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crooned, "I'm taking you to the dog beautician for a manicure."
        He drew himself upright against the pillows, pulling up his powerful legs and letting them fall open with just a swatch of oyster sheet covering his manhood. This was less for reasons of modesty than fear that sight of his organ—of which Christian was justifiably proud— might rouse the dog to some act of jealous and irreversible savagery.
        Belle licked her lips. Her eyes on the satin heaping between his legs, she put the dog carefully on the floor. But as Sugar growled warningly, Belle paused in her slithering progress across the sheets. "We'd better not, baby," she said to Christian in tones of breathy apology. "It might upset Sugar."
        "Oh, for Chrissakes," snarled Christian, impatient with the whole idea of the dog's importance, as well as the idea he wanted to have sex with this scrawny tramp yet again. He'd performed for the last time last night, knowing that this morning he was going to dump her.
        Belle had outlived her usefulness, and it was time he moved on to someone who could get him through the final bit of the journey: right up to the top of the Hollywood ladder.
        Christian's eye, sufficiently deep set to hide how small and sly it actually was, caught the row of acting awards, gold masks, wreaths, globes, and lumps of engraved glass that stood proudly on the two mirror-panelled nightstands at either side of Belle's bed. He felt a twinge of envy. He'd have all that too, one day. It was all in front of him, Christian thought, his blue gaze sweeping appreciatively down the front of his massive, oiled, and waxed pectorals to the thick stem of his manhood. Which, from now on, would be servicing someone else. Someone more useful.
        Because it was all over with Belle now. She had let her career hit the skids with a turkey film. And so he had to move on for the good of his own career. How was that his fault? She had no one but herself to blame. He was only doing what anyone in his position would do at the moment.
        "We can have some time together later," she said, as she wound an arm around his neck. Christian felt her silicon breasts squash unpleasantly against him. He remained rigid, however. "It's over, baby," he muttered into the brittle, musky-smelling, white-blonde hair massed against his lips. "We're over."
        He felt her convulse with shock. "Over?" Belle gasped disbelievingly.
        "I've gotta move on," he explained.
        "Move on? Move on from me? But why?"
        "Look, baby. It's business, yeah? Only business. No offence. Nothing personal."
        Belle's eyes were bigger than he had ever seen them. He had not imagined, given the constraints of her facial surgery, that so much stretching was even possible. "Business?" she managed to force out. "Nothing…personal?"
        "This is Hollywood," Christian said. "So you were huge last year. But a year's a long time in showbiz. You're losing it, and now you've lost me." He put his handsome, heavy head, with its great ridges of cheekbone, on one side and gave an apologetic grin. "It's just the way things are, baby."
        "Don't leave me," Belle wept, stretching out her thin arms to him in abject and heartfelt appeal. "I thought…I thought…you loved me."
        "Loved you?" His amazement was genuine. Didn't she know? No one loved anyone in Hollywood. They just had sex with them; that was all.

Chapter Six

    The memory of the beautiful boy haunted Sam. With his amazing pale-green eyes, touched with yellow, not to mention all his other attributes, he remained with her as magnificent salmon do with the fishermen whose hooks they have slipped. The fact that she had managed to snap him on her mobile phone only increased the sense of him being the one who got away.
        Sam pored over the image. She had spent most of the week since it was taken at Wild's sister agency in New York and was haunted in her absence by the fear