Newly repackaged—classic novels from New York Times bestselling author Jackie Collins!
Power. Sex. Money. Fame. The new Hollywood wives have it all. And if they don’t have it—they want it. And whatever these women want—they get. Ambitious, young, smart, and lethal, the Hollywood wives are back with a vengeance, pushing their way to the forefront. Forget shopping—they’re into achieving everything their famous husbands have and more, and they don’t care how they do it.
Three talented, ambitious dreamers have struggled for super-stardom—and lived hard and fast in a mind-bending whirl of parties, drugs, and sex. Now their fates collide at the plush Los Angeles estate of a powerful music industry magnate, where one man’s secret vendetta will trap them in its sudden, murderous heat....
Nick and Lauren can never forget each other. Teenage small-town lovers—he from the wrong side of the tracks, she the prettiest girl in town—their love was the town scandal, forbidden, sizzling and unforgettable, ending abruptly in a tragedy that sent them into separate orbits. As Nick and Lauren both rise to fame, haunted by the secret they share, they try to live without each other—only to find they can’t.
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From Beverly Hills bedrooms to a raunchy prowl along the streets of Hollywood; from glittering rock parties and concerts to stretch limos and the mansions of power brokers—Jackie Collins chronicled it all.
Jackie Collins was once called a “raunchy moralist” by the late director Louis Malle and “Hollywood’s own Marcel Proust” by Vanity Fair magazine. With more than 500 million copies of her books sold in more than forty countries and 31 New York Times bestsellers to her credit, Jackie Collins was one of the world’s top-selling novelists. She was known for giving her readers an unrivaled insider’s knowledge of Hollywood and the glamorous lives and loves of the rich, famous, and infamous. “I write about real people in disguise,” she once said. “If anything, my characters are toned down—the truth is much more bizarre.”
Jackie Collins died in 2015, but her books live on. Visit Jackie’s website JackieCollins.com, and follow her on Instagram and Twitter at JackieJCollins, Facebook at Facebook.com/jackiecollins and Pinterest at Pinterest.com/jackiejcollins.
New York, December 15, 1992
Mornings were always a bad time for Nick Angel. He lay in bed, eyes closed,
unwilling to surrender the peaceful darkness, fighting the fact that he had to
get up and face another day. Especially this day. His birthday.
Nick Angel was thirty-five.
Jesus! The newspapers would have an orgasmic overdose on this one. He was no
longer the boy wonder. Age was creeping up on him.
He lay very still. It was probably past noon, but the longer he delayed getting
up the better, for he knew that once he stirred they'd be all over him.
Honey -- his live-in girlfriend. Harlan -- his so-called valet. And Teresa -- his
faithful karate-champion assistant.
He heard a sudden movement in the room. A subtle rustle of silk and the faint
aroma of White Diamonds -- Honey was a big Liz Taylor fan. In fact Honey was a
So. . . why was he with her?
Good question. The problem was there were too many questions in his life and
not enough answers.
Honey was on the prowl. Pretty blond Honey with the lethal body and vacant
mind. He sensed her standing by the bed staring down at him, willing him to
Too bad, sweetheart. Get lost. Not in the mood.
As soon as he was sure she'd left, he quickly rolled out of bed and made it to
the safety of his steel and glass high-tech bathroom, locking the door behind
Ah... Nick Angel in the morning. Not the man he once was, although still
handsome in spite of ten pounds of excess flesh, bloodshot eyes and an
altogether dissipated demeanor.
He hated the way he looked. The extra weight he'd put on disgusted him. He had
to stop drinking. Had to get his life together.
Nick Angel. Longish black hair. Indian green eyes. Pale skin, stubbled chin. At
five feet ten inches he was tall without being overpowering. His handsomeness
was not perfect. More brooding... mesmerizing. And in spite of being
bloodshot his green eyes were hypnotic and watchful. His nose, once broken,
gave him the dangerous edge he needed.
And now he was thirty-five.
Older than he'd ever thought he'd be.
But the world still loved him. His fans would continue to worship because he
was Nick Angel and he belonged to them. They'd elevated him to a rare and crazy
place where nobody could expect to remain sane.
It's too much, he thought bitterly, splashing cold water on his face.
The adulation, the never-ending attention. Crushing... stifling...
suffocating... Too fucking much.
He smiled grimly.
Welcome to the insane asylum.
Welcome to my life.
Reaching for the phone he buzzed the underground garage, connecting with one of
his team of driver/bodyguards.
