Double Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” she responded. “What’s all that noise?”

  “Long story,” he said, delighted to hear her voice.

  “Are you in New York?” she asked.

  “Got delayed,” he answered, waving off a determined blonde with painful-looking nipple rings enhancing her overly large fake breasts.

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  “No. I’m going to sleep. Call me tomorrow.”

  “Will do.”

  He clicked off. Nothing worse than an unsatisfactory end to the evening.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  An army of hardworking executives made sure that The Keys ran as smoothly as possible, considering there was a workforce of thousands. From the head of security to the woman in charge of guest relations, everyone pitched in, for Lucky had made sure there were plenty of incentives for every employee—whatever their position—to do their best.

  When she’d built the hotel, she’d put together a syndicate of investors, who all held equal shares in the private company she’d created. Very soon, she hoped, her investors would begin receiving money back. The Keys was doing well, but the initial investment was monumental, and the downturn in the economy was not helpful. However, the casino was one of the most successful in Vegas, thanks to a band of casino hosts who were the best in the business. The hotel was usually at 90 percent capacity, plus the apartments had all sold for record-breaking prices.

  Lucky was satisfied with the way things were going. The Keys was her child—her love child—created from her desire to build the perfect oasis in Las Vegas, the city where she’d first made her mark when she’d taken over the building of Gino’s hotel after he’d been forced to leave the country on a tax exile.

  There were good memories and bad ones. Gino’s moneymen had refused to deal with a woman, so in the middle of the night she’d paid one of them a visit, held a knife to his balls, and demanded he pay up—otherwise she’d be back to cut ’em off!

  Surprise, surprise, he’d paid! Oh yes, that was a fun memory.

  Not so funny was remembering Marco, her fiancé, who’d been gunned down next to the hotel swimming pool. And her brother, Dario, murdered and tossed from a moving car.

  Lucky refused to dwell on the past. After taking a suitable revenge, she’d moved forward. It was the only way to survive.

  The Keys was her tribute to Marco, Dario, and her beautiful mother, Maria, another victim of a brutal crime.

  Lucky often wondered if Max had any idea about their family history. Max never asked questions; she didn’t seem interested. One day Lucky planned on sitting her down and telling her everything. Max needed to know the battles the Santangelos had gone through, from which they’d emerged triumphant. And she had to be made aware of their famous motto—Never fuck with a Santangelo.

  So far Lennie had prevented her from filling Max in on the family saga. “Let her grow up first,” he’d said. “There’s plenty of time.”

  Lennie Golden. Her husband. The best man on the planet. When she’d first met him, he was a stand-up comedian at her hotel. She’d propositioned him. He’d turned her down. And when they’d next run into each other, she was married to Greek shipping billionaire Dimitri Stanislopoulos, and by some weird coincidence, he was married to Dimitri’s spoiled daughter, Olympia. A crazy situation.

  But in the end it had all worked out, and she could honestly say that Lennie was the love of her life. They were compatible in every way. True soul mates.

  Before setting off for Vegas, she peeked in on Max, who was still asleep. Her child appeared so innocent when she was sleeping. Long-lashed eyelids covering brilliant green eyes, dark curly hair fanning out over the pillow.

  Lucky stared at Max for a moment, remembering the day she was born, and Lennie’s expression when he’d held his daughter for the first time. They’d named her Maria after Lucky’s mother—a name Max changed in her teens because she felt Max was more her. So little Maria had become little Max. The new name suited her style; she’d always been an assertive child and quite a tomboy. Max Santangelo Golden.

  Lucky sighed. Soon Max would be out on her own. They all grew up too quickly. Time moved at such a lightning pace.

  “Bye, sweetheart,” she whispered, bending down to kiss Max on the forehead. “See you soon.”

  * * *

  The moment Lucky left her room, Max—who’d been faking sleep—jumped out of bed and ran to the window to witness her mother’s departure. She’d pretended to be asleep because she hadn’t wanted to get involved in a conversation about what she was going to do while everyone was away. Too risky, considering she was not the world’s greatest liar, and unfortunately, Lucky possessed an extraordinarily keen bullshit detector.

