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. Read here lesforgesdessalles.info?book= Read Full Download [PDF] Download Hollywood Wives Full PDF Down. Hollywood wives. byCollins, Jackie. Publication date PublisherNew York: Pocket Books Borrow this book to access EPUB and PDF files.
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Elaine threw him a perfunctory wave, but he did not appear to notice her. 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. Price may vary by retailer. No way. One day she mode a major decision. She accepted readily, and they went to the Aware Inn, ate health burgers, and talked about him.
Her skin was alabaster white and smooth, thanks to regular facials. Her teeth were capped. White and even. 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. 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. Movie star. First-class shit. And she should know. He want pay. 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. He do it again in three day. Jesus H. What was happening to him? Eight takes and still he was screwing up. Some frigging director.
Hair hanging down his back like a witch at Halloween. Ross shook the offending hand off. Ross nodded, The director tunned to a suntanned blonde.
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. My mother used to love him. She saw all his movies. Creamed her panties every time.
Anything you want. 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. 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. He nodded. The trouble was Sharon. She stared blankly, making him blow his second line every time. Trying to make me look bad.
Talking to me like some nothing bit player. Ross turned and stalked from the location without a backward glance. Chip grimaced at Sharon. In bed she had him under control, and that was where it really mattered. 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.
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. Still, it certainly had not harmed her career — nor her love life, for that matter. Elaine frowned and thought about her own love life.
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.
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.
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. 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. A machine? She was lucky if she got ten a year. Maybe his erection would return if the movie he was doing turned out to be a hit.
That was what Ross needed — a massive shot of success would be good for both of them. 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 That was before she had met, married, and divorced Neil Gray, the film director. Her father, now retired, owned Sanderson Studios. Only men. I think I was early. The old Ross Conti-full-force. In Hollywood you were only as hot as your last hit — and it had been a long time between hits.
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.
Next week if he can fit me in. Elaine threw him a perfunctory wave, but he did not appear to notice her.
Oh yeah, yeah. Ross Conti listened to the words pouring from his mouth and wondered how many times he had uttered them before.
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.
She yelped with pain and stopped what she was doing. Quick as a flash he tucked himself out of sight and firmly zipped up. Keeps all the juices inside.
Keeps me buzzing. You got it! Con — Ross. Conti would do nicely. Give them nine inches and they frigging moved in. She finally left, and he switched on the television in time for The Tonight Show. He knew that he should call Elaine in L. 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. 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. Chip had come groveling to his trailer after his walkout. If you want to quit today, we can schedule to reshoot the scene first thing in the morning. At least they knew they were dealing with a star now, and not some nothing has-been. SlideShare Explore Search You. Submit Search.
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