He hoped Freddie was right, because if there was one thing Alex hated, it was the waiting game. He was only happy when he was immersed in making one of his movies. Fulfillment was being in action.
Freddie had suggested they get together before their meeting with Lucky; he’d asked Alex to meet him for a late breakfast at the Four Seasons.
Alex dressed all in black—from his sneakers to his T-shirt—and drove to the hotel in his black Porsche Carrera. When he arrived, Freddie was already at the table skimming a copy of the Wall Street Journal, looking more like a banker than an agent.
Freddie Leon was a poker-faced man in his early forties with a quick, bland smile and cordial features. He was not just another agent, he was the agent. Mr. Super Power. He made careers, and he could break them just as easily. He’d worked hard for the privilege. His nickname around town was “the Snake” on account of the fact that he could slither in and out of any deal. Nobody dared call him “the Snake” to his face.
Alex slid into the booth. A waitress appeared and poured him a cup of strong black coffee. He took a quick gulp, burning his tongue. “Shit!” he exclaimed.
“’Morning,” Freddie said, lowering his newspaper.
“What makes you think Panther will do Gangsters?” Alex asked impatiently.
“I told you—Panther needs hit movies,” Freddie replied evenly. “And it’s Lucky’s kind of script.”
“How come?”
“’Cause of her background,” Freddie explained, pausing for a moment to take a sip of herbal tea. “Her father built a hotel in Vegas back in the early days. Gino Santangelo—apparently he was quite a character.”
Alex leaned forward in surprise. “Her father’s Gino Santangelo?”
“Right. One of the boys. Made himself a fortune and moved on. Lucky built her own hotels in Vegas—the Magiriano and the Santangelo. She’ll understand your script.”
Alex had heard of Gino Santangelo—he was not as notorious as Bugsy Siegel or any of the other high-profile gangsters—but in his day he’d certainly made his mark.
“The story is that Gino named his daughter after Lucky Luciano,” Freddie added. “From all accounts she’s had quite a life.”
In spite of himself, Alex couldn’t help being intrigued. So Lucky Santangelo was not just some ballsy broad out of nowhere. She had a history—she was a Santangelo. Why hadn’t he put it together before?
He downed the strong black coffee in three big gulps and decided this deal could turn out to be more interesting than he’d thought.
Three Japanese bankers, very correct, very conventional. The meeting went well, although Lucky sensed they were not thrilled to be dealing with a woman.
Ah…the story of her life. When would men learn to relax and realize it wasn’t all one big pissing contest?
She needed the Japanese bankers to put up the money for a chain of Panther stores around the world. Merchandising was hot, and Lucky knew the smart move was to get in at the beginning.
The bankers deferred to her head of marketing—a man—and seemed to be on the verge of saying yes when they left, promising a decision within a few days. As soon as they departed, she called her father at his Palm Springs estate. Gino sounded fine, and so he should. At eighty-one, he—like Abe Panther—was married to a woman a little over half his age—Paige Wheeler, a sexy, redheaded interior designer who took excellent care of him. Not that Gino needed looking after, he was as active as a much younger man, full of drive and vigor, channeling his considerable energy into playing options on the stock market, a hobby that got him up at six in the morning and kept him alert.
Lucky concluded her conversation with a promise to visit soon.
“Make sure you do,” Gino said gruffly. “An’ bring the bambinos—I gotta start teachin’ ’em things.”
“Like what?” she asked curiously.
“Like never you mind.”
Lucky smiled. Her father was something else. Through the bad times, when they weren’t even talking, she’d hated him with a burning passion. Now, she loved him with an equal passion. They’d survived so much together. Fortunately, it had made them both stronger.
She remembered the time he’d exiled her to boarding school in Switzerland when she was sixteen—then punished her after she’d run away from the strict private school by forcing her into an arranged marriage with Craven Richmond, Senator Peter Richmond’s boring son. What a nightmare! But she’d had no intention of staying trapped. When Gino fled America to avoid jail for tax evasion, she’d seized her opportunity and moved in to run the family business. Gino had expected her brother, Dario, to take over. Dario was no businessman, so Lucky had completed the building of Gino’s new hotel in Vegas—proving herself capable in every way.
