It made Fouad sad that Armand had come to such an unfortunate end, for although Armand had been an extremely difficult and challenging man, they had indeed shared many interesting times before the drugs had taken hold.
Strangely enough, Fouad missed him.
To celebrate his newfound position as head of Jordan Developments, Fouad collected all of Armand’s sex DVDs and promptly destroyed them.
He determined that Armand’s legacy would be pristine, and that his reputation would remain untarnished.
* * *
Peggy Dunn was all set to organize a spectacular New York funeral for her only son. She had Fouad contact the king and tell him the sad news in case he wanted to attend. The king responded by saying that he wished the funeral to take place in Akramshar. It would be a state funeral, and his people would make all the arrangements.
Peggy agreed, and it was then that Fouad revealed that Armand had a wife and four children in Akramshar.
At first Peggy was horrified and shocked. How could Armand have a family she knew nothing about? Why had he never told her? It was unbelievable.
But as the news settled in, she experienced a strong feeling of excitement and anticipation.
She had grandchildren. Four of them. She was not alone, she had a family.
Peggy couldn’t wait to meet them.
On the plane to Akramshar, sitting beside Fouad and his lovely wife, Alison, she reached into her purse and took out the envelope from the DNA sample lab. She had not opened it, and now she decided she never would.
In her mind, Armand was a prince. May he rest in peace.
* * *
Ace returned to Big Bear, where he hooked up with a young, pretty waitress who came from a similar background to his. He tried to forget Max Santangelo. She wasn’t for him; why had he been fooling himself? They lived in two different worlds, and much as he’d tried to fit in, he’d finally realized it was never going to happen.
* * *
Kev became rich, or relatively so, for Ellie’s pictures caused a bidding war among the tabloids, and true to her word, Ellie cut him in for half.
But Kev wasn’t happy. He’d betrayed his friend, and not only that, he’d stayed hidden in the bushes like a coward as the dude with the knife had started attacking everyone. He hadn’t even emerged to help Billy, and the guilt was killing him.
He took his money and slunk off to New York.
* * *
Ellie sold her pictures to the tabloids before talking to the police. As a potential material witness she was sternly warned that she should have come forward instead of concealing evidence. She never mentioned that there was someone with her. Kev had begged her not to say he was present, so she’d complied.
Eventually she’d hired a lawyer, pleaded innocence, and handed over all her photos.
All except one.
She’d captured the image of a tall African American man in a black suit, slipping quietly into the villa as Randy emerged.
Was she the only one to see him?
Apparently so.
She placed the photo in a safe-deposit box and wrote a note to her significant other that if anything happened to her it should be given to the police.
Ellie was nothing if not street-smart.
* * *
Sam’s movie came out and was a big hit. Hollywood wanted him, and was prepared to pay for the privilege.
He still sent Denver the occasional text, but she had yet to visit him on the set.
In Sam’s mind, there was always tomorrow.
* * *
Gerald M. took off on a European tour with a Swedish blonde he’d met in Vegas. He was proud to have her accompany him to London, Paris, and Berlin, countries where he was still a certified superstar. The fans appreciated the smooth soul that was the sound of Gerald M. They worshipped at his feet.
He asked Cookie if she’d like to accompany them.
She declined. Having the run of the Bel Air house all to herself was a far more tempting prospect.
Since moving on from Frankie, and hitting the street with a sexy new hairstyle, Cookie had discovered there were far more interesting prospects out there than a coked-out old loser like Frankie.
Cookie decided she wanted to be an actress, and enrolled in acting class.
Young, hot would-be actors were everywhere.
Soon Cookie was having herself a fine old time.
* * *
Dumped by a truculent, spoiled teenager, Frankie Romano drove back to L.A. determined not to sleep with any girl under twenty-one. He was part of the Hollywood club scene, for crissakes. Pussy abounded. He was a star in his own world.
His drug business was out of control. Supply could not keep up with demand. He’d partnered up with a young Colombian, Alejandro Diego, who had big family connections back in Colombia, and who assured him he could keep the supply coming. Now the money was really rolling in.
Frankie loved his life. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
* * *
Max and Billy. Caught on camera for all to see. Cover of the tabloids along with MURDER AT VEGAS HOTEL—as most headlines screamed. Billy came across as the hero of everyone’s dreams. This super-hot movie star had gotten his handsome face cut defending his young girlfriend. Although his PR team immediately denied that Max was his girlfriend—in spite of the intimate photos that appeared everywhere. According to his reps, she was merely a family friend he’d been protecting.
Billy was rushed to the emergency room, and the finest plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills was flown in to consult on his damaged face. The cut on his cheek turned out to be a surface wound, and within weeks Billy was back to his handsome self, a handsome self whose advisers (lawyers, PR people, the studio, etc.) had warned him to stay under the radar until his divorce from Venus was finalized, and not to see Max.
Reluctantly he’d agreed it was for the best. After all, he was getting a divorce from an icon, and already carrying on with a teenage girl was not the image his people wished him to project. “The public can turn on you like a dime,” they warned him. “Do not screw with a brilliant career. Not at this time.”
