Wicked Wives

‘How come she gets her mugshot in Tats?’ Calista Clinton, a mutual ‘friend’ had remarked sourly, poring over Tess’s pictorial debut in the fashionable society glossy one afternoon over a skinny soya latte in Shoreditch House.

‘She probably blew the photographer,’ Poppy Fox had chipped in, somewhat uncharitably, given her own dubious reputation.

‘Who hasn’t she blown?’ Calista rolled her eyes, dunking her biscotti in her froth and simulating a blow job with it. They had all collapsed into fits of giggles, Allegra included, if a little sheepishly.

‘Pretty impressive stuff,’ the dark-haired guy approached Tess with a raised eyebrow and a smile, handing her a glass of champagne, which she took with a breathtaking sense of entitlement. She raised her glass, automatically slipping into flirt mode. The dude was older, but he was still pretty hot.

‘Where’d you learn to dance like that?’ he fixed her eyes with his own just long enough to build a flicker of tension between them.

Tess gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘It’s in the genes.’

She was pleased with this response; she thought it made her sound sexy and mysterious.

The stranger held his hand out. ‘Marco. Marco DiMari.’

‘Tess.’ She shook it vigorously. Daddy had once told her that a person’s handshake was indicative of their personality; Marco’s was hard and fast – promising. On closer inspection he didn’t disappoint either, even if Tess did suspect that he was the wrong side of thirty. Tall and dark, he had a well-defined jawline complete with designer five o’clock shadow and an ice-white smile that appeared almost luminous under the fluorescent lighting of the club. The shirt was expensive, definitely Prada, and the cufflinks real diamond. She had seen enough up close in her life to be able to tell the difference.

‘So, you’re Italian?’

‘Si,’ he grinned. ‘You like Italian men?’

‘I haven’t made up my mind yet,’ she replied, tartly.

Marco smirked.

‘You here with someone?’

‘A friend,’ Tess drained the champagne glass and handed it back to him.

‘A boyfriend?’

‘A girl friend, actually,’ she nodded in the direction of Allegra, who was making her way back towards them from the bar, fresh mojitos held like trophies in the air as she weaved through the bobbing masses, trying not to spill any of the precious liquid.

Marco surreptitiously surveyed his prey, enjoying the electricity that crackled and fizzed between them.

‘You and your girlfriend fancy coming to a pool party later? Me and some friends have got a villa just up near San Lorenzo.’

Tess nodded as if she knew where he was talking about, though really she didn’t have a clue.

‘Where are you girls staying?’

‘At the Ushuaia Beach Club,’ she replied coolly, adding for good measure, ‘the Presidential Suite.’

He looked impressed, just as she had anticipated.

‘So, how about it then, Tess?’ Marco said, eyeing her miniscule Pucci bikini top with expertly hidden lasciviousness. She had the most amazing set of tits he’d ever seen. Everything about her reeked of wealth; the glossy hair, the natural tan, the designer ensemble and expensive jewellery … he’d struck gold.

‘Here’s my number,’ Marco said, placing something in her hand with a sly wink. ‘Call me. We’ll have a car come pick you up.’ Tess gave a nonchalant nod, though privately she was ecstatic. There was something irresistible about the sexy-looking Italian, an air of danger that instantly intrigued her.

Having successfully navigated the crowds, Allegra approached, handing Tess a Mojito as she eyed the stranger a little cautiously.

‘We’ll see,’ Tess smiled coquettishly, lowering her eyes at him. She had every intention of calling him and suspected he knew as much.

‘Ladies,’ Marco dipped his head before disappearing back into the buzzing throng.

‘Who was that?’ Allegra asked.

‘Marco … Marco DiMari,’ Tess said looking down at his glossy, black and gold embossed business card. ‘Director of Photography by all accounts … Picasso Films.’ It was then that she noticed the little wrap of white paper behind it and felt a frisson of excitement ripple the length of her body. Was that what she thought it was?

‘He’s invited us to a pool party later,’ she added, quickly closing her hand lest Allegra see what was in it. A party girl she might be, but Tess had never been into drugs. Truth was, she’d always been scared of them.

‘We gonna go?’ Allegra asked tentatively. Hot or not, she sensed there was something seriously shady about that Marco character, something that had made her feel instantly uneasy.

