‘Pretty little thing, ain’t she?’ Bernstein rubbed his hands together in an excited way.
Robert did his best to look disinterested, though his heart stung. Belleville was a lifetime ago–he’d refused to think about it, battled it to the ground and buried it deep, and for a while he’d thought the memory was fading. But whenever he saw her.
‘What’s this about?’ he asked eventually.
Holding the cigar between his lips and taking a seat opposite his protégé, Bernstein gave a satisfied grin that exposed a wall of gleaming teeth.
‘Sam Lucas has got a movie in production–Eastern Sky. It’s gonna be big.’
‘And?’ Robert tried to control the snap in his voice. ‘What’s it got to do with Lana Falcon?’
Bernstein guffawed. ‘Are you kidding? She’s the freakin’ star of the movie—’
‘I don’t need a who’s who of Hollywood,’ said Robert abruptly. ‘Get to the point, Bernstein.’
‘OK, OK, don’t tie your balls in a knot. I got some money behind it, ya know, gotta keep the wheels turning.’
Robert nodded. He knew Bernstein was a keen investor in anything set to make money: he had eyes and ears in every city, including LA. If this movie was tipped to be hot property, it went without saying that Bernstein would somehow be involved.
The older man took a moment, savoured it before delivering the news. ‘It’s coming here, pal. Next summer. The Eastern Sky premiere’s coming straight to the Orient.’
Robert didn’t think he’d heard correctly. ‘You’re kidding.’
Bernstein grinned. ‘Nice little deal, huh? I knew you’d jump at it.’
There was a brief silence. ‘How? I mean—’
‘Me an’ Sam go back,’ Bernstein said, puffing away and looking satisfied with himself. ‘I got a vested interest in him; he’s got a vested interest in me. Y’know how it is.’
Robert stood, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, as the implications began to sink in, a grin broke across his face. ‘This is a major coup, Bernstein.’
‘Damn right it is.’ Bernstein ground out his cigar in a Lalique ashtray–he had an expensive habit of only ever smoking the very top. ‘I woulda taken it for the Parthenon but, ya know, the movie’s got a theme, ain’t it. Chinese an’ all that. The producers wanted the Orient.’ He shrugged. ‘What the hell–I did, too.’
Robert held his hands up. ‘What can I say? I’m grateful. Thank you.’
As the men shook hands, it crossed Robert’s mind that Bernstein had an ulterior motive–Bernstein always did. He wasn’t getting any younger, wanted his daughter married and fast. He wanted, Robert suspected, to bring him and Elisabeth in on whatever deal he had going with Chicago. Securing his future son-in-law the Sam Lucas premiere was a bold statement, and in doing so Bernstein was applying that necessary bit of pressure.
‘You just bring the money in, kid. An’ you can fix me a drink while you’re at it.’
Robert poured them both one–Scotch on the rocks with a twist of lemon. Thoughts of Lana Falcon threatened to surface, but he forced them down. If he kept focused on the business, he wouldn’t have to think about seeing her again.
Damn! They’d be reunited after ten years apart. He hadn’t seen her or heard from her in all that time. It was too much of a risk for them to know each other any more. Not after what they’d done.
‘So when you gonna make an honest woman of my daughter?’ Bernstein took a hefty swig, served up with a lethal crocodile grin.
Robert let her go. Lana Falcon was nothing but trouble.
‘In my own good time, Bernstein.’
‘It’s the way forward, kid.’ He reached for another Cuban and lit it with a flourish. ‘Elisabeth’s a beautiful girl—’
‘You don’t need to tell me that.’
‘And she ain’t gettin’ any younger neither.’
Robert laughed. ‘She’s thirty-two, Bernstein.’
‘In my day a broad woulda been divorced twice already by now.’ He sat back.
Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s a good job times have changed, then, huh?’ He drained his glass and winced as the alcohol blazed a trail down his throat.
Bernstein pointed a fat finger in Robert’s direction and gave him a wink. ‘An’ they’re gonna change again.’ He ground the cigar out in a twist of smoke. ‘Talk to me once you’re married–I’ve got plans for you, St Louis.’
Los Angeles
The Bel Air mansion shared by Kate diLaurentis and Jimmy Hart was a magnificent cream Spanish-style villa lined with bottle-green palms. An enormous, sweeping driveway led up to the circular front, where Kate surveyed all arrivals, including her ex-husband’s, from a huge rounded window that stretched from one side to the other, as big as one of her Egyptian cotton bed sheets.
Lana and Cole’s limousine pulled up alongside a dam of waiting paparazzi. Their shouts filtered through the dark windows, camera lenses pushing against the glass.
‘I like how you look tonight,’ commented Cole, taking his wife’s hand. It wasn’t genuine affection; it was preparation for their performance, like warming up for a well-practised routine.
‘Thank you,’ she said, not looking at him. She would deliver, but not until she had to.
The car door opened to a rage of noise. Lana stepped out carefully, security shielding her from the more persistent photographers who came right up close and snapped and grabbed at her like a piece of meat. The onslaught made her panicked; it brought back too much of the past.
Cole was with her in a flash and, with head up, back straight and eyes ahead, they smiled and charmed their way through to the party.
‘I told you I wanted Beluga caviar on these blinis, Tina,’ said Kate diLaurentis in a scarcely controlled voice, brandishing the tray beneath her caterer’s nose. ‘Would you mind telling me what the hell this is?’
Tina, a harried-looking woman who appeared older than her thirty years, swallowed hard. ‘Ms diLaurentis, I, uh, I must have misunderstood—’
‘Do I pay you tens of thousands of dollars to misunderstand.?’ Kate felt her temper ignite and struggled to retain composure. Her guests were milling outside on the terrace, the hum of conversation drifting into the catering kitchen–it wouldn’t do to blow her load before the canapés had even been served.
Where the hell was her husband? Jimmy had been AWOL since she’d glimpsed him this morning,
