‘How long are you staying?’ he asked politely.
Just as long as it takes me to get you into bed. She gestured vaguely. ‘A few days, maybe a week.’
‘Good. I want you to meet my wife.’
His wife! ‘How long have you been married?’ she asked, hardly able to catch her breath.
‘Exactly forty-six hours. You just missed the wedding.’
It took time for Marco to sense the heat of her desire. She stepped back and treated him just like any other employee.
‘I want the Mirage renovated,’ she told Costa. ‘It looks tacky.’
Marco was furious. ‘What’s going on here?’ he screamed at Costa over the phone when the decorators descended. ‘Get Lucky off my back. She’s disrupting everything.’
‘I can’t,’ Costa replied simply. ‘She’s the major shareholder. She can do what she wants.’
Wild with fury, Marco noticed her all right. By the time he noticed her enough to want her, she was businesslike and remote. She had no intention of sharing him with his wife.
Their relationship simmered. Lucky was in and out of Las Vegas watching the work on the Magiriano. There were problems – then more problems. Nothing she couldn’t deal with.
Marco was always around to greet her.
‘Still married?’ she would ask lightly, although her stomach churned with the anticipation that he might have gotten a divorce.
‘Sure am. And you? Still screwing around?’
‘Give me a better hobby and I’ll try it,’ she drawled jokingly. She knew her casual sex life pissed him off.
One night, when his wife was out of town, he finally made a move. They had dined together, discussed old times, and when she was at the door of her suite, he said, ‘I’ll come in.’
He was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. She desired him more than she had desired anyone in her life. Sweetly, she said, ‘Good night, Marco. Sleep warm,’ and closed the door before she could weaken.
When she had him she wanted it to be for keeps. That’s the way it had to be.
As time passed, Lucky worked hard and played hard. She was a resolute businesswoman, demanding and getting the best from the people she employed. She flew back and forth to Las Vegas constantly, noting that Marco remained firmly married. She still wanted him, but it had to be on her terms.
Very rarely she thought of Gino, whose empire she was taking over. She was building his hotel, realizing his dream – yet they had not spoken or been in touch at all. And that’s the way she liked it. It would suit her if he never returned to America.
In 1975 the Magiriano was finally completed. Opening night and Lucky glowing in a black Halston dress, Marco resplendent in black tie – the electricity charging between them like firecrackers. The time was right. Somehow the fact that he still had a wife didn’t seem to matter anymore.
Lucky got through the evening in a heightened state of sexual anticipation. Marco felt the same way.
Later, they came together in exultant ecstasy. A wild ritual of incredible sex, followed by the release of being with each other at last. It was a joining of soulmates. A fusion of energies.
Plans were made. He would tell his wife immediately, and arrange a quick divorce. There would be no more separations. Now that it had happened it would be forever.
When he left her bed in the morning, Lucky knew she had finally found what she had been searching for. A man she could look up to, live with, and love. Marco was everything and more. Marco was her world.
At 2.30 p.m. that day, as Lucky sat with Costa in the Patio Restaurant waiting for Marco to join her for lunch, she noticed Boogie – her bodyguard – heading swiftly across the room towards her.
As he approached she felt a chill of apprehension.
‘There’s been a shooting,’ he said.
She knew it was Marco.
She knew it was her future.
She closed her eyes to pray, but with a feeling of foreboding she knew it was too late.
* * *
The Bahia lounge was crowded, but a table was made immediately available for the Santangelo party.
Lucky found herself seated beside Dimitri Stanislopoulos. ‘How’s Olympia?’ she asked. Not that she cared, over the years Olympia had never once tried to get in touch with her. They had not spoken since that fateful night in France thirteen years before. Sometimes Lucky read about her in the newspapers, and was bored by the antics of the puffy-looking blonde with too much money and too many husbands. They might have been best friends once, but they were total strangers now.
‘She’s divorced again,’ Dimitri said shortly. ‘For the third time.’
