When Danny had called to get front-row seats for Max and her friends to attend the sold-out Gerald M. concert, Renee was happy to oblige, although why she was supposed to do it when one of Max’s friends was Gerald M.’s daughter, she wasn’t quite sure.
Gerald M. was quite a draw with middle America. The ladies were all agog—he represented old-fashioned sexy. Quite a few of them stashed an extra pair of panties in their purse, for when the opportunity arose they planned on tossing them onto the stage in the hope of attracting his attention, at least for a second or two.
Max and her group arrived at the theater in the hotel with minutes to spare. They were led to their seats by an enthusiastic attendant, also a big Gerald M. fan.
“I want to go backstage after,” Frankie said to Cookie as they took their seats. “He does know we’re here, doesn’t he?”
“Uh … yeah,” Cookie lied. She was hoping that by the time the concert was over and if they took their time getting backstage, her dad would’ve taken off to the airport and the private plane he always had waiting. She was not thrilled about the prospect of Gerald M. meeting Frankie. Not that her dad would object to her having an older boyfriend, but she knew it was quite possible the two of them would bond—smoke a joint together, snort a little coke. And that thought horrified her.
Once they were settled in their seats, Ace reached for Max’s hand. She held his reluctantly, still struggling about what to do. Should she tell him about her and Billy? Or just carry on as if nothing had changed?
It was a dilemma she couldn’t quite work out. Eventually she would, because it wasn’t as if Billy was still in the picture, and Ace was a major hunk.
However, Lucky had always taught her to be honest. Tell the truth. Accept the consequences.
What to do? It was a difficult decision.
“Who’s this dude Cookie’s hooked up with?” Ace asked in a low, disapproving voice. “I’ve seen him somewhere before.”
“He’s an … uh … ex-friend of Bobby’s,” Max replied. “You probably ran into him at the opening of The Keys. He used to go out with Annabelle Maestro.”
“Who?”
“It’s not important.”
“I’m not getting a good vibe from him,” Ace said.
“You’re not?”
“He’s got that rich dude sleaze factor goin’ on. Not to mention that he’s too old for her.”
“Whatever.” Max sighed. “You know Cookie. It won’t last.”
“After the concert we’re taking off on our own, yes?”
Saved by the announcer, who planted himself center stage and instructed everyone to turn off their cell phones, which reminded Max that she had yet to turn hers on since the plane ride.
Then, to thunderous applause and plenty of screaming fans, Gerald M. sauntered onstage, resplendent in tight purple leather pants and a blowsy white shirt unbuttoned to his waist, diamond medallions vying for space on his exposed chest. More Tom Jones than Usher, he immediately launched into a medley of his many hits—albeit most of them a decade or two old.
The mostly female audience erupted into hysterical sighs of joy as they leapt to their feet. Soon the panties would start flying.
Cookie shot Max a look that said Kill me now! while Ace groaned, and Max giggled.
Frankie wondered if he could sell Gerald M. a supply of pharmaceuticals. Why not? Had to invite him to River. Make him a regular customer. Get him to hang out there with some of the gorgeous girls he was always photographed with. Cookie could arrange it; it was about time she made herself useful. Sometimes a man required more than just an enthusiastic blow job.
“You didn’t tell me we were gonna have this much fun,” Ace whispered in Max’s ear. “This dude’s got one foot firmly planted in the eighties. Does he know he’s a relic?”
“Shh,” Max scolded. “He’s Cookie’s dad. Be nice.”
Ace squeezed her hand. “You really are a loyal friend, aren’t you?”
Suddenly Max remembered why she liked Ace. He always had her back, and he was always kind. The last thing Ace was into was being Mister Hollywood. He would never dump a girl after taking her virginity. No way.
She squeezed his hand back. “Glad you’re here,” she whispered. “Wouldn’t want to go through this slow torture without you.”
“Right back atcha, birthday girl.”
* * *
“Holy shit!” Kev exclaimed, sitting bolt upright at the table he shared with Billy in the Asian Fusion restaurant at the Cavendish Hotel. “You are not gonna believe who just jiggled her ass in here.”
