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Lovers & Players

What happens when someone peddles a fantasy that nobody wants any part of? That’s the problem with Lovers & Players, Jackie Collins’ 24th novel. The author skates clumsily between slapdash portraits of Manhattan’s upper-crust elite and depictions of black (oh, I hesitate to use this word and put it in quotes, but one surmises Collins would do both) ”street” culture. The soapy upstairs/downstairs mystery — populated by impossibly handsome men with names like Jett (surname Diamond, of course) — that Collins spins for 67 chapters was stale circa Jane Austen. And its resolution is evident in the first 67 words.

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