  Soon enough she observed Lucky striding out of the house and getting into a waiting town car to take her to the airport.

  Max immediately reached for her cell and called Harry and Cookie, giving them the all clear. “Get your asses over here, we’ve got much to do,” she said excitedly.

  Her next job was getting rid of the two housekeepers, who might present a problem. They were recent hires, sisters from Guatemala. Fortunately, twenty-four hours of freedom suited them just fine. Lucky did not believe in keeping a large staff around—she was very down-to-earth in that respect, preferring to do things for herself. She’d also never cared to raise her children in a pampered environment.

  Cookie arrived at the house first, a blissful smile on her pretty face. “No more boys for me,” she announced with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s men all the way.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Max responded, rolling her eyes. “It’s Frankie. Get a grip. He’s a major loser.”

  “He is so not,” Cookie argued. “You don’t know him.”

  “I’ve known him longer than you, thankyouverymuch,” Max retaliated.

  “Not in the way I know him,” Cookie said with a secretive smile.

  “Don’t tell me you had sex again?” Max said, hoping she was wrong but sure that she wasn’t.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Cookie giggled.

  “Not really,” Max said, hurrying over to the window to make sure the two young housekeepers got into the cab she’d ordered to take them to their families. She’d instructed them not to return until noon the next day, and she’d given them each fifty bucks cash, plus cab fare, to make sure they understood. The older sister had been worried about Lucky finding out, but Max had assured the girl in her best high school Spanish that Lucky would never know.

  Once the housekeepers were gone, the three of them hurried downstairs and began unloading the booze from Max’s car and lugging it out to the bar by the swimming pool.

  “Who’s going to make everyone drinks?” Cookie asked, filling the outdoor fridge with bottles of beer. “Frankie kinda suggested we could borrow one of his bartenders. Whaddya think?”

  “So you did invite him?” Max said, turning on her accusingly.

  “Told you I was,” Cookie said.

  “But we didn’t agree,” Max objected. “Seems you’re forgetting it’s my party.”

  “Get over it,” Cookie snapped. “You’re just jealous ’cause I’m getting it an’ you’re not.”

  “That’s crap,” Max said, although maybe she was a little bit put out that for Cookie, sex seemed so uncomplicated. “And by the way, you stink of weed.”

  “Want some?” Cookie offered, digging into her purse.

  “I do,” Harry said, darting forward with an eager gleam in his eyes.

  Max threw him a withering look. “No thanks,” she said to Cookie. “And no bartender either. Everyone can help themselves. I’m dropping by the market and buying a ton of plastic glasses we can throw away later.”

  Cookie yawned, feigning boredom. “Whatever,” she muttered. “It’s your party.”

  “Okay, girls,” Harry said, thinking it was time he butted in. “We’ve got work to
do. Let’s get to it.”

  * * *

  The hostage situation worked itself out, and Leon was by Denver’s desk early in the morning. For several weeks he’d been tracking a dealer who’d been selling his wares to a local high school, and he was close to making an arrest. But they both knew it wasn’t the small-time dealer he was out to nail, it was the supplier, so his plan was to not Mirandize the guy, to get him to talk, then set him free.

  Denver was in on the plan, and she fully approved. Getting the big-time supplier into court was their ultimate goal, then, after a triumphant victory, throwing him into jail, where he belonged. She couldn’t wait to get in on the action.

  “What didja do last night?” Leon wanted to know, hovering by her desk.

  “Nothing much,” Denver replied. “And you?”

  “Went on a date with a Cuban girl who was into having sex in the elevator of her apartment house.”

  “Excuse me?” Denver said, raising an eyebrow.

  Leon laughed. “She was one of those danger freaks. Y’know, let’s see if we can get ourselves caught.”

  “Lovely.”

  “I hadda say no, an’ then she blew me off.”