Billy started to turn around.
“Don’t do that!” Kev warned. “It’s your friggin’ ex with that director you were always bitchin’ about.”
“Alex Woods?” Billy said, forcing himself not to turn and stare.
“The very same.”
“Just the two of them?”
“Some young dude is taggin’ along.”
“That’s just fuckin’ great,” Billy said grimly. He was pissed off enough that he couldn’t reach Max; now his annoying ex was in town. Why was she in Vegas? And why was she with the sadistic Alex Woods, the motherfucker who’d forced him to do every stunt known to man on the movie they’d made together? Alex had almost killed him with his insane demands.
“My luck,” he muttered. “Can they see us?”
“No,” Kev answered, busily watching. “They’re being seated in a booth across the room.”
“Then let’s get the fuck outta here while we can,” Billy said, starting to stand up.
“We just ordered,” Kev pointed out. “An’ I don’t know ’bout you, but I’m starvin’. Reminder—we never had lunch.”
“Jeez! Is your stomach more important than my comfort zone?”
“Guess so.”
“’S long as you’re sure they can’t see us,” Billy grumbled, slouching back into his seat.
“No way, man,” Kev assured him. “We’re invisible.”
* * *
“Hmm … you give great homecoming,” Lennie said, lazily stroking Lucky’s thigh as they lay on the bed post-lovemaking, sated and at peace after a passionate two hours. Having been involved with a documentary about tantric sex, Lennie was totally into it. Lucky had no objections. Tantric wasn’t all about the climax, it was about the slow, steady climb, and the bliss that awaited at the top of the mountain.
When Lennie had first started practicing it a couple of years earlier, she’d been highly suspicious that he’d hooked up with some twenty-year-old yoga fanatic who was teaching him all the moves. But after experiencing it herself, she was into it too. What woman could resist endless foreplay with a man who knew how to do everything right?
She often thought how far Lennie had come from the brash stand-up comedian she’d first met. Age and a series of traumatic experiences had mellowed him into a special and extraordinary man.
She loved him so much that sometimes it scared her. It was always somewhere in the back of her mind that the three people she’d loved the most had all been taken from her. Her gentle mother, Maria. Her brother, Dario. And the love of her life before Lennie—her fiancé, Marco. Each of them murdered on the orders of one man, her godfather, Enzio Bonnatti.
She’d shot and killed Enzio in what was seen as an act of self-defense.
Self-defense. Sure. If that’s what everyone believed.
The truth was, she’d set up the appropriate scenario and blown the motherfucker away. He’d deserved it.
True Santangelo justice. And she didn’t regret it. Not for one single minute.
“How’s little Max?” Lennie asked. “Excited about her party?”
“She’s a teenager, Lennie. The only thing that excites teenagers is getting away from their parents or a night of lust with Ian Somerhalder.”
“Who’s Ian Somerhalder?”
“The Vampire Diaries on TV. Sex and vampires. Guaranteed to get any teenager hot.”
“I’m in the movie biz—it�
��s a different scene.”
“Really?” Lucky drawled.
“Yes, really.”
“I’d never have guessed.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Here’s what I love about you, Lennie,” Lucky murmured softly. “You do exactly what you want to do, and so do I.”
“Which is the reason our marriage works so well,” he responded. “No ties. No petty jealousies.”
“Amen,” Lucky agreed.
“And we have a daughter who takes after both of us,” Lennie said with a grin. “Little Max. She’s a maverick. Gotta let her go do her thing.”
“Are you intimating that I’m stopping her?”
“Well, sweetheart, you can be kind of controlling when the mood hits you.”
“Ha!” Lucky exclaimed.
“Ha what?” Lennie retaliated.
“Ha! It’s amazing that I still love you after all these years.”
“All what years?” Lennie questioned. “Seems to me like we’ve only been together a couple of months.”
“Sweet-talker.”
“An’ doncha love it!”
“Sometimes.”
