Double Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  Upstairs she called Cookie. “It’s on!” she announced. “I’m driving up there tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Cookie said. “Doesn’t that screw up Friday dinner at your house?”

  “Dinner’s a no-go,” Max explained. “I told them this thing in Big Bear is for one of your friends, so natch you’ll be coming with me.”

  “But I won’t,” Cookie stated blankly.

  “I know that, and you know that, but they don’t. So you’ve got to lay low, an’ tell Harry the same.”

  “Crap!”

  “What?”

  “Missing dinner at your house like major sucks!”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry that my hot date messes up your weekend,” Max drawled sarcastically.

  “Okay, I like get it,” Cookie answered crossly. “No need to freak out.”

  “Who’s freaking out?”

  “You are.”

  “I am so not.”

  But inside she was, just a tiny bit.

  Shutting her cell, she hurried over to her laptop and quickly logged in. “I’ll be in Big Bear Friday afternoon,” she tapped out. “Where shall we meet?”

  Within minutes Grant had e-mailed her back. “Meet me in the Kmart parking lot. Stay in your car. I’ll find you.”

  I’ll find you! How romantic was that?

  She rushed to her closet, desperately trying to decide what to wear. Skinny jeans or short skirt? T-shirt or sexy tank? Bra or no bra? Strappy heels or flats?

  She finally decided on tight jeans and a layered T-shirt—best to go the casual route, she didn’t want to look as if she’d tried too hard.

  How tall was he? She’d forgotten to ask.

  It didn’t matter. This weekend she was doing the deed with her Internet hottie.

  Oh yeah! She was doing the deed and there would be no regrets.

  Sorry, Donny. You blew it.

  * * *

  “Remember the first time we met?” Lucky murmured later that night as she and Lennie lay in bed.

  “You think I could forget?” Lennie responded. “It was Vegas, an’ if I recall correctly, you tried to rape me.”

  “You thought I was a hooker,” she said indignantly.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, laughing. “And a very expensive one.”

  “Screw you,” she said, pretending to be mad. “I wanted to sleep with you and you turned me down.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I did?”

  “You know you did.”

  “Yeah, well, didn’t we make a date for later and you failed to show?”

  “As if I would after the way you treated me.”

  “Then you had me fired,” he said, mock-frowning at the memories. “Nice. Very nice. I was out on my ass with nowhere to go but down.”

  Lucky smiled as she remembered. Lennie had been working stand-up in the lounge of the Magiriano, her hotel. She’d felt restless and lonely and he was there and available, so she’d invited him up to her suite, and when she’d indicated that she expected a lot more than conversation, he’d walked out on her.

  “The thing is I’d heard you were such a major playa,” she teased. “So how come you rejected me?”

  “’Cause you came on like a guy,” he said, reaching over her for a bottle of FIJI Water.

  “Something wrong with that?” she said, challenging him with her dark eyes.

  “Whyn’t you shut up an’ c’mere,” he said, putting the bottle down.

  “Okay, mister,” she said, playing along. “Take off your pants and show me some action.”

  “Thought I just did.”

  “Oh, my bad,” she said, laughing softly.

  “How quickly they forget,” he sighed.

  “Forget you? Never,” she said teasingly.

  “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a smart mouth?” he said, throwing her a quizzical look.

  And before she could answer, he was pressing his lips down on hers and they were starting all over again.

  A long and sexy marriage suited both of them.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “You’re the best,” Emmanuelle crooned. “I’ve never met a man like you before. Oh my God, Anthony, you make me so weak.”

  She actually wanted to say weep, because sexually Anthony was totally inept. He was under the impression that climbing on top of her and going at it like a randy dog was enough. No foreplay, no words of desire, nothing, nada—just an angry hard-on and a fit of manic energy as he pumped away, heading toward his own satisfaction like an express train, not at all concerned about her orgasm.

  “Yeah, pie-face, you sure are one lucky little girl,” Anthony agreed, still vigorously thrusting back and forth.

