Double Lucky by Jackie Collins Read Free Book Online Page A

him on the lips. “I missed you so much. How’d it go today?”
    â€œAlex Woods is a workaholic freakin’ asshole ,” Billy complained, shrugging off his Chrome Hearts leather jacket and flinging it on Venus’s oversized bed.
    â€œEveryone knows that,” she agreed, kneeling on top of the bed looking sexy in a barely-there black lace teddy. “However, at least he’s a talented asshole, which so many of them aren’t.”
    Billy was inclined to disagree. It was almost midnight and he was wiped out. He’d had a bitch of a day what with the sex session out by his pool with the girl from Tower Records, then working endless hours on the street faking tough-as-shit choreographed fight scenes. Alex Woods was king of the “Let’s go for another take” school of directors, and it drove Billy nuts. How many times was he supposed to get punched in the head and thrown over the hood of a car? Oh sure, he had a stand-in, but Alex insisted that he be front and center for most of the action, and when he objected—even a little bit—Alex berated him in front of the entire crew. “Our actor doesn’t want to get down ’n’ dirty,” Alex jeered. “Let’s get a chair for our fucking actor so he can put his fucking feet up. Wouldn’t want to overwork him.”
    At which point Billy had agreed to shoot the scene himself. No stand-in required.
    Man, he felt totally shattered. When they’d wrapped for the night, all he’d really wanted to do was go home and soak in his hot tub. Instead he’d been obliged to rush over to Venus’s palatial mansion in Beverly Hills, because she’d called him on his cell four times insisting he come by when he was finished, and he didn’t want to disappoint her.
    â€œIt’ll be late,” he’d warned.
    â€œI’ll be waiting,” she’d answered. “Keeping the bed warm for you, baby.”
    If anyone had told him eight years ago that Venus Maria, one of the most famous women in the world, would be keeping the bed warm for him, he would’ve laughed like a freakin’ loon.
    Venus Maria. Platinum-blond superstar. A woman so famous she was now known by only one name: Venus. Everyone knew who she was. They bought her CDs, flocked to her movies, wore the hottest jeans in town with her name emblazoned on the label, sprayed themselves with her latest signature scent, and worshipped at her live stadium performances.
    Venus was a freakin’ icon. And he was her boyfriend. Her much younger boyfriend—well, not that much younger, thirteen years. And that meant nothing. It wasn’t as if he was some snot-nosed boy toy—he was a very successful movie star in his own right. He had a house, plenty of money, and a sizzling career. He didn’t need Venus’s fame to tag on to; he had his own.
    Besides, if the situation were reversed and she was thirteen years younger than him, nobody would give a rat’s ass. Hollywood was awash with old geezers whose wives and girlfriends were decades younger than them, and nobody said a word. Unfortunately, he and Venus got the treatment. Front page of the tabloids always carrying on about their age difference. Was she going to marry him? Was she pregnant? Were they breaking up? Was she too rich for him? Was he famous enough for her?
    At first he’d got off on all the attention, then after a while it started to get to him. He was a star, too; he didn’t appreciate all the trash talk he had to endure.
    Venus loved him, he knew that. The big question was: Did he love her? Or did he love everything she represented? The extreme fame and superglamor. The adulation and nonstop fan worship. Sometimes he simply wasn’t sure whether it was love or infatuation.
    And if he really loved her, would he cheat on her the way he had that afternoon?
    For a moment he flashed onto the young girl who’d followed him up to his house