However, in spite of Armand’s loathsome anger, he managed to remain stony-faced. He’d warned Armand that The Keys was not for sale, but Armand had insisted on meeting the owner anyway. Had he read the research that Fouad’s assistant had gathered on Lucky Santangelo, he would have realized that she was no ordinary woman. Lucky Santangelo was a lethal force. A woman with a dangerous and powerful past. A strong, intelligent woman who seemed able to achieve anything she set her mind to. And a beauty too. Fouad was quite struck by her looks and composure.
“What now?” Fouad asked when Armand finally stopped yelling. “Should I arrange for a plane?”
“A plane?” Armand snarled, clenching his fists. “For what? You think I’m running away? You actually imagine I would leave here without getting my prize?”
Why was Armand still thinking he could gain ownership of a property that was not for sale? Surely, as a businessman, he realized there was no deal to be made. Especially after his confrontation with Lucky Santangelo.
This situation was becoming ridiculous. Armand was behaving like an out-of-control child who’d failed to get a new bike for Christmas. Could anyone respect a man who behaved like that? Lucky Santangelo and her lawyer were probably laughing at them. Armand had made a mockery of the meeting. A mockery of Jordan Developments.
“She’s not going to sell, Armand,” Fouad said patiently. “You heard her. Not to you or anyone else.”
“Fuck the cunt. I want this hotel, Fouad. And it’s time you got it into your useless head that we are not leaving Vegas until I get it.”
* * *
Peggy enjoyed a leisurely breakfast out by the pool at the Cavendish. Earlier, she’d phoned her son to see if he would care to join her, but there was no answer from either Armand’s cell or his suite. She didn’t mind; she was sure that she presented a mysterious and glamorous figure clad in a white sundress, a large straw hat, and Chanel sunglasses, sitting at a table by herself watching the passing parade of tourists and young couples with kids. It was still early; the serious gamblers and bachelor-party groups had yet to emerge.
A middle-aged man in a Hawaiian shirt who was sprawled at a nearby table with his overweight wife couldn’t take his eyes off her. Lust was in the air. Peggy could smell lust a mile off.
She smiled to herself. Vegas agreed with her. Being back there was almost like re-visiting her youth. Ah yes, as one of the most desirable and sought-after girls in town, she’d created quite a stir. Many a man had fallen for her obvious charms. She treasured the memory of those times.
Seeing Gino Santangelo had given her a jolt. The fact that he was still alive was a big surprise. She realized that he must be at least ninety-something, because on the one memorable night she’d spent with him, he was in his fifties. Even so, he’d been a vigorous lover, such a powerhouse.
At eighteen she’d considered herself experienced, but Gino Santangelo had given new meaning to the act of making love.
LAS VEGAS 1968
Peggy Lindquest and Joe Piscarelli made quite the dashing couple around town. Peggy was a stunner, and Joe was no slouch in the handsome stakes, with his wannabe gangster movie-star looks. Their relationship was volatile due to major jealousy issues on both sides. Joe, at the age of thirty, had been around and then some, which meant there were quite a few exes in his world. One-nighters, two-nighters, and so on.
Peggy claimed she had been with only one other man—her high school boyfriend. She was lying, of course, but since she was new to Vegas, there was no way for Joe to prove otherwise.
They fought like wildcats. And then they made up as if they were starring in a porno movie.
It was their pattern.
The one thing that scared Peggy was Joe’s violent temper, and when it got too bad, she usually spent the night at a girlfriend’s house. Joe always arrived to collect her the next morning, and all was quiet on the Western front. But Peggy’s girlfriends kept on warning her that Joe’s vile outbursts could easily escalate and become physical. Peggy refused to believe he would ever hit her.
One night he did act out, shoving her violently across the room. Shocked, she fled to her girlfriend Veronica’s apartment in a panic, tears and everything.
Veronica, a statuesque black beauty who was a dancer in the Folies Bergere show at the Tropicana, was on her way to an exclusive party at Caesar’s Palace. She insisted that Peggy dry her tears and come with her. Peggy declined, until Veronica whispered in her ear, “There’s a rumor Sinatra may show up.”