He had extremely penetrating eyes, steel grey, and a deep Mediterranean suntan. His eyes lingered on the wildly beautiful Lucky for a moment, then his showgirl friend-for-the-night tugged on his sleeve and asked him some inane question.
Lucky turned to Gino, but his attention was on Susan. She thought she might leave, but decided to stay for the comedian who was adjusting the mike and opening with a few deadpan comments on the day’s news.
A ripple of laughter drifted through the room. He was quick to grab the audience’s attention; an audience more attuned to discussing their losses and/or wins rather than listening to a stream of jokes.
He didn’t tell jokes. He commented on life.
He was cutting, satirical, and painfully truthful.
‘What’s his name?’ Lucky asked Matt.
‘Lennie Golden. You like him?’
‘Not bad.’
Matt smiled. Jess had come up with a winner, thank Christ. He had taken a risk booking the guy just because she wanted him to. But he had the hots for little Jess, and now he’d done her a favour, wasn’t it about time she returned the compliment? It was funny really, he had never liked short girls, always gone for the statuesque type. However, five foot nothing Jess had him under her spell. He wanted to get her into bed in the worst way.
Halfway through Lennie Golden’s performance Gino leaned over to Lucky and said, ‘Susan’s tired. I’m taking her home. I’ll see you tomorrow, kid.’
He helped Susan from her seat.
For a moment Lucky was speechless. Her evening with her father, and he was taking Grace Kelly home. Shit!
‘Goodnight, dear. So nice meeting you,’ said Susan.
Was it her imagination or was there the glint of triumph in Susan’s icy blues? Lucky manufactured yet another smile. Better to charm the enemy than to kick them in the teeth. ‘Nice meeting you.’
After they left, Lucky was too restless to sit still. She was annoyed she hadn’t made the first exit. Let Gino see how much it mattered if he wanted to ruin their evening together.
She glanced at the comedian, still getting laughs; noted Dimitri’s strong hand on the thigh of his date; hated the way Matt Traynor waved the front of his silver hair.
Fuck ’em. What a dull group.
‘I’ll be back,’ she whispered, although she had no intention of returning.
Outside the lounge the huge casino rocked with action. She cruised around for a while, greeting staff, watching the pit bosses keeping a sharp eye on the croupiers, noting the paying customers in their weird and wonderful outfits. Where else would you see Bermuda shorts beside Balmain? Halter tops next to Halston tuxedos? Hookers and housewives, playboys and punters.
I want to get laid, she thought. Oh God, do I want to get laid.
She went to the front desk and selected the keys to an empty suite. Then she started to cruise. It couldn’t be just anybody. There had to be a certain sexual chemistry. After all, it had been a long time.
There was a man playing alone at a roulette table. He was dark, moody-looking. He reminded her of Marco.
No!
Abruptly she turned away.
She felt lonely. What she needed was anonymous sex with an anonymous lover who would give her what she wanted, then just quietly disappear.
A hand gripped her by the arm. A voice said a
ccusingly, ‘You walked out on me. What’s the matter with you? Don’t you appreciate exceptional talent when you see it?’
She turned, hesitated for only a second, then smiled dazzlingly. ‘Lennie Golden,’ she said. ‘You’re just the man I’m looking for.’
Chapter Five
New York in the summer was not Olympia’s favourite place. Too hot, crowded, and dirty. She tried to visit as little as possible, but there were times when she had to make the trip. And her mother’s third wedding was one of them.
She travelled by Concorde from Paris with her nine-year-old daughter, Brigette, and the girl’s English nanny, Mabel. Brigette was a pretty child. She had inherited her mother’s thick blonde hair and blue eyes, and her father’s patrician features and lithe body. She had also inherited Olympia’s wilful streak.
