Free Rock Star by Jackie Collins Page B

know about that Danish hooker you keep in London.’
    There it was, out in the open. It was the first time in the months they’d been living together she’d ever dared to mention Astrid.
    ‘Listen carefully,’ he said calmly. ‘I never pretended I was perfect. The only thing is – I do expect you to be.’
    ‘You’re an asshole!’ she blurted out. ‘All my friends keep on telling me what a two-timing rat you are. Why should I put up with it?’
    ‘Nobody’s tying you to the bedpost, are they?’
    ‘I hate you, Kris Phoenix. One of these days I won’t be around when you get back, then you’ll really be sorry.’
    She flounced off.
    He sighed deeply. It wasn’t going to be a good day.
    *    *    *
    Maxwell Sicily – alias George Smith – piled into the first of the special buses hired to transport the waiters and entire catering staff of Lilliane’s to the rambling Novaroen estate in preparation for the most exclusive party of the year. The chefs, waiters, and busboys talked excitedly among themselves. This was one event nobody wanted to miss. The press had been headlining it for weeks, it was the hottest ticket around. Fifty couples at one hundred thousand dollars per couple was some shot.
    Maxwell settled back in a window seat, staring out as the convoy of buses set off along Sunset – a winding, twisting route which would take them all the way to the Pacific Coast Highway, where there would be a further twenty-five-minute drive along the scenic coastal road.
    Humming softly to himself he tried to blank out the conversations going on all around. Snatches reached him anyway, mostly about money, because everyone was anxious to get a load of the people who could afford to pay such an unbelievable price for one evening’s entertainment.
    ‘I wanna see Rafealla sing,’ said a young busboy to nobody in particular. ‘She’s the greatest.’
    ‘Nali. Give me Whitney Houston any day,’ argued an assistant chef. ‘Now there’s a real sexy broad.’
    ‘So what? They all fuck,’ sniffed a skinny waiter with eyeglasses and a permanent sneer.
    Yes , Maxwell thought, it’s true. They all fuck, and they all lie, and they all spend your money and run out on you.
    He should know. His father had taught him at a very early age. Which is why he stuck to hookers.
    Pay, and you know exactly what you are getting.
    Pay, and you’re the boss. No argument.
    Women were inferior creatures. Keep them on their knees where they belong. Let them know who’s in charge. Never take any of their garbage. Never.
    He thought about Vicki Foxe for a moment. A lot was riding on her involvement. If she screwed up . . .
    Stop! No negative thoughts. Vicki might be a woman, but she came highly recommended, and if he wasn’t certain she could do her part he wouldn’t have hired her. The same with Speed.
    Usually Maxwell preferred to work alone. Who needed the headache of depending on other people? But this job was too big. He had to have help, and Speed and Vicki were it. Already Vicki’s inside information had proved invaluable. She was good. He’d had no doubts really. She was a woman used to getting paid for her services, and therefore she knew how to deliver.
    He wasn’t so sure about Speed. The man was a weasel, crafty and devious. But when it came to driving he was supposed to be one of the best. And that’s all he had to do. Be in the right place at the right time. And just drive. Maxwell felt sure everything was under control.
    He was on his way to a fortune, and nobody was going to stop him.
    *    *    *
    The moment Rafealla entered her suite at L’Ermitage, Marcus Citroen was on the phone.
    ‘Are you comfortable?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes, thank you.’
    ‘Do you have everything you need?’
    ‘Yes, Marcus, I do.’
    ‘I’m going to try and come over.’
    ‘Please don’t,’ she said quickly. ‘Not today. I’m tired and I have the concert to think about. I’ll see you tonight.’
    He didn’t sound too