Double Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  “I think we should drink to invincible women,” Lucky said, raising her glass.

  “You got it, sister,” Venus murmured.

  They clinked glasses and smiled at each other.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Lucky said. “Who’s getting the apartment at The Keys, you or Billy?”

  “Me, of course,” Venus answered firmly. “I’ve already told my lawyer there’s no way I’m giving it up. It’s mine. Billy can go piss in the wind to get his hands on that piece of real estate.”

  “Glad to hear it. In this world you gotta claim what’s yours.”

  “Hell, yes. The apartment is in your hotel, and you’re my friend, so screw Billy.”

  “Right on!” Lucky said, nodding her agreement.

  After coffee and more conversation—mostly about what an asshole Billy was—Lucky signaled for the check.

  A young waiter who’d been watching them all night edged toward their table and presented it to her. Lucky threw down her black American Express card.

  “I guess that means it’s your turn,” Venus said, removing a small gold compact from her oversized Chanel tote and inspecting her flawless image. She knew there’d be a pack of paparazzi waiting for her exit, and there was nothing they liked better than catching a celebrity looking like crap. She wasn’t about to give them that pleasure.

  The waiter hovered and cleared his throat. Although he was nervous, he saw an opportunity and he was seizing it—even if it meant getting fired should the manager catch him bothering a guest.

  “Excuse me, Miz uh … Venus?” he ventured, stammering slightly. “I’ve, uh, written a script that is so right for you. I was, uh, hoping you might find time to read it.”

  Venus threw him a look—the famous cool-as-an-iced-martini look—her blue eyes raking him over.

  Oh no, Lucky thought. Here we go. The diva is on the loose.

  Venus didn’t disappoint. “Do I look like an agent?” she purred. “Really?”

  The waiter blanched, quickly picked up Lucky’s credit card and the check, and slunk off.

  “Poor guy,” Lucky said sympathetically. “He was merely taking a shot.”

  “Well, let him take a shot elsewhere,” Venus said grandly. “I can’t stand being harassed when I’m trying to relax.”

  “Oh my God—you can be such a queen bitch!” Lucky admonished. “Wouldn’t want to get on your wrong side.”

  “So be it,” Venus said with a wry smile. “Shall we go?”

  * * *

  Seventeen-year-old Max Santangelo Golden could somehow or other wrangle her way into any club she wanted. Fake ID? No problem. Lavish tips to the doormen? No problem. Cultivating a friendship with one of the promoters? No problem.

  “When it comes to getting in anywhere, I rule!” Max often boasted.

  Her two closest friends, Cookie, the chocolate-skinned daughter of soul icon Gerald M., and Harry, the gay son of a TV network honcho, agreed with her. Ace, her on-again, off-again boyfriend, was not so pleased. The L.A. club scene failed to enthrall him. He wasn’t into drinking, drugging, and spotting out-of-control celebrities. But Max loved every minute. Not that she drank much or did drugs, but she did get off on people-watching and dancing on tables. Music was her special thrill—especially rap and unknown British groups with wasted-looking lead singers. Oh yes, she was totally into lean and mean. Ace was way hot and sexy, but sometimes Max considered him too nice a dude, and she often craved a more edgy relationship. Besides, Ace didn’t live in L.A., so he wasn’t always around when she wanted to do something with him.

  “Where’re we goin’ tonight?” Cookie asked as she sat cross-legged on her messy bed, picking at her green nail polish.

  “There’s a rave for some old rock group at the House of Blues,” Harry said, speaking up. “S’pose we could crash if you’re up for it.”

  Harry was the palest boy known to man, pallid-faced and skinny, with gelled and spiked hair dyed a ruthless black. It was only recently that he’d emerged from the closet, although Max and Cookie had always known and totally accepted that he was gay. He had yet to come out to his controlling father, who would probably disown him.

  “No can stand the House of Blues,” Max opined, her brilliant green eyes flashing disapproval. “It’s always full of major wannabes. Besides, we’ll never make it into the Foundation Room.”

  “Why not?” Cookie inquired, leaning over and reaching for a can of 7-UP balanced precariously on the edge of a table.

