Rock Star by Jackie Collins Page B

accident, she would be working for him as his personal assistant, and more.
    ‘I’m gonna take another shower,’ Bobby said, finishing the sandwich in a couple .of hungry bites. ‘Are my clothes ready?’
    ‘Everything’s set,’ she replied. ‘Your favourite black pants and white silk shirt.’
    ‘Thanks, babe.’ Yeah, they were his favourite clothes all right. His lucky outfit. Only his clothes hadn’t been so lucky for him on that fateful night two years ago.
    Oh, Jesus. Soon he would be in the presence of Nova Citroen. That seductive cold bitch.
    He didn’t know if he could take it.
    Sara held his arm, assisting him to the bathroom.
    He shook her hand away. ‘I know the lay-out,’ he said sharply. ‘You’ve got to stop takin’ every step for me.’
    Sometimes he wanted help. Sometimes he couldn’t stand it. Today he wanted to do everything on his own.
    ‘I’ll go get dressed,’ she said quickly, in that small, hurt voice he couldn’t stand.
    She was such a sweet kid, so warm and helpful. She’d brought him back from the brink, and he didn’t know what he’d do without her. And yet, there were times she got on his nerves.
    Lightening up, he said, ‘You mean you’re still walkin’ around bare-assed, girl? Shame on you! Somebody might see you.’
    Bobby’s idea of a joke. Sara didn’t find it very funny.
    *    *    *
    Nova Citroen prowled around her luxurious estate checking the details that had made her one of America’s number one hostesses, and aggravating the. hell out of everyone who worked for her. She had an eye for the smallest speck of dust, the slightest imperfection, everything had to be just so.
    Concentrating on the guest house, she ordered a collection of silver frames to be repolished. Insisted there were fresh rolls of toilet tissue in every one of the seven bathrooms. Made a manservant change every light bulb, and personally rearranged nine vases of garden-picked flowers.
    Finally she returned to her bedroom with her masseuse, hairdresser, manicurist, and a top makeup artist – an English girl called Tracy – the only one allowed to touch the precious Nova Citroen skin.
    ‘This is all so boring,’ she informed her diligent entourage. ‘However, I enjoy raising money. And the Governor is such a worthy cause, don’t you think?’
    Little did any of them suspect that twenty years ago Nova Citroen had been one of the highest-paid call girls in her native Germany.
    *    *    *
    Vicki Foxe had a way of moving around that enabled her to go wherever she wanted. The uniform helped. The dreary brown and white maid’s uniform that Mrs Citroen insisted every female employee wear.
    The old broad probably doesn’t want any competition , Vicki thought smugly. Man, without the uniform, and with all her makeup and shit in place, Vicki Foxe could give competition to any of those big fancy movie stars. Not that the new ones were so big and fancy anymore – mere shadows of what they used to be like in the good old days. Not that Vicki had been around then, but she knew. There were no Marilyn Monroes and Lana Turners today.
    Vicki Foxe had arrived in Hollywood at sixteen, a runaway from Chicago, with sixty bucks in her pocket and two great assets – her incredibly large breasts.
    The sixty dollars didn’t get her very far at all, but the assets got her a job as a topless waitress and go-go dancer, and from there she graduated to nude modelling. Hooking came next, and by the time she was twenty-five she was scoring fairly big bucks, until she met a small-time hood who was married, generous, and wanted her all to himself. He set her up in an apartment on Ventura Boulevard and paid all the bills. She sat at home filing her nails, eating chocolates, and watching soap operas all day. Four years passed quickly, and then her boyfriend got himself arrested down in Florida on an armed robbery charge arid was promptly sent to jail. Vicki, a little older, a little plumper, went back