"I'm on my way down," he said, keeping his gravelly voice low. "Get out the
Ferrari. No driver. And call the airport, tell them to have my plane ready. I'm
taking it up."
"Right, Nick. Oh, an' happy birthday, man."
Screw this birthday crap. He knew he'd hear nothing else all day.
Finishing in the bathroom he dressed quickly in the trademark black he always
wore. Pants, shirt, leather jacket and black tennis shoes. All he had to do now was make it out of
the apartment before he was forced to endure more congratulations.
As soon as he hit the hall they came at him. Honey, all pearly teeth and
rounded breasts encased in a pink angora sweater, her short skid swishing
sexily around her thighs.
Harlan, a crazed black man with wild hair extensions and subdued makeup.
And Teresa, six feet tall with a face like a man.
What a mismatched trio! But they were his. He owned them. He paid for every
move they made.
"Gotta go," he said edgily.
"Where?" Honey asked, thrusting angora-clad tits in his direction. "Where?"
echoed Teresa, staring at him accusingly. "I should come with you.
"Yeah, where ya goin', man?" added Harlan, joining the chorus.
"I'll be back soon.
Cleverly he timed his words to coincide with the arrival of the elevator, and
before they could nail him further he was out of there, downstairs, in his
Ferrari, driving out of Manhattan as fast as he could.
It took him forty-five minutes to reach the private airstrip where he kept his
two-engine Cessna. Several mechanics greeted him with birthday wishes.
Surprise, surprise. He'd known today was going to be a bummer. He climbed
aboard his plane, settled in the cockpit and guided the small aircraft down the
runway until he was given clearance to take off into the unseasonably blue
He sighed, a long heavy sigh. When did it all begin to get out of control?
Free at last.
But he had a solution. A plan he was about to put into action.
Color me dead.
LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY, 1969
"Do it!" the young girl cried out, her breath coming in short frantic gasps.
"Do it, do it!"
"I'm tryin'," Nick Angelo replied heatedly. And indeed he was, but to his
dismay the girl was so wet he kept slipping out.
Her voice was shrill and commanding. "Do it!" she insisted, wriggling back into
position. "C'mon, Nicky. C'mon, c'mon, c' monnnn!"
Beginning to panic, he slammed the point of entry yet again, and thank goodness
managed to stay in place.
"Ummm . . ."The desperate shrillness faded from her voice and she began
to sound pleased. "Ooooooh . . ." She continued to sigh sweetly as he
Nick hung on, even though he was sweating and uncomfortable. But he hung on
anyway because jamming himself inside this girl was the most important act in
the entire world.
Vaguely he remembered one of his friends telling him sex was like riding a
horse-mount up, get in the saddle and take the trip.
Nobody had warned him it would be such a dangerous hot sticky journey.
And then it hit him. The most exciting, throbbing, out-of-control feeling he'd
ever experienced. Holy cow! He was coming! And he was inside a real female -- his
hand and some dirty magazine had nothing to do with it.
The girl screamed out her satisfaction.
He felt like doing the same thing. But he was cool, a guy had to stay cool --
even if it was his first time.
Nick Angelo was finally making out -- and he couldn't think of a more
mind-blowing way of celebrating his thirteenth birthday.
EVANSTON, ILLINOIS, 1973
"Please, Nick, pleeease . . . I can't take any more.
Maybe. Maybe not. But he'd been giving it to her for twenty minutes and she'd
only now started to complain -- although it was hardly a complaint, more an
agonized cry of ecstasy.
"Ooh, Nicky, you're the best!"
Yeah? So he'd been told. Now if he could only teach them not to call him Nicky
. . .
Making out was his specialty. It sure beat homework or any of that learning
crap. And it certainly beat spending time at home watching his old man drink
himself unconscious while his mother was out busting her ass working two jobs
to keep the lazy slob in beer.
Family life. Shove it. Just like he was shoving it up Susie or Jenny or
whatever her name was.
One of these days he planned on taking off, getting out of this dump, and
bringing his mother with him. But first he needed a job so he could score some
bucks, then there'd be no holding him back.
Right now he was stuck in school because his mother thought education was
important. Mary Angelo had this crazy fantasy that one day he'd get a
scholarship to college.
Yeah, sure -- a make-out college was the only place he'd get in. Mary
wasn't into reality -- she was into dreams. At thirty-seven she looked ten years
older. A birdlike woman -- slight and nervous, with faded prettiness and wispy
hair. She'd met Nick's father, Primo, on a blind date when she was sixteen and
he was thirty. They'd gotten married exactly one week before Nick was born, and
Primo had hardly worked a day since. A carpenter by trade, he'd soon realized
that picking up unemployment while sending his wife out to work was a far
better deal than actually doing anything himself.