‘Babes,’ Tess raised a finely arched tattooed brow as she surreptitiously slipped the small wrap of powder into her sparkly Mui Mui clutch. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

CHAPTER 7

‘Stand back! I said stand back!’ Loretta Hassan’s bodyguard snarled menacingly as he opened the door to the chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce and attempted to navigate his client through the swarm of awaiting journalists and paparazzi that were buzzing like wasps around her, flashes popping like champagne corks.

‘Mrs Hassan!’ A bespectacled man pushed his way to the forefront of the gathering throng. ‘Peter Phillips, LA Daily. Is it true that your husband was responsible for Miranda Muldavey’s botched surgery? Was that why she turned up at his funeral?’

A TV camera zoomed in on Loretta’s face and she half-heartedly attempted to shoo it away.

‘I’m afraid I cannot possibly comment,’ she purred demurely in her thick Italian accent, turning away from the camera for dramatic effect. She couldn’t afford to let the grieving widow act slip. Not with the beady eyes of the nation’s press all over her.

Ramsey’s gloriously A-list funeral had taken place the previous week in Malibu and Loretta, dressed head to toe in black McQueen couture, her creamy breasts spilling out of her tight corseted dress like boiling milk, had made for a tabloid feeding frenzy. Under normal circumstances, she would’ve relished such excessive media attention, but on this occasion she had been seething by such intrusion; she had personally assured her husband’s celebrity mourners of a complete press blackout. After all, Hollywood was all smoke and mirrors. Everyone wanted to give the illusion that their youthful good looks were down to impressive genes alone and not the skilful handiwork of her husband.

However, the journalist had been misinformed: Miranda hadn’t shown up at the funeral. Not even a glimpse. Loretta had thought it odd that the actress had yet made no formal statement to the media. After all, now that Ramsey was in his box what was to stop her from naming and shaming him?

Loretta reached the top of the stone steps towards her attorney’s Bel Air office but just as she was about to disappear inside, her path was blocked by an attractive female journalist.

‘How concerned are you about Miranda Muldavey’s private lawsuit, Mrs Hassan?’ she inquired, displaying an all-American white smile.

Loretta felt her cheeks flush and her heart skip a beat. Lawsuit? What lawsuit?

The astute journalist’s eyes widened. ‘Oh! So, you didn’t know!’ Her glee was almost palpable.

‘That’s enough! Stand back, or one of yous is gonna get a serious clump,’ Loretta’s lump of a bodyguard’s patience had finally run out as he pushed his client through the revolving doors of the imposing gothic building.

*

Loretta threw her studded leather Valentino clutch onto Randy Mumford’s desk with such force that it bounced. ‘If this is a joke, Randy, it is not a very fucking funny one.’ She was incandescent; her cheeks flushed crimson, her ample chest heaving up and down with an influx of adrenalin.

‘Please, won’t you sit down?’ he gestured to the vintage leather Chesterfield opposite. ‘A brandy perhaps?’

‘I don’t want a fucking brandy, Randy,’ she snarled, though in all honesty she could murder a drink. In fact, she could commit murder, if what that bitch journalist had said was true. Randy fixed her one anyway. The word ‘no’ invariably meant ‘yes’ where women like Loretta Hassan were concerned. It was little wonder old Ramsey’s heart had given out in the end. Poor bugger.

As an attorney to some of the Platinum Triangle’s richest and most famous there was little he hadn’t seen and heard when it came to tales of excess and debauchery. In a few years’ time when he retired, Randy planned to write a tell-all book on his years of digging celebrities out of the murky holes they invariably dug for themselves; sell them all out for a fat publishing cheque and then fuck off to Thailand to see the rest of his days out in the sun getting pleasured by ladyboys.

Ramsey and Randy had been golfing buddies, and as genuinely remorseful as he was about his friend’s sudden demise, it had crossed his mind that with him out of the picture he might be in with a shot at this year’s club trophy and a chance to get to know his formidable wife. He wasn’t sure which idea appealed most.

‘You mustn’t let them get to you, Loretta,’ he instructed, pulling at the collar of the new Armani shirt he had worn especially for their meeting, wishing he’d gone up a size now. ‘Those hacks will say anything to get a rise out of you.’ Truth was, he had half hoped she would drop the whole grieving widow façade and they might crack open the bottle of Krug he had chilling on ice in advance of her arrival. He had even indulged in a little fantasy of fucking her over his desk. After all, Ramsey had managed it. And what had Ramsey done that he hadn’t, aside from a handicap of five and last year’s club trophy?

