It was an appealing visual. He had no top on – always a winner, especially when he had a body that had been pummelled and shaped by a former US Olympic-team boxing champ who took his job very seriously.

  This was a nightly ritual when she was heading out downtown. She’d swing by, grab a coffee and touch-base. It grounded her. Made her smile. It also ensured that – should she be massacred on the streets by some lowlife during the night – someone would report her missing. Every cloud.

  A knot of tension evaporated from her shoulders as he flashed her an easy smile. ‘Hey, babe, come take me away from all this.’ On TV, his accent was softly Scottish, but speaking to her now, he’d slipped back into the broad Glasgow burr of his childhood. ‘Sure,’ she replied, grinning as she strolled towards him. ‘I can offer you a night watching lowlife drug dealers off Sunset, a visit to a fast-food joint or an afternoon at my Marina del Rey apartment. But please don’t bring a cat, because there’s no room to swing it.’

  As soon as she made the joke, she regretted it. ‘And no, don’t use that as another opener to a “move in here” conversation.’

  He adopted an innocent expression and put his hands up in surrender. Good. Heavy conversation averted. For now.

  She sat down on the doorstep, recognizing that the man lived in 30,000 square feet of Bel Air ostentation, had shitloads of drama and hassle going on thanks to the untimely death of an aging rock star, a dozen calls to return to people who were much further up the importance chain than her and at least one room in the house behind him undoubtedly contained a dozen suits mapping out strategies, yet he was here, sitting on a step with his girlfriend.

  ‘So how’s it going?’ she asked.

  ‘Crazy. The network lawyers are shitting a brick in case there’s any measure of liability. The producers are secretly loving it because we ended up with the highest ratings of any debut talk show in living history. And the Beauty and the Beats team are freaking out because we just lost half the act. It’s a whole big, incestuous cluster-fuck. But hey, did you hear the bit about the ratings?’

  It was impossible not to laugh. He may be partially reformed, but he’d still concede that he was arrogant, ambitious, ruthless and shallower than an espresso. Thankfully, when he wasn’t being any of the above, he was also caring and sweet and so funny he made her sides hurt. Not that she’d admit that to him.

  ‘God, you’re vile. And you’re needy. And a prima donna. And high maintenance. Shall I go on?’

  ‘Horny,’ he offered, snaking his hand up the back of her vest top.

  ‘Well, horny will have to wait. Besides, don’t you have the legal team here? Aren’t you supposed to be in there putting out fires?’ she asked, gesturing into the house.

  ‘Yep, but we’ll only keep them waiting for ten minutes.’

  Sarah leaned over and kissed him teasingly. ‘Why? Are we gonna do it twice?’

  ‘Yep, and have a cigarette in between,’ Davie added, gently tugging her towards him.

  She shouldn’t. He had places to be. Things to be doing. Yet she was somehow sitting on top of him, legs wrapped round his waist, with hands unclipping her bra with the expertise of the oversexed. Lips locked, he used the quads that had been honed by a million squats to raise them up to a standing position; then he stepped backwards into the house, moved a couple of feet to the left and pulled open the door to the cloakroom. This wasn’t their first rodeo in there. Without looking, Sarah knew that one wall was lined with oak shelving, from floor to ceiling, supporting dozens of shoes, hats, sneakers. The opposite wall had rows of coats and, underneath, myriad play things: skate-boards, two Segways, a bike and, at the back, a table used for storing hats, gloves, scarves. Or rather, it used to be. As Davie cleared it with one hand, Sarah tore her lips from his for long enough to whip her vest top over her head. The bra went with it. Davie sat her on the table and immediately dropped to take her nipple in his mouth, her head thrown back, panting, while her hands released the button on his jeans and freed him. As they moved together, it still felt new to them, even as they fell into their familiar touches, strokes, gasps, groans.

  ‘Fuck, you’re beautiful,’ he whispered, moments later, watching every movement, a sheen of sweat appearing now on a torso that was as ripped as any model on a Calvin Klein billboard.

