Lucky had arranged for Leonardo’s nanny, Greta, to come back from her vacation early so there would be someone other than Philippe to watch Max when Lennie took off. Max didn’t mind; staying around the house for a few days was no great hardship, especially after what she’d been through.
Before Lennie left for the weekend, she tentatively approached him while he was working on the script of his upcoming movie.
“Hi, Dad,” she said, hovering beside the computer.
“What can I do for you?” he said, distracted.
“I was wondering, uh … am I still grounded?” she asked, going for the innocent approach.
“For a couple more days,” he answered vaguely, too busy with his script to take much notice.
“So … can I like go out to the drugstore and stuff?”
“Sure. But come right home after.”
Lennie’s so easy, she thought. I can get away with anything when it comes to my dad.
Lately, all she could think about was driving back to Big Bear to see Ace. She wanted to pay him the money she’d borrowed. And she wanted to buy him a new watch since it was her fault the one he had got broken. She also had to buy the kid—Jed—a CD player and send it to him.
She’d called Ace a couple of times on his home phone, and both times she’d gotten an answering machine. Since she’d left the number of her new cell phone and he hadn’t called back, it was frustrating. Didn’t he care to find out if she was okay after their harrowing ordeal?
Then she thought that maybe he was too busy with his girlfriend, Miss Kmart, and she started wondering if the girl was pretty, and if they were having sex.
Hmm … he probably had sex with plenty of girls. He was nineteen and too hot for his own good.
One thing she knew for sure: she had to see him again, even if he did have a girlfriend.
* * *
Lennie made it to Vegas for the weekend, and Lucky couldn’t have been happier, even though they were surrounded by total chaos as everyone got ready for the grand opening. The residential part of the complex was finished, every detail down to fully stocked luxury state-of-the-art kitchens and closed-circuit TV in every room.
“This is ours,” Lucky announced, giving Lennie a tour of the penthouse she’d had built to her specifications. “It’s got one bedroom—our bedroom, ’cause this apartment is a no-kid zone, a special place where we can spend time alone.”
“You’re too much!” he exclaimed, checking out the huge terrace and amazing view—the city sprawled out like a mosaic of twinkling lights.
“I know,” she responded. “And don’t you love it.”
“I love you.”
“Come,” she said, taking his hand. “I want to show you the rest of the apartment.”
“The bedroom?” he said.
“No,” she said laughing. “First, your room.”
“My room? What’s that?”
“Somewhere you can create while I keep a watch on the hotel,” she said, flinging open the door to a wood-paneled den set up with a big-screen TV, a sophisticated computer editing console, a state-of-the-art sound system, and all of his former movies and scripts leatherbound and stacked high.
“You’re an amazing woman, Lucky Santangelo,” he said, checking everything out. “How’d you find the time to organize all this?”
“Because,” she said, smiling, “it’s for you, and I always have time for you.…”
* * *
Ever since Max had gotten back, Cookie and Harry were behaving like major assholes. All they wanted to do was lock themselves in Cookie’s room and sit around getting stoned. She was away a few days and suddenly both her best friends had turned into major potheads. Drugs didn’t tempt her—she’d tried coke once, hated it, and smoking pot made her sleepy and desperate for chocolate.
At the age of twelve her mother had given her a strong lecture about drugs, and it had obviously stuck. “Only morons and losers enjoy getting high,” Lucky had informed her. “If you want to go through life in a daze, then start taking drugs, but if you’re smart, you’ll soon realize it gets you nowhere fast, so don’t fall for that peer pressure crap. And don’t smoke nicotine either. I’ve been an on-and-off smoker all my life and I hate it. It’s a filthy habit, but I can’t seem to quit for any length of time. So do not start and you won’t find yourself in that pathetic position.”
The thing that Max really admired about Lucky was that she wasn’t really like a mother figure. Sure, she could be stern at times, but she was very up on everything going on in the world and totally open about sex and stuff. At fourteen Lucky had handed her a pack of condoms and said, “You won’t be needing these for a couple of years, but when you do, make sure you use ’em. You’re a smart girl. You’ll decide when the time is right.”
Max had already decided.
The time was right and her potential victim was Ace.
All she had to do was get him to call her back.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Henry Whitfield-Simmons drove back to Pasadena in a simmering state of frustration and anger. After hitting the coyote and running the Volvo off the road, not only had he lost sight of the car with Maria inside, but the front tire of the Volvo was damaged, forcing him to change it himself. Since he was no mechanic, the mountain road was deserted, and there was nobody around to help him, it ended up taking him hours.
By the time he’d managed to make it to Big Bear, it was much later. He drove into town wary of getting caught in a trap. It was quite possible the two of them could have gone to the cops.
No, he’d immediately corrected himself. Not the two of them. Maria wouldn’t do that—her cousin would.
Her cousin was a son of a bitch. He was the one who’d persuaded Maria to leave. He’d obviously forced her to do so, and she’d left because he’d given her no choice. Maria had wanted to stay with him, he was sure of it. They’d just started getting to know each other and things were going well between them.
Damn the cousin. Damn him to hell.
After checking out the parking lot and discovering her car was gone, Henry had driven back to Pasadena in a white-hot rage thinking about Maria all the way.