When Gino finally returned, there’d been a major battle for control. Neither had won. Eventually they’d reached a truce.
That was all in the past. They were too alike to be enemies.
Lucky hurried into the boardroom for a brief production meeting before seeing Freddie Leon and Alex Woods. She’d already made up her mind to green-light Gangsters. She’d read the script and considered it brilliant. Alex Woods was a fine writer.
After speaking to her team individually, she was pleased that they’d each agreed with her decision to go ahead. Collectively she needed assurance they were all in sync that the movie could make a lot of money for the studio. Alex Woods was a controversial and dangerous filmmaker, but when he delivered, everyone knew he was worth the trouble.
The heads of production, domestic distribution, foreign, and marketing were duly assembled. They were a top-rate group of people, and after a short meeting Lucky felt assured of success.
She returned to her office, and was just about to call her half-brother, Steven, in England, where he and his family had recently moved, when Kyoko put his head around the door. “Alex Woods and Freddie Leon are here,” he announced. “Should I keep them waiting?”
She glanced at the Cartier clock on her desk—a present from Lennie. It was exactly noon. She replaced the receiver, reminding herself to call Steven later. “Show them in,” she said, well aware that the most important and secure people never kept anyone waiting.
Freddie led the way with his bland smile and expressionless slate-gray eyes.
Lucky rose to greet him. The thing she liked about Freddie was his businesslike attitude. No phony deal with him, he had a purpose and he got right to it.
Alex Woods followed Freddie into her office. She’d never met Alex, but had read many interviews about him and had often seen his photograph in newspapers and magazines.
The photos did not prepare her for the man’s actual presence. He was tall and well built, with darkly powerful good looks and a killer smile—a smile he immediately flashed in her direction.
For a moment she was quite taken aback. It was a rare occurrence for Lucky to feel vulnerable—almost girlish—it was like she was seventeen, checking out a hot number, and in her single days she’d had enough hot numbers to last several lifetimes.
Freddie introduced them. She shook Alex’s hand. His grasp was firm and strong—a secure man.
She withdrew her hand and started speaking a shade too quickly, pushing back her long dark hair. “Uh…Mr. Woods, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m a big admirer of your work.”
Hmm…Spoken like a true dumb fan. What was wrong with her? Why was she reacting like this?
Alex flashed the smile again, giving himself time to digest this woman’s extraordinary beauty. She was dazzling in an offbeat way. Everything about her was incredibly sensual, from her tangle of jet curls to her watchful black eyes and full, soft mouth. Her very fuckable mouth.
He found his eyes dropping to her rounded breasts, concealed beneath a white silk shirt. She was not wearing a bra and he could make out the faint shadow of her nipples. He wondered if she was wearing any underwear at all.
Jesus! What was going on here? He was halfway to a hard-on. Why hadn’t
Freddie warned him?
Lucky was well aware of his scrutiny. “Please sit down,” she said, willing herself to keep her mind on business.
Freddie was oblivious to the sexual tension heating up the room. He had an agenda and he stuck to it. Smooth agent talk slipped from his lips like nectar. “Panther needs a filmmaker like Alex Woods,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you how many times his movies have been nominated.”
“I’m well aware of Mr. Woods’s illustrious record,” Lucky said. “And we’d love to be in business with him. However, I understand the projected budget on Gangsters is almost twenty-two million. That’s an enormous commitment.”
Freddie was right there with an answer. “Not for an Alex Woods film,” he said evenly. “His movies always make money.”
“With the right casting,” Lucky pointed out.
“Alex’s casting is impeccable. He doesn’t need stars—the public comes for him.”
Alex leaned forward. “Did you read the script?” he asked, watching her closely.
