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    Hollywood Wives

    4.0 8

    by Jackie Collins


    Paperback

    (Reissue)

    $9.99
    $9.99

    Temporarily Out of Stock Online

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    • ISBN-13: 9780671704599
    • Publisher: Pocket Books
    • Publication date: 08/01/1987
    • Series: Hollywood Series
    • Edition description: Reissue
    • Pages: 560
    • Product dimensions: 6.72(w) x 10.88(h) x 0.93(d)

    There have been many imitators, but only ever one Jackie Collins.

    The iconic British author has been called a “raunchy moralist” by the director Louis Malle and “Hollywood’s own Marcel Proust” by Vanity Fair.

    With millions of her books sold in more than forty countries, and with thirty-one New York Times bestsellers to her credit, she is one of the world’s top-selling novelists.

    From glamorous Beverly Hills bedrooms to Hollywood move studios; from glittering rock concerts in London to the yachts of Russian billionaires, Jackie Collins chronicled the scandalous lives of the rich, famous, and infamous from the inside looking out.

    “I write about real people in disguise,” she once said. “If anything, my characters are toned down—the truth is much more bizarre!”

    Her first novel, The World is Full of Married Men, was published in 1968 and established Collins as an author who dared to step where no other female writers had gone before. She followed it year after year with one successful title after another, including Chances, the first installment of a sprawling nine-book saga introducing the street-smart, sexy, and dynamic Lucky Santangelo. The eighties saw Jackie hitting her stride with the seminal blockbuster, Hollywood Wives, as well as Lucky, Hollywood Husbands, and Rock Star. In recent years she kept fans entertained with Poor Little Bitch Girl, The Power Trip, and her final novel, The Santagelos, never wavering on her commitment to take her readers on a “wild ride”!

    Six of her novels have been adapted for film or TV and Universal Pictures has recently optioned the Santangelo series with a view to bringing Lucky to the big screen.

    Jackie was awarded an OBE (Order of the British Empire) by the Queen of England in 2013 for her services to literature and charity. When accepting the honor she said to the Queen, “Not bad for a school drop-out”—a revelation capturing her belief that both passion and determination can lead to big dreams coming true.

    Jackie Collins lived in Beverly Hills where she had a front row seat to the lives she so accurately captured in her compulsive plotlines. She was a creative force, a trailblazer for women in fiction and in her own words “A kick-ass writer!”

    Read More

    Brief Biography

    Hometown:
    Los Angeles, California
    Date of Birth:
    October 4, 1941
    Place of Birth:
    London, England
    Website:
    http://www.jackiecollins.com

    Read an Excerpt

    Chapter One:

    Elaine Conti awoke in her luxurious bed in her luxurious Beverly Hills
    mansion, pressed a button to open the electrically controlled drapes, and was
    confronted by the sight of a young man clad in a white T-shirt and dirty jeans
    pissing a perfect arc into her mosaic-tiled swimming pool.

    She struggled to situp, buzzing for Lina, her Mexican maid, and at the same
    time flinging on a marahou-trimmed silk robe and pressing her feet into dusty
    pink mules.

    The young man completed his task, zipped up his jeans, and strolled casually
    out of view.

    "Lina!" Elaine screamed. "Where are you?"

    The maid appeared, inscrutable, calm, oblivious to her mistress's screams.

    "There's an intruder out by the pool," Elaine snapped excitedly. "Get Miguel.
    Call the police. And make sure all the doors are locked."

    Unperturbed, Lina began to collect the debris of clutter frorn Elaine's bedside
    table. Dirty Kleenex, a half-finished glass of wine, a rifled box of
    chocolates.

    "Lina!" Elaine yelled.

    "No get excited, senora," the maid said stoically. "No intruder. Just boy
    Miguel sent to do pool. Miguel sick. No come this week."

    Elaine flushed angrily. "Why the hell didn't you tell me before?" She flung
    herself into her bathroom, slamming the door so hard that a framed print sprang
    off the wall and crashed to the floor, the glass shattering. Stupid maid.
    Dumb-ass woman. It was impossible to get good help anymore. They came. They
    went. They did not give a damn if you were raped and ravaged in your own
    home.

    And this would have to happen while Ross was away on location. Miguel
    would never have dared to pretend to be sick if Ross was in town.

