Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  ‘Whyn’tyou come in an’ join me? I’ve bin waitin’ all night,’ he slurred.

  ‘Whyn’tyou drop dead?’

  He gripped her wrist. ‘C’mon, sweetie pie, be a sport.’

  ‘Let go of me.’

  He was surprisingly strong. With ease he pulled her onto the bed.

  ‘I’ll scream if you don’t stop,’ she raged.

  ‘Don’t do that, sweetie.’ And he placed the heavy palm of his hand over her mouth, stopping her from screaming and holding her down all at the same time. With his other hand he pulled up her skirt and ripped off her panties.

  She went numb. The strength just drained right out of her.

  He took this as a sign of acquiescence, and somehow got out his penis and began jamming it into her.

  She made little choking noises in her throat. His hand prevented her sobs of anguish from emerging. She willed her mind to go blank, and when he took his hand away she did not scream. She waited until he finished, and then said calmly, ‘That’ll be thirty bucks, mister. Thirty big ones.’

  ‘What?’ he mumbled.

  ‘You screw a whore, you pay’, she said in a cold unruffled manner. ‘Especially when you screw a fucking dinge.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Pay or I holler rape.’

  He paid.

  Six weeks later she realized with a dull shock that she was pregnant. It was a bombshell, because she had always thought she was unable to conceive. ‘You just ain’t fertile,’ Whitejack had assured her on many occasions.

  Now she was pregnant and she had no idea who the father was.

  Gino Santangelo. Freddy Lester. It could be either.

  She didn’t know what to do or where to turn.

  * * *

  ‘Well’, Steven said tightly. ‘I guess we go see the publisher next. I’ll arrange an appointment – you can say you want to do a book on your life.’

  Carrie nodded numbly. Why was Steven torturing her like this? She had been a good mother. He had never suffered because of the life she once lived. Even when she ran a brothel and sold drugs for the notorious Enzio Bonnatti, she had always seen to it that he was never involved.

  ‘When?’ she asked listlessly.

  ‘I’ll arrange it as quickly as possible.’

  She nodded again, and for one brief moment hated her good-looking unfeeling son. What did he know about her suffering? What did he even care?

  Chapter Forty-Four

  They spoke on the telephone. Lucky and Costa.

  ‘Uncle Costa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m married.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘I’m married again. To a very nice person, you’ll like him.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Ah, Lucky, I’ve always done that. Does your father know?’

  ‘Uh . . . not yet. I’ll tell him.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon.’

  A grunt of disapproval. ‘Who’s the boy?’

  A nervous laugh. ‘Well . . . er . . . he’s not exactly a boy.’

  The phone rattled while Costa moved his position. ‘Who is he?’

  She quickly changed the subject. ‘I’ve got another surprise for you.’

  ‘Isn’t one enough?’

  ‘You’re a great-uncle.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No. no. A Great-uncle.’

  ‘I don’t think I understand . . .’

  ‘Yes you do. I have a baby.’

  ‘Whose baby?’

  ‘My baby.’

  She could hear the shock in his voice. Costa had always been old-fashioned. ‘Yours, Lucky. What does this mean?’

  ‘It means’, she said patiently, ‘that eighteen months ago I gave birth to a fantastic little boy named Roberto, and two days ago I married his father.’

  Silence.

  A long silence.

  Then: ‘Does Gino know?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  A drawn-out sigh. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Don’t repeat me like that, I hate it!’

  ‘What should I say?’

  ‘Congratulations. Tell me it’s wonderful, and that you can’t wait to fly in and see me and Roberto. Because we’re dying to see you.’

  ‘Eighteen months ago you had a baby, and now you’re dying to see me. Hah!’

  ‘Don’t be mad’, she pleaded. ‘You know I love you.’

  ‘What a way to show it! I feel bad enough. How do you think Gino is going to take it?’

  ‘He won’t care – he has his own life with superwoman. She’ll hate him being a grandpa. It’ll remove the curl from her hair for a week!’

  ‘Lucky. I think you’d better visit Gino. I don’t recommend you tell him on the phone.’