‘I want you to give it to me straight, Randy,’ Loretta demanded, chin raised in defiance.

Randy stifled a lascivious grin. Frankly, he’d like nothing more.

She lit a cigarette without permission.

‘Is it possible for Miranda Muldavey to come after me for compensation, even though my beloved Ramsey,’ she clutched her chest dramatically as smoke billowed from her plump lips, ‘is no longer with us?’

Randy sighed, his ridiculous notion of an afternoon of champagne and sex rapidly diminishing by the second.

‘Well, it’s possible,’ he shrugged, ‘but unlikely. She would need to prove your husband’s negligence beyond reasonable doubt and, as you know, a dead man cannot stand trial. I suppose she could take out a private lawsuit, come after you that way, but again, the chances of her succeeding, in my opinion you understand, would be pretty slim.’

‘Slim you say?’

Randy downed the remainder of his crystal tumbler and pulled his lips over his teeth, before fixing her with an earnest stare.

‘Lady, I’d say they were fucking anorexic.’

Loretta visibly relaxed. Randy was right. These journalists would say anything to provoke a reaction. A reaction made headlines. And headlines sold newspapers. But still, Muldavey’s silence niggled at her.

‘I’ve had my secretary prepare copies of all the documents,’ Randy said, sliding a brown envelope across the oxblood-leather covered desk. ‘And I have the originals here for you to sign.’ He held out a Mont Blanc ink pen, poised, ready for her to take it.

Loretta took the pen from him and began to sign in her florid handwriting.

‘Congratulations, Mrs Hassan,’ Randy said dryly, quickly adding, ‘if that’s the right word to use, given the circumstances.’

Loretta was cross that she didn’t feel as euphoric as she had imagined she would, inheriting a touch over 500 million dollars.

‘There will be nothing left to celebrate if that crazy bitch comes after my money,’ she thumped her ample chest with such a breathtaking sense of self-righteousness that even Randy was a little taken aback, and he’d certainly seen more than his fair share of avarice over the years. ‘You cannot let Muldavey take it away from me.’ Loretta held his gaze from across the desk as she expertly slipped back into her helpless little girl routine, the one men seemed to drink down like a particularly fine vintage Châteaux Margaux.

Randy cleared his throat and watched as Loretta crossed and uncrossed her slim, tanned legs in slow, deliberate movements. The woman was certainly no spring chicken, but then again, neither was he, and she was wearing incredibly well for her age, whatever that might be. It was difficult to tell, given all the work Ramsey had done on her.

‘Well,’ he said softly, enjoying the switch in her demeanour as it dawned upon him that this was probably a woman who would do anything to save her fortune. ‘I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement. Let’s crack open that champagne,’ he grinned, the twitch inside his Armani slacks now a fully-fledged hard-on as he imagined her bent over his desk, skirt above her waist as he went at her like a jackhammer from behind.

Loretta smiled thinly as she surreptitiously opened the top button of her blouse.

‘You know, if you want my advice,’ Randy said, leaning back in his seat and trying to stop himself from imagining his bald head sandwiched between her impressive cleavage, ‘I would spend as much of that money as you possibly can, as quickly as you can. Invest in something; property, a legitimate business … the more you spend, the less there will be for her to take …’ Loretta pulled her chin into her chest, indignant.

‘Take? What do you mean, take?’

‘Not that this will happen, you understand …’ he added quickly, not wanting to spoil the upturn of her mood. ‘I’m just saying that if the worst did come to the worst, there are ways of protecting your assets.’

‘Go on …’ he had her interest now and this pleased him.

‘You could always transfer it all into someone else’s name. Someone you trusted, obviously, a family member, a lover perhaps … if it belonged to someone else, in name at least, then Muldavey could never make a claim on it.’ He paused for a moment to open the bottle of vintage Krug, decanting the amber bubbles into matching Tiffany flutes, adding, ‘I realise it’s far from ideal, but it would be one way of protecting your money.’

Loretta stifled a snort. The man was cazza loca. She would rather cut out her own eyes. Besides, she trusted no one. Sometimes not even herself.

