Rock Star - Couverture souple

Collins, Jackie

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 0671708805 ISBN 13 : 9780671708801

Editeur : Pocket Books, 1990

Synopsis

Book by Collins Jackie

A propos du livre

Extrait :

Chapter One:

LOS ANGELES 1987

SATURDAY, JULY 11TH

It was a perfect cloudless Los Angeles day. The Santa Ana winds had driven off
the smog, and Saturday, July 11th, dawned crisp and clean, settling into a
seductively lazy heat.

Kris Phoenix awoke early. Unusual for him, but he had flown in from London the
previous afternoon and gone straight to bed. Fourteen hours later he surfaced
in his oversize California King bed, in his oversize palatial Bel Air mansion,
and rolled over to find that his Los Angeles girlfriend, Cybil Wilde, had
joined him sometime during the night. Fortunately for her, she had not tried to
wake him. Sex was great, but woe betide anyone who came between Kris and his
jet lag.

Cybil slept on, her nineteen-year-old body smooth and naked, long, honey-blond
hair fanning out around her wholesomely pretty face.

Cybil Wilde was a highly paid, extremely visible commercial model. Not quite
Christie Brinkley, but on her way. Recently she had appeared on the cover of
Sports Illustrated in a revealing one-piece swimsuit. Now the
offers were pouring in, but Cybil never accepted anything without deferring to
Kris's superior judgment. And he preferred having her at home -- whether he was
there or not.

He debated waking her; after all, it was several weeks since
they'd seen each other. Then he remembered the concert tonight, and decided he
could wait. Astrid, his London live-in, had not exactly let his motor idle. In
fact, Astrid was a maniac in the sack, she never left him alone.

Astrid, the clothes designer. They'd met four years ago in Paris, when his
manager hired her to design some leather pants for him, and she'd ended up
feeling a lot more than the material. At twenty-eight, Astrid was nine years
older than Cybil, but she had the requisite long blond hair and knockout body,
plus she was Danish, and everyone knew about Scandinavian women. He liked his
women blond and long-legged, with a big bosom and an amiable disposition. What
more could any man ask?

Silently Kris stepped from bed, making his way into his black, mirrored, high
tech bathroom.

Fortunately he'd managed to stay sober on the flight from London. It was
amazing the difference it made -- he actually felt like a human being. And on
close inspection in the mirror above his black marble sink, he actually looked
like one.

Kris Phoenix was thirty-eight years old. He had intense ice-blue eyes, longish
dirty-blond hair subtly streaked by the sun (and if the sun wasn't around, an
English hairdresser called Spud took care of it), and rakish good looks.
Neither tall nor short, he hit a comfortable five feet ten inches -- and since
taking up weight training he was all dynamic body power and rippling muscles.
Hardly Arnold Schwarzenegger -- more Bruce Springsteen fused with Mick
Jagger.

Kris Phoenix was a rock star. A very famous rock star indeed.

In fact, some said, Kris Phoenix was a rock legend.

All that talk never bothered him. As far as he was concerned he made music,
sang songs, and played a mean guitar. So did a lot of other guys. Kris reckoned
he had a hold on reality. Just because he divided his life between two
fantastic mansions, made millions of dollars a year, owned seven cars, and kept
two beautiful live-in females, that didn't make him any different inside. He
would always, deep down, be plain Chris Pierce from Maida Vale, London. There
was no getting away from the fact that his mother once scrubbed other people's
floors, and his stepfather drove a bus.

"... my...God! You... are...sooo...sexy!" Cybil barefooted
her way into the bathroom, and it wasn't only her feet that lacked coverage.
"I've really missed you, Kris!" she sighed, throwing her arms around him.

Suddenly Astrid the maniac began to fade from his thoughts.

"You too, kiddo," he replied, kissing her warm, inviting lips.

She rubbed her full breasts against his bare chest, knowing full well what that
would do to him.

One snag. Sex was out on the day of a performance. Only somebody should tell
the massive hard-on growing in his pajama pants.