  “In the sexual sense?”

  “I wish,” he said, laughing again. “Bitch called me chicken an’ told me to get out.”

  “Because you wouldn’t have sex with her in an elevator?”

  “You think I wanna get arrested for indecent exposure? I can see myself comin’ up in court with you prosecuting my ass.”

  “If that ever happens, I’ll be gentle,” she promised, smiling.

  “Bullshit!”

  They both laughed.

  “Seriously, Denver,” Leon said. “I gotta say I like workin’ with you. You’re kinda one of the boys.”

  “I am?” she said, taking it as a compliment.

  “Yeah. All the guys think so, an’ believe me, that’s high praise.”

  “Well … I’m not sure what to say.”

  “You don’t hav’ta say nothin’.”

  “Then I won’t.”

  Leon circled her desk. “Y’know, this weekend, my partner, Phil, an’ his wife are throwin’ a barbecue. Nothin’ fancy, but a lot of the guys are goin’, an’ I thought you might wanna tag along. Get t’ know everyone.”

  “That’s so nice of you, Leon, but this weekend I’ll be in Vegas with my, uh … boyfriend.” She felt stupid saying the word boyfriend, but that’s exactly what Bobby was. Anyway, she needed to let Leon know she was taken, even though she was sure he already knew.

  “Vegas, huh?” Leon said, hiding his disappointment. “Now, doncha go runnin’ off an’ sealin’ the deal in one of those Elvis impersonator weddin’ chapels.”

  “I promise I won’t.”

  “Then I guess I’m gonna hav’ta let you go.”

  “I have your permission, do I?” she said, amused.

  “Yeah, Denver. Put it all on lucky seven, an’ don’t come back without a big score.”

  “Yes sir!”

  Her cell rang. It was Bobby. Leon took the hint and left.

  “Where were you last night?” she asked. “I couldn’t hear a word you said.”

  “Long boring story,” Bobby replied, deciding he didn’t need to mention the strip club. “Those Russian investors I told you about dragged everything out, and I ended up having to stay in Vegas.”

  “Poor you.”

  “Got on a plane early this morning, and just landed in New York.” A beat. “But never mind about me. How are you?”

  “Lonely.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “Missing you.”

  “Even better.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Thursday night. Then Friday we’ll fly to Vegas. Please tell me you’re saying yes.”

  Alternatives: Visiting Sam on a movie set. Attending a cop barbecue with Leon. Seems like no contest. “I’m saying yes, Bobby,” she said softly.

  “That’s my girl. I’ll call you later. Have a good one.”

  * * *

  Checking out a couple of gossip sites on his computer, Frankie was delighted to find several shots of himself and Cookie leaning all over each other at River. She looked hot, kind of like a young Janet Jackson.

  He quickly scanned the copy:

  Eighteen-year-old Cookie, daughter of soul icon Gerald M., getting thisclose with her new boyfriend, Frankie Romano, at his club, River.

  Perfect! Exactly what he’d planned. He’d given access to a paparazzo, who’d gotten the shots in the club and then sold them. Of course, Rick Greco would be pissed that they’d called River his club, but hey—he was the front man. He was the one bringing the crowd in. Yeah! They all loved Frankie Romano. He knew how to satisfy everyone’s decadent cravings. Nothing bad about that.

  Unbeknownst to Rick, Frankie had a secret to assuring happy repeat customers, and that secret was a lucrative drug business he ran on the side. Coke, pills, Ecstasy, crystal meth, pot. You name it, Frankie could supply it. His rich and famous customers loved the convenience of having a virtual pharmacy at their disposal. Frankie had all his connections down, and now he was starting to make real money.

  Too bad Rick hadn’t made him a full partner; he might’ve considered sharing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After spending some time with his father, who was resting before the next day’s wildly extravagant birthday festivities, Armand returned to his palace and the family he had not yet seen.