  The moment he said it, she felt the tingles of an orgasm start at her pelvis and grow, spreading across her stomach, working north, a sensation of utter bliss exploding inside her, as he held her tighter, tighter, tighter…

  ‘Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, oh fu-u-u-u-ck,’ he spat through teeth that were clenched shut, his head thrown back, his eyes closed until he flopped forward, resting his chin in the space gravity had made on her chest when her breasts had slid to the side. He’d told her many times that it was his favourite part of her body, mostly because it was rarely seen in LA. You couldn’t toss a silicon implant down any street without it landing on a woman whose surgically enhanced boobs stayed upright and immobile when she lay, like Sarah now, on her back.

  ‘I bloody love you,’ he said, never more handsome than when he was happy, post-coital and they were still – quite literally – joined at the hip.

  Laughing, she ran one finger down the centre of his forehead, over his nose, to his mouth. He clenched his teeth round it, making her yelp.

  ‘Ouch! No rough stuff. There are clubs you can go to for that.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve lost my gimp mask. I think my girlfriend burned it,’ he told her sorrowfully, making her giggle.

  Actually giggle.

  And Sarah Mckenzie, hard-assed journalist, didn’t – in any other part of her life – do giggling.

  That was the effect Davie Johnston had on her. He was funny, crazy, wild and she adored him.

  Cupping a finger under his chin, she raised his head so that she could push back up onto her elbows. ‘OK, much as that made the earth move, I need to get to work, and I believe you’re supposed to be handling a dead-rock-star crisis situation. May he rest in peace.’

  ‘I think Jizzo would approve of this interruption to proceedings,’ he told her solemnly.

  She slid to her feet, grinning. ‘Look, if it’s quiet out tonight, I’ll come back over. Maybe around three. Don’t wait up, though – I’ll just slide in beside you and you can do all that to me again when you wake up.’

  His hand slipped round her neck and he leaned in to kiss her again, lingering this time. ‘I like that idea.’

  Eventually, she broke off, laughing. ‘OK, I have to go before I take you up on the doing-it-twice thing.’ Sarah reached out for the nearest coat, giggling again when she realised that it was Davie’s old Lakers jacket. She slipped it on, showing support for one of Los Angeles’s two basketball teams. While utterly naked underneath.

  Davie loved the image. ‘I swear you’re giving me another hard-on. When you’re done with that, leave it out. I’m taking it upstairs, and when you come back, I’m going to teach you some serious ball control.’

  If it had been uttered by any other guy, it would have come off as cheesy, but Davie was in on the joke, blatantly hamming it up, so from him, it was just funny.

  When he’d pulled up and fastened his jeans, Sarah went up on her tiptoes and kissed him. ‘I know everything about balls that I’ll ever need to know, thanks. Now go back to work. I’m going to go wash up and then I’m out of here. Go. Shoo. See you later.’

  She followed him out of the cloakroom, praying that Alina, his overwhelmingly intimidating housekeeper, wasn’t around, then slipped into the foyer washroom directly next to the door. It was a wet room with a built-in shower, designed by Davie so that he didn’t have to traipse to a shower room on a higher floor if he came in the door wet, muddy or cold from any form of exercise or sport.

  After a quick hose-down, Sarah was dressed and back in the car.

  The pap flash explosion was even more relentless on exit than it had been on entry, no photographer prepared to miss a car that might have Davie Johnston in it.

  She was ten minutes away, her little red Chrysler convertible pointed in the direction of Studio City, before the spots in her eyes dissipated.

  This was a strange life. In what normal world do you watch a rock star dying on air, get mobbed by paps when you drop in to see your boyfriend, shag said boyfriend in a cloakroom on his $40 million estate and then spend your nights solo, on Sunset Strip, hanging out in bars, watching the action and cultivating relationships with bar staff and security guys who could give you the heads-up on who was doing what to whom?

  The lights changed and she turned onto North Beverly Glen Boulevard.

  The truth was that for all the insanity and craziness of life here, she was happy. After a lifetime of Scottish rain and bluster, she adored the sunshine and the laid-back lifestyle. There was still a part of her that missed the grit of Glasgow and the intense, down-and-dirty world of the crime desk. There, it was all about the facts. Being objective. Impartial. Here, even the news reporters were allowed to make a drama out of a crisis.

