“I’m Felicity.”
“Yes you are,” Jeff said with a genial smile. “Bonus points,” he added, indicating Pammy. “This is Willow’s mom.”
“Oh,” Felicity said, disappointed. “I thought she might be your photographer. I don’t mind having my photo taken.” A pause. “That’s if you want to.”
“Sure,” Jeff said, used to dealing with what he called “civilians.” “Maybe later, ’cause right now we gotta go see our little girl.” Another wink. “I’m playin’ Daddy, get it?”
No. Felicity didn’t get it. Full of even more disappointment, she led them toward the elevator, getting a noseful of stale cigarette smoke and booze.
This was not how she’d imagined it would be.
Should she ask him for her money now? Or was it best to wait?
She couldn’t decide.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
Unaware of a room filled with tension, Tariq walked in and was surprised to see that Faisal had visitors.
“Grandfather says you’re making too much noise,” he muttered to Faisal. “It disturbs him.”
Lucky took one look at the teenage boy, and the image of Armand Jordan came rushing into her head. The boy looked exactly like him; he had the slightly hooded eyes, the sharp nose, the same features. This had to be the son of Armand Jordan—the man who’d been shot to death in her hotel, the man who’d tried to buy the Keys and failed, the man who’d said to her as he’d marched from her office in a fury, “I can assure you, bitch, this is not the end. It is merely the beginning of a battle you will eventually lose. So get off your high horse and run back into the bedroom where you belong.”
Armand Jordan. She’d never forgotten his ignorant words. He’d been a delusional, pathetic man who’d spent his time in Vegas ordering up hookers that he’d refused to pay, gambling, drinking, and drugging. Now his son was here. And the son’s grandfather was King Emir.
On impulse she grabbed the boy’s arm in a steely grip. “Take me to your grandfather,” she commanded. “Take me right now.”
Startled, Tariq looked to Faisal. Faisal attempted to move toward them. Chris blocked him.
One of the guards stepped forward. “Back off,” Chris growled, pushing back his jacket to reveal a gun stuck in his belt.
“Let’s go, kid,” Lucky said to the boy.
Tariq’s eyes were wide with anticipation. This was more exciting than sitting beside his grandfather being bored to death.
* * *
After checking Ian’s office and not finding Lucky, Bobby headed back to the lobby, where he ran into a pale-faced Ian emerging from the penthouse elevator.
“Have you seen Lucky?” he asked.
“She’s up in the penthouse suite,” Ian replied, thinking it was definitely time he moved back to England. These people were insane with their out-of-control accusations. He didn’t care to work for them anymore.
“What’s she doing there?”
“Harassing the king of Akramshar, who just spent millions of dollars at this hotel.”
“Why’s she doing that when everyone’s waiting for her?”
“Your mother,” Ian said tightly, “seems to be under the false impression that King Emir is involved in a ridiculous plot to create some sort of havoc during the ceremony.”
“What plot?”
“There is no plot,” Ian said testily. “I’m afraid this is out of my hands. I cannot believe this is happening. Your mother has an extremely fertile imagination.”
“My mother,” Bobby said sharply, “is not a woman to be messed with. And you seem to be forgetting that you work for her, so I suggest you think before you speak.”
Ian threw Bobby a spiteful look. “What’s it like to live in Lucky Santangelo’s shadow?” he asked.
“Fuck you,” Bobby retorted.
“Most eloquent,” Ian sneered, already planning his letter of resignation.
Bobby ignored him and pressed the button for the elevator. He didn’t have time to exchange barbs with an uptight prick like Ian Simmons. He had other things on his mind, and that was to find Lucky and get her outside to the ceremony.
* * *
Tariq wondered what his grandfather was going to say when he appeared with this woman who was so unlike the women of Akramshar. This woman was strong and determined. She was also very beautiful—even though she was older. He wanted to ask her why she was here. He wanted to know her name. She had clouds of black hair and she smelled of jasmine and peaches. Her eyes were darker than night.