  This time Soraya was waiting to greet him. They had been married for eleven years, and he had to admit that from the fifteen-year-old girl he’d wed, Soraya had turned into a striking woman. She was tall and slender, with a sweep of long, straight black hair and large sad eyes. Her body was covered by the traditional burqa.

  He found himself wondering what this woman he hardly knew would look like in Western clothes, and if, when he wasn’t around, she actually wore them. The truth was he didn’t care, even though she had given birth to four children—his children.

  Soraya rarely spoke when she was in his presence, only answered him when he directed a question at her.

  “Where is Tariq?” he asked, naming his only son.

  “I will fetch him if you wish,” Soraya replied.

  He’d noticed that she never looked him directly in the eyes; she avoided any kind of contact, including physical. He’d stopped sleeping with her several visits ago. He had no desire for yet another daughter, and it seemed that every time he touched her, she ended up pregnant. Not that sleeping with her gave him any enjoyment. The few times he’d had sex with her, she’d lain beneath him like a stone statue, unmoving and unresponsive.

  So be it. There were many women who would do anything he requested—no request too bizarre. Only yesterday in London he’d had two women crawling around his suite on all fours wearing leather dog collars, serving him dinner and then pleasuring each other for his amusement, while he sat back and snorted coke until he got bored and sent the whores away.

  Soraya left the room and returned with Tariq, a tall, skinny boy of eleven. The boy was clad in an American Lakers T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers.

  Armand was incensed. “Why is Tariq dressed like this?” he demanded. “It is disrespectful to me. Have him change immediately.”

  “Yes,” Soraya murmured, shooing her son from the room.

  “When I come here,” Armand said, his voice a harsh command, “I expect obedience and respect. Do you understand me?”

  Soraya hung her head, still refusing to look at him.

  Armand didn’t care. When the king died and he inherited what was his, perhaps he would abandon Akramshar and never come back. For it was not his country, not his home. America was his home. And Soraya and her brood were not his family.

  * * *

  King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan embraced tradition—his own personal tradition. Every year it was the same thing: an elaborate parade put on by his legions of grandchildren, of whom
he was extremely proud, followed by a public proclamation to the citizens of Akramshar, who revered their generous king. Then there was a series of more private celebrations. First a massive feast of roasted lamb, goat, and various other animals. The men on one side of the huge tent erected for the festivities, the women and children on the other. For entertainment, a dozen or so plump belly dancers jiggled their wares for several hours, until eventually the women and children were sent away and a parade of exquisite Eastern European women appeared, dressed in tight, low-cut cocktail dresses, with soaring high heels on their bare legs, and an abundance of makeup.

  The women formed a line, and the king chose the ones he wished to sit with him and his sons. Later the king would pair off with a woman or three of his choice, and after he had chosen, it was his sons’ turns to pick whomever they wanted. Since Armand was not the eldest son, he had to wait. This infuriated him. He felt that because of his business dealings with his father, he should be next. But tradition ruled. When his time came, he selected a sultry honey-blonde from Ukraine. She reminded him of Nona Constantine, and he enjoyed reliving the ravishing of Nona. The high-class call girl didn’t complain, but she was paid a small fortune not to, so Armand had his fun with her, humiliating her in every possible way. When he finally dismissed her, he could see the hatred in her eyes. It did not bother him. She was a paid whore; why would he care?

  Year after year, the king’s celebrations were a repeat performance. And the next morning Armand was on a plane out of there, back to civilization; back to the life he preferred.

  Good-bye, Akramshar.

  Good-bye, Soraya.

  Good-bye to the family he’d never wanted.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Driving along Pico on her way home from work, Denver checked in with Carolyn. She was curious to find out what had taken place on Carolyn’s date with a woman. It seemed such a random thing for her to do—changing sides for no particular reason.

  “Is Bobby in town?” Carolyn asked.

  “No. He’s in New York,” Denver replied, pulling up to a red light. “Why?”

  “’Cause I was thinking you might feel like picking up a Chinese chicken salad from Chin Chin and coming over.”