  ‘I’m hardly a child’, she said stubbornly. ‘I don’t have to ask his permission to do anything.’

  ‘Who’s talking permission?’ Costa replied gently. ‘You can do whatever you want, but I think it would be a nice gesture, don’t you? Gino’s first grandchild, his only one . . . He’s not so young . . . His heart’s not in such great shape . . .’

  ‘Did something happen?’ she asked quickly, frantically.

  ‘No, no, nothing happened. But I spoke to him a few weeks ago and he sounded fed-up and bored. He said he missed you.’

  ‘Did he really?’

  ‘I don’t make things up.’

  She was thoughtful for a moment. Why not visit Gino in California? Take Roberto. Oh, she couldn’t wait to see his face when he saw such a gorgeous baby. Her baby. Her accomplishment. And she could tell him about the hotel and casino she was going to build in Atlantic City. At last. Without his help.

  ‘I’ll go’, she decided impulsively. ‘Will you come too, Costa? I’d like that a lot.’

  He hesitated. ‘I don’t know if it would be a good idea. There’ll be you, the baby, your husband—’

  ‘Oh, he won’t come. He’s off on a business trip, and won’t be back for a week.’

  ‘I thought you said you only got married two days ago.’

  ‘So what? That doesn’t make us joined at the hip. We both lead our own lives.’

  Costa sighed. ‘You young people . . .’

  ‘Uh . . . he’s not so young . . .’

  ‘How not so young?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

  * * *

  Paige Wheeler screamed aloud. Several times. Gino Santangelo might be old. But he was dynamite.

  Susan never made her scream. Nor did Ryder. But then of course, Ryder was completely disinterested in sex, only business turned him on. One of the reasons Paige enjoyed so many lovers.

  She and Gino shared a large double bed in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Paige had booked the suite for a client two days earlier. The Beverly Wilshire was the perfect place for an assignation. Central. Luxurious. And if one was spotted in the lobby or thereabouts, well one was merely visiting Tiffanys (located right next door) or lunching in the very fashionable El Padrino restaurant, or browsing Brentanos bookstore. Perfect alibis, all of them.

  ‘Hmmm . . .’ said Paige, sitting up in bed and stretching for a cigarette. ‘Now I know why Susan’s always complaining.’

  ‘What’s she got to complain about?’ asked Gino, reaching across her full breasts for the matches, and lighting her up.

  Paige drew deeply on her cigarette. ‘Your . . . er . . . enthusiasm, stamina, and staying power.’

  ‘You gonna tell me you broads discuss sex?’

  ‘What else is there to discuss?’

  ‘An’ she complains?’

  ‘Foolish woman.’

  ‘Jeez!’

  ‘Susan never did know how to enjoy herself. Poor Tiny had to go elsewhere all the time.’

  Gino felt like he was getting an education. Since marrying Susan she had grown less and less willing in the bedroom. The more she pushed him away, the more he tried to please. Christ! He had thought there was
something wrong with him. Like age had finally caught him with his pants down and he no longer had what it took. He had been knocking himself out, and now her best friend calmly informs him Susan doesn’t like sex. Some act she must have put on in the beginning. Jeez!

  ‘Is this a revelation, Gino?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’

  He felt ridiculous, a position he very rarely found himself in. ‘I guess I knew,’ he said guardedly, ‘otherwise I wouldn’t be here with you today.’

  And he had to admit that being with a woman like Paige was a relief after two years of Susan. Paige stripped off all her inhibitions with her clothes. She was no great beauty, but she was an enormously sexy lady.

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything,’ Paige said delicately.

  ‘What would have stopped you?’ Gino replied. ‘A tank?’

  She lifted one leg from beneath the sheet and trailed her toes down his chest. ‘You . . .’ she murmured huskily, ‘are a very raunchy man. And I . . . am a very raunchy woman. Do we have to waste our time talking about Susan?’