    Elaine flung off her robe, slipped out of her nightgown, and stepped under the
    invigorating sharpness of an ice-cold shower. She gritted her teeth. Cold water
    was best for the skin, tightened everything up. And, God knew, even with the
    gym and the yoga and the modern-dance class it still all needed tightening.

    Not that she was fat. No way. Not a surplus ounce of flesh on her entire body.
    Pretty good for thirty-nine years of age.

    When I was thirteen I was the fattest girl in school. Etta the Elephant they
    called me. And I deserved the nickname. Only how could a kid of thirteen know
    about nutrition and diet and exercise and all that stuff? How could a kid of
    thirteen help it when Grandma Steinberg stuffed her with cakes and latkes, lox
    and bagels, strudel and chicken dumplings?

    Elaine smiled grimly. Etta the Elephant, late of the Bronx, had shown them all.
    Etta the Elephant, former secretary in New York City, was now slim and svelte.
    She was called Elaine Conti, and lived in a six-bedroomed, seven-bathroomed,
    goddam Beverly Hills palace. On the flats, too. Not stuck up in the hills or
    all the way over in Brentwood. On the flats. Prime real estate.

    Etta the Elephant no longer had a sharp nose, mousy hair, gapped teeth,
    wire-rimmed glasses, and flat tits.

    Over the years she had changed. The nose was now retrousse, cute. A perfect
    Brooke Shields, in fact. The mousy hair was a rich brown, cut short and tipped
    with golden streaks. Her skin was alabaster white and smooth, thanks to regular
    facials. Her teeth were capped. White and even. A credit to Charlie's
    Angels.
    The unbecoming glasses had long been replaced with soft blue
    contact lenses, without them her eyes were slate-gray and she had to squint to
    read. Not that she did a lot of reading. Magazines, of course. Vogue,
    People, Us.

    She skimmed the trades, Variety and The Hollywood Reporter,
    concentrating on Army Archerd and Hank Grant. She devoured Women's Wear
    Daily
    and Beverly Hills People, but was not really into what she
    termed hard news. The day Ronald Reagan was elected President was the only day
    she gave a passing thought to politics. If Ronald Reagan could do it, how about
    Ross?

    The tits, while nowhere near the Raquel Welch class, were a perfect 36B, thanks
    to the ministrations of her first husband, Dr. John Saltwood. They stuck
    defiantly forward; no pull of gravity would ever harm them. And if it
    did, well, back to good old Johnny. She had found him in New York, wasting
    himself doing plastic surgery for a city hospital. They met at a party and she
    recognized a plain lonely man not unlike herself. They married a month later,
    and she had her nose and tits fixed within the year. Then she talked him into
    going to Beverly Hills and setting up in private practice.

    Three years later he was the tit man, and she had divorced him and
    become Mrs. Ross Conti. Funny how things worked out.

    Ross Conti. Husband. Movie star. First-class shit.

    And she should know. After all, they had been married ten long years and it
    hadn't all been easy and it wasn't getting any easier and she knew things about
    Ross Conti that would curl the toes of the little old ladies who still loved
    him because after all he was hitting fifty and his fans were not exactly
    teenagers and as each year crept by it was getting more and more difficult and,
    God knew, financially things were not as good as they had been and each film
    could be his last and . . .

    "Senora." Lina hammered on the bathroom door. "The boy, he go now. He want
    pay."

    Elaine stepped out of the shower. She was outraged. He wanted paying — for what?
    Pissing in her pool?

    She wrapped herself in a fluffy terry-cloth robe and opened the bathroom door.
    "Tell him," she said grandly, "to piss off. "

    Lina stared blankly. "Twenny dollar, Meesus Conti. He do it again in three
    day."

    Ross Conti swore silently to himself. Jesus H. Christ. What was happening to
    him? He couldn't remember his frigging lines. Eight takes and still he was
    screwing up.

    "Just take it easy, Ross," said the director calmly, placing a condescending
    hand on his shoulder.

    Some frigging director. Twenty-three if he's a day. Hair hanging down
    his back like a witch at Halloween. Levi's so tight the outline of his schlong
    is like a frigging beacon.

    Ross shook the offending hand off. "T'm taking it easy. It's the crowd — they
    keep distracting me.

    "Sure," soothed Chip, signaling to the first assistant. "Calm them down for
    chrissakes, they're background — not auditioning for Chorus Line."

    The first assistant nodded, then made an announcement through his
    loudspeaker.