The man with her had produced a gun. Tariq had a gun too, but his gun was back in Akramshar. His grandfather had taught him to shoot on his twelfth birthday, then later he’d presented him with a solid gold gun. It was one of his most prized possessions.
Tariq’s mouth was dry. He’d witnessed the king’s wrath before, and when King Emir was approached by this woman, surely it would be bad? He only hoped that he would not get the blame.
“Who … who are you?” he stammered as they approached the outside terrace. “What do you want with my grandfather?”
* * *
“This is a joke,” Senator Peter Richmond steamed. “We’ve been sitting out here in the heat for almost half an hour. I’ve had enough.”
“What did you expect?” his wife, Betty, scoffed. “May I remind you that this is a Lucky Santangelo event. Tasteless and flashy—exactly like the woman herself. I do not know why you insisted we attend.”
“I have my reasons,” Peter responded, thinking of the incriminating photos he was desperate to get his hands on.
Betty threw him a venomous look. She knew exactly why they were there; nothing got past Betty.
“I need to use the restroom,” Peter said, standing up. “Craven, you come with me.”
Craven jumped up. Obeying his father was always number one on his list of things to do.
* * *
A few seats away, Annabelle complained to Eddie that she felt sick. “I can’t take sitting out here sweating my ass off,” she said with a petulant sigh. “Don’t they realize there’s a pregnant woman present? Why isn’t this thing starting?”
“Like I would know,” Eddie responded. He was as irritated as his wife, although he was also determined to see it through. After all, there were important people everywhere, and networking was his life.
* * *
“Whyn’t we take a walk and get high?” Cookie suggested to Harry.
“Thought you’d never ask,” Harry said, getting up.
The two of them headed for the interior of the hotel.
* * *
Paige stamped her foot impatiently. Had she been in charge, things would be moving at a much brisker pace. She suspected that this holdup was a devious plan for Lucky to get even more attention when she finally made her entrance.
Bud was driving her mad with his incessant chatter about his glory days. Who gave a damn? It wasn’t as if he’d been in the Dean Martin/Sinatra league. He was a long-forgotten has-been, and Paige wished she’d given Darlene the honor of sitting with her. But she hadn’t, and it was too late now.
* * *
Next to Brigette and her Swedish girlfriend, Steven was pleased to have reconnected with Beverly Villiers, who’d flown in from Chicago for the ceremony. Beverly and he had had quite a thing going years earlier, and she was still looking damn good. Plus she was a successful lawyer, and nothing turned Steven on more than a smart woman.
Steven didn’t mind that Lucky was keeping everyone waiting, since it gave him more of a chance to catch up with Beverly.
* * *
“I need me a Jack on the rocks,” Charlie Dollar mumbled to Venus. “Gino an’ I used to sit around an’ knock ’em back like real men. You wanna go get me one, doll?”
“Do I bear any resemblance to a cocktail waitress?” Venus retorted, shooting him a disparaging look.
Charlie chuckled. “You always had balls, just like Lucky. I admire that in a woman.”
“You just admire w
omen,” Venus said sagely. “Any shape, size, age, or color. If it’s female and breathing, you’ll fuck it.”
“You got that right,” Charlie said with another ribald chuckle.
“I know,” Venus said smiling.
“Hey,” Charlie said. “Isn’t it about time t’ get this damn show on the road?”
“It certainly is,” she agreed, fanning herself with the program and wondering where Bobby had vanished to.
* * *
“Why’re we just sitting here?” Gino Junior asked Lennie. “This is stupid. Where’s Mom?”
“Bobby’s gone to get her,” Lennie said, and for a moment it occurred to him that Lucky might be right. Could it be that something bad was about to take place? Should he get the boys out of there like she’d asked?
No. Now he was being paranoid. Lucky was taking her time because saying good-bye to Gino was not easy. This would be her final good-bye, and he felt her grief and sorrow.
