About the Author
The iconic British author has been called a “raunchy moralist” by the director Louis Malle and “Hollywood’s own Marcel Proust” by Vanity Fair.
With millions of her books sold in more than forty countries, and with thirty-one New York Times bestsellers to her credit, she is one of the world’s top-selling novelists.
From glamorous Beverly Hills bedrooms to Hollywood move studios; from glittering rock concerts in London to the yachts of Russian billionaires, Jackie Collins chronicled the scandalous lives of the rich, famous, and infamous from the inside looking out.
“I write about real people in disguise,” she once said. “If anything, my characters are toned down—the truth is much more bizarre!”
Her first novel, The World is Full of Married Men, was published in 1968 and established Collins as an author who dared to step where no other female writers had gone before. She followed it year after year with one successful title after another, including Chances, the first installment of a sprawling nine-book saga introducing the street-smart, sexy, and dynamic Lucky Santangelo. The eighties saw Jackie hitting her stride with the seminal blockbuster, Hollywood Wives, as well as Lucky, Hollywood Husbands, and Rock Star. In recent years she kept fans entertained with Poor Little Bitch Girl, The Power Trip, and her final novel, The Santagelos, never wavering on her commitment to take her readers on a “wild ride”!
Six of her novels have been adapted for film or TV and Universal Pictures has recently optioned the Santangelo series with a view to bringing Lucky to the big screen.
Jackie was awarded an OBE (Order of the British Empire) by the Queen of England in 2013 for her services to literature and charity. When accepting the honor she said to the Queen, “Not bad for a school drop-out”—a revelation capturing her belief that both passion and determination can lead to big dreams coming true.
Jackie Collins lived in Beverly Hills where she had a front row seat to the lives she so accurately captured in her compulsive plotlines. She was a creative force, a trailblazer for women in fiction and in her own words “A kick-ass writer!”
Hometown:Los Angeles, California
Date of Birth:October 4, 1941
Place of Birth:London, England
Read an Excerpt
Revenge chapter 1
THE GIRL WAS BARELY MORE than sixteen. The pupils of her large hazel eyes were enormous. So was her sexual appetite.
Bobby Skorch had picked her up on Sunset as soon as he’d been able to get out of the house, which had been a hassle due to all the fuss over his wife— superstar sex symbol Salli T. Turner—who had gotten herself murdered the night before.
That Salli, Bobby thought, his mind mired in a drugged-out haze, you never knew what she was going to do next, always full of surprises.
Finally he’d managed to sneak out of the house by lying on the floor in the back of his maid’s car. She’d dropped him off at a hotel where he kept a permanent penthouse suite in his manager’s name.
Later he’d taken a cruise along Sunset in the black Ferrari he kept in the basement parking area of the hotel—also registered in his manager’s name.
The girl had been hanging around outside a club, and she’d willingly accompanied him back to his hotel. Now she was riding his dick like she was competing in some kind of equestrian event. He didn’t have to do a thing except lie back and tolerate the ride, because he certainly wasn’t enjoying it. This girl wasn’t Salli. Nobody was Salli. She was one of a kind. The others were all slags and sluts and whores.
He had no idea what the girl’s name was, or whether she had AIDS or the clap—he didn’t care.
Bobby was into taking risks. He’d taken a big risk marrying Salli, whom many people had considered a joke with her large fake tits and cascades of dyed platinum hair.
But hey, a lot of her friends had considered him a risk. Bobby Skorch, the original danger man, with tattoos from here to Cuba, including one on his famous dick.
All he knew was that together they were an awesome sight. S’long, Pammy and Tommy, Heather and Richie. The Skorches ruled.
And he’d loved her with a burning passion. Now she was gone.
The girl spread her legs even wider, practically balancing her mothlike weight on his dick. Then she moaned—a prelude to ecstasy.
He wasn’t there. Not even close. He was hard and angry and stoned and in the worst pain of his life.
When the girl’s moans turned to orgasmic cries and he felt her coming, he screamed his anguish so loud that two maids working on the penthouse floor came running to hover outside the door of Suite 206, their eyes bulging with fear and curiosity.
Satisfied and more than a tiny bit alarmed, the young girl rolled off him, quickly scurrying to get into her clothes. When she reached the door, she looked back at the man, still spread-eagled on the bed, still erect.
There was no release for Bobby Skorch. He was in hell.
And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.