Bad Sisters Read online

  Praise for Rebecca Chance

  ‘A bright new star in blockbusters, Rebecca Chance’s Divas sizzles with glamour, romance and revenge. Unputdownable. A glittering page-turner, this debut had me hooked from the first page’

  LOUISE BAGSHAWE

  ‘I laughed, I cried, I very nearly choked. Just brilliant! This has to be the holiday read of the year. Rebecca Chance’s debut will bring colour to your cheeks even if the credit crunch means you’re reading it in Bognor rather than the Balearics’

  OLIVIA DARLING

  ‘Glitzy, hedonistic and scandalous, this compelling read is a real page-turner’

  CLOSER

  ‘A fun, frivolous read’

  SUN

  Also by Rebecca Chance

  Divas

  Bad Girls

  First published in Great Britain by Simon and Schuster, 2011

  A CBS Company

  Copyright © Rebecca Chance, 2011

  This book is copyright under the Bernae Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Rebecca Chance to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London

  WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia Sydney

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-0-85720-483-7

  eISBN 978-0-85720-484-4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman,

  Reading, Berkshire RG1 8EX

  For all the good sisters out there (and some of the bad ones)

  Acknowledgements

  Big, big heartfelt thanks to:

  — Maxine, Libby, and everyone at Simon and Schuster who are working so hard to make these books raving successes, to design covers that pop off the shelves, and to market the living daylights out of them. I couldn’t be in better hands and am hugely grateful. And to Anthony, my agent, and everyone at David Higham, who work just as hard on my behalf, and always make me feel like the only client they have;

  — the real Matt Bates, who’s been Rebecca Chance’s greatest supporter ever since the first book, and is just as gorgeous as his namesake (though more in the Will Young than Danny Cipriani style of good looks);

  — Katharine Walsh, gorgeous pouting blond PR girl supreme, raccoon-fur coat and all, who’s enough of a Rebecca Chance heroine to deserve a whole book of her own – one day!

  — everyone at the Grand Jersey Hotel, who took such good care of us while we were visiting for research purposes;

  — Jason Phillips and Bethany Russell at Franco’s, who looked after us wonderfully at our research dinner. It’s completely our fault that we were heavy-headed the next day from the double grappas and moscati . . .

  Contents

  Prologue

  Riseholme, UK

  1993

  Part One

  Eighteen years later

  Deeley

  Devon

  Maxie

  Deeley

  Maxie

  Deeley

  1993

  Part Two

  Devon

  Deeley

  Maxie

  Deeley

  Devon

  1993

  Part Three

  Deeley

  Devon

  Deeley

  Devon

  Deeley

  Maxie

  Devon

  Deeley

  Devon

  Deeley

  Devon

  Epilogue

  Two weeks later

  Deeley

  Killer Queens

  Prologue

  Riseholme, UK

  1993

  The three girls huddled together, looking down at the body of an unconscious man. He was slumped on the ugly, threadbare brown carpet tiles in an awkward heap, his face to the ground. And he wasn’t moving.

  ‘Is he dead?’ breathed 9-year-old Deeley McKenna, her dark eyes huge with shock. She bent down as if to touch him, then flinched at the last moment, pulling her hand back.

  ‘He isn’t supposed to be dead!’ Devon exclaimed in panic. She was thirteen and trying valiantly to seem poised, as befitted a new teenager, but it was the flimsiest of facades: she was as horrified as Deeley at what they had just done.

  ‘He deserves whatever he gets,’ Maxie, the oldest of the three, said grimly, her jaw set hard.

  ‘How do we tell if he’s dead?’ Devon asked, pushing her hair back from her face.

  It was immediately obvious that the three of them were sisters. They had the same heart-shaped faces, the same thick dark hair growing back from widow’s peaks, the same big dark eyes and full, pink lips, the same smooth, creamy skin. Devon, the middle sister, was already a beauty, with her curvy figure and wide, photogenic cheekbones.

  ‘I read in a book you can hold a hand mirror to someone’s mouth to see if they’re still breathing,’ suggested Maxie, always practical.