After today, things would be better. Life would go on, and the good news was that Lucky was a true survivor. She would get over Gino’s death, and when she did, she could start to celebrate her father’s spectacular life. It was time.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
“Kitten!” Pammy crooned, leaning over Willow’s bed in full caring mom mode.
Willow’s eyes snapped open.
“My poor baby kitten. Tell Mommy exactly what happened to you.”
And just like that it all came back to her. Club Luna. Alejandro and his creepy friend. The dark-haired girl with a boy’s name. Alejandro’s new car.
We’re on our way to Vegas!
Then crash, bang, hurtling through darkness, followed by pain and blackness.
“Oh … my … God,” Willow muttered. “Am I alive?”
“Silly girl,” Pammy singsonged. “Course you’re alive.”
“What … what are you doing here? How did you find me?”
“I came as soon as I heard.”
“Where’s Alejandro?”
“Who?”
“Alejandro, my boyfriend,” Willow said, panicking. “Where is he? Is he okay?”
Standing back, Felicity decided it was time for her to intervene.
“Willow is suffering from a slight concussion,” Felicity said in her most authoritative nurse’s voice. “Best that she doesn’t get too agitated.”
Now it was Jeff’s turn to step forward. “You’re lookin’ good, Willow,” he said as if they were old friends. “So how’s about you tell me who was in the car with you. This Alejandro dude got a surname?”
“Alejandro Diego,” Willow murmured. “We’re making a movie, getting the start-up money…” She trailed off and fixed her eyes on Jeff. “Who’re you?” she asked.
“A movie, huh?” Jeff said, his mind automatically drifting toward porno, because he sure as hell knew who Alejandro Diego was—the lowlife son of Colombian drug lord Pablo Fernandez Diego. He also knew from one of his informants that the car crash had incinerated the two males sitting up front. Only Willow and another girl had survived. He needed information on the other girl.
“I want a mirror,” Willow said.
“No you don’t,” Pammy said.
“Do I look that bad?” Willow wailed.
“Who else was in the car?” Jeff asked, thinking that he had to get this up on his Web site as quickly as possible before the news leaked.
Willow was about to answer when Shaquita bustled into the room. “What’s goin’ on here?” Shaquita demanded, throwing Felicity a furious look. “Who are these people?”
“We’re her parents,” Jeff said, turning on his own brand of smarmy charm. “An’ you gotta be the lovely nurse who’s been takin’ care of our little baby.”
Willow began to say something. Pammy quickly stopped her with a whispered, “Play along. We’re makin’ money an’ you’ll be getting’ some front-page publicity. Pretend he’s your daddy for now.”
Pammy was up to something, and Willow was too weak to argue. “Where’s Alejandro?” she repeated.
Dead, Felicity wanted to say. Your boyfriend is dead. Only she remained silent, because it wasn’t up to her to be the bearer of such devastating news.
Shaquita was busy glaring at everyone; she couldn’t quite understand what was happening. One minute Felicity had told her the girl in room six was famous, then she’d changed her mind and said she wasn’t. So who were these people? How had they received the news that their daughter was in the hospital? And was the girl famous or not?
Confusion ruled. “I’m fetching Dr. Ferris,” Shaquita said, hurrying from the room.
Jeff took the opportunity to zero in on Willow. “Listen, hon,” he said, “this is important stuff. Who else was in the car with you?”
Willow attempted to sit. Her head hurt, but her thoughts were clearing. “Alejandro,” she muttered. “And a girl—Max something. Also Alejandro’s Italian friend, Dante Agnelli. Is everyone all right?”
Bingo! Jeff had names. He could run with his story. The fucker was all his.
He reached for his cell phone and quickly googled Dante Agnelli, discovering that Dante was part of the well-known, ultrarich Dolcezza fashion dynasty in Italy. As for the other girl … “Who’s Max?” he asked, craving a cigarette.
“I still don’t know who you are,” Willow said, frowning. “Why should I tell you anything?”
“He’s Jeff Williams,” Pammy said, as if his name meant something. “He’s our friend who’s trying to help.”