He’d arrived at the mausoleum late in the afternoon to find that his mother was in the middle of one of her charity tea parties. Dozens of women were wandering around the mansion in their ridiculous hats and expensive outfits. On top of everything else, Penelope decided to humiliate him. “Here comes Henry, my little computer nerd,” she’d informed anyone who would listen as he’d attempted to slink upstairs unnoticed. “Did you have a pleasant time, dear? Did you meet any suitable girls?”
Why did she do this to him, when all he’d wanted to do was escape to his room where he could log on to Maria’s laptop and find out even more about her?
That was almost two weeks ago, and after checking out Maria’s e-mail, he’d discovered that Lucky Santangelo was opening a new hotel in Las Vegas, the Keys.
Naturally Maria would be there. So would Lucky, Billy Melina, even Alex Woods.
Henry checked out the Keys online and discovered that there was a grand opening party planned. Tickets were expensive, but that was no problem.
Ah … this would be his opportunity to reconnect with Maria. And this time he’d be better prepared to take her away forever.
Nobody was coming between him and Maria again. The two of them were destined to be together.
And that was exactly the way it should be.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Anthony was not happy. Over the last week he’d fielded three calls from Detective Franklin in Vegas.
He called up Renee to complain.
“There’s nothing I can do,” Renee said, stoic as usual. She was experiencing her own problems regarding Detective Franklin. The woman was like a bulldog hanging on to a bone with her incessant questions. And Susie was on her case too.
“What did happen to Tasmin?” Susie kept on asking. “And why can’t I say she left with Anthony?
”
“Because you can’t. If you do, it will make me out to be a liar.”
“So where is Tasmin?”
“Nobody knows.”
This answer did not satisfy Susie, who every so often continued to question her.
“Whaddya mean, nothin’?” Anthony demanded over the phone. “Why’s she still callin’ me? Askin’ the same dumb questions.”
“Tasmin’s ex-husband is kicking up a big stink about her being missing, apparently he has connections in the police department,” Renee explained. “I’ve been questioned three times, the detective has talked to Susie twice, and half the hotel staff have been interrogated.”
“Pay the bitch off,” Anthony growled. “Offer her fifty thousand in cash. She’ll go for it.”
“No, she won’t.”
“Give it a try, Renee. Money talks.”
“It’ll look wrong if I even attempt to pay her off. She’ll take it as a sign we have something to hide,” Renee said, impatient to get him off the phone.
“You think I give a shit?” Anthony responded. “Get the cunt off my fuckin’ case, that’s all I care about.”
Renee hung up the phone. She’d had it with Anthony Bonar. After Tasmin’s brutal murder she was done.
There had to be a way to get him out of their life once and for all.
And then it occurred to her. There was.
* * *
Anthony had been on his plane on and off for the past ten days, flying back and forth between New York, Miami, and Mexico City, with a crucial twenty-four-hour business trip to Colombia thrown in. Anthony always felt like a peasant whenever he visited the ruling drug lords in Colombia. Those men lived like kings in their huge mansions three times the size of his, with an army of guards on call and dozens of servants. But he couldn’t complain—he was not exactly suffering.
In New York he’d received a report that Carlita was not cheating on him. He was so pleased that he’d invested another two hundred thousand in her business. Then he’d spent a pleasant couple of days with his elegant Italian mistress visiting all his favorite New York restaurants and clubs. Carlita was a class act; he was definitely keeping her around.
Back in Miami, Emmanuelle was as demanding as ever. Her latest request was that she wanted him to take her on a vacation. “Please, honey,” she’d begged. “You never take me anywhere.”
“Where you wanna go?” he’d asked.
“Europe,” she’d replied, all excited at the prospect. “Paris, London, and Rome.”
One thing about Emmanuelle, she always went for the best.
“Tell you what,” he’d said. “You’ll come with me to Vegas. There’s a big hotel opening, it’s gonna be quite a scene.”
“But sugar pie—”
“Vegas or nothin’,” he’d said flatly. “Your choice.”
Shortly after he’d invited Emmanuelle, Francesca informed him that she expected to go with him to Vegas.
“You can’t fly,” he’d said, determined to put his grandmother off. “The doc told you no traveling with your heart condition, ya gotta take it easy.”
“My heart is strong enough to witness the downfall of the Santangelo family,” Francesca had replied. “I’m coming with you to Vegas.”
Stubborn old woman. What could he do? He’d finally decided to take Francesca and Emmanuelle. Francesca was a woman of the world, she’d understand that a man had to have a mistress as well as a wife—it was the traditional Italian way. Although he suspected Francesca would have preferred Carlita to Emmanuelle.
Problems, always problems. But first he had to spend a couple of days in Mexico City attending to business.
* * *
After sleeping with the drug enforcement agent, Irma suffered a panic attack. She couldn’t help wondering if Oliver Stanton had known who she was, and by sleeping with her was he attempting to garner information about her husband?
The situation forced her to rethink her plans. She sat at home and worried about what she’d done. And to make things worse, Luis was still refusing to come into the house, which she couldn’t understand.