The Angelo family moved often, trudging from state to state, living in rented
houses, always ready to be on the move whenever Primo felt that restless urge.
And he felt it often.
Growing up, Nick couldn't remember being in the same town for longer than a few
months at a time. As soon as he began to settle in, they were on their way
again. Eventually he gave up on any permanent relationships. New town. New
girls to conquer. And on to the next. Now he'd gotten used to it.
"Can we go see a movie tomorrow?" Susie or Jenny or whatever-her-name-was
asked. "It'll be my treat."
"Nah." He shook his head as he got up, pulling on his pants. They were in the
back office of a small automobile showroom -- a venue he used often on account of
the fact he sometimes ran errands for one of the salesmen, and in return he got
to borrow the keys.
"Why not?" the girl asked. At eighteen she was two years older than him. She
had short hair, freckles and a well-developed chest. He'd picked her up the day
before behind the counter of a Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet.
He tried to come up with a quick excuse. He excelled at sex. Hated to stick
around. Past experience told him she wouldn't appreciate the truth. A screw is
a screw -- who needs it to be anything else?
"Gotta work," he said, brushing a hand through his unruly black hair.
"What do you do?" she asked curiously.
"I'm an undertaker's assistant," he lied, straight-faced.
That shut her up.
He waited for her to adjust her clothing, even helped her up. Then he took her
to the bus stop, left her there and walked the mile home.
Currently they were living in a rundown house with Mary's sister -- his aunt
Franny -- a big woman with dyed yellow hair and a bleached moustache. It was
only a small house, but as long as Primo had a television to watch and a
plentiful supply of beer, he was satisfied.
Nick hoped Mary was home from work. If she was, there'd be a
chance of something to eat. Franny never bothered to cook. She was on a diet of
Reese's peanut butter cups and diet soda -- screw fixing meals.
Sure. Franny got fatter and everyone else starved to death.
Sex always made him hungry. Right now he'd kill for a hamburger, but he was
broke as usual, so the only chance he had was working on Mary with his charm.
Not that he'd have to do much work, his mother adored him. She put him before
everyone, including Primo when she could get away with it -- which wasn't
often, for Primo demanded most of her attention when she wasn't working.
Nick's goal in life was to have as little to do with his father as possible. He
hated the way Primo treated Mary. He couldn't stand listening to him bitch and
complain about everything. And most of all he despised the way Primo sat on his
big fat can doing nothing.
The truth was that Primo scared him. He was a huge, overpowering man, and
whenever he was in a bad mood Nick felt the back of his hand or the sting of
his rough leather belt across his backside. Mary always tried to stop the
beatings -- protecting him as best she could -- even if it meant getting beat
herself. Primo didn't care who got in his way -- he lashed out good.
Sometimes Nick wanted to kill him. Other times he accepted the beatings as a
fact of life. The rage he felt was muted, buried. There was nothing he could do
-- not until he was older, then he'd get him and his mother out.
Halfway home it started to rain. Pulling up the collar of his old denim jacket
he bent his head down and began jogging along the curb, thinking about how
great it would be to have wheels, imagining that one of these days he'd get
himself a car -- a gleaming red Cadillac with chrome wheels and a real fine
Yeah... one of these days.
Primo was sitting on the steps outside Franny's house. Nick could see him as he
approached. He tensed up; something was wrong. Why else would his old man have
deserted his precious television and be sitting outside in the rain?
He approached warily. "What's up?" he asked, stopping and jogging in place.
Primo wiped the back of his hand across his nose and glared up at him,
bloodshot eyes bulging. "Where've ya been?" he demanded, slurring his words.
Nick felt the cold rain trickling down the back of his collar and he
shivered -- anticipating bad news. "Out with friends," he mumbled.
Primo heaved a mournful, beer-soaked sigh and hauled himself to his feet. His
shirt was stuck to his body. His thick graying hair fell in greasy clumps on
his prominent forehead. Raindrops continued to drip from the end of his
"She's gone," he said glumly. "Your goddamn mother went an' died on us.
Copyright © 1993 by Jackie Collins
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Descrizione libro Pocket Books. MASS MARKET PAPERBACK. Condizione libro: New. 0671023497 Nuevo! Fast delivery! Professional service with friendly customer support 7 days a week. Codice libro della libreria 9780671023492
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