Zander popped a Marlboro in his mouth but didn’t light it. It was the only vice he had left, but he knew better than to spark up in Hollie’s pride and joy. They pulled out of the clinic and in five minutes were on the 405 and leaving Van Nuys, heading towards West Hollywood. Hollie checked her mirrors compulsively, not for traffic situations but for paps. The testing clinic was one of six they used in rotation, so the camera-toting vultures didn’t get a sniff of the visits. The Lomax Films publicity team would bring down a shit-storm of fury if their hero, Seb Dunhill, the super-spy who had the ear of every government, who had foiled several terrorist plots and even, in one movie, brought a space shuttle down safely, was filmed looking like shit after leaving a clinic in which his urine had been subjected to a dip-test. It wasn’t the image they were going for.

  The rest of this afternoon’s activities were more in line with the desired public perception.

  Hollie steered through the thirty-foot-high mahogany doors that guarded the entrance to the Combrian Hotel and jumped out. The concierge was instantly by her side.

  ‘I’ll keep it up top for you,’ he said, nodding to the few exclusive spaces by the door. There were definitely some perks that came with riding with Zander Leith.

  Unfortunately, Zander Leith didn’t notice. He left the vehicle with an enthusiasm that sat somewhere between going to a funeral and marching down death row.

  Hollie tolerated his lethargy until they walked into the 1,500-square-foot penthouse, to be greeted by a fashion mob, which burst into action as soon as he crossed the threshold. ‘Cheer up,’ she quipped. ‘It’s better than peeing in a cup.’

  An hour later, as a dedicated stylist rearranged the position of his tackle so that it gave the Adrianna Guilloti trousers the most flattering drape, he decided that Hollie was wrong. What the hell was he doing here? Other than hating every second of fulfilling the requirement for a twice-a-year photo shoot that his contract with Adrianna Guilloti menswear stipulated.

  Over the years he’d been offered hundreds of high-end endorsement deals, but he’d refused almost all of them. This one had come with an extra enticement in the form of the company boss, Adrianna Guilloti. Their first meeting had been drinks at Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica. He’d thought it was to be a casual chat with the marketing chief of Guilloti and planned to blow him off and be out of there in minutes. Instead, he got the boss herself. An intoxicating blend of Spanish and Italian heritage, Adrianna had started her company from scratch, used her beauty and class to promote it, and her brains to acquire the investment needed to take it from a small, aspirational tailoring company to a design house that was uttered in the same breath as Prada and Dolce & Gabbana.

  That night, semi-wasted, he’d agreed to a million-dollar deal to represent the brand. Hours later, he’d followed her to New York, taken her to a room in the Carlyle and had the most incredible weekend of sexual pleasure he’d ever known – right up until he discovered she was married to one of the shadiest but most successful property moguls in the country. Neither current affairs nor illicit affairs had ever been his strong point, so he’d cut and run. Since then, he’d seen her at business meetings and promotional functions, but never alone. For a man with addiction and compulsion issues, it was torture. Booze. Coke. Adrianna Guilloti. He craved them all, but knew that a relationship with any one of those vices could end with him on a cold slab wearing a toe tag. The very thought gave him an excruciating desire for a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. Double. He almost smiled given the irony of his current location. After three hours of photographs in the penthouse, the shoot had moved to the achingly hip bar on the roof of the hotel. It was the perfect setting for the European marketing campaign because it was the ultimate Hollywood cliché – the glorious rooftop pool area, bordered by cream seats and candle-topped tables, with a city view that was breathtakingly spectacular.

  He was on the top of the world, wearing a $5,000 suit, Jack Daniel’s was within reach, he was surrounded by people whose job for the day was to make him happy, and yet he couldn’t ask them to bring him the only things he wanted. Really wanted. A sigh escaped him and he caught himself and shook off the melancholy. What the fuck did he have to complain about? Get a grip. Focus on the positives. Stop being a conceited arse. The legendary photographer went by just one name, Terrano. Which sure sounded more appealing than Terence Pratt, the name he was born with in Clacton, Essex. The new moniker and a French accent were developed at the same time as his first roll of film back in the 1970s. ‘Ooh, j’adore. Très bon. Oui, that works. OK, Zander, ze final pose. Mid-shot.’

