Again, Booth (Palm Beach, 1985; The Sisters, 1987) mucks her way through a morass of sleaze to tell an ""inside"" story about Beverly Hills' rich and infamous. ""Her breasts [were] shameless in the enormity of their statement. . .separated from each other by a cleavage that, in more ways than one, conjured up visions of Silicone Valley. Across the crack-of-doom divide stretched the Milky Way of Caroline Kierkegaard s mammary land."" And from there it's all downhill. CaroliNe Kierkegaard is a statuesque Beverly Hills New Age guru/channeller (really a dominatrix with a new gimmick) who is vying with hunky actor Robert Hartford to purchase the fabulous Sunset Hotel. When Francisco Livingstone, the Sunset's elderly owner, seems determined to sell to Hartford, Caroline sets Livingstone up with a pubescent gift and then blackmails him with photos of their tryst. Hartford saves the day by pretending to seduce Caroline, while a cohort steals back the incriminating evidence; Caroline responds by (a) having her latest plaything--masochistic tycoon David Plutarch--bankrupt Hartford, and (b) killing Livingstone in a most unusual way, using industrial-strength glue. But Hartford will have the last laugh. In the meantime, Hartford's psycho chauffeur has fallen madly in love with the actor's main squeeze, Paula Hope, causing Hartford to crush the man's head in a video machine. Most readers will need a good, hot shower after this one.