really did have eyes and ears all over this town. He doubted even Lana or the rest of the cast knew yet.
‘I heard that, too,’ said Marty carefully. ‘Frank Bernstein’s got money behind the production.’
Cole’s eyes narrowed. ‘Vegas is vulgar. Eastern Sky is a sophisticated piece of work, it deserves better. I’m not happy about it.’ His jaw clenched. ‘And I don’t like the look of that Robert St Louis or whatever his fancy name is–the guy’s got ideas, I can tell.’
‘Not a lot I can do,’ said Marty, holding out his arms.
Cole grabbed a towel and pressed it to his face. His hands were pink and hairless, like a little boy’s, or a mouse’s.
He took a seat next to his agent, opened his mouth to say something then closed it again. Then, after a moment: ‘Lana’s not happy, Marty.’
Marty shrugged. ‘Not relevant. The point is what the public sees, end of story.’
‘Even so,’ mused Cole. ‘She’s evasive about her past, always has been—’
‘Who isn’t?’ interjected Marty. ‘I’ve sure as shit done things I’d sooner forget.’
‘But there’s something … something I can’t put my finger on.’
‘You’re paranoid,’ diagnosed Marty, starting to think about lunch. ‘Forget it, Lana’s a sweet kid. Remember what Clay told us? Her whole freakin’ family’s dead. How much d’you think she wants to talk about that?’
Cole stood. ‘Let’s eat.’
Upstairs they dined on Cole’s private terrace beneath the shade of a palm tree. Cole picked disinterestedly at his lobster spaghetti while Marty devoured