He spoke to Max on the phone and told her they should cool it for a few weeks. She wasn’t heartbroken; too much was going on and she needed to get her head straight. She was a big girl now. Eighteen. And although Lucky had decided the right thing to do was cancel the Vegas party, she’d been okay with it. Especially when Lucky suggested that they take a family trip to the South of France instead.
Her mom had turned out to be way cooler than she’d ever thought. Lucky didn’t berate her about Billy, she merely shrugged and said, “We can’t help who we fall for. But maybe Billy wasn’t the best choice.”
Max still thought about Billy.
She thought about Ace too.
Ace had left her such a thoughtful gift and a sad little note. She knew he had to have seen the photos of her and Billy, and it tore her up imagining his reaction.
Ace had always been her rock, and she’d let him down, but as Lucky said—“We can’t help who we fall for.”
* * *
After giving in to the L word, Denver and Bobby returned to L.A. and settled in to the new house Bobby purchased. “No huge megamansions,” Denver had warned him. “Something manageable, please. And not in any fancy area. I like normal.”
“Normal” turned out to be a one-story house in the Hollywood hills with three bedrooms and a panoramic view of the city. It had a reasonably sized garden and a simple lap pool. Amy Winehouse was in dog heaven!
Denver finally introduced Bobby to her family, not without a great deal of trepidation. Surprise, they all loved him. And as her mom said, “What’s not to love? He’s a great guy.”
Yes, Bobby was a great guy, and she was happy they’d moved in together. She was also happy with her new position in the drug unit. Working closely with Leon was a kick, and they had a lot going on. Leon had been tracking a Colombian drug lord, Pablo Diego, for months, and they
were near to closing in on his U.S. connections. Pablo’s son, Alejandro, was one of their main targets, along with all the dealers he supplied. A series of arrests was imminent.
Denver was well aware that one of their upcoming arrests would be Frankie Romano. Ethics prevented her from mentioning this to Bobby. What he didn’t know, he couldn’t do anything about, and even though Frankie was no longer his close friend, Bobby had an innate sense of loyalty, and could try to warn Frankie, enabling him to skip town.
This could not happen, so silence ruled.
Denver loved Bobby so much. She’d even attended a few of his family events, and managed to forge a warm relationship with Lucky—who was not as intimidating as she’d imagined. She also adored Lennie, who was so smart and acerbic in a delightfully clever way. And she and Max were warming up to each other slowly but surely.
All in all, Denver felt nothing but positive thoughts about her future with Bobby.
* * *
Things were going so well that Bobby had a plan. He’d pulled off buying a house and moving into it with Denver, and now he was thinking he wanted more. Denver was so damn special. Beautiful, smart, sexy, his best friend. What more could he look for in a woman?
He wanted to ask her to marry him, but instinctively he had a feeling she’d turn him down. It had taken him forever to get her to move into a house with him—marriage could send her running.
Or not.
He didn’t know.
Help was needed, so he secretly met up with her best friend, Carolyn, who was now part of an extremely content lesbian couple, and asked her advice. Carolyn’s advice was sound. “Do not rush her,” she said. “When the time is right for both of you, you’ll know it.”
In the meantime, Bobby went to Tiffany’s to purchase a seven-carat engagement ring, which Denver would probably think was way too flashy. But what the hell—it was his prerogative to spoil her.
He put the ring away, and waited patiently for the right time.
* * *
Lucky Santangelo Golden and Lennie Golden. True soul mates. Who said marriages in Hollywood didn’t last?
They dealt with the Max/Billy situation in the only way they knew how, and that was with understanding, love, and a nonjudgmental attitude.
The South of France trip turned out to be exactly what everyone needed. They stayed with friends in a magnificent villa above Cannes, and Max hit it off with the son of the family, a twenty-two-year-old French aspiring screenwriter. Nothing serious, just fun. Lucky realized that was exactly what Max needed right now, some mindless fun.
Meanwhile, Lennie had plans of his own. “We’re driving to Saint-Tropez for the day,” he informed his wife. “Just you and me.”
“Let’s go,” Lucky said, for she knew exactly what he had in mind.
And so it was that they relived the first time they’d made love. They went to the same beach and swam out to the same raft. Making love on it was just as amazing—if not better—than the first time.
Lucky still reveled in Lennie’s touch. The excitement between them was still as passionate and intense. But everything had to come to a crashing halt when a couple of kids swam toward the raft and hauled themselves aboard.
Giggling as if they were teenagers themselves, Lucky and Lennie took off, plunging in the sea and swimming back to shore, where they collapsed on the sand, still giggling hysterically.
“Love you,” Lennie muttered when they calmed down.
“I know,” Lucky replied, her black-as-night eyes gazing into his.
They were two people who had found each other, and nothing and no one would ever split them apart.
Two reckless, passionate people, filled with sensual zest and a hearty thirst for living that would take them wherever they wished to go.
Lucky and Lennie. Two of a kind.
