‘Yes, I do.’ Lie number one. Elisabeth was talented, but in his view her voice was average. It was her looks that made the performance special.
‘Well, between you an’ me, son, I don’t.’ Bernstein sat back in a leather recliner chair and put his feet on the desk. He knocked over an empty coffee cup, which Robert caught with one hand. ‘She’s better off takin’ over from me, runnin’ this town like it needs t’be run. Forget this parading heap of crap. And that goes for both of you.’ He gave Robert a meaningful look. ‘You see what I’m talkin’ about here?’
Robert saw only too well. Christ! Why couldn’t Bernstein take a goddamn step back? Ever since he’d introduced the two of them he’d been on at them about marriage, been set on tidying Elisabeth away for whatever reasons he was hiding. He was a bully, a tyrant, a dictator. Sometimes it was hard to believe he was Elisabeth’s father.
‘You gotta get a ring on her, St Louis. I’ve seen the kind of attention she gets. A thousand other guys would take her in a second.’
Robert slammed a palm down on the table. It hit the surface with such force it sent a flurry of papers to the floor. Bernstein didn’t flinch.
He spoke slowly. ‘Elisabeth’s and my relationship is ours alone. We will make our own decisions and nothing you say will interfere with or influence that. Tell me I’ve made myself clear.’
Bernstein chuckled infuriatingly. ‘You’re just like your father, kid. Too goddamn emotional.’ He blew out a ribbon of smoke.
Pushing his chair back, Robert paced over to the window. The lights on the Strip blinked and danced, all day, all night, always. He linked his hands behind his head. Bernstein spoke the truth–it was the right thing to do, for Elisabeth, for Bernstein and for Vegas. And, yes, even for him. Marriage would lay the past to rest, put an end to the time he had spent regretting a fact he could not change. He’d wasted enough of his life stalling, and in the hope of what? That she’d walk back into his life, say it had been a mistake? She wouldn’t dare.
Often he wished he had never met Lana Falcon, never bothered with any of it. Maybe if he’d stayed clear then none of the rest would have happened. Here he was now, prince of Sin City with a beautiful woman on his arm and all the money he could wish for. He clearly meant nothing to Lana. For her he’d given up everything and she’d dropped him like a stone.
The phone rang. It was his concierge. The distributors had arrived.
‘Send them up.’
Robert turned to Bernstein. ‘You want in?’ he asked. ‘We’re approaching the final decisions.’
Bernstein eyed him. ‘Ain’t that the truth, son.’
Alberto Bellini was already there, sprawled in a crimson booth on the Oasis’s private deck.
He wore a black, finely tailored suit and his crisp shirt was just open at the neck, revealing a crinkly triangle of skin the colour of burnt sugar. A piano tinkled in the background and the moody, low-level light reflected off his pure-white hair.
Elisabeth, resplendent in a sleek Zac Posen dress, approached the table.
‘You came,’ he said, his voice silken as he stood to greet her.
‘I had nothing better to do.’
‘I knew you would change your mind.’
Elisabeth felt a stab of frustration. ‘I didn’t, until about ten minutes ago.’ She slipped in next to him.
After her performance she had returned to her dressing room, showered and called Robert. Unsurprisingly he hadn’t picked up. She remembered he was in meetings till late, was too busy to talk. It was a familiar scenario. Alberto’s invitation had come back to her.
She surveyed the drinks menu, even though she knew it off by heart. Just as she was opening her mouth to speak, Alberto barked his order at a hovering waiter, who scribbled it down with a flourish. Elisabeth was cross, even though a tiny part of her rather liked it.
‘I have requested a very special cocktail,’ said Alberto, ‘of my own invention.’ His eyes scanned her body, taking in every inch of her long legs, exposed at the thigh in her slip of a gown. It occurred to Elisabeth that she should have kept her distance and settled opposite him, but she’d done it now.
‘Very well,’ she said tartly. She noticed that he was partway through a bottle of Chianti, its bottom squat in a basket of cork, and made a mental note to drink slowly. Whatever was in Alberto’s creation was likely to be far more intoxicating than wine.
The drink arrived–a garish concoction of pinks and oranges in a tall, thin-stemmed martini glass. A glacé cherry hung suspended in the syrup, impaled on the end of a fizzing sparkler. It was gloriously nineties.
Sensing he was waiting for her response, Elisabeth made a face. ‘It’s stunning.’ Which wasn’t entirely a lie.
But it did taste good. Several cocktails later and Elisabeth was starting to feel decidedly woozy. This was accompanied by a blooming sense of recklessness as she basked in the glow of Alberto’s adulation.
‘There is something I hoped to speak with you about,’ he said, taking her hand.
Elisabeth flinched at the contact, but she didn’t move away. ‘What is it?’
‘It is about your mother. About us. You see, we—’
‘Bellini, please …’
‘Listen to me. I have thought very carefully about this, and I must—’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t. I just want to forget about everything tonight. I need to. Let me. I don’t want to talk about her.’
Alberto searched her eyes. ‘What is the matter?’
A pause. ‘Honestly?’ She met his gaze. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Talk to me. You know you can tell me anything.’
Elisabeth smiled. ‘Of course I know. You’ve always been like part of the family.’
He looked sad. ‘Indeed.’
‘Robert and I, we’ve got standing in this city. People look up to us.’ She was talking fuzzily now. Another cocktail arrived and she hiccupped. ‘Sorry, that sounds awful.’
Alberto shook his head. ‘Nothing you say ever could.’
‘I’m losing him.’ She wrung her hands. ‘I can’t explain why, but I am. It’s ever since my father brought him in on this premiere, I just know there’s something he’s keeping from me.’
Alberto waited for her to go on.
‘It’s Bernstein.’ Her gaze hardened. ‘He’s pushing so far he’s just driving Robert away. It’s all his fault.’
‘Your