    "Ready to go again?" asked Chip. Ross nodded, The director tunned to a
    suntanned blonde. "Again, Sharon. Sorry, babe."

    Ross burned. Sorry, babe. What the little prick really means is sorry, babe,
    but we gotta humor this old fart because he used to be the biggest thing in
    Hollywood.

    Sharon smiled. "Right on, Chip."

    Sure. Right on Chip. We'll humor the old schmuck. My mother used to love
    him. She saw all his movies. Creamed her panties every time.

    "Makeup," Ross demanded, then added, his voice heavy with sarcasm, "That's if
    nobody minds."

    "Of course not. Anything you want."

    Yeah. Anything I want. Because this so-called hotshot needs Ross Conti in
    his film. Ross Conti means plenty at the box office. Who would line up to see
    Sharon Richman? Who has even heard of her except a couple million television
    freaks who tune in to see some schlock program about girl water-ski
    instructors? Glossy crap. Sharon Richman — a hank of hair and a mouthful of
    teeth. I wouldn't even screw her if she crawled to my trailer on her hands and
    knees and begged for it. Well, maybe if she begged.

    The makeup girl attended to his needs. Now, she was all right. She
    knew who the star was on this picture. Busily she fussed around him,
    blotting out the shine of sweat around his nose with an outsize powder puff,
    touching up his eyebrows with a small comb.

    He gave her a perfunctory pinch on the ass. She smiled appreciatively. Come
    to my trailer later, baby, and I'll show you how to give a star head.

    "Right," said Chip the creep. "Are we ready, Ross?"

    We are ready, asshole. He nodded.

    "Okay. Let's go, then."

    The scene began all right. It was a simple bit of business which involved Ross
    saying three lines to Sharon's six, then strolling nonchalantly out of shot.
    The trouble was Sharon. She stared blankly, making him blow his second line
    every time. Bitch. She's doing it purposely. Trying to make me look
    bad.

    "Jesus H. Christ!" Chip finally exploded. "It's not the fucking soliloquy from
    Hamlet."

    Right. That's it. Talking to me like some nothing bit player. Ross
    turned and stalked from the location without a backward glance.

    Chip grimaced at Sharon. "That's what happens when you're dealing with no
    talent."

    "My mommy used to love him," she simpered.

    "Then your mommy is an even bigger moron than her daughter."

    She giggled. Chip's insults did not bother her. In bed she had him under
    control, and that was where it really mattered.

    Elaine Conti drove her pale-blue Mercedes slowly down La Cienega Boulevard. She
    drove slowly so as not to spoil her nails, which she had just had done at a
    sensational new nail clinic called the Nail Kiss of Life. Wonderful place, they
    had wrapped her broken thumbnail so well that even she couldn't tell.
    Elaine loved discovering new places; it gave her a tiny shot of power. She
    pushed in a Streisand tape and wondered, as she bad wondered countless times
    before, why dear Barbra had never had her nose fixed. In a town so dedicated to
    the perfect face . . . and God knew she had the money. Still, it certainly had
    not harmed her career — nor her love life, for that matter.

    Elaine frowned and thought about her own love life. Ross hadn't ventured near
    her in months. Bastard. Just because he didn't feel in the mood.

    Elaine had indulged in two affairs during the course of her marriage. Both of
    them unsatisfactory. She hated affairs, they were so time-consuming . The highs
    and the lows . The ups and the downs. Was it all worth it? She had decided no,
    but now she was beginning to wonder.

    The last one had laken place over two years ago. She blushed when she thought
    about it. What absurd risks she had taken. And with a man who could do her
    absolutely no good at all except fix her teeth, and they were already perfect.
    Milton Langley, her dentist — and probably everyone else's with money in
    Beverly Hills. How indiscreet of her to have picked him. But really he had
    picked her. He had sent his nurse scurrying off on an errand one day, climbed
    aboard the chair, and made fast and furious love to her. She remembered the day
    well, because he had climaxed all over her new Sonia Rykiel skirt.

    Elaine giggled aloud at the thought, although she hadn't giggled at the time.
    Milton had poured mouthwash over the damaged garment, and, when his nurse
    returned, sent her over to Saks to purchase a replacement. After that they had
    met twice a week in some dreadful motel on Santa Monica for two hot months. One
    day Elaine had just decided not to go. End of that little episode.