She had made that mistake once before, trusting a man who had managed to peel back her tough outer layers and uncover a softness beneath she had never even known existed; a man who had gone on to shatter her heart and destroy her faith in everything good. A man named Tom Black.

‘If I were you,’ Randy continued, a look of self-serving cheer creeping across his booze-bloated face, ‘I would take myself off somewhere. You know, have a holiday – a long one; I’m sure you deserve it. Why not charter that new jet of yours? Start ridding yourself of some of that cumbersome cash,’ he smirked broadly, displaying a set of yellow teeth. ‘Let me deal with Miranda Muldavey this end.’

Loretta visibly recoiled. She could smell his fetid breath from where she sat; a revolting mix of halitosis and cognac.

‘Do you know, Randy, I think you might be right,’ she smiled, genuinely this time. Randy had just given her a fantastic idea, and in doing so unwittingly blown any chances of her dropping to her hands and knees and pleasuring him under the desk in the process. ‘I will fly off somewhere; somewhere no one will find me. At least not without looking …’

Randy came from behind his desk to join her and she stood. Vertically challenged and about forty pounds overweight, he looked as if his suit had shrunk in the wash and Loretta wondered, incredulously, how anyone could manage to make bespoke Armani look so disgustingly cheap. She lunged forward and kissed him then, caught him clean off-guard, and he struggled to regain his composure as her long hot tongue played with his short wet one. She felt for his erection, only to be met with more disappointment. Pulling away from him sharply, Loretta suddenly snatched up the signed documents from the desk and stuffed them inside her Valentino clutch.

Randy looked at her, crestfallen. ‘But I thought …’

‘You thought what, Randy?’ she raised a dark, arched eyebrow at him that was sharp as a poisonous arrow and made him instantly lose his erection. ‘I would rather join my husband in the grave,’ she hissed, disgust dripping from her lips. ‘If Ramsey could see you now,’ she shook her head, slowly tutting with disapproval as her eyes swept the length of him.

Suitably rejected, Randy bristled.

‘You can save all the grieving widow crap for someone who buys it, lady. I know what an ageing, gold-digging piece of trash you are underneath all the plastic surgery.’

‘Sticks and stones, Randy, as the English say,’ Loretta cackled, checking her lipstick in her diamond-encrusted Dior compact before turning sharply to leave. Though he was right about one thing; she did need a holiday. Somewhere hot, somewhere fabulous and fun, somewhere she could embark upon the most epic shopping spree of her life without the press tracking her every move. She knew just the place.

CHAPTER 8

‘Where are you taking me?’ Ellie giggled girlishly as Vinnie guided her precariously along the narrow Soho street, his hands covering her eyes.

‘Not far now,’ he promised, barely able to contain his own excitement. ‘And no peeking!’ He knew his wife only too well.

‘Have you seen these heels?’ she protested, referring to the six-inch Pierre Hardy sandals she was wearing, squeezing his arm tightly in a bid to steady herself against the cobbles that were proving tricky to navigate. Vinnie laughed. It had not escaped his watchful eye that his wife had seemed a touch subdued over dinner tonight; it was the first time he had seen her genuinely smile all evening.

‘So then, are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?’ he’d eventually asked her, tentatively sipping a glass of the Chateau La Mondotte Saint-Emilion 1996 wine he’d just ordered and watching as she had unenthusiastically picked at her plate of caviar, crab meat and lobster jelly.

Ellie had given a small smile. Her husband was such an intuitive man; he’d always been able to see straight through her like a pane of glass.

‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she’d apologised. She hadn’t meant to be so sombre, especially not tonight; she had wanted to show him how glad she was to have him home. ‘Ignore me, it’s nothing … I’m just a little worried about Tess, that’s all.’ It wasn’t a lie exactly; Ellie had heard from her daughter just once since she’d landed in Ibiza and she’d had to physically stop herself from phoning every five minutes to check up on her. But since she’d seen that damned photograph of Loretta Fiorentino in the newspaper, and then of course there was the collapse of the business venue weighing heavy on her shoulders …

Vinnie had looked at his wife from across the table. She looked so beautiful tonight; her long hair hung in loose waves around her smooth, naked shoulders and the dress she was wearing, a strapless black Helmut Lang number, off-set the shamrock green of her eyes and caressed her delicate curves, modestly displaying the swell of her breasts and décolletage. Even after all the years that had passed Ellie could still manage to stop his heart in its tracks.