  Even though Anthony was only thirty-nine, Emmanuelle had a sneaking suspicion he took Viagra to make sure he stayed hard. One time she’d discovered a couple of the telltale blue pills in his jacket pocket, and when she’d asked about them, he’d gotten furious and informed her they were for headaches. Some headaches!

  Rapidly getting bored with Anthony’s lack of skill, Emmanuelle decided to fake it early, hoping it might make him come. She began her own personal ritual, a series of long, drawn-out sighs, followed by cries of “Oh, Anthony. Oh yes, yes, yeeees! You make me so wet and creamy. Oh, yeeees, baby, you’re the man, the big, big man.”

  She was done, finished.

  Not really, but let him think she was.

  Contracting her vagina, she squeezed his cock tight.

  It did the trick. He hurriedly pulled out and spurted all over her stomach.

  Anthony refused to wear a condom; he also refused to come inside her. Emmanuelle knew it was because he didn’t want to take the risk of getting her pregnant.

  Ha! Like she would want his baby. All she wanted from Anthony Bonar was material goods—in her name. And the sooner, the better.

  * * *

  Two minutes later Anthony was standing in the shower scrubbing off Emmanuelle’s scent. Once the sex was over he had nothing to say to her. Fact is, he had nothing to say to women period. The only woman he’d ever come across worth a dime was his formidable grandmother. Now, there was a woman who gave as good as she got. He admired her, yet at the same time he was more than a little scared of her. Ridiculous really, because Anthony was never scared of anyone or anything, but sometimes Francesca made him feel exactly like the twelve-year-old boy she’d plucked off the streets of Naples and given a life. Some life it was too. He was rich, and in his world extremely powerful. He could have more or less anything he wanted, and he did. Yes, he’d come a long way from his impoverished childhood with an Italian mother who’d worked as a maid, and an American father who’d never bothered to acknowledge him.

  Now, if he was to satisfy his grandmother, he had to bring the Santangelo family down. And Lucky building the Keys in Vegas had given him the perfect opportunity.

  * * *

  Two days passed before Irma spotted the young gardener again. This time she was determined to take it a step further since a so-called friend had sent her a newspaper clipping of her husband exiting a nightclub in Miami with the piece of white trash he kept stashed in an apartment there.

  Anthony had some gall to flaunt his “girlfriends,” or “cheap hookers,” as Irma thought of them. It infuriated her. Didn’t he give a damn?

  Apparently not.

  Well, if he didn’t care, why should she? She’d sleep with the gardener and to hell with her controlling husband. Let him see how he liked it when she did it back to him. Not that he’d ever find out, but she would know, and that was enough to satisfy her.

  It was late afternoon and the older gardener was nowhere in sight. However, Luis was there, on his knees, tending to the rosebushes.

  After a few moments of indecision, Irma approached him. “Hola, Luis,” she said, fanning herself with a magazine.

  Unfortunately, her Spanish language skills were quite limited, although she was well aware that hola was a familiar greeting used by friends, and Luis was not her friend, he was her e
mployee, or rather Anthony’s employee—which would make sleeping with the man a sweet punishment for her cheating husband.

  Luis glanced up, startled. “Señora,” he managed, wiping a slick of sweat from his brow.

  She studied his face for a moment, his thick lips and brooding features. He was rough and masculine-looking, so unlike Anthony, who was very much into grooming with the most expensive face creams and hair products, his bathroom shelves crammed full of bottles and potions. Anthony, who plastered his face with fake tan, had his eyebrows plucked professionally, and indulged in a weekly facial.

  “Can you please cut some roses for me?” she said. And when Luis looked up at her blankly, she pantomimed what she wanted, bending to touch a rose, allowing him to get a perfect view of her breasts as the summer shift she had on fell slightly open.

  “Ah…” Luis said, his eyes lingering, “Si, señora.”

  Irma experienced a flutter of excitement. Where would they do it when the moment came? Her bedroom? The very same bedroom she shared with Anthony when he honored her with his presence?

  Why not?

  Or perhaps they would stay outside while there was no one around to spy on them. The guards were on duty at the front of the house, and the old gardener was obviously not there.