    The other one wasn't even worth thinking about. An actor on one of Ross's
    films. She had slept with him twice and regretted both times.

    Whenever she mentioned their lack of a sex life to Ross he flew into a rage.
    "What the frig do you think I am? A machine? I'll get it up when I want to-not
    just because you've read some crap sex magazine that says you should have ten
    orgasms a day."

    Ha! She was lucky if she got ten a year. If it hadn't been for her trusty
    vibrator she would have been climbing walls.

    Maybe his erection would return if the movie he was doing turned out to be a
    hit.

    Yes. That was what Ross needed — a massive shot of success would be good for
    both of them. There was nothing like success for putting the hard-on back in a
    man's life.

    Carefully she made a left on Melrose. Lunch at Ma Maison was a must on Fridays.
    Anybody who was anybody and in town invariably showed up. Elaine had a
    permanent booking.

    Patrick Terrail, the owner of Ma Maison, greeted her at the entrance to the
    small outdoor restaurant. She accepted a kiss on each cheek and followed a
    waiter to her table, keeping an eagle eye out for anyone she should
    acknowledge.

    Maralee Gray, one of her closest friends, was already waiting. She nursed a
    spritzer and a sour expression. At thirty-seven Maralee maintained more than a shadow of her past prettiness. In her time
    she had been voted the most popular girl in high school and Miss Hot Rod
    1960. That was before she had met, married, and divorced Neil Gray, the film
    director. Her father, now retired, owned Sanderson Studios. Money had never
    been Maralee's problem. Only men.

    "Darling. I'm not late, am I?" Elaine asked anxiously, brushing cheeks with her
    friend.

    "Not at all. I think I was early." They exchanged you-look-wonderfuls,
    admired each other's outfit, and cast their eyes around the restaurant.

    "And how's Ross making out on location?" Maralee asked, extracting a long black
    cigarillo from a wafer-thin gold case.

    "You know Ross-he makes out wherever he is."

    They both laughed. Ross's reputation as a cocksman was an old Hollywood
    joke.

    "Actually he hates everything," she confided. "The script, the director, the
    crew, the food, the climate — the whole bug-ridden setup, as he so charmingly
    puts it. But Maralee, believe me" — she leaned confidentially toward her
    friend — "he's going to be dynamite in this movie. The old Ross
    Conti-full-force."

    "I can believe it;" Maralee murmured. "I've never counted him out, you know
    that."

    Elaine nodded. Maralee was a true friend, and there weren't many of them
    around. In Hollywood you were only as hot as your last hit — and it had been a
    long time between hits.

    "I'm going to have my eyes done," Maralee announced dramatically. "I'm only
    telling you, and you mustn't mention it to a soul."

    "As if I would!" Elaine replied, quite affronted. "Who's doing it?"

    "The Palm Springs connection. I'll spend a couple of weeks there — after all,
    I have the house. Then I'll come back and nobody will know the difference.
    They'll just think I was vacationing."

    "Wonderful idea," Elaine said. Was Maralee stupid or what? Nobody took a
    vacation in Palm Springs, even if they did have a house there. They either
    weekended or retired. "When?" she asked, her eyes flicking restlessly round the
    restaurant.

    "As soon as possible. Next week if he can fit me in."

    They both stopped talking to observe the entrance of Sylvester Stallone. Elaine
    threw him a perfunctory wave, but he did not appear to notice her. "Probably
    needs glasses," she sniffed.

    "I met him at a party only last week."

    Maralee produced a small gold compact and inspected her face. "He won't last,"
    ardshe remarked dismissively, removing a smudge of lipstick from her teeth. "Let's
    face it, Clark Gable he's not."

    "Oh yeah, that's it... don't stop... don't ever stop. Oh yeah, yeah
    . . . just keep on going, sweetheart, keep right on going."

    Ross Conti listened to the words pouring from his mouth and wondered how many
    times he had uttered them before. Plenty. That was for sure.

    On her knees, Stella, the makeup girl, worked diligently on his weak erection.
    She sucked him as if he were a water pump. Her technique could do with some
    improvement. But then, in his time, Ross had had some of the best little
    cocksuckers in the business. Starlets, whose very livelihood depended on doing
    a good job. Hookers, who specialized. Bored Beverly Hills housewives who had
    elevated cocksucking to an art.