‘Tess will be just fine,’ he’d reassured her. ‘She can take care of herself; she’s her mother’s daughter, remember? And, well, you know, she’s not a kid anymore. In fact, if I remember rightly, Mrs Scott,’ he’d taken her hand in his, lightly played with her delicate fingers for a few moments, ‘you were just a year or so older than Tess yourself when we met.’

Ellie had narrowed her eyes at him playfully, taking another generous gulp of the expensive wine, though it wasn’t quite taking the edge off her mood as she’d hoped.

‘That was different,’ she’d objected.

Vinnie had given a knowing smile.

‘I was more …’ She’d thrown her husband a thoughtful look, trying to find the word she was searching for.

‘… Streetwise?’

‘Yes! Streetwise.’

‘I remember,’ he’d said, eyebrows arching provocatively.

She’d jokingly pushed his arm away. ‘Anyway, I’ll still never know why you picked me that night out of all those beautiful girls …’

‘There were other girls?’ Vinnie had clutched his chest in faux-shock as he’d held her gaze from across the table.

There had been a big buzz at the Venus Club that night twenty-one years ago as Vinnie and his entourage had strolled through the door, all sharp suits and expensive-smelling cologne.

‘I want first dibs on this one,’ Mercury, a tall, skinny black stripper from Des Moines had firmly stated, applying a thick coat of plum-red lipstick, her third since clocking on. ‘He’s got Big Tipper tattooed on his ass and this black ass wants to get me some of that.’ As the girls had begun to bicker amongst themselves, each vying for the handsome stranger’s attention in the hope of making a good earn, Ellie had continued to dance, lost in the moment, imagining she was performing on stage with the Royal Ballet, just as she had done as a child. It enabled her to block out the reality of what she was doing; displaying her goods to sleazy men in a tawdry strip joint for a few dollars.

Yet still he had asked for her out of all the others.

‘The name’s Angel,’ she’d told him with a fixed smile, slipping into the booth opposite him. He had a handsome face, the look of a young George Clooney about him and something had instantly told her that this was no ordinary punter.

‘You don’t say,’ he’d replied, with a smile. Only, it wasn’t the kind of smile she was used to; the kind that belied those base thoughts underneath. It was a smile that had reached his sparkling blue eyes.

That night Ellie O’Connor had felt unusually self-conscious as she had begun to peel the straps of her tiny dress from her smooth, slim shoulders. She had actually wanted to put on a good show for the man in the sharp suit, had wanted him to find her attractive.

‘I’d just like to talk,’ he’d said softly, holding his hand up to prevent her from going any further, ‘if it’s all the same to you.’ As powerful and ruthless in the boardroom as Vincent Scott was, and ultimately attractive to women as a result, he had never been one for strip clubs and had only attended that night out of courtesy for his hosts.

Ellie was dumbfounded. This was a first; no one had ever paid for her to keep her clothes on before.

‘Suit yourself,’ she’d shrugged, yanking her bra straps back up. ‘It’s your money.’

And so they had just talked, and Ellie had learned that at thirty-six years old, sixteen years her senior, Vincent Scott was the eldest of three siblings born to wealthy, upper-class parents and had been brought up on an affluent country estate in Wiltshire, England.

By all accounts, Vincent, or Vinnie as he had insisted she call him, had been close to his father, a kind and loving man who had taught his eldest son to hunt, shoot and fish. When he’d died, some five years previously, Vinnie had taken over at the helm of his father’s property development business, Great Scott Properties. He’d been modest about his accomplishments; crediting great timing and the property boom of the late eighties for his subsequent global success. But Ellie sensed that underneath his soft veneer lay a steely determination. Inherited money or no, a man didn’t become a successful billionaire without an iron will.

‘But enough about me,’ he’d said, modestly. ‘Tell me, how does a young woman such a long way from home come to be working in a place like this?’

He had listened attentively as Ellie had recounted the story of how she had been just seven years old when her mother had upped sticks from the East End and followed her heart to Las Vegas.

‘I still miss it,’ she’d smiled a little ruefully, ‘London, I mean. It’ll always be home to me.’