Nanny Mabel was a frustrated fifty-year-old woman, who after thirty-five years of ‘service’ considered she had wasted her life looking after other people’s children. Olympia was the latest in a long line of wealthy employers, and although she had only worked for her for six months, she had grown to loathe the capricious blonde heiress. The child was not much better. Spoilt, selfish and destructive. A miniature version of her mother. Fortunately, the money more than compensated, and Nanny Mabel also enjoyed the limousines, private planes, and first-class service. When in Paris, Olympia rarely visited what she referred to as the ‘nursery floor’ in her duplex apartment on the Avenue Foch, so Nanny Mabel hardly had to put up with her at all.
Olympia was more than a little aggravated that she had been forced to bring Brigette and Nanny with her. But her mother had insisted the child be flower girl at the wedding, and Olympia was unable to summon up a suitable excuse.
Her mother, Charlotte, was a chic American society matron. She had married Dimitri Stanislopoulos at the age of twenty against violent parental objection, given birth to Olympia nine months later, and divorced her husband after a year. Then she had returned to America, and within a year remarried, this time to a Wall Street banker with her parents’ full approval. For the first twelve years of her life Olympia had lived with them in America, but when puberty struck, she became unmanageable and screamed to be allowed to live with her father who flitted between his Greek island, his yacht, and his mansion in Paris. They compromised, and sent her to a series of boarding schools – all of which she managed to get thrown out of. Eventually she got her wish and moved in with Dimitri, who treated her as just another houseguest.
Charlotte’s banker husband, a stepfather who Olympia never warmed to, had passed away a year previously. Now Charlotte had a new prospect ready for the altar. A film producer whom Olympia had no desire to meet.
‘Mama,’ said Brigette, as they were escorted out of customs. ‘I see the men with the cameras.’ At nine she spoke three languages fluently.
‘Head down, eyes straight ahead,’ warned Nanny Mabel sternly. ‘Never acknowledge their presence.’
Olympia touched her golden curls, fluffed them out a little. She hated the paparazzi, but if they were going to catch you – well, one may as well appear at one’s best. It wouldn’t do to be seen looking like Christina Onassis. She adjusted her dark glasses, and smoothed down the skirt of her Saint Laurent suit.
The cameramen leaped into action.
It wasn’t easy being one of the richest women in the world.
* * *
Dimitri Stanislopoulos was not interested in the showgirl Matt Traynor had arranged for his pleasure. She was young and not even all that pretty. He was sixty-two years old. He did not need the boring conversation of a woman forty years younger. He preferred to play baccarat, so Matt set him up at a private table with several other high-rolling guests. There was a male singing star wearing a bad toupee; an Italian Contessa with skin the colour and texture of baked mud; two Japanese electronics kings; and the English girlfriend of an Arab munitions dealer.
Dimitri knew the woman. He nodded at her. She nodded back. He found her a far more interesting proposition than the vacuous showgirl.
‘Where is Saud?’ he asked, swooping to kiss her hand.
‘L.A.,’ she replied. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow. I’m keeping his seat warm.’
And more than that, Dimitri thought. He liked English women. In bed, they had a certain whore-like quality. Very appealing. And he should know, his mistress for the last eight years was a world-renowned English stage actress. Francesca Fern, an immense talent and flamboyant personality. She was fifty years old with flame-red hair, piercing eyes, succulent lips, and a beaky nose to rival his own. Francesca. What a woman! He loved her power, her dramatic presence, and her passion.
Ah . . . her passion. She was the most exciting woman he had ever bedded. And that was saying something, since he had slept with many of the most beautiful and cultured women in Europe.
Dimitri liked expensive women who knew all about the finer things in life. He liked them clad in sable, with jewellery from Cartier and Aspreys and Bulgari. He liked them in Dior clothes with designer underwear and five hundred dollar shoes. He liked them to know all about good food, fine wine, classical music, opera, and the ballet.
He liked breeding. And he did not mind paying for it.
During their affair, he had gifted Francesca with a king’s ransom in jewellery. She accepted everything he gave her with a knowing glint in her eye and a husky ‘thank you, darling’ as if the prizes he found for her were no more than trinkets.