  The image screamed ‘1950s movie icon’ as Zander leaned his back against one of the ivy-clad pillars, hands in pockets, tie loose, top button of the shirt open, and stared into the sky, his expression a cross between pensive and brooding. Terrano was an ‘Oh oui, oui, oui!’ away from a climax by the time he’d shot off fifty frames and called it a wrap.

  Zander shrugged off the jacket and opened the rest of the buttons on his shirt, letting the early evening breeze cool him down.

  As always, Hollie appeared at his side within seconds. In her jeans and white shirt, she was a healthy contrast to the skeletal, black-clad fashionistas who had worked on the shoot. ‘Man, that lot need to go eat pie,’ she murmured at the retreating crowd, before continuing, ‘OK, I’m off the clock and I finally have a date with a real, live man tonight. But if there’s any possibility whatsoever that you’re going to go sample anything stronger than coffee at the bar, I’ll stick around.’ She went misty-eyed. ‘Ah, the good old days – gutters and groupies. I miss the old fuck-up you sometimes.’

  Zander threw an arm around her. ‘Me too. Who’s the date?’ Her eyebrows shot up. It was the reason she’d never overdose on Botox – she required some upper facial movement because her raised brows were an early warning system for acute irritation. ‘What are you, my dad? The morning I pulled a stripper called Stardust out of your bed, you lost the authority to judge my relationships.’

  She held out a key card. ‘OK, here you go – go down one floor, and head for the suite next door to the penthouse you shot in earlier. I’ve put your clothes in there so you can get a shower without the risk of the photographer attempting to jump your bones. The room is booked for the night – it was on your rider – so you can hang here if you want.’

  Zander shook his head. ‘Nah, I’d rather get home. There’s a nine p.m. meeting in Venice.’

  Three AA meetings a week. That was the price of keeping the weight down on the sober side of the seesaw of addiction.

  ‘I’m humbled by your commitment, oh, master. So, tomorrow you have fight training at ten. I’ll swing by around nine thirty and pick you up.’

  In the lift down from the roof, Zander held up his fist and she bumped it, before he disembarked at his floor and left her to descend to a date night. For a moment, the melancholy returned.

  When was the last time he’d had a night out that didn’t involve a room full of strangers with a story of addiction?

  But that was the rub. After a lifetime of wasted nights, he’d had to make drastic changes when he kicked the booze. No more bars. No more clubs. No more strip joints. And if he avoided all of those, there were no more rehabs or jail cells. Most of the time, it seemed like a fair deal.

  But tonight? He could swing by and see Davie, but he’d just get in the way at the studio. And he didn’t want to crowd Mirren. Last night – Chloe’s birthday – he’d headed over to her house early evening and ended up eating hot dogs on the beach with her and Logan. He didn’t want to infringe on their space two nights in a row.

  Maybe he’d call the guys and see if they were up for poker. Always a loner, he didn’t have an intimate group of friends, but the closest it got – other than Mirren and Davie – were the guys he hung out with at the beach. They’d catch some waves. Sometimes rack up the poker set and pass the night betting with dimes. Don Michael Domas, star of Call Me, the sitcom that was pulling in the highest ratings since Friends. Lee Vandan, male model, who worked catwalks and photo shoots a few times a month so that he could spend the rest of his life catching waves in front of his beach shack near Zuma. Josh Wilson, a writer who’d polished the scripts of half the best action movies of the last year, earning him cheques, instead of credit. He didn’t care. Zander was fairly sure he’d found the only three guys in Hollywood who would rather hang at the beach than on a film set. Suited him just fine.

  The door beeped as he used the key card to enter and he headed straight for the shower, peeling his clothes off as he went. He set the temperature to the midway point and climbed in, glad of the warm jets hitting his skin from the rainfall showerhead.