Regretfully he pushed her away. "Leave it out, Cyb. Y'know the rules, and
tonight's that goddamn private gig for Marcus Citroen."

Snaking her arms around his waist, she rocked him back toward her. "How about a
private gig just for me?" she whispered in her best sexy voice. "After all, I
am asking nicely. And I promise I'll be good." A meaningful pause. "Very
good."

There was no way Kris would break his rule. And nobody -- not even the gorgeous
Cybil Wilde -- could make him. On the day of a performance he was like a
fighter entering the ring, he needed every ounce of his precious sexual energy.
Not one drop got spilled until it was all over.

"Later," he promised, disengaging himself and moving purposefully toward the
shower.

Cybil pulled a disappointed face.

"I said later, luv," he repeated, flashing his famous crooked grin as he
stepped under the icy needles of water and grabbed a bar of lemon soap.

Lathering his chest, he decided the shower felt good. Freezing water. Freezing
out the old sexual urges. Making him feel alive and alert, ready for
anything.

Anything except a private performance for Marcus sonofabitch Citroen.

Coldly Kris reflected on how much he loathed the powerful record magnate.

And with dull resignation he realized there was nothing he could do about
it.

Not yet anyway.

Rafealla alighted from Marcus Citroen's private jet and entered Marcus
Citroen's personal Mercedes stretch limousine waiting on the tarmac. She nodded
curtly at the driver, and was relieved to see upon entering the limo there was
no welcoming committee to greet her.

Great, she thought, no one to bother me until I reach the
hotel.

pardShe was wrong. As soon as she settled back, the driver requested that she pick
up the car phone. "Mr Citroen on the line," he said reverently.

"Thanks." Her voice was flat. Marcus Citroen followed her every move. She.
couldn't go to the bathroom without his knowing about it.

"Hi, Marcus," she said listlessly.

"Mr. Citroen will be with you in a moment," replied the velvet-toned voice of
his ever-so-efficient secretary, Phoebe.

Rafealla waited. Marcus liked to keep people waiting; she had seen him do it
countless times. "Builds character," he would say dryly, with just a hint of
the European accent he had never quite managed to get rid of.

Nervously she leaned forward and asked the driver if he had a cigarette.

"I gave it up," the man said with an apologetic shrug. "Would you like me to
stop and get you a pack?"

"No," she said, shaking her head vigorously. She too had given up the dreaded
habit, although right row she was prepared to kill for the chance of one long
deep drag on anything.

"Rafealla?" Marcus's voice. The slight accent. The oily thickness.

"Yes, Marcus."

"You're here."

Of course I am, you summoned me, didn't you? "Yes."

"Was your flight comfortable?"

"Very,"

"Good, good." He cleared his throat "I have booked you into a suite at
L'Ermitage. I'll call you as soon as you get there."

Yes. Probably the moment I walk through the door. "Fine," she said
coolly.

"Rafealla?"

"Yes,"

"You won't regret your decision.

Ah, but I will, Marcus. I will.

He had given her no option, she thought, running a hand despairingly through
her long, dark hair. With a deep sigh she slumped back against the plush
leather seat.

Rafealla. She was known by just one name.

Rafealla.

When she sang, her voice evoked magic. Sultry nights and smoky nightclubs, for
she did not sing of virgins and fresh young love, she ventured back to Billie
Holiday territory and the blues. At twenty-seven years of age she knew plenty
about the blues. More than she ever should have known.

Rafealla was an exotic beauty. Green-eyed, with sharply etched cheekbones, a
wide, luscious mouth, and a deep olive complexion. Her dark hair, straight and
shining, swept in a curtain to her waist. She was slight of build, not
voluptuous -- but her body was still quite something in the oversized man's
suit and thin silk top she wore.

Rafealla had risen to the heights from nowhere, it seemed. Eighteen months ago
she had been unheard of. Now she was a star. Burning bright. A meteor streaking
her way to the top of every record chart in the world. And whereas she had
imagined stardom would bring her freedom, exactly the opposite had happened.
Stardom had brought her Marcus Citroen. And she hated him with a deep and
burning passion.