Her eyes met his with a level gaze. She knew he was waiting for compliments—she also knew it was better to keep him off balance—for now. “Yes, I did,” she said without blinking. “It’s violent, but truthful.” A pause. “My father, Gino, was in Vegas at that time. He built the original Mirage Hotel. You might enjoy meeting him.”
His eyes remained fixed on hers. “I’d like that very much.”
She refused to be the one to break the look. “I’ll arrange it,” she said coolly, pretending they weren’t locked into some subliminal eye-contact power struggle. “He lives in Palm Springs.”
“I can drive down there any time you say.”
“So,” Freddie said, sensing closure. “Do we have a deal?”
“More or less,” Lucky replied, switching her attention to Freddie and then getting mad at herself for being the first to look away.
Freddie ignored the fact that her reply was somewhat ambiguous. “This is a winning combination,” he predicted enthusiastically. “‘Panther Studios presents Alex Woods’s Gangsters.’ I can smell the Oscar now!”
“Just one small thing,” Lucky said, picking up her favorite silver pen—another present from Lennie—and tapping it impatiently on her desk. “I’m aware that Paramount passed on this project because of the graphic violence, and I’m not asking you to tone it down. However…about the sex…”
“What about it?” Alex demanded, challenging her to object.
“The script makes it clear several of the actresses are naked in certain scenes—yet it seems our hero and his friends remain modestly covered.”
“What’s the problem?” Alex asked, genuinely not getting it.
“Well…” Lucky said slowly. “This is an equal opportunity studio. If the females get to take it off—so do the guys.”
“Huh?” Alex said blankly.
Suddenly Lucky was back in control. “Let me put it this way, Mr. Woods. If we get to see tits an’ ass, we get to see dick, too. And I’m not talking Dick Clark.” A small smile as Freddie and Alex reeled at the thought. “And if we can work that out, then, gentlemen—we’ve got a deal.”
3
“HOW OLD ARE YOU, SWEETIE?” THE FIFTY-FIVE-year-old lech in the Brioni suit asked the exceptionally pretty, fresh-faced honey blond sitting across from his desk.
“Nineteen,” she replied truthfully, although she’d already lied about her name, substituting Brown as her surname instead of Stanislopoulos. Brigette Stanislopoulos was a mouthful, whereas Brigette Brown had a certain ring to it. Plus, Brown was anonymous, and Brigette had no intention of anyone finding out who she was.
“Well,” Mr. Fifty-Five-Year-Old said and cleared his throat, wondering if anyone had nailed this delectable piece of female flesh. “You’ve certainly got all the attributes to have a very successful career as a model.” His eyes lingered on her breasts. “You’re tall enough, pretty enough, and if you lost ten pounds, you’d be thin enough.” A pause. “Get rid of the baby fat and I’ll arrange for you to have test shots taken.” Another pause. “In the meantime, I’ll take you to dinner tonight and we’ll discuss your future.”
“Sorry,” Brigette said, rising to her feet, “I’m busy tonight.” She paused at the door. “But, uh…I, like, certainly appreciate your advice.”
Mr. Lech jumped up. He was surprised she hadn’t accepted his invitation—they usually did. Girls who wanted to be models were always hungry on account of the fact that they usually had no money and a free meal was a free meal; dinner with him was considered a coup.
“How about tomorrow night?” he suggested with an encouraging leer.
Brigette smiled sweetly. She had a lovely smile, as innocent as spring flowers. “Do you want to fuck me or get me started as a model?” she asked, shocking the socks off Mr. Lech, who was not used to being spoken to in such a fashion by a junior piece of ass.
“You have a dirty mouth, little girl,” he said angrily.
“All the better to say good-bye with,” she said, slipping through the door, calling out a final “See you on the cover of Glamour!”
She hit the street, steaming at his condescending attitude. Men! What pigs! Lose ten pounds indeed, she was not fat—in fact, she was as thin as she’d ever been. And did he honestly think she would go to dinner with an old cretin like him? No way. “Read my lips, old man,” she said aloud as she bounced along Madison Avenue. “You are not a contender!”
Nobody took any notice. This was New York, and here you could get away with anything.