  Her heart began pounding. Merely thinking about making love with this man had her juices flowing.

  So intent was Luis on surreptitiously checking out her breasts that he accidentally cut himself on a prickly thorn.

  Irma watched intently as a thin line of blood trickled across his wrist.

  “Oh, dear,” she exclaimed, tentatively touching his forearm. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Non importante,” he muttered, quickly standing up.

  “Yes,” Irma insisted. “It looks bad, Luis. You should come with me.” Taking him by the arm, she began leading him toward the house.

  Luis’s eyes darted around to see if there was anyone watching. He needed this job, and the American woman obviously needed more than her roses clipped.

  Irma was past caring. If Anthony was informed of her indiscretions, she didn’t give a damn. Her dear husband hadn’t touched her in over a year. Luis was about to be her revenge.

  * * *

  The Grill was Anthony’s number-one bodyguard. Nobody knew where he had picked up the name, and nobody asked. As a professional bodyguard The Grill didn’t need much—his fists were enough to defend himself and his boss, his fists and a complete knowledge of all martial arts. The Grill was from Slovakia. At six feet four, with muscles of steel and a plain, foreboding face with a dangerous scar carving its way across one cheek, he cut a sinister figure. Anthony liked having him around simply for the fear factor—nobody cared to mess with The Grill.

  Finished with Emmanuelle for the night, Anthony headed for the airport and his plane.

  “We’re goin’ to Vegas,” he informed The Grill.

  The Slovakian man barely nodded. Wherever Anthony Bonar went, he followed. He had no life of his own. Anthony Bonar was his destiny.

  Checking out his flashy gold Rolex, one of his many watches, Anthony decided to call his Italian girlfriend, Carlita, a raven-haired beauty of twenty-eight. Carlita, a former model, designed overpriced handbags and belts, a business he’d financed. Anthony appreciated a woman with ambition, and Carlita certainly possessed plenty of it. He’d met her at a party two years previously, and stuck with her ever since. She was smarter than Emmanuelle, she knew what was going on in the world.

  Carlita’s voice mail picked up. He tried her cell and the same thing happened. Goddamn voice mail. Annoyed that he couldn’t reach her, Anthony made several business calls before retiring to his private bedroom for the six-hour flight to Vegas. May as well catch some shut-eye. Making love to Emmanuelle was quite exhausting—she was young and energetic, and she expected a peak performance every time.

  Naturally he delivered. In bed he was a raging bull. Oh yes, Anthony Bonar had never had any complaints.

  That’s the way it was. And that’s the way it would stay.

  * * *

  Sunlight filtering through the curtains woke Irma. She lay very still for a few moments reliving the events of the previous day.

  Luis. One moment he was the gardener, the next—her lover. And what a lover. Alternatively rough and gentle, his large hands exploring her most private parts the way Anthony never had, his lips kissing her in places Anthony had never ventured.

  And then … he’d brought her to a climax, and she’d been overcome with a feeling of ecstasy the likes of which she’d never experienced before.

  Anthony had never made her come.

  Anthony had never touched her down there except with his penis—a ferocious weapon intent on nothing but its own satisfaction.

  Anthony had never really cared.

  Irma sat up in bed, her cheeks glowing.

  Luis wasn’t the answer, but she knew one thing for sure: she had to divorce Anthony.

  The time had come to get away from her coldhearted husband, reclaim her children, and finally take responsibility for her own happiness.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Every morning Venus worked out, varying her activities, but making damn sure she did either jogging, weight training, Pilates, or yoga. Lucky and she used the same trainer, Cole de Barge, a great-looking black guy with abs of steel, fine muscle definition, and the one special thing a girl needs from a trainer—a take-charge attitude. There was no slacking off around Cole.

  Venus enjoyed teasing him. “If you weren’t gay, I’d sweep you off to some exotic island and marry you.”

  Cole simply smiled. He had perfect teeth. In fact he had perfect everything.

  “Do not try to get around me,” he said, turning stern. “Today we’re takin’ a hike in the Canyon, so you’d better bring your favorite bottled water, an’ no complaining.”