  For a few moments, he stood there, letting the chaos of the day wash over him, a tight knot of anxiety gradually unfurling. If he made it quick, he could be home in less than an hour, an hour out on the board, food and then meeting.

  The sensation of a movement near him made him flick open his eyes, every muscle in his impeccably toned torso and arms tensing straight into defence mode.

  As soon as he realised who’d come to the party, a very different muscle sprang into action.

  Adrianna Guilloti had opened the glass shower door and stood there, utterly naked, except for eight-inch stiletto sandals and a gold chain that dipped between her high, generous breasts. A long, glossy plait of sleek black hair, parted in the middle, fell down her back. Her rosebud nipples were erect and a thin line of dark pubic hair was a tantalizing reminder of a weekend of highs that no drugs or booze had ever given him.

  The dark red of her lips broke into a languid, irresistibly beautiful smile.

  ‘I heard you were here today. Thought I’d see how my investment was doing.’

  As she stepped out of the heels and into the shower, Zander reached one hand round her neck and pulled her face to him, the hot jets of the water no barrier as he kissed her hard, his tongue searching, tasting.

  ‘I think you’ve missed me, no?’ she murmured, her tone almost threatening.

  He showed her just how much, until the two of them came shuddering under the jets, then slumped against the tile wall.

  ‘I missed you,’ he confirmed, smiling as he leaned over to brush the long, black strands of wet hair back from her stunning face. It was as close as they’d ever got to emotional intimacy. Their brief time together a few months before had been about nothing but pure, raw, incredible sex.

  Reaching up, Adrianna slammed off the shower lever, stopping the water, then pushed herself up onto her feet, before holding out her hand in invitation.

  Zander got the message. Still wet, he followed her out of the shower and into the suite, where he saw the trail of clothes she’d left on the way to the bathroom. After leading him to the bed, she pushed him downwards. There was no resistance. Only when he was flat on his back did she climb on, and instinctively his arms came to either side of her neck as he kissed her again, feeling like an alcoholic who had just opened a bottle of bourbon and couldn’t stop tasting. This was such a bad idea. She was dangerous. She was wild. She was married to a guy who could have his balls for breakfast. But she was absolutely fucking incredible.

  Eyes glinting with sheer sexiness, she pushed his hands away, in charge now, a very fixed idea of what she wanted. With every bite, suck and shudder, she showed him.

  For a bad idea, this felt oh so fucking good.

  He surrendered, ever aware that most of his favourite moments in life had started with really, really bad ideas.

  5

  SARAH

  ‘You Give Me Something’ – James Morrison

  The paps’ flashes momentarily blinded her as Sarah drove through the gates of Davie’s Bel Air mansion. They’d been in permanent residence there since Jizzo Stacks had popped his cowboy boots live on air during Davie’s first show. What. A. Nightmare.

  The studio had descended into chaos; paramedics had been summoned, all to the soundtrack of Carmella Cass screaming at Jizzo to wake up. At the beginning of the show, the ratings were good. By the end, there wasn’t a late-night viewer in the country who wasn’t watching, alerted by a social-media buzz so loud it could have woken the dead. Except – oh, the heavenly irony – Jizzo. He remained very firmly on the other side.

  It was one of the things that Sarah found hard to stomach about living here. Every wail of human pain and tragedy was a story, played out in the media as if it were the Lifetime movie of the week instead of someone’s actual life.

  And yes, she realised that was hypocritical, having spent five years on a UK tabloid crime desk, working for the Daily Scot, door-stepping victims and reporting carnage in all its bloody grime and glory.

  But somehow, that was OK there. That was reporting the facts. Here, everything was so wrapped up in drama and ulterior motive that it was difficult to separate the real from the performance. And that was never more obvious than in Davie’s life.

  What were they now? Lovers? Yes. Exclusive? Absolutely. But they weren’t in an open, official, publicly acknowledged relationship. The reticence was all on her side, but she suspected that was largely to do with the fact that Davie was used to getting everything at the snap of his TV-mogul fingers. He was definitely a live-in-the-moment, go-for-it, why-wait-for-anything kind of guy who needed the world to be his and he needed it now. And he had the cash to pay for it.