  But none of the girls moved to follow up this suggestion. Instead, Deeley’s small hand slipped into Maxie’s, reaching for comfort from her beloved big sister. Maxie had always been like a mother to her younger siblings who looked up to her with absolute trust and love. Now Deeley’s pretty, round baby face was pinched with fear, and she clung to Maxie, her one rock of certainty in a terrifyingly unstable world.

  ‘I’m scared, Maxie,’ she said in a tiny voice. ‘I’m really scared. We didn’t mean him to be dead, did we?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Deels,’ Maxie said, squeezing her little sister’s hand tight. ‘It’ll be all right. I’ve thought of everything.’

  With stronger features than her sisters, Maxie was striking rather than beautiful. And at seventeen, she already looked like a woman, tall and confident. It was no wonder Deeley and Devon followed wherever she led.

  ‘Shall I get a mirror, then?’ Devon asked eventually. ‘To, you know, check if he’s . . .’

  She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Maxie shivered despite herself.

  ‘I suppose it’d be better than checking his pulse,’ she said.

  ‘He was so nice!’ Deeley blurted out, tears beginning to well up in her huge brown eyes. ‘He always read me a bedtime story . . . and he bought me the bike for my birthday, the one I’d wanted for ages and ages, from the Argos catalogue, brand new, with the basket and everything . . . and he was teaching me how to ride it . . .’

  ‘Deeley!’ Maxie snapped. ‘You know what he did!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Maxie . . .’ Deeley was sobbing now. ‘Don’t be cross, please don’t be cross . . .’

  She threw herself against her big sister, wrapping her arms tightly around Maxie’s waist, clinging to her like a limpet.

  ‘Don’t snap at her, Max,’ Devon said quickly. ‘She didn’t mean anything by it.’

  ‘I know,’ Maxie said, stroking her little sister’s glossy dark hair from the crown to the two thick plaits she had carefully done herself that morning. Deeley was still clinging to her as desperately as ivy twined round a tree, unable to stand up on its own.

  Maxie reached out her other hand to Devon, who took two quick steps around the prone body on the floor to wind her fingers t
hrough Maxie’s.

  ‘We’re in this together,’ Maxie said firmly, her voice strong. ‘All for one and one for all. Like we agreed. OK?’

  ‘Yes, Maxie,’ Deeley mumbled into her sister’s cheap acrylic sweater, which was now damp with her tears.

  ‘Yes, Maxie,’ Devon said, swallowing hard.

  ‘We’ll do whatever we need to do to keep ourselves safe,’ Maxie said. ‘That’s the most important thing. We’re sisters. We stick together. That’s what sisters do.’

  Deeley loosened her grip and pulled back to look up at her big sisters, her round cheeks pink and tear-stained, but her face still deliciously pretty.

  ‘We do stick together,’ she said fervently. ‘Always. Promise?’ She darted her stare urgently back and forth between Maxie and Devon, her expression serious. ‘Promise!’ she insisted.

  ‘Promise,’ Devon said, smiling, despite the desperate crisis, at her baby sister’s childish plea.

  ‘Promise,’ Maxie echoed. ‘And you both have to promise never to tell anyone about what we did today. Whatever happens.’

  Deeley held up two fingers and drew them over her throat, her eyes wide with resolve as she said, ‘Cross my heart and hope to die, Maxie. I promise.’

  Devon nodded as Maxie continued, staring now at the body lying on the floor.

  ‘Whatever happens.’

  Part One

  Eighteen years later

  Deeley

  This is the life, Deeley thought, stretching out her long, long legs on the lounger till her toes were dangling off the end. She was pleasantly tired from her Pilates session that morning, a dynamic workout on the Reformer followed by roll-downs on the Tower that had left her back feeling almost as great as it had from the hot stone massage the day before. Carefully, she turned over, making sure her toes didn’t touch the lounger; she’d just had her nails done, and not only did she want to avoid smudging them, but Nicky would throw a fit if she got hot pink nail polish on the white towelling fabric that covered the lounger. He was ridiculously fussy that way.