Frank Sinatra. Every Vegas showgirl’s dream.
Peggy rapidly changed her mind, and the two girls set off to join the party, dressed to conquer.
Sinatra never appeared, but Gino Santangelo was there, and Gino Santangelo was a legendary figure in Vegas.
Peggy set her charm on high beam and went for it. She’d had no idea it would turn out to be such a heavenly experience. The man was not nicknamed Gino the Ram for nothing.
After a short conversation at the party, he invited her upstairs to a sumptuous suite and asked if her breasts were real. When she said they were, he slowly proceeded to strip her, garment by garment, until she stood before him in her high heels and nothing else.
She wasn’t shy. She was almost naked onstage every night.
He admired her body, slowly fingering her in the most intimate of places, and when he decided she was ready, he took her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed with her legs spread. Then he went down on her, slowly, surely, until she was in such a state of ecstasy she was begging him to fuck her.
But he didn’t. He forced her to wait until he was ready to make her come with his tongue.
She lay on the bed writhing with passion, desperate for him to ravish her, all thoughts of Joe set aside.
But Gino took his time, exciting her all the more. He pulled her off the bed and led her to the shower, and only then did he divest himself of his clothes and climb in with her, whereupon he proceeded to soap her body until she reached orgasm again, screaming aloud with pleasure.
Finally they returned to the bedroom, where he made love to her for what seemed like hours. At dawn, he sent her home in a chauffeured sedan, and she never heard from him again.
Peggy had something on her mind, something she’d conveniently never faced up to but always secretly wondered about.
In the space of one week in 1968 she’d slept with Joe Piscarelli, Gino Santangelo, and King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan. A month later she’d discovered she was pregnant.
So who was Armand’s real father?
Was it Joe Piscarelli, her would-be gangster boyfriend?
Gino Santangelo, her one-night stand?
Or her ex-husband, King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan?
Surely it was about time she found out …
CHAPTER THIRTY
The board meeting was about to start, and after her unsettling and annoying morning, Lucky was pleased to be in a room with her investors—all of whom were full of positive vibes.
Alex Woods was standing in a corner drinking a cup of coffee.
She headed in his direction. “Thanks for coming,” she said, touching his arm. “I wasn’t sure you would, but I’m glad you did.”
“You think I’d miss little Max’s birthday?” he replied, giving her a long steady look.
“It’s nice of you to make the effort.”
“And she’s so formal,” he remarked, giving her another long look, a look that said We could be making beautiful love together, but you’re still hung up on your goddamn husband.
“Well … I know how busy you are.”
“Never too busy for you, Lucky,” he replied, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Okay,” she said, attempting to lighten things up. “Let’s not get carried away.”
He fished a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and went to light one up.
“No smoking!” she admonished.
His look turned quizzical. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Please,
Alex, for me. I gave it up, and I don’t want to be tempted.”
“You don’t, huh?”
“No thank you.”
He put the cigarette back in its packet. “When’s Lennie getting here?” he inquired.
“Didn’t you just ask me that in L.A.?”
“Is it a crime to ask you again?”
“Knock it off, Alex,” she said, suddenly becoming impatient. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Huh?”
“Why didn’t you bring a girlfriend with you?”
“What now?”
“A girlfriend, Alex,” she said, repeating herself. “A gorgeous young thing to keep you occupied so Lennie doesn’t get the impression that you’re still lusting after me.”
“Oh, I see,” Alex said, squinting slightly. “Is that what you think?”
“Actually, it’s not what I think, it’s what I know.”
“Well,” he said with a sardonic edge, “glad to note your ego is alive and well and living happily in fantasy land.”
“Cut the crap, Alex,” she said, shaking her head. “Why don’t you do yourself a big favor and send for one of your many women?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because the last thing I need is any tension between you and Lennie, who incidentally arrives later this afternoon, which I do believe I already told you.”
