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Brett,’ Kristy Sunshine yelled. Turning back to the hapless lighting tech, the pop star bellowed, ‘That’s the last time I put up with that shit! You’re fired. Get out of my sight or I’ll call security.’
    Jenny Svetzel turned pale and stepped back as Kristy charged past, almost knocking the woman off her feet.
    â€˜And get me a decent towel,’ she hissed, flinging the 200-dollar piece of Egyptian cotton to the floor.
    No one approached Kristy as she stomped away from the backstage area towards a long corridor leading to her dressing room. Some of her entourage knew her better than others. They knew this behaviour was nothing unusual immediately after a show – that the adrenalin of the gig couldn’t be drained away straight off, that Kristy was a ball of energy when the lights went up and she had to decompress. But even her most loyal friends knew the singer was also a spoilt brat with an over-inflated sense of her own worth. Fame and fortune had come easily to Kristy, and she was far too young to deal with it. She had very quickly come to believe she could do no wrong, that everyone around her belonged to an inferior class of human being. She had yes-men catering to her every whim. All she had to do was keep singing and keep looking pretty. There was only one person to whom she deferred. Only one person who could tell her what to do.
    Reaching the door to her suite of dressing rooms, Kristy began to calm down. She took deep breaths, letting the tension flow out of her as her Pilates instructor had taught her. Inside, the room smelled of jasmine and her private spa had been prepared. Brett Littleton followed her into the room, closed the door and pointed to a coffee table. ‘Everything’s arranged, Kris.’
    She silently perused the items on the table. A bottle of vintage Krug, a tray of handmade Belgian chocolates on a silver platter and three lines of the best Bolivian cocaine. Neither Kristy nor Littleton had noticed they had company until they heard a brief cough.
    Kristy turned and saw her uncle, Freddy Tomenzano, sitting in a leather chair on the other side of the table. ‘Nice show, Kristy,’ he said, his voice like hot gravel.
    She produced a vague smile. ‘Thanks.’
    â€˜Brett? Could you leave us for a moment? I need to have a word with my niece.’
    Brett shot Kristy a quick, questioning look. She nodded and he left.
    â€˜What is it, Freddy?’
    The man looked at her, his face totally devoid of expression. He was a small man in a dark, sharply tailored suit, crisp white shirt and red tie. With slicked-back black hair and finely chiselled cheekbones, he looked like the CEO of a multinational or a financial minister from a small European state. He was, though, one of the most powerful men in the entertainment world, a feared agent and Svengali. He had made Kristy a global star. Other singers – the likes of Bethany Shakespeare and Mary Casey – were snapping at her heels, but thanks to Freddy’s business genius and ruthless scheming, Kristy was staying top of the pile. And, as much as Kristy hated to accept the fact, her uncle was the only person in the world who could pull her strings and make her dance.
    â€˜You seem a little defensive, my dear.’
    â€˜I’ve just come off stage.’
    Freddy nodded sagely. ‘Yes, I apologise. I meant it when I said it was a nice show.’
    â€˜Thanks again. But what do you want, uncle?’
    â€˜Okay, you obviously have pressing matters to attend to,’ he said, eyeing the goodies laid out on the table with a contemptuous half-smile. ‘I’ll come straight to the point ... the Neptune gig.’
    â€˜The what?’
    â€˜The opening of the Neptune Hotel? Remember? You weren’t keen. We agreed to disagree and you said you would give it some thought. I said, you have a week, honey. The week is up.’
    Kristy threw herself into a chair and let out a