    He felt his erection begin to deflate, and he dug his fingers hard into the
    girl's scalp. She yelped with pain and stopped what she was doing.

    He wasn't sorry. Ouick as a flash he tucked himself out of sight and firmly
    zipped up. "That was great!"

    She stared at him in amazement. "But you didn't come."

    He could hardly lie. "Sometimes it's better this way," he mumbled mysteriously,
    reaching for a bottle of tequila on the side table in his hotel room.

    "It is?" She continued to stare.

    "Sure. Keeps all the juices inside. Keeps me buzzing. That's the way I like it
    when I'm working." If she believed that she'd believe anything.

    "I think I know what you mean," she began enthusiastically. "Sort of like a
    boxer before a fight — mustn't release that precious energy. You've got to
    make it work for you."

    "Right! You got it!" He smiled, took a slug of tequila from the bottle, and
    wished she would go.

    "Would you like me to... do anything?" she asked expectantly, hoping that he
    would want her to undress and stay.

    "There's a million things I'd like you to do," he replied. "But the star has
    got to get some sleep. You understand, don't you?"

    "Of course, Mr. Con — Ross."

    He hadn't said she could call him by his first name. Mr. Conti would do nicely.
    Women. Give them nine inches and they frigging moved in. "Goodnight,
    Sheila."

    "It's Stella."

    "Right."

    She finally left, and he switched on the television in time for The Tonight
    Show.
    He knew that he should call Elaine in L.A., but he couldn't be
    bothered. She would be furious when she heard he had blown his lines and walked
    off the set. Elaine thought he was on the way out. She was always nagging him
    about keeping up with what the public wanted. He had done his last movie
    against her advice, and it bombed at the box office. God, that bad pissed him
    off. A fine love story with a veteran director and a New York stage actress as
    his leading lady. "Old-fashioned garbage," Elaine had announced baldly. "Sex,
    violence, and comedy, that's what sells tickets today. And you've got to get in
    on the act, Ross, before it's too late."

    She was right, of course. He did have to get in on the act, because be was no
    longer Mr. Box Office, not even in the frigging top ten. He was on the slide,
    and in Hollywood they could smell it.

    Johnny Carson was talking to Angie Dickinson. She was flirting, crossing long
    legs and looking seductive.

    Abruptly Ross picked up the phone. "Get me the bell captain," he snapped.

    Chip had come groveling to his trailer after his walkout. "Nothing we can't
    sort out, Ross. If you want to quit today, we can schedule to reshoot the scene
    first thing in the morning."

    He bad agreed. At least they knew they were dealing with a star now, and not
    some nothing has-been.

    "Yes, Mr. Conti. This is the bell captain. How may I help you?"

    Ross balanced the phone under his chin and reached for the tequila bottle. "Can
    you be discreet?"

    "Of course, sir. It's my job."

    "I want a broad."

    "Certainly, Mr. Conti. Blonde? Brunette? Redhead?"

    "Multicolored for all I care. Just make sure she's got big tits-and I mean
    big ones.

    "Yes sir!"

    "Oh, and you can charge her to my account. Mark it down as room service." Why
    should he pay? Let the film company pick up the tab. He replaced the
    receiver and walked to the mirror. Fifty. Soon he would be fifty. And it hurt.
    Badly.

    Ross Conti had lived in Hollywood for thirty years. And for twenty
    five of those years he had been a star. Arriving in town in 1953, he was
    soon discovered hauling boxes in a food market on Sunset Boulevard by an aging
    agent's young wife. She was entranced by his blond good looks, and set about
    persuading her husband to handle him. In the meantime she was handling him
    herself — twice a day — and loving every minute.

    Her husband discovered their affair on the day Universal decided to sign his
    young client. In a fit of fury the old agent negotiated the worst deal he
    possibly could, waited until it was signed, then dropped Ross, and badmouthed
    him as an untalented stud all over town.

    Ross didn't care. He had grown up in the Bronx, spent three years kicking
    around New York grabbing bit parts here and there, and a Hollywood contract
    seemed just peifect to him, whatever the terms.

    Women adored him. For two years he worked his way through the studio,
    eventually picking on the pretty mistress of a studio executive, who promptly
    saw to it that Ross's contract was dropped.

    Two years, and all he had done was a few small parts in a series of
    beach-party movies. Then suddenly — no contract, no prospects, no money.