  “Yeah, why not?” Harry repeated. “Thought you could get in anywhere.”

  “Anywhere I want to,” Max answered pointedly, tossing back clouds of wavy black hair. “Who needs the freaking Foundation Room? It’s always full of ancient rockers gulping down handfuls of Viagra. So not cool.”

  Cookie let forth a manic giggle. “I bet my dad takes Viagra,” she said, swigging 7-UP from the can. “Bet he pops those little blue pills by the dozen.”

  “All old guys do,” Harry said with a knowing smirk. “They can’t get it up without ’em.”

  “Gross-out!” Cookie squealed. “Don’t wanna think of my dad with a boner!”

  Max decided that sometimes Cookie and Harry could be too much of a good thing. The three of them had grown up together, attended the same school, and shared some interesting, sometimes frightening, experiences, but in a way she felt she’d outgrown them. As soon as she was eighteen, she planned on making a break for New York and freedom. Not that her parents weren’t great, but the two of them were a lot to live up to. Lucky, who’d achieved absolutely everything she’d ever wanted. And Lennie, a multitalented writer/director who helmed all his own independent movies. Max was tired of being referred to as their daughter. Fed up with the pressure it put on her to do something spectacular with her life.

  Her big brother, Bobby, was her role model. Bobby had escaped and made his own way. He was definitely her inspiration—she adored him. Although now he had a permanent girlfriend, Denver Jones, and as much as she reluctantly admired Denver, a Deputy DA, she missed having Bobby all to herself when he was in L.A.

  “Got it,” Max said at last. “Whyn’t we hit the Chateau for dinner? There’s always something going on there.”

  “’S long as I don’t bump into my old man,” Cookie said, wrinkling her nose. “He’s got himself another dumbass girlfriend, an’ I think she stays at the Chateau when she’s in town.”

  “What’s the deal with this one?” Max asked.

  “English, complete with uptight accent and a bug up her ever-so-tight British ass,” Cookie said, making a disgusted face. “She thinks she’s like the second coming of Keira Knightley. As if.”

  “Your old man sure covers the waterfront,” Harry remarked, pulling up the collar of his long, Goth-like coat.

  “Tell me about it,” Cookie said with a weary sigh. “I’ve had more almost-stepmoms than you’ve had filthy thoughts about Chace Crawford!”

  “Okay, okay,” Max said, interrupting them. She was into making fast decisions, not screwing around and vacillating about what to do. “We could check out a new club that opened a couple of weeks ago. River. I’m sure we can get in.”

  “Let’s do it,” Cookie said, fiddling with the chocolate-brown dreadlocks that framed her exceptionally pretty face.

  “D’you think Chace Crawford’ll be there?” Harry asked hopefully.

  Max threw him a look. “Calm down,” she said. “Surely you know Chace Crawford is so into girls.”

  “That’s what they all say,” Harry muttered. “But I know better.”

  * * *

  “Lucky has invited us to Vegas next weekend,” Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos said, stretching his six-foot-three frame on Denver Jones’s shabby-chic couch. “She’s planning a party for my sister Max’s eighteenth birthday, one of her big family events.”

  Denver regarded her boyfriend of several months with slight trepidation. Oh, man, the longish black hair, dark eyes, Greek nose, and strong jawline got her ever
y time. If only he weren’t so damn handsome. If only she hadn’t harbored a crush on him since high school. If only he weren’t such a fantastic lover, with all the right moves.

  “Your mom intimidates me,” she said at last, stroking the belly of her dog, Amy Winehouse, who lay on her back making happy sounds. Amy was a mixed breed that Denver and her ex, Josh, had found wandering on Venice Beach. They’d named the dog Amy Winehouse because of her low, throaty growl. Plus, the fabulous Miz Winehouse was one of Denver’s favorite singers.

  Bobby laughed. He had a fantastic laugh. Naturally. “C’mon,” he chided. “I’m sure Lucky thinks you’re the greatest thing that ever happened to me.”

  Denver raised an eyebrow. “‘Thing’?” she said coolly.