  Warm sunlight licked along her back; deliciously relaxing, it was like being bathed in liquid gold. Deeley was careful not to sunbathe at the height of the day, and to always use factor 30 sunblock. You couldn’t live in LA without having a dermatologist, and you couldn’t have a dermatologist in LA without being lectured constantly about the damage the sun did to your skin, especially when you were as naturally pale as Deeley. But it felt so lovely to a girl who’d spent the first twenty-two years of her life in cold, rainy Britain that Deeley couldn’t resist slipping out after four in the afternoon, when the sun was lower in the sky, to soak up some rays and zone out, completely de-stressing.

  Because my life is so stressful, of course! she thought, self-aware enough to tease herself. No one knows how hard I have it!

  Squinting through the dark lenses of her YSL sunglasses, she looked across the glittering blue water of the infinity pool to the glass-walled house beyond, its low structure wrapped around two sides of the swimming pool. Juan, the pool boy, was desultorily fishing a few floating leaves out of the water. Through the open sliding glass door, Deeley could make out the lean figure of her boyfriend Nicky. Wearing a snug white t-shirt and HOM briefs, he was sprawled in a leather armchair, fingers splayed on the armrests, as the manicurist who had just painted Deeley’s nails sat on a footstool below him, painstakingly working almond oil into his cuticles.

  Big night tonight, Deeley reflected happily. We both need to look perfect.

  ‘Deeley, hon?’

  Randie, Nicky’s assistant, pushed open the door a little further, stepping out onto the terrace. Like most women who worked as assistants to celebrities, Randie was a little overweight by LA standards, and frumpily dressed: the first rule of her job was never to upstage her employer – or his girlfriend. Her loose chinos and baggy Gap t-shirt indicated that she was much too busy organizing all the myriad details of Nicky and Deeley’s hugely important lives to take any trouble with her own appearance.

  ‘Hey,’ Deeley said, raising her head a little and smiling at Randie.

  Randie flashed her a bright smile, showing no hint of resentment that Deeley was sunbathing blissfully, a tiny pink Hello Kitty bikini bottom the only item of clothing on her perfect, lightly tanned body, while Randie was hard at work, a BlackBerry in one hand, another phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear, her slightly sweaty forehead furrowed in concentration.

  ‘Just FYI,’ Randie said, clicking away at the BlackBerry, ‘Serita’ll be here in an hour or so to finalize Nicky’s outfit for tonight, OK? And then she’ll come over and dress you. Plus, I managed to snag Hervé to come do your hair and make-up – how cool is that!’

  Hervé was one of LA’s top make-up artists, always in demand.

  ‘He’s booked solid, so he won’t have much time, but it’s huge that he’s coming at all, right?’ Randie was beaming with her success.

  ‘Fab!’ Deeley sat up, not bothering to cover her high, firm breasts with her hands. ‘Hervé always makes me look amazing!’

  Deeley pictured the silver-sequinned vintage Cardin sheath that Serita, their stylist, had picked out for her. Wrist-length sleeves and a stratospherically short hem, putting her long, gloriously slim legs on display. Serita had chosen Marc Jacobs gold platform slingbacks to go with the dress; she loved to mix up her metals. Just imagining how great she’d look in the photos, Deeley beamed complacently.

  ‘Great! So everyone’s in the loop!’ Randie pivoted with a rubber squeak of her practical Converse trainers and darted back inside the house again, another item ticked off her long list.

  Deeley heaved a deep sigh of contentment, swinging her legs, contemplating the perfect shine on her toenails and the flex of lean muscle in her calves. She was at her peak, she knew: old enough to work a red carpet with total confidence, dressed to the nines, and young enough to be able to wear even the craziest, most fashion-forward outfit a stylist chose for her. And that was crucial, because as the girlfriend of Nicky Shore, the latest, hottest male TV star, it was Deeley’s job to make it into the weekly fashion round-ups in the gossip magazines. If at least one photo of Deeley smiling gloriously at the cameras on Nicky’s arm didn’t make it into InTouch, US Weekly or Star on a weekly basis, Carmen, Nicky’s publicist, would rip Deeley a new one.