She finally instructed Marta to tell Luis to meet her in the bedroom to check out her houseplants.
“I keep on asking him,” she informed Marta. “It seems he doesn’t understand me. And my orchids need special attention.”
Marta nodded, her face revealing nothing. “Sí, señora,” she said, wondering if Señora Bonar was aware that several members of the staff suspected that she and Luis might be having sex. If they were, it wasn’t right. Marta knew Luis’s family; she also knew his pregnant wife. But Marta was not one to gossip, and she couldn’t say exactly what was going on behind closed doors, although Señora Bonar was giving her an awful lot of time off whenever Luis entered the house.
Ten minutes later the old gardener knocked on Irma’s bedroom door.
When she saw who it was, she was angry. Luis not coming when she’d specifically requested him was most disrespectful.
Gritting her teeth, she showed the old gardener the bedroom plants and her precious orchids.
The grizzled old man spoke very little English. “Orquidea no need much water,” he informed her.
“Thank you,” she said, tight-lipped.
“Gracias, señora. Orquídea buenas.”
Later she went down to the kitchen, cornered Marta, and asked her why Luis hadn’t come to tend to her plants when she’d specifically requested his presence. She realized she was treading on dangerous territory, but she was determined to find out anyway.
“Luis go home early,” Marta explained, busying herself at the sink.
“Why was that?”
“His wife, she expect baby soon,” Marta said, wiping her hands on her apron.
“His wife?” Irma said, barely able to conceal her surprise. “I wasn’t aware that Luis was married.”
“Sí, señora.”
Now she was really upset. Luis was married with a pregnant wife and he hadn’t told her. This was unbelievable.
And yet … she still yearned for his touch. She still had a burning desire to feel his naked body up against hers.
Several days later Anthony arrived home, insisting on the usual round of parties at the house. Irma endured more evenings of too much rich food, endless karaoke, and adoring sycophants.
After a few days he got bored as usual, and informed her he was leaving for Las Vegas on yet another business trip. She wasn’t sorry to see him go.
* * *
A few days before Anthony was due to leave for the opening of the Keys, one of the guards from his house appeared at his office and badgered his assistant, telling her that he had to see Señor Bonar regarding a matter of great urgency.
His assistant asked what it was in reference to. The guard replied that it was of utmost importance that he speak to Señor Bonar personally.
“Send him in,” Anthony said, puffing on a large cigar.
The man entered his office and planted himself in front of his desk. Anthony did not invite him to sit.
“Whaddya want?” he snapped. “Make it quick.”
“I am Cesar,” the guard said. “I have worked for you two years, Señor Bonar. I come here to tell you something of a delicate nature.”
“Spit it out,” Anthony growled, leaning back in his leather chair.
“My circumstances are such that I need to buy a new car,” Cesar said, his greedy eyes darting around the office.
Was this son of a bitch blackmailing him? Information in return for a car. Anthony couldn’t believe the stones on this guy. It was outrageous.
“What information you got that gets you a fuckin’ car?” he snarled.
“Private information, Señor Bonar,” Cesar said, standing up ramrod straight. “Information you would not want to go any further.”
“I wouldn’t, huh?” Anthony said, expelling a stream of acrid smoke in Cesar’s direction.
“No, señor.”
“Okay, we’ll do it t
his way. You tell me what’s on your mind, an’ if it’s worth anything I’ll give you cash. An’ if it’s bullshit, you get nothin’. That fair enough for you?”
“Sí, señor.”
“Okay, let’s hear what you got.”
Cesar glanced toward the door. “It is sensitive, Señor Bonar.”
“Speak!”
“I regretfully tell you, señor, that a person who should be trustworthy is not,” Cesar said, clearing his throat. “This man is taking advantage of your wife.”
“What the fuck you sayin’?” Anthony said, sitting bolt upright.
“There is a man working on your estate, señor, who is doing bad things with your wife.”
“Whaddya mean, bad things?” Anthony said, a muscle twitching beneath his left eye. “Is he raping her? Takin’ money from her? What the fuck d’you mean?”
“This man enters your house when you are not there. He stays many hours. He spends time in your bedroom with the señora.”
“Who is this person?” Anthony demanded, his eyes cold as steel.
“One of your gardeners, señor.” Cesar paused, experiencing a moment of deep satisfaction before continuing. “His name is Luis.”
“You sure about this?” Anthony said, staring him down.
“Sí, señor.”
“Absolutely fuckin’ sure?”
“Sí, señor,” Cesar said, blinking rapidly several times.
Anthony unlocked his desk drawer, took out a wad of cash, and threw it at Cesar. “Take this and get the fuck outta my office. An’ if you open your mouth to anyone ’bout this—anyone at all—I cut out your fuckin’ tongue with a buzz saw. Get it?”
“Sí, señor.” Cesar said, backing out of the office.
The moment he left, Anthony began pacing. This couldn’t be true, could it? This couldn’t be possible that Irma, his wife, and a gardener on his estate were having sex. In his house. On his bed.
Some other man fucking his wife.
It was unthinkable.
And yet … this stupid guard had come to him with the information, and why would the man lie? Why would he put himself in jeopardy?
Double Lucky Page 32