  He lifted her toes to his mouth and sucked on them one by one. ‘Who’s talkin’?’ he growled.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Lennie, Jess, Isaac and his pretty wife, plus a reporter from Rolling Stone, flew up to Vegas in a private plane, courtesy of Matt Traynor and the Magiriano Hotel. For about ten minutes they all tried to hide the fact that they were impressed.

  Lennie was the first to break. ‘I gotta tell you – if Alice could see me now she’d shit a brick!’

  Isaac began to laugh. ‘How about my mother, man. She used to clean other people’s floors an’ now her son is flyin’ high. Wait until I tell her!’

  His wife, Irena, shyly pulled out a camera and started to take snaps. ‘Nothing like a little proof,’ she murmured.

  The reporter from Rolling Stone was not at all impressed. He flew in private jets with rock stars all the time. He was amused by their excitement and promised not to write about it.

  ‘Sure,’ muttered Jess, the cynic of the group. ‘He’ll make us out to be a bunch of hicks just off the bus.’

  ‘Who cares?’ laughed Lennie. ‘All the reader remembers is seeing your name. That’s what you’re always telling me.’

  ‘Just so long as they spell it right,’ added Isaac, king of clichés.

  Jess had negotiated the Magiriano appearance. She negotiated the money on most of Lennie’s deals, but he still kept Isaac on and paid him ten percent commission.

  ‘We don’t need him anymore,’ she had pointed out to Lennie months ago. ‘He’s talking a free ride.’

  ‘Let him ride,’ Lennie had said easily. ‘He was there for me when nobody wanted to know. We can afford it.’

  When Matt sweetened the Vegas deal with the private plane and other trimmings, Lennie had immediately suggested they take Isaac and Irena along. Jess agreed. She had nothing against them personally, they were a nice couple. It was only business-wise she got angry.

  ‘I think,’ Lennie said, ‘tonight I am going to blow a thousand dollars at the tables. I always wanted to do that.’

  ‘How much are they paying you for this gig?’ asked the Rolling Stone reporter.

  ‘He never discusses his money or his sex life – just makes funny about other people’s’, interrupted Jess quickly.

  Lennie fixed her with a look. Lately she was coming on a little too heavy. He could answer his own questions, and fully intended to. He needed no wet-nurse.

  * * *

  ‘You look so . . . so different!’ Jess exclaimed. ‘You lost weight. You look . . . great.’

  Matt smiled. ‘I dumped fifteen pounds. Cut my hair. And I jog – two hours a day. It keeps me sane.’

  Gone was the Matt Traynor of old. In his place was a thin, fit-looking man, with grey crew-cut hair and a flat stomach. Instead of the fancy clothes he used to favour, he wore plain dark slacks and a white open-neck shirt. ‘No gold chains’, Jess grinned.

  ‘Had ‘em melted down and sent to Sammy Davis Jr.’

  ‘I bet he was thrilled.’

  ‘Hasn’t stopped calling me since.’

  They exchanged smiles.

  ‘And you?’ he asked. ‘Miss Success Story. When are they writing you up in Forbes?’

  ‘When I let ‘em.’

  ‘Seriously, Jess. I’m very pleased for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She had dressed especially carefully. He hadn’t said a word about how she looked.

  While minions were frothing about showing Lennie and the others to their suites, he offered her a drink.

  ‘In your apartment?’ she asked jokingly.

  ‘I gave it up. I live here now.’

  ‘Lead the way.’

  * * *

  Lennie’s penthouse suite left nothing to be desired. Water bed. Mirrored ceiling. Jacuzzi. Thick pile carpet. Colour televisions everywhere – including the john. A magnificent terrace with breathtaking views.

  Everything.

  Except

  Eden.

  He had thought – only for a moment – what if Eden were here, waiting for him?

  Who needed her?

  There was a fully stocked bar and plenty of beautiful available showgirls downstairs. He was a star now. He could select anyone he desired.

  * * *

  Not an initialled glass in sight. No fake marble, ornamental gilt, or dimmed pink lighting either. Just a modern functional penthouse with clean lines and a masculine feel.