  Covering trite stuff as a freelancer just didn’t give her the same kind of challenge or fulfilment as her old job.

  Her cell phone rang through the car’s Bluetooth. The screen flashed up a +44 number that was so familiar she immediately flicked a switch to answer it. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Are you missing me?’ came the raspy, guttural reply. Sarah’s smile was instant. Ed McCallum, editor of the Daily Scot, the newspaper she’d left behind.

  ‘Madly. I pine for you every day,’ she replied, realizing he’d never guess just how much truth was in that statement. Ed had been her mentor, an old-school, whisky-in-the-filing-cabinet, tough editor who bled newspaper ink. There were very few left like him.

  ‘I can understand that. I’d miss me too.’ His laugh descended into a hacking cough courtesy of twenty Benson & Hedges a day.

  Sarah waited a moment. ‘Did you die?’ she checked when he finally stopped.

  ‘Almost, but no.’

  ‘Excellent. Didn’t want to be hanging on here all day.’

  This time, his laugh was more of a snort than a life-threatening convulsion.

  ‘Right, ma darling, I’m phoning to see if yer up for a bit of freelance.’

  ‘Does it pay huge amounts of cash, and will it put me in the running for some kind of career-enhancing award?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘Neither?’

  ‘But I’ll leave you my entire worldly goods when I shuffle off this mortal coil.’

  ‘By the sound of you, that’ll be soon, so keep talking.’

  They both knew she’d agree, no matter what it was. She just hoped it would be something meaty that might lead to a big story, one that could give her some kind of profile here in the US.

  Ed paused to dislodge phlegm from his airways yet again before he went on.

  ‘It kinda follows on from the whole McLean, Leith, Johnston thing you looked at last year.’

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of people who knew the truth about them. What she’d discovered when she came over to the US to investigate the relationship between the three friends had been so shocking, so utterly horrific that she’d killed the story to protect them.

  ‘Carry on – I’m curious,’ she urged him, careful to sound casual and nonplussed so she didn’t alert him to her interest. Ed McCallum could spot a story in a dark room, in a blackout, while wearing a balaclava.

  ‘Big-time organized-crime guy Razor Ritchie has been arrested in Liverpool, his worldly goods seized, his operation wiped out. Couple of his crew are squealing like pigs. One of the things that came up is that the female who’s been shacked up with the crook since anyone can remember has been shouting her mouth off that she’s Mirren McLean’s mother. I sent someone down to check it out, but the woman’s disappeared. It’s probably crap. Pretty sure we’d have heard if a Hollywood big shot’s maw was shacked up with a gangster.’

  Deafening claxons were reverberating in Sarah’s head. ‘Yeah, I’m sure we’d know that.’ She tried to sound convincing as she lied. ‘Let me look into it and I’ll see what I can find. Be good to cover something a bit more interesting than who Gerry Butler is allegedly shagging this week.’

  ‘Brilliant. And I wasn’t kidding about the dosh. It’s normal union rates, so the money’s pish,’ he added.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect anything else. I’m doing it for the love of you.’

  ‘Magic. Let me know if you dig anything up. If there’s anything there, I know you’ll find it. Thanks, love.’

  As soon as he was gone, Sarah realised her fingers were trembling on the steering wheel. Yep, if there was a story here, she had no doubt she’d find it. But as she’d already established, there was some things that were better left unfound.

  6

  It’s my secret. I think that’s what gives me the biggest kick.

  This morning, I woke up and realised that I know what I’m going to do.

  I know that I’m going to right the wrong. But I’m the only one who knows.

  What does that make me?

  It makes me the one with the power.

  I have the power to take back what’s mine, to destroy the person who took it away.

  I can make them burn in hell. And I will.

  When I’m ready. Because I know.

  I know everything.

  7

  DAVIE

  ‘Rock ’n’ Roll Star’ – Oasis

  ‘OK, so, people, listen up – can we please, please try not to kill anyone tonight? One celebrity death is a freak event. Two is just carelessness,’ Mellie warned them through their earpieces from her position in the gallery.