Brigette was five feet eight inches tall and weighed a hundred and ten pounds. She had sun-kissed honey-blond hair, which she wore shoulder length and straight. Her lips were full and pouting, her eyes blue and knowing, and her skin had a glistening, luminous quality. She radiated health and energy. Most men found her fresh-faced sex appeal irresistible.
Brigette loved the city. She was crazy about the hot, dirty sidewalks and the way a person could get lost in the rushing crowds. In New York she was not Brigette Stanislopoulos—one of the richest girls in the world. In New York she was just another pretty face desperately trying to carve out a career.
Thank God Lucky and Lennie had understood when she’d informed them she wanted to skip college and take a shot at making it as a model in New York. They had not objected; in fact, they’d convinced her maternal grandmother, Charlotte, she should go for it, but only on the condition that if it didn’t work out, in six months she’d go to college and continue her education.
No chance. Because it was going to work out. Brigette was a true believer, something good had to happen for her.
So far her luck had not been the best. Okay, so she was wealthy, but what did that mean? It wasn’t like she’d earned the money herself, her fortune was just sitting there—inherited from her billionaire grandfather, Dimitri, and her mother, Olympia. Both of them dead and buried. A lot of good the money had done them.
Her real father, Claudio Cadducci, was also dead. Not such a sad thing, for she’d never known him; her mother had divorced him as soon as she’d given birth to Brigette because of his constant indiscretions. They’d been married when Olympia was nineteen and Claudio forty-five. According to all reports, Claudio had been a handsome Italian businessman with immense charm and an expensive wardrobe. Part of his divorce settlement had included two Ferraris and three million dollars. Unfortunately, Claudio never had time to enjoy the cars or the money because a few months later he’d stepped out of a limo in Paris and been accidentally blown to pieces by a terrorist’s bomb.
Olympia immediately married again, this time to a Polish count who lasted exactly sixteen weeks. Brigette didn’t remember the count at all, the only stepfather she’d known was Lennie, whom she adored.
Sometimes she missed her mother with a deep feeling of emptiness that nothing could fill. She’d been twelve when Olympia had died and there’d been nobody to take her place—except Grandmother Charlotte, a New York socialite who had an extremely a
ctive social life; and Lucky and Lennie, who were both so involved with their work and their kids that even though they made time whenever they could, it wasn’t enough.
Brigette knew she had to find something to fill the void.
It certainly wasn’t going to be a man. Men were not to be trusted. Men were after only one thing. Sex.
She’d had sex and she didn’t want it again. Not until she was the most famous supermodel in the world.
Last year she’d gotten engaged for about ten minutes to the grandson of one of her grandfather’s business rivals. They’d had a great time together until she’d discovered he was a total coke freak. Brigette wasn’t into drugs. She’d ended the engagement quickly, and taken off for Greece, where she’d spent time with her grandfather’s relatives.
Stopping off at Bloomingdale’s, she perused the makeup counters, buying a pale-bronze lipstick and some shiny lip gloss. She loved makeup as long as it was natural-looking. It was fun experimenting—trying new looks. When she was a star, she planned on launching a personal makeup line. Oh yes, she was going to amass her own fortune—it was merely a matter of time.
She’d been in New York for seven weeks and Mr. Fifty-Five-Year-Old Lech was the third modeling agent she’d seen. It wasn’t easy getting appointments, and since she had no intention of using her connections, she’d simply have to keep slogging away. An annoying thought, for Brigette was impatient, she expected it to happen yesterday.
She took a cab back to the apartment she shared with another girl in SoHo. Both Charlotte and Lucky had insisted she have a roommate although Brigette was sure she would’ve been perfectly fine on her own.
Lucky had personally found Anna, the girl she shared with. Anna was in her late twenties, a thin girl with long brown hair and dreamy eyes. She wrote poetry, stayed home most of the time, and was always available to do anything Brigette wanted. Brigette suspected Anna was a paid spy planted to keep an eye on her. She wasn’t bothered; after all, she had no secrets.
Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge Page 3