“Screw you, Santangelo,” Alex said, scowling.
“And wouldn’t you like to,” she fired back.
“Jesus!” he complained. “You’re out of control.”
“Well that makes two of us, doesn’t it?”
Before Alex could reply, Gino strolled over. “Y’know, I’m kinda surprised you two never got together,” Gino remarked. “You’re always at each other’s throats. Makes for a combative mix.”
“Do I look Asian?” Lucky drawled.
“I get it,” Gino said, chuckling loudly. “Alex only raises the flag for—”
“Don’t even go there!” Lucky warned, well aware of the politically incorrect word Gino was about to use.
“Let him say it,” Alex said with a throaty laugh. “He’s old, it doesn’t matter.”
“Who’re you callin’ old?” Gino griped. “It takes balls t’ reach my age an’ still be standin’ on two fuckin’ feet.”
“And I give you kudos for that,” Alex said. “You’re my idol, Gino. I want to be just like you when I grow up.”
“For God’s sake!” Lucky exclaimed. “Why don’t the two of you go form a circle jerk and be done with it.”
“She’s your daughter,” Alex pointed out.
“Yeah,” Gino agreed, with another wicked chuckle. “She’s the son I never had.”
“You had a son. Dario,” Lucky reminded him sharply. “And just because he was gay there’s no reason for you to disrespect him.”
“Kiddo, I didn’t mean—”
“You know what, screw both of you,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re a couple of little big boys, so go ahead—get your kicks playing with each other. That’s just about the level of your style.”
“Hey,” Gino objected. “Is that any way t’ talk to your old man?”
Lucky shook her head again. Sometimes dealing with Gino was like dealing with a little kid. “Where’s Paige?” she asked. “Shouldn’t she be taking care of you?”
“That’ll be the day, when I need takin’ care of.” Gino snorted. “I might be gettin’ up there, but I’m not fuckin’ dead. Anyway, she’s over at the Cavendish dealin’ with beauty shit.”
“What’s wrong with the salon here?”
“She’s got her special girl over at the Cavendish. Do I know?”
“Okay, I get it. So I suggest you and Alex take your seats and let’s get this show on the road.”
And so they did, and the meeting took place, and went extremely well. Everyone was enthusiastic about how successful The Keys was in spite of such a flat economy. The hotel was operating at capacity. The casino couldn’t be busier. And there was a long waiting list to purchase one of the multimillion-dollar apartments.
Halfway through the meeting, Venus dutifully put in an appearance, beguiling everyone with her radiant blond beauty and dazzling star power. Venus certainly knew how to captivate a room.
Afterward there was a buffet lunch, during which Lucky managed to avoid another one-on-one with Alex. Too uncomfortable. She wished he’d get married or start living with someone again. Having Alex on the loose was too dangerous. Unfortunately, there was still a deep connection between them. And if Lennie weren’t around …
No! she told herself sternly. Don’t even think it.
* * *
Jorge didn’t gamble, but Venus did, and after her appearance at the board meeting she felt like some action. Gambling was always a turn-on, especially when she ended up a winner.
Entering the casino at The Keys, Jorge went into semishock. Such opulence. Such a huge number of people throwing their money around. Not to mention such beautiful cocktail waiters and waitresses attending to the customers’ every need.
He immediately wondered if he could get a job here, for he was street-smart enough to know that this thing with Venus wouldn’t last, and when she tired of him—which he knew she would—what then? Was he supposed to run back to L.A. and the sex-crazed fat agent he’d been forced to service simply to score a job on Venus’s photo shoot?
No, Jorge had not fled Rio and the favelas, where he’d almost raised himself, to become the plaything of a series of horny American women.
Venus was exquisite, but she was too famous for him, and at forty-something, too old—even though she was in impeccable shape, with her perfect body and muscled thighs. Earlier, while he was going down on her, she’d almost strangled him with those thighs. Lost in her juices, he’d had to splutter and grunt to get her to release him.