    One day, lounging around Schwab's drugstore on the Strip, he got talking to
    a girl named Sadie La Salle, a hardworking secretary with the most enormous
    knockers he had ever seen. She was not a pretty girl. Overweight, suspicions of
    a mustache, short of leg. But oh those magnificent tits! He surprised himself
    by asking her for a date. She accepted readily, and they went to the Aware Inn,
    ate health burgers, and talked about him. He loved every minute of it. How many
    girls were prepared to discuss him and only him for five solid hours?

    Sadie was very smart, a quality Ross had not encountered in a woman before.
    She refused to go to bed with him on their first date, slapped his hands away
    when he went after the magic tits, gave him sound advice about his career, and
    on their second date cooked him the best meal he had ever had.

    For six months they had a platonic relationship, seeing each other a couple
    of times a week, speaking on the phone daily. Ross loved talking to her; she
    had an answer for every problem. And oh boy, did he ever have problems! He told
    her about the girls he was screwing, the trouble he was having finding work.
    Going on interview after interview and getting nowhere was depressing, not to
    mention terrible for his ego. Sadie was a wonderful listener, plus she cooked
    him two great meals a week and did his washing.

    One night he had a narrow escape while visiting a nubile girlfriend. Her
    out-of-town husband returned home sooner than expected, and Ross was forced to
    drop out her bedroom window desperately clutching his pants. He decided to pay
    Sadie an unexpected visit and tell her the story. sure she would love
    it.

    When he arrived at her small apartment on Olive Drive he was shocked to
    discover her entertaining a man, the two of them sitting at her candlelit
    dining table finishing off a delicious-smelling pot roast. There was wine on
    the table, and fresh-cut flowers . Sadie was wearing a low-cut dress and seemed
    flustered to see him.

    It had never occurred to him that she had boyfriends, and he was
    unreasonably pissed off.

    "I want you to meet Bernard Leftcovitz," she said primly, eyeing his
    crumpled clothes and mussed hair with distaste.

    He flung himself familiarly into a chair and threw a silent nod in Bernard
    Leftcovitz's direction. "Get me a drink, hon," he said to Sadie, reaching out
    to slap her on the ass. "Scotch, plenty of ice."

    She glared, but did as he asked. Then he outsat Mr. Leftcovitz, who finally
    left an hour later.

    "Thanks a lot!" she exploded, as soon as the door shut behind him .

    Ross grinned. "Wassamatter?"

    "You know what's the matter. Walking in here like you own the place,
    treating me like one of your . . . your . . . goddam . . .women!" She was
    spluttering with rage. "I hate you. I really hate you! You
    think you're such a big deal. Well, let me tell you —"

    He grubbed her fast. Moved in for the kill — for he knew that's what it would
    be — a killer scene, all thighs and heat and those amazing mountainous breasts
    enveloping him.

    She pushed him away. "Ross —" she began to object.

    He wasn't about to listen to any reasons why they shouldn't. Sadie La Salle
    was going to be his and screw the Bernard Leftcovitzes of this world.

    She was a virgin. Twenty-four years old. A resident of Hollywood and a
    virgin.

    Ross could not believe it. He was delighted. Ten years of making out and she
    was his first.

    The next day he packed up his things and moved in with her. He was two
    months overdue with his rent anyway, and money was becoming a big problem.
    Sadie loved having him in her life. She said goodhye to Bernie without a second
    thought and devoted all her time to Ross. "We have to find you an agent," she
    fretted, because she knew his failure to land a part in a movie was upsetting
    him more than he cared to admit. Unfortunately all the agents he visited seemed
    to have got the message — Ross Conti equaled bad news.

    One day she mode a major decision. "I'll be your agent," she said
    quite seriously.

    "You'll what?" he roared.

    "I'll be your agent. It's a good idea. You'll see."

    The next week she gave up her job, withdrew her savings, and soon found a
    tiny room in a run-down building on Hollywood Boulevard. She stuck a notice on
    the door — Sadie La Salle, Agent to the Stars. Then she had a phone installed,
    and was in business.

    Ross found the whole thing hysterically funny. What the hell did Sadie know
    about being an agent?

    What she didn't know she soon found out. For six years she had worked as a
    secretary in a large lawfirm which specialized in show-business work. She had
    the legalities down pat, and the rest wasn't difficult. She had a product. Ross
    Conti. And when the women of America got a good look at him they were going to
    want to buy.