  The world of American Stars was very different from the vibe on Here’s Davie Johnston. Now on series fourteen, American Stars was the highest-rated talent show in the country and had spawned a galaxy of music stars, a gutter of washed-up wannabes, several drug scandals, three sex tapes and an unsubstantiated rumour of sexual encounters with at least one of the judges.

  Here’s Davie Johnston was shot in an intimate studio setting, designed to get the best out of the guests without them switching to performance mode at the sight of a large audience.

  American Stars was at the other end of the shooting scale. Filmed in a huge sound stage, with 1,000 screaming spectators, full lights and pyro facilities at Television Centre. But the biggest difference was the noise. Like a wall of sound from the minute Davie entered the set until the curtain came down on the hysterical contestant who had just been despatched back to his old life in Arkansas.

  Mellie was still chattering in their ears. ‘Lainey, honey, you look gorgeous tonight.’

  To Davie’s immediate right, Lainey Ander’s voluptuous cleavage trembled as she giggled. Yep, giggled. The woman had been the Queen of Country for four decades, thanks to a stiletto-sharp business brain that was as impressive as her ability to stay beautiful, remain current and come off as so damn sweet that the nation adored her.

  ‘I know I do, but keep talking, sweetheart,’ Lainey replied, the cute wink spreading the laughter to everyone privy to the conversation, Davie included.

  Easy, generous and utterly professional, Lainey was everything that the woman on his left was not.

  Princess. Just one name. Like Madonna, Cher and Britney. Princess had been a Disney star since she was delivered to a casting call for The Mickey Mouse Club by a mother who had absolutely no doubt in her mind that her little girl was destined for the kind of stardom that would transport them from a rented studio apartment in Compton to a gated complex in Calabasas. She’d been absolutely right.

  At twenty-one, Princess had four platinum-selling albums and two critically acclaimed movies under her diamanté thong. Unfortunately, that left no room for trifling personality traits like humility, authenticity and civility; thus she was also known by just one name on the set of American Stars – Bitch.

  Demanding, unreasonable, irrational, shrill, self-obsessed and prone to blatant rudeness, she was an absolute nightmare to deal with – and Davie loved every minute of it because those were also the reasons that she made this show compulsive viewing for the under-twenty-five demographic.

  With Lainey bringing in the thirty-five-plus market, Davie scoring high in twenty to forty, and Princess on the youngsters, it was the perfect ratings balance. Six weeks in to the current season and they were killing the opposition. If Cowell or Seacrest ever retained the services of a good hitman, Davie knew he’d have to invest in a Kevlar vest.

  Tonight, in a last-minute tribute/token exploitation, they’d decided to dedicate the show to the music of the late, great Jizzo Stacks, whose five-day-old corpse was still lying in a refrigerated drawer in the Los Angeles County Coroner’s building. The autopsy was scheduled for the following day and the thought of it made Davie’s buttocks clench, despite the fact that the suits had assured him he was not liable for Jizzo’s demise. None of the blame could be laid at his door. Last time he checked, silently hoping someone would be wasted enough to give great TV wasn’t a criminal offence.

  Neither was making sure that his interests were fully covered and maximized. It had been a crazy few days. He’d pretty much worked round the clock, but it had all paid off. As a result of everything he’d put in place, reruns of Beauty and the Beats had been playing on half a dozen networks, Carmella and Jizzo’s very own video channel had been reaching millions with daily updates, and the American Stars theme for tonight’s show had been changed from ‘retro disco’ to ‘Celebrating Jizzo’.

  On top of all that, at the end of the first week, Here’s Davie Johnston had achieved the kind of ratings that beat even the most optimistic predictions.

  Win. Win. Win.

  ‘Davie!’ Mellie’s voice blasted in his ear this time, so she’d obviously returned to the gallery in preparation for the count-down. ‘Get the grin off your face – we’re one minute to air and you have to deliver the condolences. Lainey, are you rubbing his thigh again?’