“‘Sometimes,’ she says,” Lennie said affectionately, pulling her close.
“Okay.” She sighed. “I’ll admit it. All times.”
“That’s my Lucky.”
She smiled, dark eyes flashing. “Always.”
* * *
At the same time as Billy was contemplating leaving the restaurant, Venus was enjoying her time with Alex and Jorge. Two extremely attractive men, generations apart. Jorge was a young stud bursting with testosterone, while Alex was world-weary but filled with stories and life experiences Venus was dying to hear about.
Out of nowhere she suddenly found herself crazily attracted to Alex. He had a Jack Nicholson kind of vibe going, and even though he was getting up there, he was still wildly sexy in a dissolute kind of way.
Of course it was a well-known fact around Hollywood that Alex only went for Asian women. He’d already started hitting on the waitress, a petite girl from Thailand with appealing slanted eyes and a sheet of black hair that hung halfway down her back. But Venus was privy to the information that he’d always had a thing about Lucky. And since Lucky was forever faithful to Lennie, what would be wrong with her taking a shot?
After two extra-strong lychee martinis, she felt the need to share. Jorge was busy stuffing his face with spareribs and seaweed. Young, handsome, and dumb. Why was she even bothering?
Oh yes, sex with a studly stranger. Always a kick.
“You know, Alex,” she murmured, leaning toward him, her tone low and seductive. “I never understood why you and I didn’t get together when we were making our movie.”
“Could it be that you were too busy fucking Billy?” Alex said, arching one of his thick eyebrows.
“Or that you had a crush on our producer?” Venus countered, not willing to be outdone. “You know you did.”
“If you mean Lucky,” Alex said, speaking slowly, “we’ve always been best friends.”
“Hmm…”
“What does that mean?” Alex said with a deep frown. “Has Lucky ever said anything to you about me?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Venus teased.
“If you’ve got something to tell me, dear, spit it out,” Alex said, his tone tense.
“Why would I have anything to tell you?” Venus replied, delighted that she’d hit on Alex’s weak spot. Oh yes, he definitely still lusted after Lucky—the woman he could never have. Typical behavior. Show a powerful man an unobtainable woman, and he wanted her.
“Don’t screw with me, Venus,” Alex said, still frowning. “I do not appreciate being played.”
The edge in Alex’s voice attracted Jorge’s attention. The young Brazilian put down the sparerib he was nibbling on, turned to Venus, and said, “Everything good?”
“Ah, he speaks!” Alex mocked.
“Yes, Jorge, everything’s fine,” Venus said, ignoring Alex, while placating her boy toy with a firm pat on his finely muscled arm. “Alex is a major director,” she added, speaking slowly as she pantomimed operating a movie camera. “Very important.”
“Jesus Christ!” Alex scoffed. “The boy probably speaks perfect English, an’ you’re treating him like a dummy.”
“He’s not a boy,” Venus said, annoyed that Alex was getting on her case.
“What is he, then?” Alex questioned, raising a cynical eyebrow.
Before Venus could answer, a plump woman in a flowered dress managed to circumvent Venus’s bodyguards, who were sitting at a table by the door, and presented herself in front of their table.
“You’re just so pretty,” the woman cooed, fluttering her hands. “I simply had to tell you. I’m from Kansas, and I seen you on tee-vee, but you are much prettier in person.” The woman took a deep breath. “And yes, I have to say it—years younger.”
“Thank you,” Venus said graciously. And where the hell are my bodyguards when I need them? She quickly glanced over at their table. The morons were actually eating, and had not noticed she was under attack. Security. What a crock.
“You must get a ton of attention,” the woman gushed. “What with your divorce an’ all, an’ your husband—or should I say your ex—sittin’ over there. An’ him bein’ a young man still. An’—oh.” She looked directly at Jorge. “Is this your son?”
Alex burst out laughing.
Venus was speechless with fury. At this point one of her bodyguards stumbled over—red in the face—placed a controlling arm on the woman’s shoulder, and moved her swiftly away.