“Help what?” Willow said. “Where’s Alejandro? How did you find me?”
Felicity was getting fed up with being relegated to the background. After all, she was the one who’d discovered that the famous Willow Price was in the hospital. Surely Jeff Williams should be paying more attention to her?
“I can take you to the other girl,” Felicity said, edging closer to Jeff. “She’s a nobody.”
“Wait a minute,” Jeff said, still checking out google and the Dolcezza family. “Did you say the girl’s name was Max?”
Willow nodded.
“She’s the latest model for Dolcezza,” Jeff muttered, almost to himself.
“For what?” Pammy said, wishing she’d taken another shot of scotch. She didn’t relish sitting around a hospital; it gave her the creeps. Willow was fine. Jeff had his story. Couldn’t they leave?
Jeff turned to Felicity. “Okay,” he said. “Take me to the other girl.”
“She’s in the ICU,” Felicity said. “You won’t be allowed in.”
“Try me,” Jeff said confidently, grabbing her arm and guiding her to the door.
“Where’re you going?” Pammy asked, getting more flustered by the minute.
“Hold the fort. I’ll be right back,” Jeff said, leaving Willow and Pammy alone together.
* * *
A half hour later, Jeff was sitting in the lobby posting his story. He’d found out that Max was a Santangelo, and the girl was in a coma, which made his story even more strong and dramatic.
Jeff was psyched. He had an exclusive on four young people—all well known in their own particular way. The bad-girl movie starlet. The lowlife son of a drug czar. The daughter of two major players. And the Italian playboy, heir to the Dolcezza fortune.
Jeff was first out of the gate with this one, and he couldn’t have been more pleased with himself.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
The boy had asked her what she wanted with his grandfather. Lucky didn’t know what she wanted as she sent Tariq away and headed for the man sitting serenely on the terrace high above where the ceremony would soon take place.
The man—the king—or whoever the fuck he was had his back to her, and the only thing she knew for sure was that she had to find out what devious plan he had in place. It was obviously something he cared to witness, for why else would he have gotten his family to leave while he remained behind?
Had he arranged for a gunman to run riot among the crowd below, randomly shooting people?
Or maybe there was a bomb placed somewhere.
She shuddered at the thought.
Her entire family was present and SOMETHING BAD WAS ABOUT TO HAPPEN.
She surprised him with her presence, moving in front of him, her dark eyes blazing.
King Emir was taken aback; he had not expected to be confronted by this lowly female creature. Where was Faisal? Where were his guards? This intrusion was unforgiveable.
“Who are you?” he growled, his voice thick with contempt.
“I think you know who I am,” Lucky answered, fearless and determined.
“I do not take kindly to a woman daring to speak with me without my permission,” the king said, with an imperious glare. “You will leave now. Immediately. It is an order.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Lucky responded, thinking, Like father, like son. They both hated women. “I want you to be aware that I am not responsible for Armand’s death. But you—you are responsible for arranging the execution of my father, isn’t that so?”
“How dare you presume to speak to me directly? Do you not understand that I am a king, a monarch? I am royal, majestic, and you are nothing but an odious female whose only use in this world is to be there for a man’s sexual pleasure and to bear his offspring.”
“God!” she exclaimed. “You really do have one foot in the Stone Age.”
“Shut your filthy mouth.”
“Why are you here?” Lucky said, staring him down. “What do you have planned?”
“Ah,” he said, a crafty expression crossing his swarthy face. “That is for you to find out, for in my country we punish sinners. We relish the death of infidels who have violated our laws.”
“Your so-called laws mean nothing here,” Lucky said scathingly. “You’re in America now, not some tin-pot monarchy that nobody’s ever heard of and that you think you rule. Don’t you get it? If anything goes down, I will have you arrested and thrown into jail.”
The king gave a disdainful sneer as his hand hovered over the cell phone placed on the table beside him.
With a sudden flash of clarity, Lucky knew. The cell phone. It had to be the detonator. The cell phone was the key to what was about to take place.
The Santangelos Page 41