"Bobby Mondella, do you have any idea how much you are loved?" the pretty black
woman crooned affectionately as she perched on the edge of a large circular
desk. Her name was Sara.

Bobby, sitting in a comfortable leather chair next to the desk, reached out to
touch. "Tell me, girl, tell me good."

Bobby Mondella gave new meaning to the word "handsome." In his thirties, he was
tall, well over six feet, with dark-chocolate skin, curly jet-black hair, and a
great body.

"I'll do better than tellin' you, honey," Sara said enthusiastically, grabbing
a random pile of press clippings from the desk. "I'm gonna read you some of the
reviews comin' in on Mondella Alive. We are talkin' dy . . na. . .
mite!"

Bobby reached for the dark glasses covering his unseeing eyes, took them off,
put them on again. He made the same gesture about a hundred times a day. It was
impossible for him to accept the fact he would never see again.

"Yeahhh. Dy... na . . . mite!" Sara repeated excitedly.

"I know 'bout the reviews," Bobby said patiently. "The album's been number one
on the soul charts for five weeks now."

"Six," Sara corrected matter-of-factly. "Six straight weeks an' still
goin' strong." She paused for breath. "Oh, sure, Mister Mondella. I know
you've heard all about the Billboard rave, an' Rollin' Stone, not
to mention the L.A. Times, Blues an' Soul, an'--"

"What's happenin'?" Bobby interrupted. ""Whyn't you just get to the train
station an' save me the trip?"

"What's happening," Sara said importantly, "is that all across the country, in
this great land we call America-"

"Cut it, babe."

Ignoring him, she continued her speech. "In every little hick town-they are
lovin' you, honey, but I mean lovin' you." She paused triumphantly,
shuffling the stack of press clippings, "Want me to read you some of this
stuff?"

"Sure," he said casually, not wishing to appear too eager, although hiding
anything from Sara was almost impossible; she knew him too well.

"Ridgeway, PA," she read crisply. "Bobby Mondelia is King Soul.

Buy Mondella Alive an' really get down, for Bobby Mondella puts
more meaning into a lyric than anyone out there." She paused, then said, "'You
like?"

"Not bad."

"Hey -- listen to Mister Conceited!"

"Bring your cute ass over here, I wanna play basketball."

"Will you stop?" she scolded. "Here's another one. The Duluth Herald,
The return of Bobby M. makes for the finest soul album of the last decade.
Since his unfortunate tragedy the Mondella magic is hotter than ever.

Sara's sweet voice droned on, heaping praise upon praise, superlative after
superlative.

Listening carefully, Bobby couldn't help being delighted by all the extravagant
praise. It was good to be number one again. Real good. Especially since
everyone had counted him out, said he was finished, written him off as a
has-been.

Everyone.

Except Sara.

And Marcus Citroen. Damn him.

Bobby felt the hate envelop him like a noxious cloud. He loathed the man, and
for good reason. But he had to admit that Marcus Citroen was the only one who
had given him a chance to come back -- and back he was, with a vengeance.

"Enough, Sara," he interrupted quietly. "I want to get some rest. before
tonight"

"I don't know why you agreed to do this dumb fund-raiser," she grumbled.
"Marcus Citroen and his rich friends don't deserve to be entertained by the
likes of you. Especially your first live appearance since the accident".

How come everyone -- including Sara -- referred to his loss of sight as an accident?
It was no accident, goddammit It was a crime. And one day he would find out who
was responsible.

"It's for an interesting event," he said shortly.

"Her event," Sara sneered, taking his arm and guiding him toward the
door of his bedroom.

Her event. Bobby hadn't seen her since it happened. Nor had he
heard one word from the coldhearted bitch.

Nova Citroen. Marcus Citroen's wife. The thought of being in her company
excited and disgusted him, He wondered what she would do...say...

Oh, Christ. Don't tell me I'm still hung up, he thought I can't be. I
mustn't be...