    "I have a great idea," she told him one day, "and I don't want your opinion of it,
    because it'll work. I know it's going to work."

    As it happened he loved her idea, although it was a little crazy, and very
    expensive. She borrowed the money she needed from her former boss, an uptight
    jerk named Jeremy Mead who Ross suspected wanted to ball her. Then she had Ross
    photographed by the Pacific Ocean wearing faded Levi's cutoffs and a smile. And
    she had the picture blown up and placed on as many billboards as she could
    afford all across America, with just the words: "WHO IS ROSS CONTI?"

    It was magic time. Within weeks everyone was asking, "Who is Ross
    Conti?" Johnny Carson began making cracks on his show. Letters started to
    arrive by the sackload, addressed to Ross Conti, Hollywood (Sadie had prudently
    informed the post office where to forward them). Ross was stopped in the
    street, mobbed by adoring women, recognized wherever he went. The whole thing
    took off just as she had predicted it would.

    At the peak of it all Sadie flew with her now famous client to New York,
    where he had been invited to do a guest appearance on The Tonight Show.
    They were both ecstatic. New York gave Ross the feel of what it would be
    like to be a star. Sadie was thrilled that it was she who had done it for
    him.

    He was marvelous on the show-funny, sexy, and magnetically attractive. By
    the time they got back to Hollywood the offers were piling up. Sadie sifted
    through them and finally negotiated an ace three-picture deal for him with
    0 Paramount. He never looked back. Success as a movie star was
    instantaneous.

    Six months later he dumped her, signed with a big agency, and married Wendy
    Warren, a rising young star with an impressive thirty-nine-inch bust. They
    lived together in much-photographed luxury on top of Mulholland Drive, five
    minutes from MarIon Brando's retreat. Their marriage lasted only two years and
    was childless. After that Ross became the Hollywood bachelor. Wild
    stories, wild pranks, wild parties. Everyone was delighted when in 1964 he
    married again, this time a Swedish starlet of seventeen with, of course,
    wonderful breasts. The marriage was stormy and only lasted six months. She
    divorced him, claiming mental cruelty and half his money. Ross shrugged the
    whole thing off.

    At that time his star was at its peak. Every movie he appeared in was a
    winner. Until 1969, when he made two disastrous films in a row.

    A lot of people were not sorry to observe his fall from superstardom. Sadie
    La Salle, for one. After his defection from her loving care she had faded from
    sight for a while, but then she had resurfaced and slowly but surely built
    herself an empire.

    Ross met Elaine when he went for a consultation with her husband. At
    thirty-nine he thought maybe he needed a little face work. He never got the
    surgery, but he did get Elaine. She moved in on him without hesitation, and she
    was exactly what he needed at that time in his life. He found her sympathetic,
    supportive, and an excellent listener. The tits were nothing to get excited
    about, but in bed she was accommodating and warm, and after the aggression of
    the usual Hollywood starlet he liked that. He decided marriage to Elaine was
    just what he needed. lt did not take a lot of persuasion for her to divorce her
    husband. They married a week later in Mexico, and his career took a sharp
    upward swing. It stayed up for five years, then slowly, gradually, it began to
    slip. And so did their marriage.

    Forty-nine. Heading full-speed toward fifty. And he didn't look a day over
    forty-two. The blond boyish good looks had aged nicely, although he could do
    without the graying hair that had to be carefully dyed, and the deep
    indentations under his piercing blue eyes.

    Still, he was in terrific shape. The body was almost as good as new. He stared
    at his reflection, hardly hearing the discreet knock on the door.

    "Yes?" he called out, when the knock was repeated.

    "Room service," crooned a feminine voice.

    Room service was twenty-two and stacked. Ross made a mental note to tip the
    bell captain royally.

    Copyright © 1983 by Chances Inc.

    Eligible for FREE SHIPPING details

    .

    They lunch at Ma Maison and the Bistro on salads and hot gossip. They cruise Rodeo Drive in their Mercedes and Rolls, turning shopping at Giorgio and Gucci into an art form. They pursue the body beautiful at the Workout and Body Asylum.
    Dressed by St. Laurent and Galanos, they dine at the latest restaurants on the rise and fall of one another's fortunes. They are the Hollywood Wives, a privileged breed of women whose ticket to ride is a famous husband.
    Hollywood. At its most flamboyant.

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