  “Y’know what I mean.”

  “The problem is,” Denver said, desperately searching for a suitable excuse, “I’m moving over to the drug unit next week, so there’s a ton of stuff I feel I should research.”

  “You’ll bring your laptop; that way you can do all the research you want. It’s a forty-eight-hour trip, sweetheart. I’m calling for the plane.”

  She hated it when Bobby said things like “I’m calling for the plane.” It was so elitist, so exactly who she wasn’t. Some girls might get off on all the luxury, but private planes, lavish parties, and hanging with Bobby’s illustrious family was not for her. Plus, she wasn’t that fond of Vegas, and she hadn’t told Bobby, but she hated spending time at his ultra-happening club, Mood. She especially hated the way women fawned all over him and flirted outrageously, ignoring her as if she didn’t even exist.

  The truth was, she loved Bobby. But she didn’t love the trappings that came with him.

  Bobby stretched again and yawned. “Whaddya say?”

  “I say I’ll think about it.”

  “Sounds good,” he said, reaching up to pull her down on the couch beside him.

  She acquiesced. It was early evening and they had no plans, so what was wrong with relaxing for the moment?

  They’d been seeing each other on and off for the past three months. The on was when Bobby was in L.A. The off was when he had to spend time at his two clubs: Mood in Vegas, and Mood in New York. The on was the best of times. The off was missing him and wondering what he was doing, and trying to have some decent phone sex, which left them both in a hysterical state of laughter.

  Neither of them had uttered the L word. Although they had conducted the talk about being exclusive.

  Both of them were wary about getting too involved. Secretly they couldn’t wait. But playing it semicool seemed to be the name of the game they were currently into.

  Bobby began stroking her hair. Denver felt good about her hair; it was long and thick, chestnut brown with natural golden highlights. She knew that her hair was one of her best features, along with her widely spaced hazel eyes and full lips. If she lived in any other big city, she’d be considered a ten. In L.A. she felt she barely made it as a seven.

  She was wrong.

  Bobby’s hands moved down to her breasts, and with a quick move under her T-shirt, he released her bra and began playing with her nipples. Oh yes, unusual for a woman in L.A., her breasts were actually real.

  Sighing with anticipation, she leaned into him. It made no difference that they’d already made love in the morning. Desire was desire, and they were both in the mood.

  Sometimes she couldn’t help wondering how long it would last. Her previous serious boyfriend, Josh, had been a pretty decent lover for the first six months of their three-year relationship, then after that it was a total slump.

  “What’re you thinking?” Bobby whispered in her ear, giving her a little tongue action at the same time.

  “That’s such a girly question,” she murmured, fiddling with the zipper on his jeans.

  “You calling me a girl?” he asked, mock serious.

  “You do have some female tendencies,” she teased.

  “Like what?” he responded, challenging her to come up with something.

  “Oh,” she said vaguely, dragging his jeans down, delighted to find that he wasn’t wearing underwear. “You have soft lips…”

  “All the better to kiss you with.” And with one swift movement, he flipped her so she was trapped beneath him. “Soft lips and a hard cock,” he joked. “How female is that?”

  “Bobby!” she exclaimed.

  Then the banter stopped and the passion began. He had a way of making love to her that forced her to lose every inhibition she’d ever possessed. One moment he was slowly caressing her, the next he was all hard-driving action. The combination drove her nuts. She wanted more and more and more …

  When it was over, they were spent, wrapped up in each other’s arms, sleepy and content.

  Denver often wished that those precious times would last forever. Just the two of them. No outside world to interfere.

  But the outside world was a big presence, and they both lived in it. Tomorrow Bobby was driving to Vegas before flying to New York for a few meetings. And she had her job, which right now was especially exciting and challenging since she was transferring to the drug unit. Once more they would be separated.

  The good news was that she loved her job. It was grueling work, but the end results were incredibly rewarding. She was so glad she’d changed tracks. From working at a high-powered law firm as a defense attorney, she’d scored a job as a Deputy DA, prosecuting people, and she was thrilled with the switch. Why defend the probably guilty (one of her high-profile cases was a movie star who’d arranged his wife’s murder, then walked; he was the catalyst for her change of plan) when she could be doing meaningful work—such as putting the bad guys behind bars? How rewarding to go after the dregs who distributed drugs and got kids hooked at an early age. Talk about job satisfaction!