Read on to find a sneak peek at extracts from
THE SANTANGELOS
Jackie Collins’s dynamic new novel in hardcover and eBook in June 2015 from St. Martin’s Press
PROLOGUE
The King of Akramshar—a small but wealthy Middle Eastern country located between Syria and Lebanon—ruled his oil-rich country with an iron fist. King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan embraced many old-fashioned values, traditions, and rules. He had countless wives and over thirty children. In his mind they were all useless. Women were only good for two things—giving birth and being at his sexual beck and call. As for his offspring—some of them grown men—they were all disappointments. The only son who’d given him any pleasure at all was his dear departed son, Armand—a worthy successor to the King’s coveted crown. And Armand was gone. Murdered by the American infidels. A bullet to the head in a degenerate American city called Las Vegas.
The King’s fury was boundless. How could this have happened? And why?
The King had given Armand a royal funeral fit for his favorite son. His people had lined the streets, heads bowed, showing their respect as they should. Several of his many sons carried the gold casket on their shoulders. Peggy, Armand’s American mother, his widow, Soraya, and his four children walked behind. The women, including Peggy, wore traditional robes covering their entire bodies. The King rode on a white stallion, resplendent in a gold-trimmed uniform, waving to his people.
King Emir was a man who believed in revenge. And who exactly was to blame for the unfortunate demise of his favorite son, shot to death like a dog?
King Emir had his own ideas. Armand had been trying to buy the very hotel he was murdered in—The Keys—a hotel owned by a woman. That a woman could actually own a hotel was ridiculous, but even more ridiculous—according to Peggy—the woman had refused to sell her property to Armand, and on top of that she had insulted him to his face, and the King had no doubt that it was she who had arranged for Armand’s brutal murder.
King Emir simmered with fury, while dark thoughts of revenge filled his head. Justice had to be done.
But how?
Kill the woman? Take her life exactly as she had taken Armand’s?
No. That was not punishment enough. The woman had to suffer, her family had to suffer.
This was a given.
King Emir was busy putting plans in place—for his rage would rain down on the offensive American mongrels. And they too would feel the pain.
LUCKY
The Keys was Lucky Santangelo Golden’s dream hotel, but sometimes one can dream bigger, and Lucky had decided that she should create something even more special. She was at a place in her life where she felt that it was time for a new challenge. Everything was running smoothly, her kids were all doing well. Bobby, with his chain of successful clubs. Max, busy making a name for herself in London as an up-and-coming model. Young Gino Junior and Leonardo (Lennie’s son she’d adopted) were ensconced in summer camp. And her father, Gino, was happily living out his days in Palm Springs with his fourth wife, Paige.
So Lucky had decided it was time to shake things up, and she’d come up with the idea of building a hotel/casino/apartment complex plus a movie studio. This was something nobody had done before. And why not? It was a brilliant idea.
When she’d told her filmmaker husband, Lennie, he’d thought it was crazy but certainly doable. The movie community would love it. Everything in one place. And it wasn’t as if Lucky were a newcomer to making movies; she’d owned and run Panther Studios for several years. She was the Lady Boss. Lucky Santangelo could do anything she chose to do.
Today she was lunching with a team of architects that she was considering hiring. One of her favorite moves was testing people, observing their strengths and weaknesses, deciding if working with them would be calm or stressful.
Danny, her trusty assistant, accompanied her on the way to The Asian, an elegant Chinese restaurant in her hotel.
Danny was one of the few privy to the fact that she was plotting and planning on building yet another fantastic Vegas complex. Danny got it; he understood that The Keys—a truly amazing combination of grand hotel, luxurious apartment
s, and one of the best casinos in Vegas—was simply not enough for her. As usual, his dynamic boss wanted more.
The moment Lucky entered the restaurant conversation stopped and people stared. They couldn’t help themselves, Lucky had a magnetic, charismatic quality about her.
She radiated a presence full of beauty, power, passion, and strength. A lethal combination.
Danny relished every minute of the way people reacted when they saw Lucky. She deserved the attention. She was a true star, an incredibly smart businesswoman who could achieve anything she set her mind to. The thing about Lucky was that she needed to be collaborative, but she also needed to be in control. Nobody told Lucky Santangelo what to do. Her motto was: “If I’m going to fail, I’ll fail on my own mistakes, not on someone else’s.” Her other motto was: “Never fuck with a Santangelo.”
Danny had both mottos engraved on two coffee mugs that sat in the kitchen of his L.A. apartment along with his somewhat mangy cat, Ethel.
BOBBY
It pissed Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos off that his live-in girlfriend, Denver Jones, was never available to travel with him. Even with texting, sexting, and Skype, long separations were no damn good. Oh sure, he understood that Denver was fixated on her job as a high-powered assistant district attorney, but surely—just sometimes—she could put him first?
Lately she’d been so into the drug case she was working on that even when he was home at their house in L.A., he barely saw her. She was intent to prosecute, and he’d never seen her so determined.
This too shall pass, he told himself. And when it’s over, I will finally give her the seven-carat Tiffany diamond engagement ring I purchased months ago, and ask her to marry me.
He had to tread carefully with Denver, she wasn’t like the other girls he’d been with. She was exceptionally smart, beautiful, and a self-achiever. She didn’t want anything from him other than his love, and that suited him just fine, because as the heir to a great shipping fortune, most women looked at him with dollar signs flashing in their eyes.
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