all will,’ he said, loosening the neck on his shirt.
‘Ha!’ Jessica barked. ‘Don’t make me laugh. You wouldn’t want me getting in the way and messing things up.’ She hiccupped. ‘Because that’s all I’m good for, isn’t it?’
‘Now, now, Jessica,’ said Bernstein.
‘It’s true!’ she moaned. ‘It’s always Elisabeth this, Elisabeth that, the story of my fucking life. What’s so special about her?’
Jessica pouted and pushed back her brown hair. She was pretty in a pretend kind of way, but her nose was a fraction too long, her skin two shades too orange and, she was convinced, her hair too thin. Her stylist called it ‘fine’ but Jessica was appalled by the idea she could be bald by thirty. She didn’t have the natural beauty Elisabeth possessed and she knew it–nor did she have the attentions of their father. Jealousy defined her behaviour.
‘Fuck all of you,’ she said, taking a slug of her drink. ‘You’re all assholes.’
‘Could you pass the bread rolls, please?’ asked Alberto. The basket was right beside Jessica but she made no attempt to pick it up. Robert leaned across and obliged.
‘Honey, I gotta go to the little girls’ room,’ Christie Carmen whined, bobbing up and down in her seat. They would have forgotten she was there if it weren’t for her trussed-up breasts spilling into the soup starter.
‘Go on, then, baby,’ grumbled Bernstein. Then he imagined the blow job he’d be receiving later and instantly felt better. After two marriages, young and dumb was order of the day.
Christie Carmen was a hot broad with big tits and a nice tight pussy–it was everything he required from his women these days.
‘Get that ass back here quick.’ Bernstein winked as he patted his girlfriend’s retreating behind. She tottered off in a silver mini-skirt and four-inch heels, drunkenly weaving into an oncoming dessert trolley. Maybe he’d get lucky and she’d come back without her knickers.
How depressing, Elisabeth thought, observing her father’s latest accessory stagger off in her imitation Jimmy Choos. She glanced at Robert, who had gone uncharacteristically quiet. He was folding his napkin into exact squares. His dark eyes were unsettled.
She could sense Alberto Bellini watching her from across the table, the tip of his tongue just visible between his lips.
The photograph was face down, its edges mottled and stiffened by time.
Alberto drew it from the oak chest of drawers, clasping it to his chest. He closed his eyes, his breath escaping in a hoarse, thin stream, like air seeping from a punctured tyre. It reminded him that he was old.
Supper tonight had exhausted him. He didn’t know how much longer he could bear it–loving Elisabeth entirely and yet knowing she belonged to another man.
He scanned the picture one more time, before slipping it back and closing the cabinet. The sound reverberated through the rooms of his expansive Italian-castle-themed mansion.
Linda Sabell.
She was gone. She had never been his in the first place. He had to forget her.
Yet how could he, when every time he clapped eyes on Elisabeth it was like walking straight back into the past? Frank Bernstein would murder him if he ever found out. Or get someone else to do it for him. Though Bernstein never admitted as much, it was clear to all of them that precious Elisabeth was his favourite daughter. If only he, Alberto, could have shared a child with Linda.
Alberto grimaced. He poured himself a brandy and chucked it back. He was getting tired of this game, he wanted out. Too many years he’d spent drinking and gambling, chasing women in an attempt to forget the only one he had ever loved …
Linda.
She was dead, and yet he saw her every day, every time he watched the show at the Desert Jewel, every time he caught her mirror image laughing with Robert St Louis.
Linda had loved him, he knew that much, and he had made her happy where Frank Bernstein could not. Elisabeth was the gift she had left behind.
Alberto had wanted Linda’s daughter for years, way before Robert St Louis had come on the scene. Only now, with her wedding fast approaching, the time had come to take action.
Elisabeth belonged to him.
As far as he was concerned, resistance was futile.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Elisabeth, peering over the top of her D&G shades. ‘I’ll sing at the premiere.’
At the opposite end of their Olympic-sized pool, Robert shook out his muscles. She watched as he plunged into the crystal water, his impressive body gliding down its length, a bronzed Adonis shimmering in the blue.
He emerged, shook his dark hair and used two strong arms to pull himself out. Droplets of water glistened on his skin.
‘Whatever you like,’ he said, taking a seat on the lounger next to hers.
It was the following morning and the couple were relaxing on their poolside patio. The terrace was just one feature of their immense Vegas home, a near-two-acre estate modelled on a European palace Robert had spoken at several years ago.
‘I think it’ll send a very clear message,’ she said, adjusting her gold bikini.
Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘Come on, you’re above all that.’
‘Am I?’ she snapped. ‘I’ve got to stand up for myself, Robert. Show my father I’m serious about this.’
‘He knows you are,’ said Robert, flipping open a copy of the Vegas Business Reporter. ‘He just doesn’t want to admit it.’
‘Why the hell not?’
Robert laid the paper across his chest. The edges turned grey as they absorbed the water from his body. ‘Do you want to know what I really think?’
‘Of course.’
‘I think Bernstein’s scared you’ll go the same way as your mother.’
Elisabeth chewed her lip. ‘What, he thinks he’s going to lose me in some freak plane crash? Don’t make me laugh.’
Robert shrugged. ‘You know what I mean. Lose you some other way, perhaps.’
Elisabeth was quiet a moment. ‘Are you happy about hosting this premiere?’
‘Of course.’ He resumed reading. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘You just seem a bit … on edge about it.’
‘I’m never on edge.’
Elisabeth smiled, entwining her fingers with his. She adored Robert’s hands–they
