Chapter 1
January 1992, West Hollywood, Los Angeles
A light rain the night before had left a rare coolness in the Los Angeles morning air.
Scott Rogers set the phone back in its cradle, Hillary Clinton's voice still echoing in his head. She had sounded casual—almost too casual—asking him to find time in the next couple of days to come to their private villa outside Washington.
After three years of careful maneuvering, he knew better. This wasn't a social call.
Since leaving D.C. last May he had spent eight straight months in Los Angeles—something that would have been unthinkable before. Back then he had needed Hillary's protection just to get a foothold in Hollywood. Now his money was working for him, and his position was solid. She, meanwhile, was crisscrossing the country, fighting to put her husband in the White House.
Her calls usually meant one of two things: a new film contract through Sony or a quiet tip on a stock. Once in a while, when she missed him, she would simply ask him to fly to Arkansas for a stolen night. Those visits were always brief, always discreet.
Naming a specific time was new. Hillary guarded her image like a fortress; she never made exceptions without a reason. Last night's ABC News had been full of Bill's latest scandal. The Gennifer Flowers story was exploding, and Scott could imagine how tense things were at home.
He shook his head, pushing the thought aside. He no longer needed to beg for crumbs from studio heads, but he wasn't stupid. The Clintons' rising political power was still the best insurance policy he had in America. And he remembered exactly where they would be living in eleven months.
Washington could be ruthless. Accidents happened. People who knew too much sometimes didn't live long enough to talk. He wasn't about to test his luck.
Decision made, he packed quickly—two pressed shirts, two pairs of trousers, toiletries—then headed for the bedroom.
The custom king-size bed dominated the room. Beneath the rumpled sheets, Catherine Zeta-Jones lay curled on her side, fair skin glowing in the soft morning light.
Scott crossed the carpet quietly and brushed a strand of dark hair from her face.
"Catherine…"
"Hmm?" She blinked awake, voice husky with sleep, and smiled up at him.
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I have to fly to the East Coast today. Shouldn't be more than a week."
She sat up, the sheet slipping to her waist.
"What about me?"
"You," he said, pulling her into his arms, "go enjoy Melrose and Santa Monica. The black card's on the nightstand—spend whatever you want. The driver's yours until I'm back."
Catherine's eyes brightened at the mention of the card. She glanced toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the infinity pool and the green hills beyond. This villa—six bedrooms, nine baths, over eight thousand square feet—had once been just a fantasy for a British actress scraping by on theater pay.
Now it was hers.
At twenty-two she had arrived in Hollywood riding the success of The Darling Buds of May, expecting doors to open. They hadn't. The town didn't care about British TV credits. She had been ready to swallow her pride—and more—just to get an audition when Scott appeared. Two months later she lived in a mansion, never had to audition again, and woke up next to a man who looked like a younger Tom Cruise and could green-light projects with a phone call.
Heaven had a zip code after all.
"Okay," she whispered, kissing his cheek. "I'll be good."
He smiled, gave her one last gentle squeeze, and stood. "If anything comes up, call Karl. He'll handle it."
She nodded, though the mention of Scott's stone-faced assistant made her stomach tighten. Karl looked at people the way a jeweler looked at stones—calculating value, weighing flaws.
Scott grabbed his suitcase, ran through his mental checklist one last time, and walked out.
The bedroom fell quiet. Sunlight poured through the sheer curtains and pooled on the carpet, catching the torn black stockings that still lay where they had been discarded the night before.
Catherine stayed in bed a moment longer, feeling the pleasant ache in her muscles. She had been in the business long enough to know what men wanted, but last night had been… intense. Scott never held back, yet somehow always knew exactly when to stop before she broke.
She slid out of bed, wrapped herself in a silk robe, and padded barefoot to the living room. Standing at the wall of glass, she looked out over the private world she now inhabited: sapphire pool, swaying palms, the distant glitter of the city far below.
No prying eyes. No judgments. Just silence and luxury.
She thought of the tiny flat she had shared in London, the endless theater tours, the £150,000 pre-tax year that had felt like a fortune. Here, one black card could buy that entire life several times over.
Catherine Zeta-Jones exhaled slowly, a small, satisfied smile curving her lips.
God, it's good to have money.