As if sensing his thoughts of another woman, Sara withdrew Her voice became
cool and businesslike. "The limo will be here at three o'clock. What time shall
I wake you?"

"Make it one-thirty." His hand reached for her smooth cheek. "An' I'll have a
bacon sandwich with all the trimmings. Okay?"

"I'm not your resident cook," she said stiffly.

"I know baby. But nobody -- like I mean nobody -- makes a better bacon
sandwich than you."

Letting out a deep sigh of resignation, she realized she would do anything for
Bobby Mondella, and he knew it Whether he appreciated it or not was another
matter.

Left alone, Bobby made his way over to the bed, took off his shirt, unzipped
his pants, and lay down.

Nova Citroen. Now that he had started, he couldn't stop thinking about her.

Removing his dark glasses, he realized with a dull feeling of hopelessness he
would never be able to set eyes on her again.

Nova Citroen could not decide which important piece of jewelry to wear that
night The Harry Winston emeralds were inviting, so green and rich-looking. A
single huge stone surrounded with diamonds for her neck, matching earrings,
outrageous ring, and a magnificent bracelet. But she had worn that set in
February to the great annual Niven-Cohen-Moss Valentine party, and again to
Irving and Mary's Oscar event. Twice in one year was enough, so she discarded
the emeralds, moving on to the Cartier rubies.

Ah, such nice bright baubles, but a touch too jazzy for her requirements
tonight.

Without hesitation she turned to the deep burgundy box that housed her new
diamond necklace, bracelet, and earrings. No contest. She had known all along
the evening cried out for nothing less than dazzling diamonds to complement her
upswept whiteblond hair and the stylish Galanos dress she planned to wear. So
appropriate for a simple summer evening by the sea.

Nova Citroen's idea of a simple summer evening by the sea and the rest of the
world's might possibly differ. Nova and her husband, Marcus, lived part of the
year on Novaroen, a magnificent twenty-five-a...

Biographie de l'auteur :

There have been many imitators, but only ever one Jackie Collins.

The iconic British author has been called a “raunchy moralist” by the director Louis Malle and “Hollywood’s own Marcel Proust” by Vanity Fair.

With millions of her books sold in more than forty countries, and with thirty-one New York Times bestsellers to her credit, she is one of the world’s top-selling novelists. 

From glamorous Beverly Hills bedrooms to Hollywood move studios; from glittering rock concerts in London to the yachts of Russian billionaires, Jackie Collins chronicled the scandalous lives of the rich, famous, and infamous from the inside looking out.

“I write about real people in disguise,” she once said. “If anything, my characters are toned down—the truth is much more bizarre!”

Her first novel, The World is Full of Married Men, was published in 1968 and established Collins as an author who dared to step where no other female writers had gone before. She followed it year after year with one successful title after another, including Chances, the first installment of a sprawling nine-book saga introducing the street-smart, sexy, and dynamic Lucky Santangelo. The eighties saw Jackie hitting her stride with the seminal blockbuster, Hollywood Wives, as well as Lucky, Hollywood Husbands, and Rock Star. In recent years she kept fans entertained with Poor Little Bitch Girl, The Power Trip, and her final novel, The Santagelos, never wavering on her commitment to take her readers on a “wild ride”!

Six of her novels have been adapted for film or TV and Universal Pictures has recently optioned the Santangelo series with a view to bringing Lucky to the big screen.

Jackie was awarded an OBE (Order of the British Empire) by the Queen of England in 2013 for her services to literature and charity. When accepting the honor she said to the Queen, “Not bad for a school drop-out”—a revelation capturing her belief that both passion and determination can lead to big dreams coming true. 

Jackie Collins lived in Beverly Hills where she had a front row seat to the lives she so accurately captured in her compulsive plotlines. She was a creative force, a trailblazer for women in fiction and in her own words “A kick-ass writer!”

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Pocket Books
• Date d'édition: 1990
• ISBN 10: 0671708805
• ISBN 13: 9780671708801
• Reliure: Poche
• Nombre de pages: 512