  “But Cole,” she protested, feigning a delicate yawn. “Last night I—”

  “Hey, Miss Superstar,” he interrupted, “it ain’t my business what you did last night. Your body is my business, so move your fine ass an’ let’s get it on.”

  That’s what she liked about Cole—he took no prisoners. She might be dizzily famous, but if Cole wanted her up and out, she was there. No arguing with Cole, and the results were worth it. Besides, Billy had left at some ungodly hour, and since Chyna, her daughter with Cooper, was away at summer camp, she had nothing else to do. She was between movies, between recordings, and between concert tours. It was her time to relax.

  “Very well,” she said grumpily. “Don’t worry that I had no sleep—”

  “I’m not worrying.”

  “Billy spent the night,” she explained. “He was coming off a tough day with Alex Woods. It was up to me to console him.”

  “So that’s what they’re callin’ it now—consoling.”

  “Oh, get a life!”

  “I got a life, superstar, an’ today it involves pushing you out there. So let’s hit it. Now!”

  Reluctantly she followed Cole out the front door. Today she really didn’t feel like indulging in any physical activity. She was genuinely tired, so why couldn’t she have stayed in bed and watched mindless morning TV? Although there was nothing mindless about Matt Lauer on the Today show—he was still the hottest talking head on TV.

  And thinking of hot … last night Billy had excelled himself. She’d always thought her ex-husband—legendary movie star/cocksman Cooper Turner—was the best she’d ever had in bed, but Billy surpassed him. Such enthusiasm, such energy, such a tongue!

  If only she wasn’t thirteen years older than Billy. It was a major drag. This year she’d be forty-two, and while everyone knew that forty was the new twenty—what did that make Billy? Twelve?

  He’d assured her he didn’t mind, that age was just a number. Yeah, sure, but the tabloids never let either of them forget their age difference, and she knew that it bugged Billy when the late-night comedians made jokes about them. It was all so unfair.
When she’d been married to Cooper Turner nobody had said a word about Cooper being twenty years older than her. Talk about a double standard. If she was European would anyone care? European actresses were revered for getting older. American actresses were not. America was a raging youth culture, but along with Madonna and Sharon Stone, she was hanging in there, she still looked great, and why not? She worked like a motherfucker to make sure everything stayed in place. Hence her ritual with Cole, whether she felt like it or not.

  “I’m right behind you, slave driver,” she announced, catching up with Cole as he walked briskly to his car—a new sports Jaguar. “Very fancy,” she remarked. “Business must be outta the park.”

  “It’s a present,” he said.

  “From a grateful client?”

  “Let’s just say he’s very grateful, but he’s not a client.”

  “Name please.”

  “You’ll get his name when we’re married with a weekend house in Aspen and two adopted kids.”

  “Revealing as usual,” Venus said dryly.

  “Some of us prefer to keep our private lives private,” Cole replied, not eager to discuss his personal life.

  “Some of us are able to do that,” Venus responded tartly, hiding her eyes behind blackout Dolce & Gabbana shades.

  “Yeah, an’ some of us are making millions a year, which is the price they pay for no privacy. Sorry, Miz Superstar.”

  “He always has to get the last word,” she sighed, jumping into the passenger seat.

  “That’s right!” Cole said, getting behind the wheel. “An’ now we’re off to Franklin Canyon, so get your energy goin’, girl, we’re takin’ an hour-long hike, no slackin’ off allowed.”

  Venus slumped back in her seat and groaned. Cole was a hard taskmaster, but that’s the way it had to be.

  * * *

  “Orange juice, Meester Billy?” Ramona inquired, invading his bedroom, standing next to his bed and peering down at him, a glass of freshly squeezed juice in one hand.

  “Huh?” Billy mumbled, barely opening one eye. He’d staggered home at five A.M., telling Venus he had an early call—which was a lie—then collapsing into his own bed, totally spent. Now his housekeeper was standing over him, and how many times had he told her not to wake him? Didn’t she understand that he needed his sleep?