He admired her tremendous style. He did not admire her husband, a puny little man called Horace whom she resolutely refused to divorce. They had enjoyed some of their hotter fights concerning Horace.
‘Leave him!’ Dimitri would bellow.
‘I can’t,’ Francesca would reply dramatically. ‘It will kill him. I am his life.’ And tears would fill her heavily outlined eyes.
‘But I want to marry you,’ Dimitri would shout.
‘One day,’ Francesca would husk vaguely, ‘we will be together forever.’
In the meantime, Horace did not interfere with their tempestuous affair. He put up with it, as he put up with most things in life, and stayed quietly in the background of his wife’s volatile life. Once a year they rendezvoused on Dimitri’s palatial ocean-going yacht. Francesca and Horace, accompanied by her personal maid, her own hairdresser, and sometimes her two ancient Pekinese dogs.
Dimitri always invited other guests for the August cruise. It was a time he looked forward to, because he had Francesca to himself – well almost. She spent every night in his stateroom. He never had found out how she explained this to Horace. He never really cared. Horace must know. Horace was complaisant.
Occasionally they met in other parts of the world. New York, Paris, Rome. Even when he married for the second time they continued to meet. His second marriage lasted no longer than his first. Dimitri Stanislopoulos was not an easy man to live with.
The baccarat game was starting. ‘What’s the limit at this table?’ Dimitri asked one of the steely-eyed croupiers.
‘Six thousand dollars, Mr Stanislopoulos,’ replied the man, expressionless.
‘Give me two hundred thousand dollars worth of chips.’
Deftly, the man piled gold five-hundred-dollar chips in neat stacks and pushed them in front of him. Unobtrusively a marker was produced for his signature.
Dimitri liked to gamble. It relaxed him. And he needed to relax, for Francesca was arriving in two days’ time to attend a televised gala evening in her honour, and he had finally decided. Eight years was long enough. One way or another Horace had to go.
Chapter Six
‘Hey,’ said Lucky. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘What’s the matter with me? replied Lennie, outraged.
They faced each other warily in the opulent luxury of the darkened hotel suite. She had said, ‘You’re just the man I’m looking for.’ Then she had taken him by the hand, added mysteriously, ‘Come with me.’ And led him to the nearest elevator. Once inside the suite she had
pressed against him, kissed him long and hard, then groped him intimately.
He was not yet in a gropable state. In fact he was trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
‘Are you selling it?’ he asked.
‘Are you kidding?’ she had replied, and proceeded to remove her dress.
He had said, ‘Hold it, I don’t want you to do that.’
Now they were ready for battle.
‘You got a problem?’ she sighed.
‘Yeah. I think I got a problem.’
A shrug of impatience. Obviously she had picked the wrong guy.
‘What is it?’ she asked disinterestedly, zipping up the soft leather dress she had been about to step out of. May as well end this scene. And fast.
Lennie stared at her in amazement. He did not believe what was happening. Here was this woman – this strikingly beautiful woman whom he had first spotted at the airport, spoken to by the pool – and been insulted for his trouble. Then she had appeared in the Bahia lounge and walked out on his act. Now she was corning on to him like a steamroller, and expected instant action. What did she think he was – a travelling stud with no feelings? She could be the most gorgeous woman in the world, but sex with no communication was just not for him. He wasn’t sixteen and desperate to get laid.
‘My problem is I don’t even know your name, let alone what’s going on,’ he said tightly.
‘Oh, and if I tell you my name will that make everything all right?’ she mocked, all zipped up and ready to leave.
‘You know what I mean,’ he said angrily.
‘No. I don’t know what you mean.’ Coolly she strolled toward the door. ‘It’s simple really. I saw you. Liked you. Thought that maybe the two of us might equal great sex. Obviously I was wrong.’
‘How come you didn’t think we equalled great sex this afternoon?’ he said quickly.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘This afternoon. Out by the pool. When I spoke to you and you gave me the icy treatment.’
‘Was that you?’
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