  “Hey,” Bobby said, “wanna catch a movie and grab a pizza?”

  Yes, that’s exactly what she wanted to do. Normal activities with her man.

  If only things could stay that way.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Prince Armand Mohamed Jordan rarely used his full title, only when he visited the country of his birth, Akramshar, a small but wealthy Middle Eastern country located somewhere between Syria and Lebanon.

  As a naturalized American, and a mega-successful businessman, he felt it more prudent to keep his title to himself, deciding it wasn’t business-savvy to advertise his heritage.

  Most of the people he dealt with knew him only as Armand Jordan, a sometimes ruthless and extremely powerful man who expected everything to go his way and usually got his wish. None of his business associates was aware that his father was King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan, a man who ruled his small oil-rich country with a stern fist. A man with six current wives and sixteen children.

  Armand was suspicious of friendship. The only person he trusted was Fouad Khan, the right-hand man whom he’d imported from Akramshar many years previously. Fouad knew all of Armand’s secrets and kept them to himself. He was Armand’s sounding board and confidant, always there to do his bidding.

  Fortunately or unfortunately for Armand, he was the king’s ninth son, and therefore considered not at all important. So when his American mother—Peggy, a former Las Vegas dancer—had begged to take her son back to America when he was eight, the king had offered no objections. King Emir was bored with the leggy American redhead and her strident accent. Happy to see her go. And much as Peggy had enjoyed the adventure of living in a harem and being lavished with expensive gifts, enough was enough, and she knew it was time to return to civilization. At twenty-six, she had the rest of her life ahead of her, and she planned to live it. The king’s only request was that the boy be returned every September to Akramshar so that young Armand could celebrate the king’s birthday—the most important day of the year in Akramshar.

  Peggy complied. The cash payoff she received was compensation enough for her to do anything the king required.

  So Peggy and her son relocated to New York, and Armand soon adap
ted to the American way of life. It didn’t take him long to love everything about America. The endless TV shows full of fun and adventure, the violent action-packed movies, the loud, vibrant music, and the girls. Ah yes, especially the girls; they were far more forward than the girls in Akramshar.

  Every September his mother dutifully put him on a plane back to Akramshar, and for several weeks he played the role of a young prince, mingling with the half brothers and sisters he barely knew anymore. They failed to get along.

  The juxtaposition of his two lives was exciting. It made him feel special, different from the other kids who attended his private school in Manhattan. He was a prince, and they were nothing. He felt superior to all of them.

  When he was thirteen, on one of his yearly visits to Akramshar, his father had taken him aside and informed him it was time he became a man. Immediately, one of the king’s minions had ushered him into a room where two prostitutes lounged on a bed waiting for the young prince.

  The following experience with the two older women left an indelible impression on Armand. Although he’d fooled around with girls at school, this encounter was quite different. The prostitutes—one Russian, one Dutch—were in their twenties and heavily made up. They wore sexy lingerie and high-heeled shoes, and they introduced him to a variety of sexual acts, some of which he enjoyed, some of which disgusted him. When they felt he was fully initiated, they informed him that all sexual acts should be paid for. Not that they were asking him for money—the king’s people had already taken care of them—it was simply something they thought he should be aware of. “Women have to be paid for sex,” they said, exchanging amused glances. They were words of wisdom he never forgot.

  When he emerged several hours later, his older brothers jeered and laughed at him. He’d ended up fighting one of them, and had gotten a broken nose for his trouble. He hated his siblings. They were all jealous of him because he was different.

  His mother remarried a month after his eighteenth birthday. This time Peggy chose wisely: she married Sidney Dunn, a very successful investment banker twenty-five years her senior.

  Armand respected Sidney. He felt he could learn a lot from the old man, and learn he did. He chose to get a business degree, and Sidney was always there with his wise counsel.