she said, pushing him off.
Grudgingly he followed her into the bedroom, his erection leading the way. Chloe always played it so safe. It was why, just occasionally, he needed to get his kicks elsewhere.
When Chloe woke, her mobile was ringing. Disorientated, she grappled for it. Night had descended in a purple cloak, close against her window. Nate had gone.
Foggy-eyed, she checked the display. It was Melissa Darling, her agent at Scout.
‘Hello?’ She propped herself up on one elbow, stifling a yawn.
‘Chloe, it’s Melissa. Have you got a minute? It’s important.’
Chloe sat up. ‘Sure, what is it?’
‘You remember the LA proposition we discussed?’
Chloe nodded. The agency had been looking at moving her into acting for some time now and had been waiting for the right part to come along. ‘Yes?’ she said cautiously.
‘There’s a small role I’m looking at in America, a historical romance.’ Melissa took a breath. ‘I think it’s perfect for you. Exactly the right vehicle to launch you over there.’
‘Really?’ Chloe couldn’t contain the squeak in her voice. Melissa’s tone told her this was a big deal.
‘Really.’ Another pause. ‘It’s not in the bag yet, but I’m working on it. It’s a Sam Lucas production–you’d be filming your scene opposite Lana Falcon.’
‘Lana Falcon?’ She was wide awake now. Chloe practically bounced off the bed. ‘You’re kidding!’ She paced the room, scarcely believing the conversation was happening. Maybe she was still dreaming.
Melissa laughed. ‘I thought you’d be happy–and I hope they will be, too. There’s been a schedule collapse in LA: they’re after someone with the right UK profile and, I’m pleased to say, you fit the bill.’
Chloe caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were sparkling; her cheeks flushed red with excitement. ‘Melissa, I’m so thrilled,’ she said.
‘Don’t book any holidays for the next month, OK?’
‘OK.’
After the women hung up, Chloe sat at the end of her bed, her hands shaking. Sam Lucas. Lana Falcon. This was what every girl dreamed of; what she herself had dreamed of in this very room for the past ten years. And now it was coming true.
She looked around at the shadows of her childhood; a dolls’ house she couldn’t bear to part with; a book she’d been read every night before bed. It was the past. Her father didn’t need her any more. The time had come to move on.
Wait till she told Nate, he’d be so made up. It was all going to be perfect.
Las Vegas
‘Let’s go, sweet-cheeks. I ain’t got all day, ya know.’
The woman at the craps table was a tired-looking specimen with thin fair hair and too much red lipstick. She volleyed a strike of insults at Robert’s dealer. The poor guy knew the boss was observing and his shoulders tensed.
Robert caught the boxman’s eye and nodded. The woman was wearing diamonds, real ones, but her clothes told a different story. She’d been hustling the tables all week. He gave an imperceptible signal to one of the overhead cameras–the eyes in the sky would pick her up.
It was a daily schedule: each afternoon Robert St Louis walked the labyrinth of his casinos, touched base with his managers for word on the take and warmly greeted the high rollers. Blackjack, roulette, baccarat, this was where the big money spun. The Orient’s chief casino was a grid of mazes, no natural light, no clocks; no indication of time passing.
Robert’s job was to get the players in and keep them there. Nobody did it better.
The St Louis name had been a commanding force in Vegas since Robert’s father founded the Desert Jewel in the early nineties. Vincent St Louis, real name Vince Lewis, a hotelier from Belleville, Ohio, had made his fortune through dedication and hard toil. Robert had joined him in his early twenties, shadowing his father and studying the business: everything he knew about hotels he’d learned from those eighteen months at the Desert Jewel. When Vincent had died, Robert had assumed his place at the helm. In that year alone takings had trebled–Vinny’s son had the killer knack, everybody said it; it was instinctive. Word got around and investors started to listen. That summer Robert began working up plans for his own baby, the Orient: the most extravagant, opulent hotel in the world.
Robert paused at the east slots. Even in all his years of gaming, these were the people he was most fascinated by. Players who stayed in the same place all day and all night, scooping tokens from a metal tray only to put the same straight back into the machine.
That was Vegas all over, he reflected as he summoned the elevator: a machine. You took money out of it; the money went back in. They were spinning. That was all they were doing.
On the thirtieth floor, his last appointment of the day was waiting: Elisabeth’s father. Frank Bernstein, proprietor of the Parthenon Hotel and Casino, was a cut-throat member of the Vegas power elite. He was short and stocky, just on the right side of fat, with a bush of grey hair and sharp, watchful eyes. You couldn’t get a thing past Bernstein–he had the eyes of a hawk.
‘St Louis, you an’ me have got some talkin’ to do.’ He slapped Robert on the back.
‘So I understand.’ Robert opened the door to his office. ‘Come on through.’
Robert’s office at the Orient was an imposing room, decked out in mahogany panelling and leather furniture. Contemporary art adorned the walls, bold, clean shapes and precise lines. A photograph of a smiling Elisabeth sat proud on his desk, next to a wooden box of Havana cigars. The magnificent Strip rolled out behind.
‘I got news for ya, kid,’ said Bernstein, helping himself to a smoke. That was Bernstein all over: what was Robert’s was also his. It took some getting used to.
Robert shrugged off his suit jacket, loosened his tie and took a seat. He was wary of Bernstein: the older man had been in the business thirty years, had known Vegas when it had been run by the mob. Even though the Chicago Outfit had long since been driven out of town, it was a badly kept secret that Bernstein still had connections. Back in the eighties he had acted as lawyer to some of the boys and as a result of that was a trusted asset, whether he liked it or not. And Bernstein did like it, even if Robert tried not to dwell on the implications.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
Bernstein lit the cigar and drew on it deeply, making a pa-pa-pa sound with his lips. ‘Take a look at this.’ He threw down a copy of People magazine.
Robert raised an eyebrow and picked it up.
It was her.
The face he knew so well; those green eyes, that smile. He had seen her before, of course, countless times–she was everywhere, on the front covers of magazines,