  ‘Drink?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Anything cold and non-alcoholic,’ Jess replied, looking around appreciatively. ‘You’ve changed your style of living,’ she commented.

  ‘It was about time,’ he replied, fixing her a tall glass of grapefruit juice with shaved ice from behind a high-tech bar.

  She accepted the drink and sipped it slowly. ‘Ummm, delicious.’

  ‘I’ll tell room service.’

  ‘Is that how you live now? All room service and never having to do anything for yourself?’

  ‘I run the hotel, Jess. I’m on call twenty-four hours a day. I never have time to do anything else.’

  ‘Nothing?’ she joked.

  ‘Well . . . this and that.’

  They laughed, and neither could think of anything else to say. So naturally they both spoke at once.

  ‘Do you think—’ Jess started.

  ‘I thought that later—’ Matt began.

  A buzzer sounded on one of the three phones located on the bar.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  ‘Sure.’ She sipped her drink and watched him as he took the call. They were being so polite to each other. It was as if they were vague acquaintances, not two people who had shared the tragedy of her life. She never allowed herself to think about the nightmare of losing Simon. But she would always be aware that it was Matt who got her through the first forty-eight hours. If he hadn’t been there for her she would probably have gulped down the nearest bottle of pills and ended it all.

  He put the phone down with a grimace.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

  ‘Vitos Felicidade has added to his entourage. He’s on his way from New York, and he’s bringing Olympia Stanis-lopoulos, her child and nanny. I’m running out of penthouse suites.’

  ‘Oh, shame!’

  ‘Still a smart ass.’

  ‘Yes. And look where it’s got me.’

  ‘I have to meet with my reservations manager.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘He’s on his way up.’

  She set her glass down and walked to the door. ‘I was finished anyway.’

  He hurried after her. ‘Tonight I want to host a dinner for Lennie and his friends.’

  ‘I’ll check with him.’

  ‘Call me soon. Let me know how many.’

  She nodded and departed.

  Once the door was shut behind her, Matt sighed with relief. He had been determined not to
make a fool of himself, and he thought he had handled it pretty well. It was obvious from past experience that Jess was never going to regard him as anything more than a good friend, and even though he still wanted her as much as ever, he had decided to cool it. He was too old to start chasing after someone who didn’t want him. Too old and too wise.

  Jess checked her reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator. She thought she looked pretty good. L.A. suntan. Jose Eber short haircut. A green cotton jump suit which complimented her orange hair. High-heeled shoes which added inches and made her into a grown-up.

  Hmmmm . . . He hadn’t said one thing about the way she looked.

  Not that she cared.

  Why the hell should she?

  But she had enjoyed his having the hots for her. Oh yes, she remembered how his hands used to shake when he was near her. The way he looked at her all the time, and quite frankly, for two years, she had missed that ardent attention.

  Now he was Mister Businesslike. Charming and nice, but where were the shaking hands and the lingering looks?

  Maybe he had only liked her when she was little Miss Nobody.

  He did look good. Was it possible that now he wasn’t hot for her, she had an itch for him.

  Nonsense.

  * * *

  Being back in his home town as a star was very pleasing to Lennie. And the timing was perfect. Cover of People. Local boy makes good. Jack Golden’s kid – Lennie. Bigger than his father ever dreamed of being.

  Briefly he thought of Alice. She would have loved coming back like a big shot. But she was so busy bitching about her own career (what career?) that he hadn’t even bothered to tell her about his return appearance at the Magiriano.

  Two years before he had roared out of town busted out and pissed off. He would have gladly strangled Matt Traynor then. But time passes . . . things happen . . . Jess had explained it wasn’t Matt’s fault. Some bitch upstairs had ordered him axed. Lucky Santangelo – whoever she might be. ‘The lady boss,’ Jess had whispered.

  Screw her. Apparently she had nothing more to do with the hotel – he made sure of that before agreeing to return.

  Now he was back. And they were giving him all the home comforts a star grows to love and expect. Private plane. Twenty-four-hour limo and driver. A bodyguard (did he really need a bodyguard?) And the pencil.