  She’d never be comfortable with that level of fame and power, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to be. It was only six months ago that she’d moved here from Glasgow, after coming over initially to chase down a story on the relationship between Mirren, Davie and Zander. She’d had a conversation with a dying Glasgow gangster that had led her to believe that there was some kind of hidden, dark, secret in the past of Scotland’s three most famous entertainment exports. She’d been right. But by the time she’d learned the truth, she’d already fallen for Davie Johnston. When the time came to choose between running the story or starting a new life with Davie, she’d quit her job and shifted her life to LA. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to move in with Davie and live the Hollywood dream of fame and fortune – it was certainly what he wanted – but in truth, the thought made her skin bristle.

  She wanted to make it on her own. On her terms. And whether he liked it or not, that had to happen before she became nothing more than Davie Johnston’s other half.

  Her freelance work, mostly for UK tabloids and celebrity mags paid her bills, fluff pieces on the size of Kim Kardashian’s arse or Charlie Sheen’s legal bills (both of which appeared to be comparatively generous). It was selling her serious journalist soul, but it allowed her to concentrate on the stuff she really wanted to write. Beneath the glitter and the glitz, there was a darkness, a downward spiral of a city that survived on drugs, spin, hype and manipulation. Nothing was real here. Nothing. And it fascinated her. There had been hundreds of Hollywood bios done before, but Sarah was writing hers from an outsider’s perspective, one that wasn’t swayed by personal experience or lust for fame or power. She just wanted to tell the story, to look behind the Hollywood curtain and explain why a beautiful girl like Chloe Gore, born to wealth and privilege, could end up dead at eighteen. She wanted to explore why the industry supported twenty-one-year-old brats who thought their music success gave them an unlimited platform of entitlement and invincibility. And why fame-seekers in a reality TV world that was based on zero talent were prepared to – literally – exploit and risk their own lives for another million ‘likes’ on Instagram or Twitter.

  It was a warped world, and the biggest irony of all?

  In loving Davie Johnston, she was dancing with the devil. He had been the biggest manipulator of all, the king of reality TV and the Pied Piper to legions of wannabes who would do anything to achieve the fame they craved.

  Last year, Davie had been accused of plotting with one of his young reality stars, Sky Nixon, to stage an overdose to push up ratings for their show. He was guilty as charged, and it had backfired spectacularly when Sky had almost died and her publicity-desperate mother overlooked the fact that she’d been in on the plan from the start, and threw Davie under a very public bus by revealing the sordid manipulation in the media. The justifiable outrage almost cost Davie his career. Only the fact that Sky and her mother were later found to have been equally culpable in the deception had, ironically, thrown him a lifeline, and allowed him to crawl back up the Hollywood ladder. There were a lot of short memories in this town, especially when it came to loveable rogues who begged for forgiveness. And Davie’s knees had been raw.

  Sky and her mother had sworn revenge on Davie in every publication and celebrity news show that would cover them, but no-one took them seriously. They were probably on the bus back to Nowhere Town by now.

  Sarah believed he’d learned his lesson, that he’d grown and rediscovered the inherent decency at his core, but who knew? And who could ever have predicted that she’d fall in love with a guy who stood for everything she despised? Her only defence was that underneath the hustle, the deceptions, the bravado, the skewed morals and his eye-rolling tendency to be a shallow, egotistical asshole, he was just a street kid from Glasgow who’d adopted a whole load of bad habits to survive. Since he’d reunited with Mirren and Zander and laid their ghosts to rest the year before, she’d seen a different man, a loyal, loving, decent one who desperately wanted to be better. And she was absolutely there for that.

  The sprinklers on Davie’s manicured lawns did an elaborate dance as she wove up the twisting drive to his $40-million baroque mansion.

  As she parked on the beautiful forecourt, next to a fountain that shot jets of water five feet in the air, she spotted him leaning against the open door frame, coffee in hand.