Jorge hung back as two security guards accompanied Venus around the casino. Soon he noticed a crowd beginning to form, and he wondered what it must be like to be so famous.
One day … one day somewhere in the future, he vowed to find out.
* * *
“Remember that time you got a dose of the crabs from some piece a stray you banged, then you hadda ’splain it to Venus with some bullshit story?” Kev said with a raucous chuckle. “Good times, buddy, good times.”
“For you, maybe,” Billy responded, cracking a slight smile. “I hadda tell Venus I caught ’em from a crapper. Don’t think she believed me.”
Kev snorted with mirth. “Yeah, those were the badass days. God, I miss ’em.”
They were now settled in a luxury villa at the Cavendish, and Kev was hot to hit the tables. He kept on encouraging Billy to do the same.
“I gotta coupla biz calls to make,” Billy said, thrusting a few hundred-dollar bills at Kev. “Go put this on seven for me. An’ try to make sure I’m a winner.”
“Like when’re you ever not?” Kev grumbled, grabbing the money and taking off. “See you in the casino.”
“Ten minutes,” Billy promised. “Don’t forget—number seven.”
As soon as Kev left, Billy paced up and down for a minute or two, then he called Max on her cell. No reply. He hesitated about leaving a message, then decided against it. He’d sooner talk to her personally.
Unusual for him, but he was feeling slightly apprehensive about what she’d have to say. Would she be pleased he’d followed her to Vegas? Or would she blow him off?
For now he’d just have to wait and see.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“You ever thought of dumpin’ the dreads?” Frankie inquired as he and Cookie lay side by side on top of the bed in their hotel room, casually sharing a joint.
“Huh?” Cookie replied, immediately tugging on the Caribbean dreadlocks that she considered her trademark. “Never had any complaints before.”
“I was kinda thinkin’ you might wanna go for a softer look,” Frankie suggested.
“You sound like my dad,” Cookie sa
id, dragging on the weed. “I’m totally into my dreads. Who wants to look like every other girl in L.A.?”
“You, never,” Frankie insisted, extracting the joint from her fingers and taking a deep hit. “You’re an original.”
“Why you even askin’?” Cookie demanded, thinking that for an older guy, Frankie sure had his shit together. He was okay in the sack. He came up with a steady assortment of drugs, and he was a kick to be around. Not boring, like Max’s boyfriend, Ace. And not a weirdo like Harry—because even though Harry was one of her best friends, she had to admit he was kind of eccentric at times.
“’Cause every time you give me a b.j., your dreads keep hittin’ my balls,” Frankie said, exhaling a thin line of smoke.
“Ew!” Cookie giggled. “Wouldn’t wanna damage your precious cojones.”
“You wouldn’t, huh?” Frankie said.
“No, ’cause then you couldn’t get it up.”
“You got a dirty mouth.”
“An’ doncha love it,” Cookie responded, rolling over and climbing astride him. “Anyway,” she added, “who’d you want me to look like?”
“Janet Jackson at her peak,” Frankie said with a wink. “You’re as pretty as her.”
Cookie giggled again and snatched the joint back from him. “A thin Janet Jackson,” she said pointedly. “With way better tits.”
“Now, hold on,” Frankie objected, pushing her off him. “You gotta admit the woman’s got a dynamite pair. We all saw ’em at the Super Bowl.”
“An’ I don’t?” Cookie said, pouting.
“That goes without sayin’, honeytits.”
“Honeytits!” she squealed. “Where’d you come up with that?”
“Mel Gibson, I think.”
“Screw Mel Gibson. An’ anyway, he called that cop sugartits.”
“Same thing.”
“No way.”
“I got an idea.”
“What?”
“Whyn’t you blow me, sugartits, an’ shut the fuck up.”
Cookie so appreciated being treated like an adult.
* * *
Bobby’s surprise was a private boat on Lake Mead, with a gourmet late lunch and an attentive waiter. Denver could’ve done without the lunch and the waiter, but she didn’t say anything because she was fully aware that Bobby meant well, and it was a very thoughtful gesture.
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