Alex was still chuckling. Jorge looked casual, as if he didn’t know what was going on, although of course he did.
“I think it’s time to leave,” Venus said, cold as ice.
Was Billy really here? In this restaurant?
Damn him. What exactly was he doing in Vegas?
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Hyped up on too much coke and ready for action, Armand took a stroll through the casino while he waited for the prostitutes he’d ordered. He was in need of some kind of sexual release while he decided how he was going to deal with the Santangelo bitch.
His surroundings did not please him. The Cavendish was a shit-hole compared to The Keys.
And why was he staying in a shit-hole?
Because of Fouad and Mother Peggy—the whore mother of all time.
It all made sense to him now. Peggy might dress in fancy clothes and stink of expensive perfume, but when the king had discovered her she was probably a prostitute like all the rest of them.
After a while he approached a roulette table and threw down several thousand dollars. In exchange he received a stack of high-denomination chips from an eager croupier.
A steely-eyed pit boss stepped forward and offered to open a private table for his pleasure.
Armand nodded. No need to mix with the sweaty masses. He abhorred crowds.
Roulette was not his usual game of choice, but tonight he felt like playing a different game. Tonight he had a strong feeling that one way or another, he would force Lucky Santangelo’s hand. He didn’t know how, but it would happen, because he was all-powerful. Lucky Santangelo might think she had won, but what she didn’t realize was that Armand Jordan was invincible.
The more he thought about her, the more he hated her. She was a witch with her dark hair and evil blacker-than-night eyes. The words that had spewed forth from her mouth were unacceptable. She was the devil incarnate. A morally corrupt whore with a black heart.
And then it suddenly came to him like a blinding flash of lightning. SHE DID NOT DESERVE TO LIVE.
The thought struck him like a meteor—a fast-moving meteor that illuminated his mind and told him what he had to do.
Lucky Santangelo had to die. There was no doubt about it.
* * *
Peggy immediately realized that Gino Santangelo did not remember her, and even though he was quite spry for a
ninety-something old man, she was quite surprised that he managed to remember anything at all. She felt sorry for Paige, who was decades younger than her husband. At least Sidney had died before she’d been stuck with nursemaid duties. What a nightmare that would’ve been. Nurse Peggy. Not her calling in life.
Actually, she hadn’t expected Gino to remember her. Why would he? According to his reputation, he’d had thousands of girls. And such as the circumstances were now, it was better that he didn’t recall their one night of fevered lovemaking. As far as Gino Santangelo was concerned, she was a friend of his wife’s. Paige had kindly invited her to join them for a quiet dinner at François, and she’d been delighted to accept.
Peggy was embarking on an exciting mission; it gave her mundane existence new meaning. She’d dressed for the occasion. A Valentino cocktail dress. Black Louboutins. Tasteful jewelry. And a large Hermès purse, in which she hoped to stash the evidence she was about to procure. A strand of his hair, his cocktail glass, anything she could get her hands on.
Gino made it easy for her. Fifteen minutes into the dinner, he experienced a major sneezing fit and blew his nose into a napkin. Usually Peggy considered men who did that social outcasts, but tonight she was thrilled.
However, there was a problem—how to maneuver the soiled napkin into her purse before the waiter came over and spirited it away?
Like a true amateur detective, the answer came to her. Without even thinking about it, she nudged her martini glass so that its contents spilled across the table and onto Gino’s lap. Confusion ensued, during which Peggy managed to stuff the napkin into her purse. Mission accomplished!
Peggy experienced a moment of deep satisfaction, and even deeper excitement. After all these years wondering who Armand’s real father was, soon the suspense would be over.
Earlier that evening she’d visited the computer center at her hotel and Googled Joe Piscarelli. He too was still alive, and had obviously prospered, for he owned a chain of car dealerships and several gentlemen’s clubs. Joe was not as old as Gino Santangelo—nor was he buried in the desert as she’d imagined. Obviously he’d gotten over his criminal tendencies and gone legitimate. He was now a married man with two grown children and two successful businesses.
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