  Juan, the pool boy, had put down his leaf-catching net and was squatting by the side of the pool, dipping in the thermometer to test that the water was at the perfect temperature. His white trousers pulled over his buttocks, showing off their round, firm contours, and making it very clear that he wasn’t wearing any underwear. His bicep, swelling the sleeve of his tight white t-shirt, flexed as he lifted the thermometer from the water, turning it to take a reading. Sensing her eyes on him, he swivelled slightly, turning to glance over his shoulder, his dark slanting eyes meeting hers for a brief moment before he looked back at the thermometer again.

  Deeley watched from the lounger as Juan stood up, stretching out his solid, muscled back, walking over to the shed where the pool equipment was kept. Juan was built like a fireplug: square, every inch of him stocky, solid muscle. And Deeley had a big thing about muscles.

  She made just enough noise standing up from the lounger, slipping on her Hawaiiana flip-flops, so that out of the corner of her eye she saw Juan pause, turn, and watch her as she picked up her towel, slinging it over her shoulder, walking bare-breasted round the pool, flicking her fingers in a wave at Nicky through the glass doors as she went. He lifted the hand the manicurist wasn’t working on, flashing her his adorably sweet smile even as he said something to his trainer, Sean, who was busy at the marble kitchen counter, loading carrots and spinach into the big white juicer.

  ‘Want one?’ Nicky called, nodding at the juicer.

  ‘No thanks,’ Deeley called back, smiling at Sean as she passed, heading for the far side of the pool and the long sprawling extension to the house, separate but equally luxurious. She paused as she reached the sl
iding glass door, her hand on the latch, making eye contact, making sure that her message was clearly received and understood, then she pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold, kicking off her flip-flops, throwing her towel on the slate floor, and heading for the Italian-mosaic bathroom, a riot of tiny pink-and-gold glittering tiles and gilt-framed mirrors.

  It had been almost five years living in the height of luxury in LA, and Deeley still couldn’t get over how amazing American water pressure was. The huge rainforest shower poured down like a tropical storm and she was drenched within a couple of seconds of stepping under it. She took a bottle of Pucci bath oil from the glass shelf, uncapped the stopper and poured some over her shoulders, the green floral scent perfect for her mood, for a golden LA afternoon. Deeley closed her eyes, the water cooling her sun-warmed skin, breathing in the perfumed oil, smiling to herself.

  And when she opened them again, Juan was standing in the doorway.

  The bedroom was thickly carpeted, and he was in deck shoes – even without the shower beating down on her, Deeley wouldn’t have heard his approach. Blinking the water out of her eyes, she took a step forward, letting the full force of the drops pound like a massage on her shoulders. She raised her hands and pushed back her heavy hair, the weight of it settling down her bare spine. And then she met Juan’s stare full on.

  His dark eyes were slitted as he looked her up and down. Juan’s face might have been hacked roughly out of sandstone. His features were as blunt and solid as his body, entirely expressionless. Deeley’s gaze dropped below his waist and she noticed with approval that at least his body was showing its appreciation; through the tight white trousers, his cock was fully erect, pointing at her as best it could, fighting with the thin layer of fabric.

  She took one more step forward, and that was all it took. Raising her eyebrows, she hooked her thumbs into her bikini bottoms and lowered them a half-inch, her eyes fixed on Juan’s, challenging him now. With one quick movement, Juan dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands reaching for the ties of her bikini and flicking them undone, his mouth hot between her legs as the bikini bottom fell to the floor. He had been out in the sun all day, and was warm to the core. His hands came up to grip her buttocks, to pull them further towards him, tilt her to his mouth, equally hot against her skin, and Deeley moaned out loud as his tongue started to flick against her, tracing around her, closing in slowly but surely exactly where she wanted it. Her moans rose in volume as he closed his jaw, never stopping the constant motion of his tongue.